Third 1000 (ish)

[Dear reader: If you want to start at the beginning, read the First 1000 (ish), or read this 1000 (ish) on its own.]

She checked the time, only 8. Her interview was at 11. Plenty of time. She went to her bedroom and laid out her clothes. Jeans, a purple scoop-neck tee shirt and a gray cardigan sweater with a tuxedo shirt detail along the buttons. She realized everything she picked made her feel particularly good, and she looked good in the outfit that rested tranquilly on the bed, a faceless, flat Amy. She shrugged at herself in her closet mirror. Trying to stare down the day after last night? Wanting to make a good impression? Yesterday needed to be set aside, and Gabriel was coming on board if she interviewed him in her pajamas. The unknown bubbled up inside her. If he sucked, he could only slow her down so much. If he was half good, she need the help. She was drowning, running the art department of a neighborhood free publication called The Coastal. She could give more help to editorial, proofing if someone else could lay out the paper.

She rushed her morning routine, a thirty minute perfunctory job on better mornings than this. Less time for body lotion, more time for makeup. Hangovers inspired her to lay it on thicker, which was not very thick, but served as an additional shield against the day. As she turned to shut off the light to the bathroom, she saw herself in the mirror. A good hair day. She looked nice. She stepped toward the mirror. Nose, mouth, hair, eyebrows all seemed to be where they belonged. She looked herself in the eyes last. She tried to look very deeply, but the mirror was flat. Still, she saw something. Inside a feeling swelled from somewhere lower. It’s ok. Now she turned off the light, her reflected self with good hair in a favorite outfit became a gray silhouette that turned to walk out the door, on her way to her car the morning sun cast a long gray shadow, who got into her car, pulled out into the alley and headed to the office. Her body on auto pilot she maneuvered out of OB and headed north.

Her favorite R&B station, Magic 92.5 played “girl you know you better, watch out. Some guys, some guys are only, a-bout, that thing, that thing, tha-at thi-i-i-ing.” Her mind wandered. The red brake lights of a car ahead mixed with a bright flash from the sun on silver trim. The combination brought her back to church.

Aged six or five, a ray of sun blinded her for a moment before she turned her gaze from the stained glass back to the scene above the alter. At the top was Jesus. His hands upturned and arms stretched out as if he were ready to accept a package, or hug someone. His face melancholy, or bored. Long hair and beard, white robe with a red sash. He floated above at the highest point, a disembodied chest and head, nearly touching the highest point of an arch. His image maybe three feet high or more. On either side of the arch that curved above the alter two serpentines of men reached up to him with arms raised in different postures toward the Son. Some stood, some knelt, some sat on clouds. Young and old, bearded and clean shaven. Robed in blues, greens and rusty oranges they all gazed toward him. What did they want? She was too young to think of them as supplicants. To her, they seemed to be arguing. Pleading for their side, for their case. Their faces seemed pained, not happy. The two sides always kept her interest until she fell asleep, which was most Sundays. Her mother gently sliding her to the end of the pew when the rest of the family went to communion.

When it was time her mother would wake Amy, saying softly “Mass is over, get up now, we’re leaving.”

Flash. Amy’s eyes came back into focus on the road. On the road to work. She had already passed La Jolla, two exits away from Sorrento Valley Road. Her eyes reflexively went to the time on her dash clock. Her interview was at 11. Still plenty of time to get a few things done.

The LB watched her drive to work with excitement. When two children came together for their contract it was momentous. A meeting to be celebrated. The contract was in the best interest of both parties. How it played out would certainly satisfy the contract, but the Children would decide which details materialized. They kept the traffic flowing around her, knowing she did not see the road.

Amy kept a small smile on her face. Careful not to show her exasperation, and impatience. Interview in twenty minutes. When she saw Zeb's car in the lot, she let go of getting anything done. Now, her boss of more than a decade talked about how much Gabriel could do for her. His gaze wandered somewhere to the left of her head, not really connected but talking toward her, past her. “You’ve worked alone too long. I know you can do everything, but he’ll be able to take on the first pass at layout. He’s smart, he has ideas about minor updates to the look. You know I like new.” Slap. His hand fell flat onto his desk, barking out an exclamation point to his thought. She was used to it. His enthusiasm for the next thing. She was the one who plodded. Steadfastly redirecting as much flow as she could will toward completing tasks. Over time her quick mind and ability to intuit when any deadline was headed toward trouble and be full of ready solutions made her the center of the creative side of The Coastal. Zeb had kept the paper private all these years, started himself with $2,000 he won in Vegas, right after he graduated from college. That was 25 years ago.

“You’re my right hand woman. But, a decade! You don’t say no enough, so I found you help.” Slap. Her thoughts and feelings flitted around and behind his outburst. Amy was used to him “fixing” things by making them more complicated. Somehow, her inability to say no was also going to have her training a new hire. During summer, their busiest time, with all of the tourist traffic in coastal San Diego driving their advertising and readership up.

Although she would never admit it, she trusted Zeb’s unwavering confidence. His instinct got the paper this far, and he had continued to take chances on her. Whatever came around Zeb somehow knew when things, or people, would benefit the paper.