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Ink in my Blood (prose edition)
What Exactly is Creative Intelligence Studies?

Sarah Enelow

    I’m not going to make it. I’m holding my skirt with one hand and clutching my papers with the other, my feet are blistering from running in uncomfortable shoes, and I envision myself dashing into traffic to cross the next street, heroically sliding over the hood of a taxi and continuing to run without skipping a beat. I’m covered in sweat and I probably don’t smell very good.
    I can’t decide if I should stop running long enough to pull out my phone, find the phone number, and call to say I’m running late, or if I should just keep running at top speed and pretend like I was never late to begin with. I keep running, unwilling to admit defeat, and breeze through the door five minutes late, wiping sweat off my brow and arranging myself as best I can. After waiting another painful 45 seconds for the receptionist to sign me in, I am led back to a cluttered but thankfully air-conditioned office.
    “So, the educational section of your resume... you have a master’s degree?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “What exactly is Creative Intelligence Studies?”
    “It’s a very specialized degree program, sort of inter-disciplinary within the humanities...”
    I don’t even remember what I studied anymore, because it’s been so irrelevant to absolutely everything.
    “And... why did you choose not to pursue a career in that field?”
    “I’ve been open to a variety of careers, and am still searching for the right organization.”
    “And here it says during college you studied abroad in... Mangia? In Italy?”
    My interviewer searches in vain for this information on my resume, which is printed prominently at the top under education.
    “Managua, Nicaragua.”
    “And what professional skills did you gain from that experience?”
    “My Spanish greatly improved, and certainly my independent problem-solving skills.”
    “Did you pick up any marketing experience there?”
    “Well, I was mostly volunteering during that semester, delivering food, transporting medicine, finding shelter for abandoned children—”

    “Are you familiar with HTML?”
    “... yes, some basics.”
    “And are you familiar with relationship selling and viral marketing?”
    “I don’t believe I am...”
    My interviewer scribbles some notes.
    “Well, I’m not sure you’re a good fit for the position we discussed, but we do have another position open that you might enjoy. We’re currently interviewing for a Comprehensive Assistant here at the main offices.”
    “What does that entail?”
    “The Comprehensive Assistant will be responsible for physically maintaining the office, making travel arrangements for our nine Vice Presidents, drafting emails and print correspondence for each VP, answering all phone calls for every VP, scheduling meetings for every department, ordering lunch, making photocopies, running the mailroom...”
    I stop listening for at least 90 seconds.
    “... and manually repairing each of our seven photocopy machines, because we just ended our maintenance contract with Konica Minolta.”
    I stare at my interviewer, who is completely serious about the Comprehensive Assistant position. I have a hard time evaluating whether or not it’s smarter to insist that I’m interested, even though just listening to the job description gives me indigestion and a tension headache, or to run while I still can.
    “Well, that sounds like a very challenging position, and a really great learning opportunity.”
    “I think you would be quite well suited to the position actually. Do you have any questions for me?”
    “Sure...”
    I can’t even begin to organize the tornado of doubts whirling around in my head. And yet, I’m sure there are seventeen other applicants with worthless degrees who would jump on it, given the opportunity.

    “So... is this a new position?”
    “Yes.”
    “... did each VP previously have their own assistant?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why did you decide to consolidate those nine positions?”
    “We feel that the job is better suited to one multi-tasker rather than nine individuals.”
    “Is there any chance that you would hire a tenth VP in the near future?”
    “Yes, we are currently interviewing for two additional VPs, who will also require your support.”
    “Would any of the VPs be open to teaching me about their departments, or perhaps helping me to develop a specialty?”
    “I doubt they would have time for that.”
    Yes, I doubt I would have time for that as well.
    “It sounds like a really exciting opportunity. I would love to be considered.”
    “Great, you start Monday at 9.”
    My stomach drops a couple of inches and I feel already that I’ve made a grave error. I don’t think there were seventeen applicants ready to snap up this opportunity. I was the only desperate one. But that’s a moot point, because evidently I start Monday.
    I arrive at the office Monday morning at ten minutes to nine, dressed quite nicely, portable coffee thermos in hand, ready to find my desk. Sandy the receptionist leads me over to my chair, looking calm and actually rather well-adjusted, which in turn soothes my nerves considerably. Sandy is wearing a flouncy pink skirt and a yellow cardigan, a sort of spring-time illusion to brighten an office that’s brimming with fluorescent lights and beige furniture, row after row of desks piled high with papers.
    “This is your desk here, and the VP of Market Research is just across the hall there. You’ll find the guidebook for this position in the drawer and the client files are stored underneath.”
    Sandy goes through the motions of showing me things, and I get the feeling she’s done it before. I take a look at the guidebook.
    “Thanks so much, Sandy... this guidebook says only ‘Assistant to the VP of Market Research.’ Where can I find information for the other VPs?”
    “Those guides are stored at your other desks.”
    “My other desks?”
    “Yes, each VP has requested that their assistant to be no more than three desks away, preferably just across the hall, so you’ll have a desk-rotation throughout the day, and each VP will be able to page you at any time to come back to his or her desk for individual projects.”
    “And how much time does that allow me per desk?”
    “48 minutes per VP plus a 30-minute daily group-review and an 18-minute lunch break.”
    “I see.”
    “Each VP has a unique filing system, so you’ll have to dig through a bit to learn each one.”
    “I see.”
    “Just let me know if you need anything!”
    Sandy abandons me at desk #1 and bounces back to reception, just as my first 48-minute rotation begins. I spend 35 minutes digging through the files, just learning where everything is kept, when the VP of Market Research strolls in, wearing a horrific pant suit, asking for a stack of files by the name of “Jackson Johnson something or other.”
    “Hello, it’s nice to meet you. I’m the new Comprehensive Assistant.”
    “What?”
    “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Jane, I’m the new Comprehensive Assistant.”
    “What’s a Comprehensive Assistant?”
    “... I’m your assistant, and I’m assisting the other eight VPs.”
    “I have a new assistant?”
    “... yes, I’ll be your assistant, starting today.”
    VP #1 rolls her eyes and storms into her office, flinging the door open. Her enormous to-go coffee sloshes everywhere and files get dropped into various chairs. I stand outside, watching her bumble around as though she’d never been into her own office. My cell phone starts to vibrate in my purse, which leads me to the conclusion that my personal phone will act as my pager. The page is coming from VP #2 and I excuse myself while VP #1 continues to get worked up, yelling at the stapler and reprimanding the file cabinet for swallowing several client profiles that have gone missing.
    I grab my belongings and proceed down the hall to VP #2, in the Human Resources department. He looks incredibly disheveled, considering that he’s been at his desk all morning and not jaguar-wrestling in the Amazonian jungle. He’s unshaven, seemingly for several days, his un-tucked shirt with loosened tie bear the signs of eating breakfast while speed-walking down the street, and he’s sweating for no apparent reason.
    “Jane! Nice to meet you, we have a lot of work to do, so I paged you a bit early. We need to review resumes for the new Comprehensive Assistant position, so I need you to start by organizing them by—”
    “Excuse me, but that’s actually my position.”
    “... I thought you were the Rotational Assistant.”
    I stop and stare at him for a moment, feeling unsettled about whether I might actually be the Rotational Assistant. Is that possible?
    “No, I believe I accepted the Comprehensive Assistant position.”
    He shoves some papers to the side and nervously takes a huge gulp of coffee, gritting his teeth.
    “Well, let’s start organizing these resumes for the Rotational Assistant position, and I’ll need you to get started on payroll too.”
    “And what does that entail?”
    “What?”
    “Getting started on payroll, I don’t know what that entails.”
    “Haven’t you been trained?”
    “No.”
    “Who is supposed to train you?”
    I am increasingly flustered by questions to which the asker should know the answer.
    “I don’t know. Maybe we should consult Human Resources.”
    Silence ensues for several painful seconds.
    “We’ll go over that later. Start sorting through these.”
    He hands me a towering stack of papers and, still unsure of what I should be doing, I take the papers over to my second desk. The desk is completely bare, no guidebook, no files, no trace of sentient life whatsoever. Not knowing what criteria to use, I simply start putting the resumes in order of apparent superiority. Near the end of my second shift, after no further appearance from VP #2, I proceed down the hall to visit VP #3. The VP is not there, but a note is left on my third desk, indicating that she is in a meeting and I should wait there for her to return (exactly there, at the desk, not moving unless it’s an emergency), ignoring my upcoming shifts with the other VPs. There is also a list of things that I must produce for her by the (yet unspecified) time she returns, including a large soy milk coffee, a Ukrainian pastry with poppy seed filling, a new stapler that doesn’t make that “irritating crunchy sound when you staple something,” and twelve copies of the otherwise unspecified “quarterly report.” Not sure how to accomplish all of this without leaving my third desk, I start digging around online for a nearby Ukrainian pastry shop that will deliver one pastry, a café that will deliver a single cup of coffee, and an online office supply catalog with a silent, state-of-the-art stapler. I make copies of several different documents titled “quarterly report” and wait for my various deliveries.
    VP #3 never arrives. It’s 12:30 PM and I have been afraid to leave desk #3, except for one brief trip to the bathroom, for which I ask Sandy to watch the desk for me in case the VP returns. I receive more than one page and call the other VPs to explain the situation. Increasingly disillusioned, I notify Sandy of my 18-minute lunch break and head out the door.
    Walking unbelievably fast down the street, not knowing my destination, I pass three cafés but am not even hungry. Eventually I bump into a small park less than ten blocks from the office and veer into it, anxious to sit down and space out. I get comfortable on a faded green park bench and stare into the air around me, hugging my purse to my stomach, not really noticing the children running around or the people on lunch breaks from nearby offices, devouring their take-out. A hip couple is sitting at the opposite end of my bench, nodding vigorously to each other as they discuss a “friggin’ awesome” public art installation downtown. They make snide remarks about the kids running around, nodding in complete accord, noting that this park is filled with the ill-raised children of corporate drones. They smile to each other, looking at the poor, un-knowing victims of capitalism with the enlightenment gained by a fuller, rounder, better education. They rudely flick their cigarettes in the direction of a pre-school-age brother and sister playing nearby and trot off to their workplace, wherever that may be. As soon as they leave, the brother grabs an empty plastic soda bottle and whacks his sister square over the head with it, leaving her sobbing but unhurt. Their mother begrudgingly comes to the rescue, pries the bottle from the fiercely clenched hand of the young boy, tosses it into the recycling bin, and plops down at the other end of my bench, where the hip couple had been sitting. This mother is wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt from an arts festival, with a prominent logo at the bottom reading “save the world, save the performing arts.” I briefly contemplate whether or not I’m interested in saving the world. She gets up after a couple of labored breaths, gathers her quarreling tots, and heads down the street.
    The office-types are clearing the park as their lunch breaks come to an end and all that’s left are the moms and kids. I continue staring into the air, sure that I’ve been paged several more times and have already been fired, but I am simply overtaken with a sort of unexplainable fatigue and can’t go back to the office. I suppose I don’t have to go back, since I have my purse with me. I could just stay here all day and then go home, pretending like this whole ridiculous thing never happened. Just as I contemplate turning my phone back on to confront the accumulating pages, a grungy young guy sits down at the other end of my bench. He removes his overstuffed backpack, dumps it onto the ground, pulls out a cigarette, and looks directly at me.
    “You got a light?”
    He gestures with his right hand, as though he were using an invisible lighter.
    “No, I don’t smoke.”
    “Oh man, you wouldn’t last two minutes in Argentina, everyone smokes there. They’re so tired of those healthy, non-smoking Americans.”
    I think a moment about whether or not that is an accurate portrayal of Argentina.
    “Were you recently in Argentina?”
    “For six months, just flew in this morning. You ever been to South America?”
    “No.”
    “Oh man, you need to go. Don’t put it off, just go.”
    I think for another moment about whether or not this stranger has any idea what my life may consist of, or whether he has ever found himself not in a position to pick up and move to another continent.
    “Seriously, you have no idea what it’s like.”
    “You’re right, I don’t. As I just said a minute ago, I’ve never been to South America...”
    “If you’ve never been to Carnaval and woken up with peacock feathers stuck to your head, you haven’t lived. Seriously.”
    He stares off into space, clearly remembering a recent experience, putting the cigarette into his mouth and then remembering that he doesn’t have a light.
    “Oh, you’re serious?” I add sarcastically.
    “Oh yeah.” He is indeed serious.
    Then I think for a moment about whether or not uprooting to another continent would solve anything. How do young people do that, anyway? Everyone seems to be doing it, including a few idiots I know from college who failed Intro to Psychology twice in a row, so it can’t possibly be that hard. Do their parents have houses there? Do they just assume that everything will work itself out before nightfall the first day they arrive? I am still confounded by the idea, and it’s making my brain hurt to think about the logistics.
    I look at my watch and the afternoon is wearing on. There is really no point in going back to work, unless I have an elaborate excuse for why I was detained at lunch. I’d rather just go home and start over tomorrow rather than go back to work or discuss the ways in which waking up in a beer-soaked Argentine bar wearing a gaucho costume would enrich my life in ways that graduate school or a meaningful career could never achieve.
    “So you were in Argentina for six months and just came back this morning?”
    “Yep.”
    “What were you doing down there?”
    “What wasn’t I doing?”
    “... I don’t know, you tell me.”
    “Oh man, I did everything.”
    “And you live here?”
    “I live wherever I can sit down and light up a cigarette.”
    He pauses, remembering yet again that he has no light. I ask:
    “What do you do here? Do you have a job?”
    “I feel sorry for anyone who has a job.”
    After several absurd seconds of silence and vacant staring, I get up and head toward the nearest bus stop.



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