Malfunction

Doomsday came in the form of a "sort of lesbian goth vampire kind of" themed shoot for a "super luxe avant garde" French fashion magazine. In my right hand I was holding upwards of $200,000 worth of diamond jewelry and in my left hand I held a very sharp dagger rented from a weapons manufacturer. To get the shot, the crew had to hike down the side of a massive ravine overlooking the Hudson River in Yonkers, about 20 miles north of New York City. The photographer led the way, his skinny assistant behind him lugging a huge yellow Sony jambox that blasted Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast" through the wilderness.

The hair and make-up guys shot with this photographer frequently and weren’t nearly as piqued with the situation as the fashion stylist whom I was assisting. The armpits of his grey American Apparel shirt were entirely soaked through with sweat and he wasn’t in the least bit concerned about whether or not I tripped over a log and impaled myself with a dagger he had rented on his platinum American Express card. He couldn’t really be bothered because he was thoroughly engaged in an undoubtedly homosexual text message conversation on his ever-present “Sidekick” cellular device. He was, however, extremely concerned with the diamonds.

On my index finger I wore a giant white diamond ring of about 8 carats. Naturally, the jewelry was also of a gothic theme and the massive jewel was clutched around my tiny finger by white gold talons. On my ring finger was the real stunner—my boss’s main concern—a “totally sick” quarter-sized diamond skull with ruby eyes. Around my wrist dangled diamond crosses and diamond daggers on chains that matched the sharp blade that I held in my other hand. Obviously, I would rather have been pierced by that blade than drop anything down the side of the ravine.

I had been working for this stylist with majorly misplaced values and serious personality flaws for over three months and I was strangely dedicated to making sure he had every diamond, sword, or fishnet stocking that he could imagine for all the outlandish “stories” that he wanted to tell with clothes. Every morning I would arrive at his apartment around nine o'clock while he was still cozily sleeping in his king-sized bed. I would quietly let myself in to the apartment with my set of keys and knock on his bedroom door, saying, "Hi, I'm here...." Then I would get to work at the large desk in his home office. By the time I had answered his emails and made a few phone calls to press offices in Paris, he would saunter out of the bedroom wearing a huge white terrycloth robe. Then he would bark a few orders at me and sashay into the shower. His moods were always so volatile and I lived in constant fear of this ridiculous man; but the job seemed better than wasting my life away in an office somewhere. That's sort of how my interest in doing something vaguely creative with my young professional life landed me on the side of a ravine in Yonkers with a parade of fashion folks carrying goth gear.

We had been shooting all day and were trying to land the last shot on the edge of the cliff as the model—pale-faced in white make-up and black lipstick—straddled an upside-down cross in 5-inch Cesare Pacciotti heels and a black floor-length Alexander McQueen gown. Ozzy Osbourne’s “Bark at the Moon” was wailing on the jambox and the photographer took frame after frame, repeating to the model, “Fuck me Satan, fuck me Satan!” to really draw out the mood. In case her outfit, or “look” needed any adjustments, I was, of course, crouched below the model on a rock like a troll just out of the frame.

The photographer declared that he had gotten the shot and we expressed our delight with claps and high-fives after another hard day's work. So far, no jewelry (or lives) had been lost on this particular day in fashion. I retrieved the diamonds from the model and helped her out of her stilettos. As we hiked back up the ravine, the sun was setting over the Hudson. I was full of self satisfaction as I handed the swords and diamonds over to the interns and instructed them as to how to pack up all of the designer clothes and accessories that littered the RV that we had been working out of that day. I had endured three long months working with this stylist without any major screw-ups. My post-graduation woes were beginning to ease.

I was stoked for some time off after our vampire shoot. My boss had scheduled a month of vacation so he could escape the heat of the summer. He and some of his other fashion fiend friends were renting a house in Fire Island for three weeks and I had hoped to have a chance to do some of the things that other 23-year olds might normally do. I longed to drop off my own dry-cleaning, to have a hangover (without having to go to work), and to pay a much-needed visit to my family. He promised to keep me posted about upcoming well-paying advertising jobs and asked me to organize his home office while he was away on holiday.

Weeks passed and no word from my boss. I had sent him several emails inquiring about the logistics of the shelving units and computer programs that I had suggested to improve the office. I knew he was back from Fire Island but I assumed that he was too busy dancing or lunching to deal with his annoying assistant. He never wrote me back. I felt like a majorly lame dumpee—waiting for the phone to ring with a voice on the other end telling me where to meet him. Eventually, I gave up on him and took to the freelance assistant life—a seriously scary adventure in and of itself. I never heard from that guy—I hiked up a ravine for him carrying life-threatening blades and he didn’t even have the decency to fire me.

A month or so after Mr. Wonderful’s return from Fire Island, my intern from the day of the vampires ran into him at another shoot. He acted totally fake and lame and excited to see her—and especially excited to ask about me! He was all like “Oh my god, how is sheeee? What has she been up tooo?” My intern friend suggested to him that I was a little upset and saddened that I hadn’t heard from him and that he had completely bailed on me. He lied to her face, saying, “Wait! She didn’t get my emails?” Then he uncomfortably continued, “OH MY GOD, SIDEKICK MALFUNCTION!”

That’s how my first job ended.

Later, I was pleased to find out that the vampire story was too fucked up for the fancy French magazine. They never published it.