Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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I hate social gatherings. They make me feel awkward, uncomfortable, and out of place - no matter what breathing techniques my therapist tells me to use.
Where do I put my hands? Where do I sit? How often do I breathe? (maybe that one is me, specific). Is there something on my face?
I especially hate lunch gatherings or any social event where I have to eat something around strangers, because there's nothing fun about being that person that has broccoli in their teeth while telling a subpar joke. Also, why does nobody ever nonchalantly pull that person to the side and tell them they have something in their teeth, or on their face, or that their skirt is tucked into the back of their leggings? Instead, everyone just watches and chuckles while seeing the person make a total fool of themself.
People might think I'm heartless and cold; but I think what's really ruthless, is watching someone make a fool of themselves for something that you know they'll feel like an idiot about, later. Because while ignorance may be bliss in the moment, it certainly is not in the long run.
I want to know that the person's cheating on me, or that I'm going to get evicted. I want to know the cold, hard truth; even if it stings, a little.
"So, Rosie." Bob from finance begins, standing a little too close to me and breathing into my mouth. He had one of the garlic anchovies slices of pizza and it really shows. "Any plans for after graduation?" He inquires, briefly stealing a glance at the rest of my body like it's a pastry on display at Starbucks, and he's trying to decide what to eat.
Be careful, Bob. I think you're allergic.
It's the day most Portland Pirates employees have been waiting for, the lunch hour meeting by the executive team of the new owner, where he's poised to talk about the next steps for the new arena. Of course, executives have looser lips than a grandma at the salon; so, it's already spread that the arena's supposed to be ready for the start of next season and the team's in the works to get a major revamp.
And by revamp, I mean they're gonna pay someone to design a new logo for them that's just slightly different from the current one. Who knows, maybe we'll even get new jerseys for the players. I wouldn't mind adding something new to my collection - since obviously, anything Erik's is mine.
So, like a heard of sheep - otherwise known as 9 to 5 workers, we've been cowled into one of the restaurants that's usually only open for games; all at the promise of a free lunch and possibility to get within breathing difference of the new owner.
Knowing the last one, and how he only showed up the last few years to breathe down the necks of people because his finances were in the shitter, I really don't have high hopes. According to his Wikipedia page, he's in his late fifties and owns about thirty other massive companies.
Which is good, because it means maybe he can actually afford the loss that comes with owning a professional hockey team. Unlike the last one that put (as contestants on Love Island like to say) all his eggs in one basket and was hoping the team would make him money and pay for his retirement in Barbados.
Sorry gramps, that's not how it works.
"Work for us, of course." Oscar chimes in, shifting himself so he's standing beside me and noninvertingly cockblocking whatever Bob is trying to do by breathing on me. I like Oscar. Aside from scaring the shit out of me when I first started, so much so that it would curl up in my underwear, we've grown close.
As close as a 21 year old female intern can grow to a middle-aged man without it just being them having some weird, power-trip, affair.
Bob seems slightly annoyed at Oscar, furrowing his eyebrows slightly before glancing back over at me. "Nice seeing you, Oscar." He tells him, roughly grabbing his shoulder before stalking off. Poor Bob. You can fuck off, now.
I turn to look at Oscar, wondering if he'll say anything more about Bob's antics - not unlike many of the others I've had to endure, working here. Working anywhere, really. Sometimes they're obvious, like Bob; and sometimes they're so small, even I don't realize they've happened until I'm trying to fall asleep.
He doesn't. Instead, looking around the room, a serious look on his face. Only for a minute, because a minute later, he's gone and I'm alone, again - hanging onto Danielle's side like a toddler at a family Christmas party. Her and her best friend, co-worker, Linda, gossip away about everything arena related.
"Thank you everyone, for joining us, today." A woman wearing perfume so strong I can smell it across the restaurant, says, talking into a microphone, a few minutes later. She looks important. Not an assistant but also not the head honcho; so, as suspected, the owner won't be showing up.
Regardless, everyone quiets down, turning their attention to her.
She says a bunch of generic things that anyone could expect would be said at the change of pace for an organization. A lot of talk about the future, change, excitement, hope. She doesn't confirm or deny the date for when the arena will be ready - most likely because they want to be the ones to control how the public finds out, really bask in the spotlight; and know that officially announcing it to a bunch of employees means it'll likely end up on page 5 before the end of the day.
When the lunch is finally over and everyone begins to head back to the office, Brent grabs a tray full of cookies on our way out. I guess he's high enough on the proverbial ladder that he can do that sort of thing. It's the same reason why when we get back to the basement (aka where the offices are), that he - along with everyone else important, find their way out the door.
"Almost ready to head out?" Danielle asks me, during one of her many trips to the printer. It seems that even she's decided to turn in early for the day. And in a rare occurrence, invited me to end the day early, as well. Don't mind if I do.
"Yup." I answer, returning her polite smile. It is Friday afternoon, after all; and what better day to celebrate practically being guaranteed a full-time job? Erik's still out of town and I have the rest of the afternoon to myself. Maybe I'll even splurge and get an overpriced piece of gingerbread loaf from Starbucks while I'm at it.
It feels like things are finally falling into place, like all the hours of hard work, sweat, and paper cuts, has finally paid off. And with the promise of an iced latte to soon be in my hands - along with a bagel from Kettleman's; and a boyfriend that I can fully say I trust and love, it almost feels like I'm living in a fairy-tale.
Of course, anyone that knows fairy tales, knows that the real ones don't have a happy ending.
