Photograph #9//Lil Peep || Rewriting

#2: But isn't an Artist suppose to study their work? *rewritten*

Morning of interview...

I drive to a vacant spot, my nerves are flux and I'm trying to remain calm.

"Stop overthinking— you'll be fine." I mutter out loud as I park and yank down the review mirror. Why do I torture myself with these flaws? Couldn't I just get out?

In that very moment, I stop with my meaningless act and get out. The building isn't tall nor appearing. It's average and— questionable.

The walk across the parking lot stretches but my mind is racing. My heels hitting against the black tar didn't help— it only heightened my already towering anticipation.

Before even realizing it— I stand inside where a woman sits at a computer, typing at such a speed. It's intimidating— reminding of the office job I walked out on. Finally, upon approaching— the lady speaks, "Are you here for an interview?"

I nod but her eyes are glued to the screen so I pivot, "Yes."

After a quick glance— she gives a set of directions, "Go down that way, go up the stairs and you'll be there."

"Thank you. "

Like a switch— I'm sitting in a chair, next to three others. Guy, guy, girl— all there, for the same postition.

I'm the last one called in.

The room is vast with a table smacked center, there's a number of chairs with three people spaced out between them.

"Hello, ma'me."

"Hi."

I'm nervous— they could probably tell too.

One interviewer, in particular, gets right to it, "Tell us who you are, where your from, what you do for a living, and how you found out about this job position."

"Well, um—

My nails grind into the ridge of my thumb, "I- I'm Olivia Rose."

I refuse to give out my last name.

"I went to Cambridge's Art of Scholars for a little over a year, I do spot photography at festivals and weddings—and I'm also a bartender to keep up with my living expenses."

"Is Rose your last name?" The lady interviewer asked.

"No— my full name is Olivia Rose Mafia."

The man of questions continued, "Cambridge is such a fine school, why didn't you continue?"

"I couldn't afford it, especially after my father died— I dropped out six months ago."

"Sorry for your loss."

And while ignoring the pain stored, I continue answering the questions they wanted answers to, "I found this job through an anonymous email— so I decided to try it out."

I pause to set off my ambition, "I think this great opportunity would challenge my current skills and—

"Do you know Lil Peep?" The woman asked.

"No, I never heard of him."

But isn't an Artist suppose to study their work? Why couldn't I have lied? Or at least, be familiar with him?

The team looked at each other, with an underlying expression, it's hard to pinpoint what they were collectively thinking.

"He's very energetic— musically, at least."

"If you're hired, you'll have to sign a few papers— on tour, you'll have to adapt to his lifestyle."

I nod her head as if I knew what that meant.

"Ms. Rose can you adapt to seeing excessive drug use, alcohol assumption, and concerts that promote such things— and music that expresses depression, anxiety, and suicide, as these types of abstracts are controversial and case sensitive?"

My head bobbled— but really, could I handle it?

"Well Ms. Rose, with that being said, your interview has been concluded."

I guess bartending til I'm 80 could work.

🐥