Ahead of Myself

Claire Hopple

We didn’t find out until later we were being filmed. Notice Cline, the founder of the company, as he sits at an outdoor table and picks at his food while staring into his phone. He taps his foot against the chair leg across from him. I’m setting the scene for you here. I was walking by. I wasn’t there in any professional capacity. Or any personal capacity for that matter. A few of us interns liked to skip out early once a week and see a matinee at the indie theater within walking distance of the office. And there I was, busted—the crinkled paper bag of popcorn still cradled in my arm. 

     The only way out of this was to deny it ever happened. I could have an identical twin for all he knows. It’s not unheard of. Cline frisked his pockets like he was looking for a cigarette, and I thought maybe he was one of those types who not only still smoked but whose power grew while ensconced in its embers, in the whole smoker stance. I started to make what I hoped were mollifying gestures for my presence until I realized with some relief that he might not recognize me at all. But then he called me over with a simple hey. Neglecting to use my name, of course, like everybody else. 

     I extracted an excuse from the claw toy machine in my brain and lowered it into the flapping receptacle of my mouth. 

     “Personal day,” I whispered, like I had just invented the concept, making a big show of shoving the popcorn into my bag.

     He must’ve misheard me because he shook his head and said, “I can’t get into it now.”

     I scanned his face to see if he understood, if he was in on the operation. The operation of playing hooky. I couldn’t read his expression though. I do this often: act like I’m behind, like I’ve been held back a grade but from less of an academic standpoint and more of a human standpoint. And you could argue I’m right about this. Look at me: a middle-aged intern.

     “I guess film research would have made more sense than a personal day,” I said, mostly to myself, while a waiter darted around me.

     “So tell me about you. What your experience has been like with the project so far,” he said next, his foot still tapping away under the table.

     “I think you already know.”

     He laughed. Maybe my honesty reflex was finally paying off.

     “Well, it’s what I do. It’s my job to know things.”

     So that was the situation.

     “You busy? I’m going to order you a drink,” he continued.

     Busy? Busy pressing buttons indiscriminately in an office set at meat-locker temperatures? Let’s not bring up the photocopying fiasco. And we interns liked to keep a secret chart of––never mind. Not important.

     It would have been uncouth, perhaps even dangerous, to turn him down. I sat.

    Then he said, “I think my assistant is trying to kill me. She’s out for blood.”

    “That’s funny because when I first started, there was a rumor going around that a bounty hunter had cornered you. When really you were on vacation. You returning to the office, alive and well, it kinda put a stop to those rumors. I guess that’s not very funny.”

    “Hmm. I don’t remember being murdered.”

    “No, you wouldn’t, huh?”

    Things were going well. We were becoming friends right under our noses. It was too late to stop the friendship. Just sit still and let it happen, I told myself. Try it out. Give it a whirl. Was he going to invite me over to build a blanket fort and play with model trains? It felt like history was being made.

     “Hey. You went all catatonic on me there,” he said.

     “Oh. I’m here.”

     “It’s Alexis, right?”

     I nodded.

     “Still photography?” he asked.

     “I can’t seem to shake the habit, yeah.”

     “No, I mean you specialize in still photography. Not like, why are you still doing that.”

     “Right…”

     I didn’t admit that often, in the dim light of the studio, the photographs seemed a little cheated to be hanging out with me. To be developed by me. Like they deserved better. Who could say.

     “So do you think it would be a problem migrating over to administration?” he asked.

     “What are you getting at?”

     “My assistant is finished. I’m offering you her job. I thought we were clear on that.”

     “An assistant or an intern, what’s the difference, really?” I said, as if notoriety amounted to nothing.

     But in that moment, I was mulling over the idea that I could have it all. I could be widely regarded as the next big thing—if only I remembered to destroy those notes in my desk drawer that have since become unrepeatable. Sometimes it doesn’t take great measures to find yourself in charge. And that should scare us all.

     I eyed the drink menu as if it were the one responsible for depleting my life savings. Because I had no other recourse. I wanted to appear tough, but demanding a blood oath from Cline at the very least seemed uncooperative at the time. I wouldn’t have been reading the room very well, what with the threats from his assistant and everything. Take the drink menu down before it takes you down. Or something like that. For a couple of minutes there, I was relieved of having to contend with myself, with my interior life, and that was remarkable. Truly miraculous. We won’t get hung up on this, don’t worry. What good would ruminating do? But who doesn’t want to escape their own personality every once in a while? Peel it off and drop it into your bag like a pair of reading glasses, then pull it out later like: So that’s where I put it. I could put putting on the map. If it’s not clear by now, I was getting ahead of myself. In a big way. Of course, I took it further than that. In my mind, I mean. I could finally close that professional gap and catch up with everyone else.

     You could skip out on work and lose your job, or you could skip out on work and wind up with a better job. That’s a common expression of these Hollywood types. Or at least it should be. 

     Maybe Cline would ask me to bury sacks of cash all over the world. Or collect our competitors using a large net under cover of darkness. Cline would see what I could do with a net at my disposal, that’s for sure.  

     Getting up to leave, he placed his hand on my lower back. That was it, I promise, but that was enough. To look a certain way, to feel a certain way. This move is always more dangerous than anybody would guess. I didn’t react one way or the other.

     Meanwhile, the other interns thought I was in the movie theater bathroom this whole time, reconnecting with the automatic paper towel dispensers or something. They will continue to be my much younger, cooler friends until they hear what happened. By that point, I’ll be in a cave somewhere. I will have scattered plenty of fake selves around the city in the form of elaborately crafted blow-up dolls. We’ll see if they can find me then. 

     That will have to do for now, as far as confessions go. But this isn’t over.

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