Jazzy and Ray

"You know, s- Mr. Vasquez, I've been looking at my job description over the past couple weeks, and nowhere in there do I see 'sweet-talk authoritative figures to maximize on potential collaborations.'"

"You don't sweet-talk, you just open your mouth and he's delighted, it seems."

"Right."

"And I could hardly call myself a businessman if I don't take advantage of the circumstances I happen to find myself in." He settles back beside me, our shoulders touching as we sway on the bus.

I scribble 'bitch around extra hard this week to make old white men laugh' on my notepad, and he looks over and laughs, reading over my shoulder.

"What a trooper."

...

"If it isn't our favorite duo, arrived at last!" Wynans waves Farrow and Vasquez over from her seat at the conference table, and Oliver and I obediently file in behind them.

"Gina, you know we never travel together, Hilda would get suspicious," Farrow gruffs.

"Which reminds me, dear, don't forget to leave me your room-key this time." Vasquez pats Farrow's hand, and they make puppy-eyed faces at each other. Everyone at the table does this half-assed laugh like they're actors in a Hallmark movie. A strong 'hahaha', which peters out depending on each person's commitment to their role, followed by the shuffling of papers. Like they're all not rabid at the audacity of the execs holding a meeting immediately after what was a 7+ hour trip for some of us.

I bring out my notepad, then think better of it and slide the laptop out of my shoulder bag.

"You got a laptop?!" Oliver balks beside me.

"You don't?" I look down at the mess of papers slid into the binder in his lap, his ink-stained hands.

He shakes his floppy brown bangs. "They've never considered it, I usually type my notes up when I get back to the office or not at all."

Maybe I don't have it so bad. "How 'bout I take notes and send them to you, and you try to draw caricatures of everyone at the table before we're dismissed?"

He giggles and nods, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Gina looking our way. She winks at me, and while I smile politely back and nod, Vasquez and Farrow turn their heads to see who her attention is directed to. But of course, by then Oliver and I are two PAs in a line of many, dutifully taking preliminary notes.

...

The next day and in a miraculous turn of events, we finally end the morning workshops on time. Over lunch - brunch, really - I sit with the table of assistants, next to my new best friend.

"I can't believe you had time to finish the whole table."

Oliver laughs, tears in his eyes and half of his cranberry muffin in his mouth.

"Yo he even got Pauly's bifocals," Ellie exclaims next to us, erupting into giggles that cause some of the others across the table to look over and join in. Indeed he did, with Pauly, head of Brazen Sound Production squinting through them at Gina in her flapping pants at the head of the table. I think this is the most fun I've had on one of these damned trips, finally having slept a full night and eaten a full meal.

We chat and tease until Farrow booms for Oliver from the main table, and like a flock call it causes us all to fly to our respective leaders. Vasquez rises when he sees me, leaving behind just a single empty cup of what I assume was black coffee. A pang of worry shoots through me, wondering if he's ever had more than a gallon of caffeine before 12pm. But then I remember, I only mind the business that pays me.

"Private conference with Wynans at 3pm, Jazzy," he informs me, striding away and causing me to flurry after him like a wayward duckling. "I don't know exactly what she wants, but I have enough wind in me to find out. After a nap. Review whatever latest prospects you can find coming out from Josberg Studios to see if you can catch an idea, let me know in a good hour, hour and a half."

"Want me to bring food up as well, sir?" The business that PAYS you, Jazzy. Shit.

He looks over mid-stride. "Why?"

I shrug, thinking on the fly as we approach our rooms. "If your blood sugar drops too low during the meeting, you might go apeshit at somebody asking for 8% on a shitty package again."

He chortles, and I don't think I've ever heard somebody actually chortle before, but he does, stopping in front of my door. "Well then, bring me whatever the special was for lunch today, so I can carb-load before the race."

"Yes sir."

"Jazzy."

"Yes Mr. Vasquez."

"There we go."

"There we go," I mock childishly and quietly after I close the door. But not quietly enough, because I hear his laugh fill the hallway as he strolls away.

...

"SO," Gina announces, in a swivel chair at a conference table that usually seats about 12 people. Right now it's her, her assistant Illiana, Vasquez and I, and I'm struggling not to drop my head into my hand. There must be about a dozen question marks in my notes already.

"So," she says again, to an apparently attentive Vasquez. "Because we dropped the deal with Papi Rei after that fiasco at Coachella this year, we have a spot for another project for our 2024 lineup. And obviously, I thought of Diggz. He must be 'digging' for a cash grab right now, you know?"

She runs her fingers through her locs and laughs at her own joke, and I approve of the self-confidence while wishing for the thousandth time that I had the slim legs to pull off those pants. Illiana stops writing to look up at her, almost rolling her eyes, and I wonder what it's like working under Gina full-time. Vasquez's expression doesn't change, at least from where I'm sitting beside him.

He does shuffle in his seat, pretending to consider the offer. "What would you be proposing?"

"An Adam Sandlerish, 'Hotel Transylvania'-type thing. He's just marketable enough to children and family audiences, and exec thinks we can push for the same team of animators."

Is Diggz hungry enough to establish himself firmly in the 'Hotel Transylvania' part of his career? His next album is planned to be only a year and a half away.

"Here's the thing," Vasquez begins, and I stop sketching Mavis into the margin of my paper. "And the only reason I'm telling you this is because we're friends. Diggz is coming out of his break, but it's not going to be a movie deal, it's another tour."

Gina stops playing with one of the metal spirals on a loc that's framing her face. My sister wore those for a straight year and it cut every single lock in half; but I don't think I'd mention it to Wynans. "Isn't that much more labor intensive?"

"Yes, but much less risk. Why break into a new medium when he already has a loyal fanbase that's sure to turnout? It's a tried-and-true venture coming to us instead of a hypothetical box office hit."

"So when's he going to get with a studio, after his voice is fried from fifteen years straight at Afropunk?"

"That's up to him and his team."

"It makes no sense."

"The paycheck makes sense."

Gina uncrosses and crosses her legs, fabric rustling unseen under the table. "Well." She looks to Illiana and me then, and Illiana gets up immediately to leave. I look at Vasquez, although Gina is drilling her eyes into my skull, and only when he nods do I leave as well. Boss babe's not my boss. And looking at Illiana, I don't wish she was either.

"What do you think she's bribing him with in there?" Iliana whispers to me. "She never told me she had anything to level with with Vasquez."

"Josberg wants Diggz that bad?" Is everyone in this deal more desperate than they seem?

"No, they want an in with Daft Studios. They play around a lot but have never had anyone cross over from their respective companies, either way. Shouldn't you know this already?" She looks at me curiously, her expertly-layered fringe escaping from behind her ear.

"Nah, I'm new." First time I've had to use that line, which I count as a success.

"You serious? You look like a pro, especially how you work with him." She nods into the conference room. Go on and hype me up, girl.

I laugh. "A decade catering to the elderly and juveniles at the same time prepped me for this job, I was a librarian."

She considers it for a moment. "I can see that. You dressed like you dress now, or were you in those pencil skirts and pearls I always see all librarians in?"

"Uh, this is..." I think about how Vasquez basically picked out my outfit for today. "...office attire, but work was always pretty casual, actually. I miss it."

"Sounds better than here." I process this as she leans her head against the mottled glass window.

"Oh yeah? You're not into the powersuits they got us all in here?" I'm concentrating on filling out the shadows in my earlier drawing of Mavis. I could dress as her for Halloween this year.

"It always feels like we're playing dress-up. You especially, with this lil bun you got." And I feel fingers fondling my hair. I duck out from under her hand.

"Oh, hold on, don't mess up my bun," I laugh, smoothing down my edges.

She sighs, tucking her hand into a belt loop on her slacks. "Sorry Jazz, almost couldn't help it. Never really had a chance to, well, you know."

Good Lord. "What?"

"You know, touch your kind of hair." Okay.

I cock my head. "Well, uh, you're lucky I'm not.... Too offended at that, I guess. Maybe don't do that to anybody else you don't know. Or... follow up with that reasoning, either."

She shrugs, matter-of-factly. "Well, I didn't think you were gonna be a bitch about it."

I smile. "I'm a bitch with every breath I breathe. And don't ever touch anybody, even if they're - Lord amighty - Black, like they're a fucking pony at a petting zoo."

The door next to us cracks open, and Gina rushes out. "Illiana," she calls, and the woman tosses her head and trots along behind her.

She really had the top femme thing going for her. If only the rest of her had common sense.

"Jazzy."

"Sir, are you calling me to fall in line behind you like Wynans' girl just did, or are we gonna be on speaking terms for the rest of the trip?"

He chuckles. Tiredly, of course. I cast a gaze, and he's leaned against the door barely an inch from me, a little gray-faced. His blood pressure must be terrible.

"No," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ugh, I feel like I just broke up with my first girlfriend all over again."

"So... it didn't go well."

"No." His hand's still over his face.

"Well..." I lift up my notepad. "Do you, uh, do you wanna talk about it? While I take notes?" He grunts, and I lower the booklet. "Or off the records. Off the records is cool too."

"No, just... let's walk and talk, I scheduled a talk with Rittland at lunch, for..." he looks at his watch. "Now." He heaves himself off the doorframe, heading for the elevators. I walk step for step beside him, wondering just what Gina said in there.

"Wynans said that if we didn't at least consider the offer, we were looking at five consecutive years with them seeking newer, shinier prospects for their animated movies. She... implied... that she'd take Flora from our lineup, too. Which is plausible, because Flora wants a movie deal over what we have lined up with Farrow. But that would ruffle feathers with Farrow, almost certainly. I don't know why she's so adamant. I mean I do, it's because I was so inflexible during her proposal, but..." he thunks his head back against the elevator wall. "It's giving me a headache."

Boss babe making power moves. "Want me to go punch her in her throat for you, sir?"

He looks over at me, eyebrows raised.

"Excuse me. I mean, want me to go punch her in the throat for you, Mr. Vasquez?"

He grins, finally, rocking his head against the wall as the elevator comes to a stop on its ascent. "Thank you for the offer, Jazzy, but I can manage." Can he, though? Is this what they all go through at these conferences, or does he just not know how to chill?

"If you say so, uh, Mr. Vasquez."

The room we're going to seems to be right outside the elevator doors, as he's swerved to the right towards another conference room encased in glass. "Why does it pain you to say 'Mr. Vasquez' but not 'sir'?"

"Too many syllables."

He holds the door open for me, smiling as I walk past.

...

This day can end already. The conference with Rittland went... as expected. Tense, a little incomprehensible, and vague. So did the three spontaneous meetings after with Farrow and three other coexecs, during which Oliver wasn't even present due to stomach troubles. Something about his breakfast containing milk, and I remember the way he downed that cranberry muffin. I imagine suplexing the kitchen staff during that last two-hour meeting, physically educating them about what dairy-free actually means. A few more workshops, far too few bathroom breaks.

Dinner is late, of course, 11pm, and trying not to hunch over at the table, I think about how much fun I was having at this very spot twelve hours ago. I look over a distance to see Vasquez haunting his soup and salad, then turn my head back to see that Illiana is claiming the seat next to me.

"Hey, girlie," she smiles brightly.

"....Howdy." I slide my cherry coke closer to me and sip through the straw.

"So, uh, it feels like we got off on the wrong foot, and things went left this afternoon," she begins, placing a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake on it in front of me. I don't touch it.

"Really?"

She rolls her eyes, and tosses her head, and I find her hair escaping it's tucked position practiced rather than endearing this time. "And I'm sorry, okay? I know it's a thing, your..." she finger quotes- "'community', you guys don't want to be treated like animals, pets and all that. I just figured we were cool."

There are many things I could say. A lot of them at a raised volume, a lot of them embarrassing to her, and a lot of them worthy of a long talk with HR. I could be educational, but it's not my job to educate her. I could be angry, but I'm too tired. I choose to get up from the table and head to my room, with a tired and disappointing, "Just don't do that, Illiana," as my parting gift.

"Just abandoning your post, huh?" He steps into the elevator a moment behind me. I shuffle and sigh.

"Yes, Mr. Vasquez."

A small smile sparks on his face, his eyes closed once more. "Oh, is that my name again? Good girl."

A moment passes, and I feel his mortification seep in through the walls of the box we're rising in, clashing with my own.

"Did I just make this day a million times worse?"

I look up at the ceiling, imagining the cables bringing us steadily higher just snapping. "Not if we just pretend it didn't happen."

"Alright."

He doesn't stop at my door this time.

...

Thursday, and I can see the end. Everyone is done looking tired; now they all just look bored. The excitement of what they could hash out, of what they could squeeze through in negotiations, is over, and we're all ready to go home. Wynans has still got my boss by the balls, and when he tells Farrow about the upset, the big man just laughs and wishes him luck.

"Must be nice to be part of a thriving company like that," Vasquez muses over another meager coffee. We're at a separate table today, confirming our last few moves before checkout tomorrow afternoon.

"Isn't Daft Studios thriving?" I'm trying to entice him to eat by picking at a French omelette and oatmeal with blueberries, but right now I'm leaning towards coffee too. I've been constipated for two days with all the high sodium, high fat, high whatever-else-they've-been-putting-in-this food.

"Yes, technically. But, it's like being rich versus generational wealth, you know? We could have a few flop albums and have a horrible year because of it, and desperately need to make a cash grab. Farrow and the Highland Corporation, they could have a whole year, multiple years of bad launches and not bat an eye." He sips his coffee, winces. Does he even like it? "Not that they've put out anything less than stellar for the last few years."

"I see." So that's why Farrow is never worried during these things. Josberg Studios must be somewhere in between, with Wynans reaching ruthlessly for that kind of security. I like her even more.

"I'm going up to my room for a few, you can take an hour or two to yourself, just meet me back at room 405 for the conclusory meeting with the execs."

"Okay."

He hesitates for a beat, but ultimately grabs his coffee and dips. I sip my own, playing with my eggs and swallowing the oatmeal bit by bit. Fiber's going to get me through this day. And maybe kickstart my digestive health again.

"Did I crack down too hard?"

I look up from the picture of the dining room that I'm drawing to see Gina Wynans sitting across from me in all her glory. These people must've made some deal with the devil for smaller sound waves. Or I really don't pay attention, because I should've heard her bangles and pants legs from across the room.

"Ma'am?"

"Ray looks all haggard and deflated. Should I go make up with him?" She's got her hair over her shoulder again, fidgeting with another piece of hair jewelry that's liable to sever the whole loc.

"Oh." I blink, wondering how to play this without Vasquez. "I'm pretty new to-"

She waves her hand in the air. "Stop it, Jazz, we're grown. Give me grown advice."

I mean... why not? I'm just a PA. "It couldn't hurt. He was giving you no room to move, I think, but all week it's kinda been looking like you beat him with a stick in there."

She laughs, and it sounds like summer wind moving through wind chimes to me. "Does it?"

I hope I'm not selling out my boss. I rack my brain for something to say. "Does... Diggz have to be the only liaison between Josberg and Daft?"

She sits back. "No, but it's the surest. My supervisors are really banking on it. And between you and me," she leans forward, "I was looking forward to working more with Ray. I know you know." She winks, and I smile.

"I could see it, yeah." He doesn't want her, and I'm not going to broach that topic, not even with a ten foot pole, hazmat suit, and insulated gloves. "Were you looking to schedule another meeting with him?" I flip over the page I've been doodling on to get to a fresh one.

"No... I actually wanted to get at him now, do you know where he just went off to?" Uh oh.

Poker face, Jazzy, please. Just let it work this time. "I'm actually not quite sure, he told me to take the next hour or two to reboot, but I definitely have his schedule from 4pm onwards...?"

"Jazz, you won't be in this business long if you can't tell a decent lie." Gina folds her arms, actually looks a little concerned. "I'd appreciate it if you told me his room number, I'm fairly sure that's where he went. Probably for a nap; coffee barely keeps him awake anymore."

Damn. I notice her poor locs again, frayed under the jewelry. I can't play the games these people play. "Ma'am. Ms. Wynans," I venture. "I'm afraid I can't do that. He looked like a man on the edge, and I know you know the feeling of crawling upwards in this business, especially with all the bullshit you gotta deal with on the daily."

She purses her lips, looks down at her watch. I continue. "He needs the little bit of sanctuary he can get right now, and I'm sure you can go around me and ask any other PA which floor he's on, but instead," I say, pushing my clipboard aside and clasping my hands together, "I can show you how to get those metal bands from around your hair without ripping your ends off, if you have time."

"Excuse me?" I've caught her attention.

"I had to help my brother-in-law get them off his whole head few weeks ago, and it looks like yours are strangling the life out of your hair."

She narrows her eyes, and I sit, caught in her gaze. "I have forty-two minutes until my next conference."

"I have coconut oil in my bag, I'll be right back."

...