Page 3 of A World Apart
Then again, I wasn’t here for the money. I was only here on a year-long Visa. When it expired I’d go back to the UK with 12 months of hands-on experience at a famous LA recording studio. Or at least, that’s what I’d put on my resume. I’d probably gloss over the fact that I was pretty much just the person that you’d get to make the coffee for the meetings, but work was work and there were worse places to be a paid intern.
“Meet you for lunch?” I asked Becka as we rode the elevator up to the top floor.
“Natch,” she replied as the doors slid open. “See ya later!” She called over her shoulder as she sauntered off down the corridor to her office. I took a more leisurely pace down the corridor directly in front of the bank of elevators to the general operations unit.
There were three corridors up here that went left, straight, or right. The one to the left has three meeting spaces: a casual lounge and two meeting rooms. Each one had a large table and enough chairs to seat a dozen people, complete with a totalaudio-visual set up for conference and video calls. The one that went straight on from the elevator led to general operations. The corridor that went to the right was social media, bookings, and PR. The first time I’d gone in one of the conference rooms during a meeting, the camera had followed me around the room as I carried in a tray of drinks. I was thoroughly creeped out, thinking some perv was focusing in on me and I said as much to my boss once I’d gotten out of there.
Jeremy had laughed as he explained it tracked movement and sound to make sure all speakers were always in the frame. Some random creeper was not remote controlling the camera to follow me around the room; I’d just been so noisy clattering around with the tray that the camera had automatically focused on me.
Jeremy was the head of Gen Ops and was my direct line. He was an alright guy and had a plaque on his desk that readJeremy Olsen - Gen Ops and Chief Cat Herderwhich made me laugh every time I saw it.
He was sat at his desk when I knocked, the door slightly open as usual.
“Come in, Kaiya,” he called.
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked pushing the door open. He didn’t look up from where he was tapping away at his laptop; just pointed at the clock on the wall. It was 08:50.
“Same time every day.” Half of his mouth quirked up in a smile.
“Only when we take the bus.” I countered.
“You must be saving Rebecca a fortune,” he mused, finally closing his laptop and turning to look at me.
“I consider it my great act of charity.”
Jeremy scoffed and leaned back in his chair. I guessed that he was in his mid-40s with nondescript dark brown hair, a perpetually scruffy chin and kind eyes. He was exactly the kind of person you could imagine as running the Ops team of a studio.
“Remind me, who were you with yesterday?” He asked, running a finger over his chin.
“Foley.” I answered at once, smiling. Jeremy returned the smile. “Ah, yes. Make anything interesting?” Foley artists were such a trip. Whenever you heard rain, footsteps on gravel, or even horse hooves on grass in a film or whatever, chances were you were hearing a Foley artist, sitting in a dark cupboard with a whole bunch of random crap around them making every sound you can imagine.
“A bar fight,” I responded. Jeremy raised his eyes. “No shit? Who’s that for?”
I opened my mouth to tell him, but Jeremy quickly interrupted me. “Forget I asked. It’ll be ‘That Pain In The Ass again.’”
I pursed my lips to hide my smile. It was, indeed, for the rap artist. Began with a D, ended with an E.
“Anyway,” Jeremy continued, “nothing so exciting today, I’m afraid. Tech team just received a bunch of new guitars, for some reason.” He rolled his eyes. “They’ve asked for someone to tune them. Why they can’t do it themselves, fuck knows.” He huffed. In the short time I’d been here, I’d noticed that the different departments were constantly at each other’s throats for one thing or another.
“I don’t mind,” I replied gamely.
“That’s what you spent three years at University for, right?” He glanced up at me, raising an eyebrow wryly. I didn’t think he would appreciate me reminding him of the donkey-work he regularly had me doing that similarly had nothing to do with my degree either.
At least I’d get to play with some cool gear.
It was a good thing I was proficient at both bass and guitar because the tech team had indeed just shipped in a load and all of them needed tuning. I wasn’t a particular enthusiast, but even I had to sigh in appreciation of some of them.
They were absolute works of art, no other way to describe them; perfectly curved bodies of ash and alder, so shiny the overhead lights were dazzling as they bounced off the varnish. There were also a lot of them. So many that it took me right up until lunch time to get it done. My fingers were throbbing by the time I put down the last electric guitar. My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out, sparing the screen a glance as I headed towards the elevators.
Becka
Meeting room 2. I got news x
[Sent 12:09]
I raised my eyebrows with interest and took the stairs up to the 3rd floor.
Pushing open the door to meeting room 2, I saw Becka sitting at the head of the conference table. Blessedly, the AV setup was quiet and still. Beckahad our lunch spread out on the table in front of her, the meal prep containers I insisted on buying us when I moved in coming in clutch, yet again. Before I moved in, Becka lived off of take-out and Uber Eats. Even though I didn’t pay rent, I liked to think I was saving her money.
