I once asked my grandfather how he went from being thousands of dollars in debt after college to later running his own company (not at the Hughes level, mind you; he owned a chain of shoe stores). He told me it was all about having the right work ethic. While most zombies punch in and out, wish away the day, and live for the weekends, he threw himself into work wholeheartedly each and every workday.
“Be the first one there and the last one to leave,” he advised when I called him the night before my departure. “Don’t wait for someone to come to you—be proactive and seek out the work. Only then will people know they can count on you, and then you become indispensable.”
As resident Xerox whore and gopher girl, I found it hard to imagine any intern becoming that irreplaceable. But when Gabe and Teagan popped by CeCe’s office at the stroke of 4:59 P.M. to bail, I said I had more to do and that I’d meet them back at the ranch. They, along with all the other interns, were out the door so quick you’d think the building had a four-alarm fire—especially the Trumpettes, who vociferously announced their nightly plans upon departure: choice restaurant rezzies, nightclub lists, driver pick-up locations. They all went back to their various Upper East Side perches for disco naps before the preening process began.
But what would I be running off to, exactly? My depressing apartment? Another dinner I couldn’t afford? That was a waste of time, because what I really needed to do was to show everyone at the magazine how committed I was so that I could get the internship. I was sure that CeCe would not give me glowing props to Genevieve—especially if Daphne was my competition. I had to meet some of the editors and network. It sounds kinda kiss-assy, but, frankly, none of the other interns cared that much.
First I wandered down by the accessories department. Richard was gabbing on the phone and I didn’t want to interrupt him. Next I strolled to fashion, where I saw two editors on their knees packing for a Military Chic shoot.
“Hi,” I started, suddenly getting a little nervous as the two girls, both so stylishly accessorized with layers of delicate chains and chunky belts, turned around. “I’m Kira. I’m an intern in the bookings department, with CeCe, and, um, I was wondering if you guys need any help?”
“No, I don’t think so…” one said, wiping her brow while looking me over.
“Thank you so much, anyway,” said the other, which I assumed was my cue to leave.
“Okay, thought I’d check just in case!” I said, turning around.
“Wait—” said the first one. “Actually…come to think of it, we still haven’t unpacked the trunk from our Palm Bitch Acid Preppy shoot. Do you mind getting a start on that?”
“Sure!” I offered, beaming and psyched to be of use.
“There’s no way you can finish tonight. I mean, there are piles and piles of things to be labeled, packed in bubbleopes, and returned to the fashion houses, but you might as well crack it open and get started.”
The duo introduced themselves as Trixie and Lilly (Trixie was a petite Korean beauty and Lilly had almond eyes and chic shaggy brown hair). They were both in their twenties and were market editors at the assistant and associate level—probably what I would be right out of school, so it would be interesting to glean what they were typically up to.
I began the unpacking process, which was robotic but actually interesting. I opened velvet box after velvet box to find different pieces—pink and green bikinis, gold aviator sunglasses, sixties-era Jackie O head scarves, and wedgie ribbon-tie espadrilles. Each piece had a corresponding Polaroid in the Palm Bitch shoot box, which catalogued all the pieces that were pulled, sent, and shot for the story. It yielded a four-page spread but involved weeks of work and tens of thousands of dollars in expenses: airfare to Florida, an alligator trainer for the Everglades shoot, a photographer with his assistant, hair and makeup artists, the model, and the stylists and their assistants.
As I checked off each piece, wrapped it, and filled out labels for the returns to the Michael Kors, Gucci, and Ralph Lauren public relations departments, I got a good rhythm going. And ninety minutes later, I was finished.
“So I’m done, I guess. Anything else?”
Trixie and Lilly turned around, stunned.
“Finished? No way,” Trixie said skeptically, rising to survey my work. She must have thought I’d royally screwed up to have completed my task so quickly, but as she went over my packets and files, her eyes widened. “Lil, she just did this all,” she said, jawon-floor. “Kira, you rock!”
Lilly got up and came over, too. “Oh my God. You are like Supergirl! You just saved us hours of work, you little Speedy Gonzales!”
I beamed. It wasn’t rocket science—and it had been fun to see the inner workings of a shoot-in-a-box.
“And it’s like seven o’clock! You are the best intern ever; you’re working overtime for free,” she added.
“Well, I have no life,” I admitted. “I’m in New York for Skirt, so I might as well be at Skirt,” I shrugged, hoping I didn’t sound like the biggest dork on planet earth.
“Who else around here has no life?” a voice asked in the doorway. It was James, carrying a portfolio. “I feel like I’m in lockdown in Attica today. I haven’t left my desk once.”
“Hi, Jamesie,” Trixie said. “Do you know Kira? This chick just cleared out this mammoth steamer in like under two hours. We worship her!”
“Yes, I know Kira,” he said, giving me a trademark weak-in-the-knees-rendering smile. “And boy do I wish we had some help like that in the photo department. Our intern left at three o’clock. On a shoot day,” he said.
“Oh, how’s that Pier Sixty nautical chic thing going?” Lilly inquired.
“Fine, except the photographer’s assistant just called to say they need more berets. Apparently some ship with sailors just pulled in and they want to use them with the models. I don’t know where the hell to get berets. I hoped maybe you guys had some beret connection?”
“Not unless there’s a huge logo on them. I mean, we have a few in the hat room from fall and winter,” Trixie said. “But they’re kind of for women. Not sailory at all—”
“The props warehouse is closed,” said Lilly, looking at her watch.
James looked defeated.
“What about that place Weiss & Mahoney?” I ventured. “I read about it in Time Out New York once. Army surplus? I think they’re open late. I can call.”
“Didn’t I tell you? This gal rocks,” said Trixie.
I called the store and it was indeed open until eight o’clock.
“Great, that is so excellent. Thank you, Kira,” he said, relieved. “Gotta run, good night, guys.” He took off down the hall. Then I heard him stop and turn around, returning to our clothes-covered haven. “Hey, Kira?”
I turned from my piles of files.
“Ever been to a feature photo shoot before?”