19 n i n e t e e n : first day

Despite our failure yesterday, I still have to show up bright and early for my internship. I feel like I've fallen far behind this summer. I was supposed to be looking for internships. I was supposed to apply, to show my work ethic, and to score myself this opportunity. As a scholar, I take pride in my work—this summer has plummeted that side of me. The drama, the gossip, the guys… all the guys.

Finally, I can get back into a routine that reflects the real me: Genevieve, the scholar; Genevieve, the try-hard; Genevieve, the ass-kisser. Any other person referred to as these monikers would be offended. I embrace it. I always have. I usually enjoy working hard, but for some reason it doesn't have the same effect today.

I straighten out my blazer and pencil skirt in my full length mirror. Typical office outfit. "Hello, my name is Genevieve, and I would be an extraordinary applicant for any institution because I try… really hard."

Nah, I can't open my personal essay with that…

I decide to try out mute colors in my outfit. The last thing I need is to stand out.

"Morning," I call, exiting the family room as quickly as I entered it.

Shortly, I pull into the parking lot of the skyscraper that is Staple Industries. Well, I try. There's a monitor with a screen for scanning cards. He didn't even give me an ID card. Now I'm going to be late, and it won't even be my fault. My first instinct is to call him, but I don't even think I have his number. I need to figure something out before a line forms.

Suddenly, he pops up. Speak of the devil, right? He presses his ID card against the scanner, and the mechanic arm in front of me allows me in. I swiftly park, hoping not to run late again. When I close my door, he's right behind me.

"I forgot the…"

"The ID card," I finish. "Do I need to come in to take a picture for that, or… how exactly does it work?"

"No picture. It'll just have your name, company ID number, and a barcode."

He lingers for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Welcome."

"Th-Thanks," I stutter… like an idiot. Professionalism, professionalism, professionalism.

"Follow me," he says softly.

I have issues, real issues. All he has to do is give me three words, and I melt. MELT.

I'm blaming it on my lack of human contact lately. I haven't heard from Aaron in… how long?

Oh, actually not that long ago. I think I blew him off, too. Maybe I'm the asshole in this situation. I blew up at him. I didn't call him back. I've been running around, going to parties, hanging out with guys, swooning over guys…

You know what? I've discovered that I don't like confronting my wrongs. Back to my shiny new opportunity.

Only, I can't think about that because he's walking. Walking. A simple thing like walking has my mind clouded. It just seems like he always has this confidence in his step—overconfidence, if you ask me, but it's so attractive. I'm barely listening to the tour.

"So here's the… actually, I used to come here as a…"

"Hmm?" I ask, hoping to regain some control of my mind.

"Uh, I said that this breakroom," he points, "practically used to be a daycare center for me as a child."

"Oh, wow."

He furrows his eyebrows. He and I know that that was the most insincere response that I could have mustered.

"Here is your office," he stops at the end of the hallway.

"My own office?" this has sparked my attention.

"We have tons of space, so most interns get their own offices. Also, it prevents clashing between them and employees," he shrugs.

I sit down in the leather chair, running my hands over the hardwood desk. The view.

"Make yourself comfortable. I have a meeting then a class to get to."

"A class?"

"I go to Columbia, remember?"

"Right, right. Thank you."

I forgot that he's not one of those rich kids, living off of daddy's inheritance, and prematurely taking control of the company.

I set up my computer, connect to the WiFi, tidy up. Everything looks neat and organized when I'm finished.

As I'm getting my post-its and highlighters out, a light tapping sound permeates my door.

"Come in."

"Hello, I'm Mark Sluth. I'll be your guidance in the program. I hate using the word 'boss,' but I am technically your boss," he laughs at his own joke. Regaining his composure, and realizing the corniness of his joke, he straightens. "You can ask me any questions you have. I'll be about 5 feet that way," he points to his right, my left.

"I'll also be showing you what you'll be doing for this 6 month program. Follow me."

He's a balding man in his mid to late thirties, I'm guessing. He probably drives a van-type vehicle and has kids. He gives warm, caring vibes, despite his awkward jokes. Mark Sluth seems like the type of co-worker that will give me advice and probably become one of my good friends.

"So, here's a company monitor," he points to his desktop. "The internet keeps a record of every website and application opened on company time. It's basically a necessary measure to keep employees on task at all times, except during breaks and lunch." He bends over to whisper to me: "Some of us use a VPN to watch Netflix or YouTube, anyway."

I smile. "Noted." If that's the extent of the industry secrets of Staple Oil, I'm extremely underwhelmed.

Mark is one of those people that can just do no wrong. He seems so kind, and it's so wholesome how he thinks using a VPN is the most scandalous thing you can do at work.

Out of nowhere, he hauls a stack of paperwork and takes it to my office. My office. Will that ever get old?

"Wow," I chuckle nervously. That's a lot of fucking work…

"Yeah, this is all the work you'll have to get through for the week."

The week. This looks like a month's work at best.

He senses my panicked expression and laughs to himself. "I never get tired of that look."

"For today's work," he singles out about 50 pages, "you'll be reading briefs from our lawyers. Being an old company, an oil company at that, Staple Oil gets quite a few lawsuits, as you can assume."

I bet.

"Some of these are dated from earlier this year, especially regarding the pandemic. And some of these are from as early as 1910."

"1910?" I ask, confused.

"We add outdated cases sometimes, just for teaching purposes."

"Great," I smile. Sluth exits, shutting the door behind him with a supportive grin.

I decide to start with the oldest case—from August 9th, 1910. A man that lived in the plot next to the oil mine in Texas claimed that "the oil extraction is disturbing me greatly." Some of the oldest cases are the smallest and have the weirdest causes—back when virtually anyone could file a lawsuit for any reason. The inventor of staples tried to sue Staple Oil for copyrighting their company name… needless to say, that guy lost. The difference in wording from back then compared to now is kind of crazy. Everything sounded so posh. The same underlying passive aggression, snarkiness, and cleverness has been passed down through the decades.

I'm deep in the literature when my door abruptly opens.

"Hello, I'm just here to remind you of your one hour lunch break," Staple peaks his head in.

"Oh," I pop up. "I didn't even realize how long I had been reading these."

"Yeah, they can get… interesting," he smirks.

"I mean, the one about the couple caught," I look around then whisper, "having sex on a job site. It's wild," I shake my head.

He chuckles then exits quietly.

As I'm closing the briefs, I hear Mark's faint calling: "Lunch time! Lunch time!"