All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(16)

As far as the actual work went, I was given few to no tasks. The job seemed like an exercise in how quietly I could sit and not bother anyone. At night I wasn’t sleeping, and during the day I wasn’t being useful, and both things put me deeply on edge. Anxiety was the only thing that kept my eyes from closing in the late hours. Was I about to blow this?


Dad: this part will be the hardest in your path. you have no credentials, no portfolio, no real allies. this is where you will succeed by mettle and grit. eat some shit, bump into things, and strive, strive, strive strive. all without being annoying. tough duty.

Me: yeah thats what i have been pondering, the how to

Dad: make sure when you talk to people you seem like you are wondering and trying to figure stuff out, not whining. we both need to remember how lucky you are to be there. these are high class problems.

Me: yes i understand

Dad: am going to be home working on Trib Co. ping if you need me. and always remember to update me on your tiny victories in addition to your persistent challenges. I am so, so proud of you.

Me: 10 4. thanks fahja

Dad: tenfourxo



He was right, as always. I had to turn this job into a real job, and even though his correspondence was endowed with wisdom, he couldn’t do the work for me. I had to do it myself. I look at interns now and feel a genuine pang of empathy. We are all just humans looking for something to do well that will earn us our place on this orb.

My communication with my dad during this period was frantic, intense, and voluminous. I was on the other side of the world, and yet we were so close. He wanted so badly for me to “make it,” but all he could do was sit and hear about my failures and small wins after the fact.

After a couple of months, I figured out some things that I could do. I ran for coffee, organized the past archives of the magazine, took phone calls, did research, and kept my neediness to myself. I had few friends to speak of—it was hard for an American to break in socially at VICE and in London itself. Or maybe it was just me. But still, I kept at it.

I spent most weekends wandering around alone at the Tate Modern, which was fine by me. Money, or the lack thereof, was deeply problematic. Since I was really not supposed to be paid, VICE would often stiff me. My paltry paycheck was bounced around from department to department; no one wanted to pay the ￡1,375 per month. My math had them paying me about $480 per week, but I didn’t care as long as my rent check cleared, though it usually didn’t. An additional hurdle was that I did not have the proper visa to work in the country. I sent frantic emails to my dad about my pathetic attempts at trying to cover rent and food, and he electronically shook his head. Hadn’t I gotten a job in order to take care of this very issue? Jill and Dad were from an earlier era, where lending money to their kid was simply not done. Having now graduated from college, I needed to figure out a way to make the money thing work on my own.

After four months, I was told that a visa was not going to come through for me to continue working at VICE. I was quietly relieved. Now, I had a reason to go home. I had given it the ol’ college try, and for that I had earned a spot back in my dad’s heart. The gruffness that I had felt from him during my college years began to dissipate. He had zero patience for laziness. I always knew he loved me, yes, but respect was a different matter. He needed to know that I could find a place to live, figure out money issues, and try my damnedest at a gig even when I was the lowest on the totem pole.

I would need to start the process of decision-making all over again, but at least I would be in New York, near my support network, and I wouldn’t have to fear the first of the month in a way that had become unmanageable. I asked my mentor for advice on an exit strategy. Here was his reply:


Spend a lot of time on how great it has been, and how much you have learned and then say you are probably going to split because of $ and visa. You’ll know what to do.

As I say, I couldn’t be more impressed by you dolly.

David

check this…

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/23/business/media/23tribune.html



And so, after all that, I was back on that airplane.





10


    Holiday Party Advice





VICE mercifully agreed to hire me to work at their New York office as an associate producer despite my unexceptional time in London. They felt bad about the visa situation and offered to give me a shot to try the gig in New York. But first I needed to secure housing that I could afford. Upon my return from London, my dad had given me a deadline: “I want you to be out of the house in two weeks.” Then he explained very matter-of-factly that he did not want to start the now-normalized cycle of baby bird coming back to the nest. Tough love had worked for him, dispensed by his father, John Carr, and he wasn’t about to go all soft on me. I also gleaned that I was not, let’s say, the best living companion, and he needed to get me out of the house and out of his hair. I played my music loud, ate what was in the pantry without replacing it, and was basically your average shitty early-twenties adult.

My initial foray into New York living involved a spruced-up squat on Kent Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was the first and last apartment I interviewed for; I wasn’t very picky. I knocked on the heavy metal door and heard deep footsteps shuffle toward the entrance. A tall man with a well-groomed beard and small blue eyes appeared on the other side of the door and introduced himself as Shawn. He didn’t remember which candidate I was. I smiled widely and introduced myself. I knew instinctively to use the VICE name and to imply that I would be mostly at work and not one of those unfortunate roommates who spent 24/7 inside their room dicking around on Reddit.