Saturday's Storyteller: "Stuffing envelopes isn't so bad. Sure, it's boring work, but it pays the bills."

by Belinda Roddie

Stuffing envelopes isn't so bad. Sure, it's boring work, but it pays the bills. Mostly, I send out coupons and ads and renewal requests. I'd much rather be writing for the magazines rather than simply mailing out letters about them, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

I'm a twenty-four-year-old intern at a publisher that produces three magazines: Star Force, Airborne, and Hype. Star Force focuses a lot on silly celebrity gossip and maybe a few legit interviews from actors or musicians. It's been around for as long as I can remember; sometimes, you can buy it from high-end grocery stores. You know, the ones that actually have huge shelves to stock the things on and show off in the front windows. Star Force always sneaks its way to the middle shelf where it sits at eye level, just waiting for you to actually care about the latest Bachelorette's weight loss story. 

Airborne is more about travel and flight stuff - no, it's not about that tablet you dissolve in your glass of water to prevent the sniffles. It's definitely a subscription-only magazine. People with enough disposable income to hop the Hawaiian islands and then take a trip to New Zealand on top of that are our usual readers. Some of the writers really do get to move around the globe, though usually we rely on outsourced columnists so the publisher doesn't actually need to pay for travel costs. Too bad; I would have loved to write about restaurants in Ireland. Unlike the stereotypes, it's got some pretty decent cuisine. And lots of beer and cider, of course.

Hype is my favorite, mostly because it's cheesy consumerist garbage. I love it; I always find an appreciation for seeing the latest market trends and popular products. Last year, when fidget spinners were fading from the public eye, this guy Marco slipped in an article about vibrating boxers being the next fad without the editors batting an eye. Thanks to him, now you get to see vibrating boxers in every big box store. Annoys the Hell out of parents with young children, but I guess it goes to show that sometimes, Hype doesn't just report on the latest craze - it can start it, too. I'd enjoy making that kind of impact if I were in Marco's position. It almost feels heroic.

Anyway, I just cram desperate pleas for subscriptions into envelopes along with some vouchers that expire within two weeks, and I dump them into a box to send out by the next day. I've never quite understood my internship, actually; you'd think by now that this kind of role would be obsolete. Shouldn't we be totally digital? But I also know how physical mail gets more attention than spam e-mail. The lead editor for Star Force - her name's Cheryl - explained to me that according to our data, our mail subscription requests get seventy times more response than our digital subscription requests. I was floored. It also made me feel kind of important. I'm not exactly someone with a particularly honed set of skills - besides writing pseudo-comedic snippets on diner napkins, and that's pretty niche in my book - but knowing I'm helping keep magazines' relevance somewhat alive is cool. Sure, we're still on life support, but God damn, if we can't sit up in our hospital bed from time to time!

I work six hours a day before I head down to the café and then go home. Without fail, I always run into the hottest employee at the publishing house: Wendy Harris, a Hype columnist like Marco. And she always orders a latte. Every time. She's about seven years my senior and pretty lucky to be this high up on the magazine food chain, but she's an incredible fucking writer. I love her stuff. Her sardonic tone ("I'd like to see a hoverboard without wheels. Because a hoverboard with wheels is a battery-powered skateboard."), her blunt perspective ("Anyone who ever thought Tide Pod Tams would pick up should be checked for holes in their head. You know, to see if a lobotomy was involved."), and her occasional cultural throwbacks ("Quit trying to make crocs happen. They're not gonna happen."), they all contribute to some of the most entertaining stuff in an otherwise pretty ridiculous rag. Of course, she's totally out of my league - I mean, she's an absolute bombshell - and I don't think scrawny Filipina girls are her type. And I'm a scrawny Filipina girl with enough paper cuts on my hands to create miniature constellations representing pain and self-hatred.

So, yeah. What I do is boring stuff. But like I said, it pays the bills. Unlike other interns, poor fools, I get a monthly stipend. It's grocery money, and gas money, so I can't complain. Plus, that and my occasional night shift at Moonbeam Pharmaceuticals lets me stay in a room in an apartment shared by two of my college buddies and an older guy with a hard-on for science fiction shows. Seriously, I expect him to orgasm every time he discusses the latest season of Black Mirror.

Oh, yeah. I'm also a kind of sort of cashier and stocker at an alternative medicine store for hippies and hypochondriacs. Now all I need is actual healthcare and a dental plan!

What was I getting at? Right, right - Wendy doesn't show up at the café one day when I go down for my daily black coffee. It's weird. I know she had gone to work because she smiled at me when I stepped out of the elevator and went to my designated tiny "cubicle" in the corner - which is not really a cubicle, it's just a small table with one of those cardboard folder things to keep noise out like I'm taking an exam - and I'm pretty sure a latte was just calling her name. But, nope. No Wendy. No five foot eight hotness with dark skin and curly hair and the best ironed suit I've ever seen. I ask Charlie, the barista.

"Nah, girl, I haven't seen her," he slurs out of the side of his mouth. "Still want your coffee?"

"Yeah. Sure."

This month's been rough for subscriptions. I think I've slipped up a few times today and accidentally stuffed two subscription requests into one envelope. More than once. Cheryl would be pissed about that, but everyone else is chill. Marco sits near me and likes to crack the worst jokes while I work, which I don't think helps me focus but is definitely worth the distraction. Recently, he's been on a pun mission - without punermission. Heh, heh. Sorry, guys, this is why I let him do it. He's...on the mark-o.

Was that one better? I'm standing by it.

Anyway. I get my black coffee and sit down at a table with two napkin dispensers, ready to jot down stupid, funny-but-not-really-funny quips and monologues on fragile paper-but-also-not-paper like I'm a wannabe talk show host, and finally, in comes Wendy. But she looks different. She's in a black cocktail dress and carries a little red purse like she's about to go out on the town. My jaw drops, and I try to rehinge it in time before she sees me. She always says hi to me before she gets her latte. And she always gets my name right, unlike everyone else in the office.

"How's it going, Dalisay?" she asks me with that super sexy smirk.

"Fine," I reply, mumbling that one word like it's as complicated as saying, "Absolutely splendifferous, my seductive and sultry friend!"

Yep: My name's Dalisay. It's Tagalog. Means "pure," or "flower" - it really depends on what lousy website you go to for baby name meanings. But my friends all call me, "Dali." It's pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable - Dah-lee - though I sometimes wish they'd pronounce it Dah-lee, like Salvador Dalí. I'm actually a big fan of art, even though I can only produce the most aesthetically pleasing of stick figures, and Dalí's one of my favorites. I have a poorly printed copy of "The Persistence of Memory" stuck on my wall with a pushpin above my bed. I don't know why, apart from liking the painting - maybe I just wanna see if I can dream of melting clocks, too.

Anyway. Wendy's now getting her latte, and I'm scribbling gibberish on my leaning towers of napkins in a daze. I can only think of two reasons why she's dressed up - either she's going to a party, or she's heading to a hot date. And I kind of wish I could be both hot and her date. I'm suddenly very self-conscious of my bony body and my greasy short hair and the cystic acne that's started to pop up again along my jaw. Horny boys always like to brag about how sexy Filipinas are - you know, the type of dudes who like to fetishize anyone with heritage east of fucking Pakistan and north of Indonesia, and yes, I know I'm being uber specific, stop judging me - but I do not consider myself a target of their affection. Not that I'd want to be. I'm gayer than Ellen DeGeneres sucking on Portia de Rossi's left tit while riding a rainbow unicorn through West Hollywood on Pride Weekend. So that's something.

Holy shit, I'm mentally rambling. Now Wendy's walking toward me. I finally get myself to remember what English sounds like and actually say something. "So, uh...nice dress."

Smooth operator over here.

Wendy grins. "Thanks," she says. "I'm just meeting up with some friends. Nothing fancy."

"Cool. Dinner or something?"

"Yeah," she replies. "I haven't seen some of them in years. They're visiting from Chicago. You ever been?"

Oh, sure, I've been everywhere, man. Why, just last week, I sailed on a dinghy to Japan and ate sushi for nine days straight. No, I haven't been to Chicago. I haven't even been outside this fucking state.

"Well, have fun," I manage to say. My voice squeaks like it's the tin man waiting to be oiled. I'm mortified.

Wendy leaves with a steaming cup of foam, and I'm left with sad scrawls on fragile paper and an amused Charlie shaking his head. My internship ends in three months. I'm running out of time, and I have no game.

Maybe playing first person shooters with Joe and Alex after bandaging up my latest paper cuts from envelope purgatory will cheer me up.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.