“I was on the North Fork, you know? Long Island?” she said in that way people say things when they don’t mean to imply they are important but you better recognize the fact that they are pretty fucking important.
“I was talking to my mentor and she was like ‘Kelly, you’re not passionate about what you do,’ and I was like, ‘Uh, that doesn’t matter.’ Because,” she said as she changed the hand holding her iced coffee, “I just want to do yoga.”
She was talking to a very fit older gentleman with a head full of silver hair who had to be from the West Coast because he was tan and clearly conditioned to deal with this kind of self-serving conversation.
“All that stuff at Fox is great I guess and I am totally happy, you know?” she said, and then emphatically, “I mean I’m a fucking executive producer and my mentor was like, ‘We are doing your fucking resume, I’m going to film you and you’re going to start selling yourself.’”
It was at this point that the Q train jolted to the left and her gentleman listener became visibly bored. His conditioning could only last so long. He had tried to insert himself into the conversation by telling her about how passionate he was with his new boyfriend, who lived in Austin or some place like that. “As long as he doesn’t make me move to Colorado, I’ll be fine.” She cut him off and told him about the time she got drunk in Denver.
As she got off the train, she tried to connect the dots and bring up a mutual business acquaintance. She said to the gentleman, “Oh you must know him. He’s part of the design scene.” He responded in a way that made me believe there was such a thing as “the design scene.” But that’s not possible, right?
I got off the train at 34th street and prayed for a miracle.
I went to work.
Ben H. Moffat lives in New York City, was born in Massachusetts and attended Miami University. His non-fiction work has appeared in Graffiti Magazine and The Marietta Times.
image by the author