By the time I come up for air, the cookies are gone, and he’s standing in the doorway.
“Oh, and have a dozen of these delivered to...” He dusts crumbs everywhere and scans through his phone. “Kelly Adams. You’ll find her address in my contacts.”
“Those are not from a bakery.”
“Oh damn, you made these? Even better. Sign the card: Thinking only of you.” he smiles and stands.
I watch him, wondering if I should ask about the resumes.
“I’ll be out for a few days. I need to fly out to Miami to clear my head and regroup.”
It must be nice.
He continues, “Reschedule everyone for next week. I should return by Thursday. Clear your calendar for Thursday through Saturday. You should receive some resumes and scripts for us to review.”
I lean forward.
“Sort through them. Three piles. Previous television writing experience. Top tier film school, the top is my alma mater. Previous interns and those with personal recommendations from a studio executive, A-List producers, actors, actresses, and last names you recognize."
He walks towards the door, and a war stirs in my head between my work-self and my real-self. Rachelle, my work-self, is college-educated, professional, and motivated by the approval of others. Quanie, my real self, leans more towards unfiltered Quanie. She's southern and cusses because she's grown, and she's Team Quanesha all day, every day, #kissmyass if you don't like it.
The world’s not ready for Quanesha Rachelle Montgomery.
No one in L.A. knows me as Quanie because she doesn’t fit in this world. Not if I want to do more than be Denzel’s assistant.
And the battle continues.
I need to say something… that job should be mine.
You better not. Girl, don’t get your ass fired from this good job. Then what?
Closed mouths don’t get fed… and if he asks me to separate the M&Ms by color one more damn time, I’m going fucking postal.
I mean it.
I will.
Denzel's almost out the door, and I push through the internal noise. "What about me?"
“What about you?” His eyebrow lifts as if he’s confused.
“You promised you’d get me in the next available position.”
"Yeah… I did. And I am. But this one is out of my hands. They want a fresh perspective. Kids with a new spin on our fall lineup."
I nod. But it’s not okay. This is the same spill I heard from my boss before, and the one before that, and coming from Denzel, it sounds like a broken record.
“If not now, then when?” I look up at him.
“Next time.” He smiles. “How about I add a little extra to your bonus this year?”
“I’m not asking for anything I haven’t earned, Mr. Graves. I go above and beyond on every assignment. I cover your office demands while handling your personal affairs, your car maintenance, your household staff.” I take a quick inhale. “When will it be my turn? You said, ‘Next time,’ last time.”
“And I’m saying it again. If it were up to me, you'd have that seat. I swear." He holds up his hand in a swearing posture, and we both know his ass is lying.
"I need a break." I shut down my computer. Then I round my desk and place the empty platter back in the paper bag.
“Break?”
"Yes, Mr. Graves. A break. Days with my own thoughts away from this office," I prop my hand on my hip. I'm crossing a line, and I don't know how to stop.
I keep doing the right things. Show up at the right meetings. Kissing the right asses. But nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, is going right in my life. As a matter of fact, it’s going all wrong. How much am I supposed to take before I explode?
“I’m glad I don’t pay you to think.” He chuckles and plows right on. “Separate the applicants and schedule the interviews.”
“Mr. Graves, the show’s on hiatus. There’s no production. I haven't had a day off since–”
“Rachelle, you’re starting to sound like a woman that’s about to blow it.”
I stare at him. No, I sound like a woman that’s about to lose it.
Denzel stands in the doorway. He glances side to side and then focuses on me. “How about we finish this conversation over a drink? I’m sure I can convince you to see things my way.”
I struggle not to lose my lunch. He walks over, sitting on the edge of my desk, and his leg brushes against mine.
Quanie, get your ass out of this office.
“You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had. We’re a team. I promise the moment I'm promoted to CEO, I'm taking you with me."
"I'll submit my application like the others." I step back, gathering my bag, and I see my little Charlie Brown tree.
No lights.
No star.
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Rachelle. You don’t have the experience. I need someone with formal education, industry connections, and material that competes in this market.”
I hate that his words sound like the ones I tell myself. It's like he's reading my thoughts. Every time I want to write a script or submit a piece to a contest, I sit and give in to the blinking cursor, or I'm so tired. But I'm motivated by women like Regina King, Angela Bassett, Debbie Allen. They all started creating original content later in life, and I'm much younger than all of them.
“Do you know that Ava DuVernay was thirty-two when she made her first film? I have seven years of experience behind the scenes. I graduated top of my class at UCLA. And I'm a skilled writer if you give me a chance."
“Rachelle, you’re not Ava.” Denzel laughs. “Do you even have a complete script?” He pauses, and I have nothing to contribute other than the ideas in my head. “Everyone thinks they can make a movie. Everyone believes they’re the next Shonda Rhimes, Lena Waithe, Ryan Coogler, fill-in-the-blank. But the stone-cold truth is, they’re not. The chances of success in this town are slim for people like us. You’d be better off going back to school and becoming a brain surgeon. You have it good here, Rachelle. Why risk a guaranteed position knowing you’re not ready?”
He leaves, and I'm numb.
His words feel like, suck it up and do your fucking job. Or, who am I to think I’m talented or gifted or anything other than his fucking assistant? My eyes burn and what I won’t do is cry. Because I’ll never hear the end of it.
My dream is fading under the weight of constant sacrifices. This is why I moved to L.A. If I can't write, then what the fuck am I doing?
I gather my bare tree to my chest and walk right out the door. If this was one of those Hallmark or Lifetime Christmas movies, some jolly man would roll up with all the answers, loaded pockets, and he’d grant all of my holiday wishes. And he wouldn’t cuss.
But wishing for things to be better is asking an outside source to wave a magic wand over my B.A.B. and magically give me the job, the raise, and a rich ass happily ever after.
It sounds nice, but I don’t need that.
All I need is a chance.
I've never seen a woman that looks like me, though—dark brown skin, equally dark eyes with my sister girl hips, and my around-the-way-attitude. The absence of seeing someone like myself makes pursuing my dream feel farfetched.