The Deadline [WIP]

There are reasons I prefer to keep a physical portfolio of my artwork. Since most of my earlier work from college was done with alcohol markers, it’s easy to shove (or rather, delicately place it) into a briefcase without worrying that it’ll be ruined. Any digital pieces that I create while practising can be printed on high quality paper and I can slide them across a desk while secretly imagining I’m a mob boss closing a big deal...

Besides, briefcases tend to lend an air of professionalism that I otherwise lack, and provided I can keep my mouth shut long enough for Stormcloud to consider hiring me, I'll need all the help I can get. It’s rare enough that a publishing company as well-known as Stormcloud publicly advertises job vacancies, let alone for freelancers. So, in order to put my best foot forward, I keep my portfolio on me.

There are also disadvantages to carrying my portfolio around with me. I have learned this from experience.

Picture this: A woman in her early twenties, about five foot four, dressed in jeans and a green wool jumper running through the front doors of a tiny train station, briefcase swinging. Hi! That’s me, on my way to an interview with the largest video game publisher in Ireland which I will be half an hour late for if I miss my train. I have a messenger bag with an outside pocket slung across my shoulder, and as I come up to the gate I rip the velcro flap open and grab my transport card, tapping it on a scanner before rushing through the gate. I’ve reached the platform, and all I have to do in order to get there on time is make it to the other end and climb on board. I make a mad dash down the length of the station, feeling the wind howl past my ears, my boots pounding the concrete floor, smile wide.

I’m going to make it. I’m going to make it. I’m going to-

WHAP. I careen directly into a man who had clearly been minding his own business before I came along and decided to knock the large, undoubtedly overpriced coffee out of his hand. There’s a split second where I decide to chuck my briefcase away, to keep it from getting soaked... The trade-off is that I get soaked instead. Now both of us are covered in coffee and smell vaguely of caramel, and I take a long look at this poor guy whose day I’ve undoubtedly ruined to assess the damage. I have to look up at him to see his face, which surprises me even though I'm not exactly the tallest. He’s wearing what I imagine was once a crisp, cream button-up shirt under a brown corduroy jacket with a pair of blue jeans and some boat shoes. He's... well-built, a brick wall in a way that would get me a little hot and bothered under any other circumstances. Now that I’ve scanned down the length of him for purely analytical reasons I’ve decided that it’s the ideal time to look him square in the face, because that’s obviously what you do.

Disadvantage of carrying a physical portfolio: It is more susceptible to damage, ergo you will always go out of your way to protect it. Regardless of the cost. Even if it’s your last shred of dignity.

The man on the platform whose morning I've ruined is like something out of a dream. A dream you’d have about a home renovation TV show host, sure, but a dream nevertheless. His eyes are a deep, lustrous brown. His hair is black, curls neatly styled, and his eyebrows have been threaded. He’s clean shaven, has some acne scars and redness, though I’m not sure if that last bit is just the way his skin looks or if he’s rightfully annoyed at me. He’d be a bit dreamier if he wasn’t scowling but, in all fairness, that is my fault.

Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m an artist, vivid imagery is my whole thing.

The quizzical look has only intensified and oh, shit, I haven’t apologised yet. I tune in again and start to speak when the announcer’s voice comes on over the PA system:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the train to Cork City Centre is leaving in five minutes.”

He visibly panics. Eyes widened, mouth opening, but I don’t really have time to take this in, because I’m crouching on the ground to scoop up my briefcase from where I unceremoniously hurled it a moment ago. When I get back off the ground and re-orient myself, he’s started speedwalking in the direction of my train- shit. Clearly also his train. I resume my rush, trying to be more mindful of my surroundings and mostly succeeding, only nearly walking into one bin. When I get to the right platform I mindlessly go for the first carriage that I see, and there’s only standing room but I’m practically giddy. With about a minute to spare, I’m on my way and feeling incredibly proud of myself. Then, because the Universe has it out for me this morning, I feel someone tap on my shoulder and turn my head to face Caramel Macchiato in his brown jacket and... newly brown shirt.

“You dropped this earlier,” he says, handing me my transport card. I don’t remember dropping it but it was in my hand when I ran into him so, sure, why not. His voice is groggy but unbearably smooth.

“Oh,” I say, feeling every bit as silly as I sound, “Thank you.”

I shove it firmly into the front pocket of my messenger bag. I remember that I am yet to apologise. I take a second and then say,

“I’m so sorry about earlier, I really, really should’ve been watching where I was going... Christ, do you want money for the coffee? I’m gonna be honest, it smelled really good, and I feel like a bit of a war criminal for depriving someone of caffeine this early in the morning-”

To my utter horror he starts laughing. Not even laughing, he’s acting like this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him in years, as if I haven’t fucked up his commute and covered him in suspicious-looking stains. It must show on my face because he stops laughing, settling into a smug little grin. I feel the tension in my shoulders let up, and I smile too. I decide that even if he is a little pissed at me, he seems like the forgiving type.

“So, where are you headed?” I ask, because there are only a handful of things you can talk to a total stranger about on the train and the weather is so mild it narrows down my options.

“Work,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’m a project manager at a creative firm and I’ve been assigned a new team to oversee. They’re not actually finished the hiring process yet, so I’m going in to sit in on some of the final interviews.”

He seems a little annoyed at that last bit, though I guess I would be too, if I was told I was in charge of a team that hadn’t even been finalised yet. Still, cool to bump into someone else who works in the same kind of area as me.

“How about you?” he asks and oh, yes, I’m a part of this conversation too.

“I’m a character designer by trade. I’m heading into town for an interview with a company who rarely actually take on outside talent.” I say.

He makes an “Ahhh” noise, gives me a look up and down, and says,

“That explains the rush so. Do you think they'll be looking for the skill set of a self-proclaimed war criminal or is that just a hobby for you?”

Now that catches me off guard. I can’t help it, I snort-laugh embarrassingly loudly in the face of this handsome businessman who’s decided that his entertainment this morning is making fun of me on the train. I decide to play along.

“The beheading and torture is something I prefer to keep seperate from my work,” I say. “I do it because I love it.”

He starts laughing again, and we laugh together like two loud weirdos, attracting sideways looks from the other commuters.

“So is this your portfolio, then?” he asks, gesturing towards the slightly battered briefcase in my hand. There isn’t enough room for me to open it, so I give him a basic overview of what’s in there.

“Character design can be kinda tricky, depending on the project. I’ve done concept art for smaller animations and some work on comics back in college but if I get this gig it’ll be my first time doing character design for a video game, which is honestly really intimidating.”

He nods, seemingly understanding.

“The company I work for usually don’t take physical portfolios unless the person we’re interviewing specifically requests it.”

“That's what happened with the company I’m interviewing with today!” I say. “It seems to be a pretty common practice.”

“There are... pitfalls to having physical copies, though.” He says, gesturing vaguely between us. He hesitates, but I've heard this from from half a dozen people before, so I compose my most understanding nod.

"I find that because most of my work from back in college was done with alcohol markers, using the originals keeps the colours intact. Scanning them can dull them down, depending on the settings of the monitor you're viewing them on."

I was expecting him to be a little disinterested but he nods again, maintaining eye contact. He seems genuinely engaged now, absorbing what I'm saying, and then he asks,

"So, what are the kind of questions you're expecting them to ask you?"

I hesitate, but he seems curious, so I indulge him. I run through things I've been asked before for other contracts, but since I've never worked with a company this big, I'm lost as to what they might expect that isn't already on my resume.

"I can help you prep for it, if you'd like. We can practice together for our interviews!" He lights up, his smile wide. "I'm not the hiring manager for the interviews I'm sitting in on today, but I've been told I can ask questions and I have absolutely no idea what to say."

He punctuates this with a nervous-sounding laugh. Oh, he's cute.

We spend the rest of the 20 minute train ride into Cork trading questions and answers. He tells me that his name is Eoin, spelled the Irish way instead of the English Owen, and that he went to college to study business and ended up working in project management. The stains on his shirt dry while I learn that he's big into video games. I tell him that I am too, and we're interrupted midway through our conversation by the train pulling to a stop on Oliver Plunkett Street. We smile and part ways, and I immediately regret not getting his Instagram. It's too bad that I'm probably never going to see him again, because he's exactly what would make me weak in the knees on a day where I've got less going on. Hell, I didn't even tell him my name.

No time to dwell on it. I make my way down the street to my destination.

The glass front of Stormcloud's building practically shimmers against the clear blue sky, iridescent and towering. I tighten my grip on the handle of the briefcase, an inconvenience and a lifeline all the same. I take a deep, steadying breath once I reach the sliding doors, and I walk in.