Always In Handy

"Nothing I can translate..."

~Anberlin, Foreign Language



So yesterday (my third day at work) I was the only intern who worked at the label. I came in dressed up to the max because I had an interview (that went exceptionally badly), so I felt like a tool in my flared H&M Paris skirt with the square-neck cap-sleeve black top in an "office" full of 20something guys in band hoodies and tight jeans or baggy cords. But whatever, I had the interview at 3, so I was planning on taking late lunch for it and I brought some steamed edamame and a peach yogurt to eat for lunch at my desk. I am sitting there taking my first bite of edamame as I search through the catalogue of college radio markets I hadn’t cold-called yet when the owner of the label walks in from lunch.
Now, I only know he is the owner because I asked another intern. He walks past my desk all the time, and he had nodded at me before, but he never actually said, "Hello, new intern, what’s your name?" or anything like that, so, given that he, you know, founded and owns Immortal Records, I assumed he had no idea who I was and frankly, that he didn’t care.
So I am lifting my forkful of shelled edamame (which is the name for soybeans when you are just eating them straight up), when he comes into the office, points at me, and says, "you speak French, don’t you?"
My jaw dropped. Luckily the fork did not.
"Ahh..." I stuttered, and I think at this point I may have even turned around to make sure he was talking to ME. He was.
"Yes?" I squeaked, completely intimidated, and slightly afraid to admit it (what if he had wanted me to act as his interpreter for a press conference or an interview or something?).
"Come with me. I want you to make a phone call."
My eyes widened, I shot up from my desk and realized I was barefoot because my shoes were giving me such blisters. I sat back down, slid the shoes on, and went teetering down the hallway after him.
"Here’s the number," he said, then left me with a couch and a phone, and no idea of the following:
1. How to dial out of the building (I have already made phone calls out of the building, but you have to have a special code for whatever band the call is in regard to, and since this was a personal one, I had no idea what to put in).
2. What I was calling this Parisian hotel FOR.
3. His credit card number.
I finally got through to the hotel, wrangled his credit card off of him, made the reservation and confirmed the arrival time, and hung up, feeling very sophisticated and terribly useful, because the conversation had lasted, in typical French form, at least 5 minutes. I went back to my desk and tried to act normal, and just then one of the other full-time employees who I had never been introduced to comes out of his office and says, very slowly, "Hey, you’re from France, right?" I grinned and told him that no, alas, I am American but just moved back to the US. He was disappointed, I think, had wanted to talk French football (soccer, as it were).
I remained proud of myself.
Why? Because... well, ok, so he might not know my name (because I can’t remember if he ever actually said it), BUT the owner of the label not only knew who I am but also enough about me that he knew that I speak French/had lived there. (!!) I don’t know how that happened– he obviously wasn’t the one I interviewed with OR the one that hired me, I never actually thought I’d even meet him.
But then summer jobs never go the way I plan– my first year I ended up on a first-name basis with the founder of PFR Youth Ministries... my second year I ended up on a first-name basis with the Bishop of the diocese of Lexington... And now, I guess it’s time for the founder of the label to be added to the list.
But I mean, this guy is a big musical deal. He signed Incubus, for crying out loud.

I’m just saying. Kind of a big deal. People KNOW him. (I’ve also heard rumors that Adam Sandler was his best man.)
And I made a phone call for him. In another language.
~B