But I mean, fuck.

I had to fkng eat bro.

I checked in with the project managers, middle-aged dudes who’d flown in from Toronto, where the production company was based.

“Appreciate you making it down here on such short notice,” the main dude said. “You get him set up in a room yet?” he said to E.

“Oh. I mean,” I said. “I brought my sleeping bag. I can crash on E’s floor. Or in my van.”

Homie looked at me like What.

“We’ll get you a room, bud,” he said, looking at E a bit like Yo who tf is this guy you brought.

Although I don’t think we were totally scabs. Because there were some union-type dudes on site also.

Hood kids from outer DC—not DC DC, but the hood part, they said—who were just sorta there helping out.

None of whom had tools or were geared up or anything, and were just sorta hanging.

The main Canadian dude explained that the trucks were just pulling up now with the skids.

He handed me a map.

“Here’s what we’ll be doing. These are the small booths. These are the medium. These are the walls. The tables. We’ll assemble, then lay em out.”

The map looked like a whole damn city.

“Didn’t really realize the scale of this thing till last night, when we laid out the carpet. Why we called ya!”

I looked out at the space. Fully carpeted. Little pieces of masking tape all over, outlining the edges of the layout. Bisected by a hundred-foot-tall, interlocking, moveable wall separating the football field–sized expanses. Couple forklifts moored randomly, like they’d conked out mid-task. Entire west-facing wall glass-paned, letting in the first traces of sunlight.

I surveyed the map again. Looked up at boss man. Nodded like Easy enough.

The two other dudes on the team were bros from NYC: one, W, hapa boy about my age who’d gone to school for this type of shit; and D, who was jacked af. Looking like a half–Native American, half-Black Incredible Hulk.

It was sorta like an insane IKEA furniture assembly project, but on roids. With a moving element.

Minus the relationship fight at the end, when you didn’t assemble it right.

There was no room for mistakes; our relationship was with the Intel execs, and they would be slanging their products come Wednesday at 9 a.m. no matter what the fuck.

I just acted like I knew what I was doing; and, once I learned to do a thing, I fkng went in and did it over and over.

Still keyed up from the drive and all that French toast and coffee.

Just so happy to be doing something other than lying on my side all night in my freezing-ass room, next to my space heater, deep in a YouTube rabbit hole, debating whether or not to turn Postmates on.