"Slowly! Slowly! Yeah, that's more like it!"
"Ugh, I don't get paid enough for this shit!"
"Shut that mouth and get to work!"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And where's that weirdo, Scott?!"
Crap. That's me.
"Calm down, I'm right here!" I bolted out from behind a stack of folding chairs where I'd been hiding, phone still warm in my hand.
"For Christ's sake, Scott," my assistant barked, "how do I always end up hauling lighting rigs while you're tucked away swiping through whatever game you're obsessed with?"
What?! The gall for her to speak to her boss that way!
Well, we were more or less equals, but still.
"Ah, sorry, sorry," I waved her off. "I just needed to recharge by staring at Rimuru's cute face. I'm back now, promise… Tsk."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Curse this hellhole of a job.
If God was merciful, I'd be home right now, sprawled on my couch, watching anime until dehydration took me in a blaze of glory.
But of course, real life doesn't work that way. I'll seriously starve.
"Hey! Watch how you're swinging those!" I shouted at two guys carrying in crates of wine bottles for the afterparty. "Let one slip, and the billionaire hosting this will have you served for breakfast."
"You mean, have 'us' for breakfast," one of them shot back.
"Ha-ha-ha, James. Sharp mouth, there. Keep clowning around and I'll remember this when payday comes."
Honestly, regulating cats on catnip would be easier than regulating crew members.
*
THE RANT
I was an educated man, once full of dreams and ambition.
Now?
Hehe. I'm stuck in a grueling job that eats my sleep in irregular shifts, hauls my back through 14-hour setups, and pays just enough to make me not quit.
Beverly Hills was supposed to be the dream; the luxury capital where I'd make it big, then spend my fortune showering manga artists and anime studios with love and money. I was going to be the angel of the anime world.
Instead, I'm here killing myself slowly for scraps.
Event setup isn't glamorous at all.
It's moving trusses and giant speaker stacks through kitchens because the front door is for guests only.
It's adjusting chandeliers that cost more than your entire yearly salary, while someone yells at you to work faster. Glare at them, and you're finished.
It's hanging forty pounds of floral arrangements at midnight because:
The client: "Uhm… you see, I've changed their mind. I want it all redone."
And don't get me started on those last-minute events (AKA torment).
"What do you mean an event in the next thirty minutes?!" I'd snapped into my headset, "I'm just hearing about this!"
Hmph. I couldn't even live in Beverly Hills. The cheapest rent there is $3,000 a month. And I'm not spending anime money on rent!
So I commute thirty minutes from Koreatown—a tiny, NOISY apartment, but hey, it's full of Japanese restaurants and anime merch shops. It keeps my Otaku soul alive.
END OF THE RANT
*
Before diving back into the pandemonium disguised as event setup, I took one last look at my phone. My hero—golden-eyed, androgynous, silver-blue-haired Rimuru—gazed back at me, flawless and divine as ever. I need to hold back these tears.
Ah, Rimuru. You're the only thing keeping me sane right now, you know? Hear this: Last week a clien—
"Is that a cartoon character you're looking at?" a voice said behind me.
I didn't even turn around. "Apologize," I demanded. "Apologize to every anime watcher in the world, right now."
"Scott's overreacting again," someone snorted.
"Yeah, he watches cartoons all the time. And buys dollies, too."
I turned sharply. "They're FIGURINES! Not dolls! Dolls are for kids. Figurines are… they're idols! Icons!" I jabbed a finger at them. "Or… are you trying to call me a kid…?"
"…"
The gossipers went quiet. Even the ones I wasn't talking to.
"No problem," I said with a smile. "We'll settle this on payday."
As their laughter died into nervous silence, and then into soft pleas, I could only mourn the new anime episode I was missing tonight: yet another sacrifice to this soul-crushing gig. That doesn't even pay as much as the energy involved is
"Hold up!" I barked at the guys hauling a 200-pound ice sculpture shaped like a swan wearing a crown, "I don't like how that thing's wobbling! If it breaks, the billionaire will buy your entire family as pets!"
"You mean 'our' entire family, boss."
"Hah! Joke's on you, I don't have family left!"
"…Uhm… I don't know what to say, I'm sorry, boss."
"Don't be!"
We were in the grand ballroom of the Crystal Palms Hotel; the kind of place where the illuminations cost more than the entire apartment building I stay at, and every surface screams, "Plebeians are not supposed to touch me."
And as for tonight's gig? A movie producer's anniversary… party… whatever!
"Boss, would you like to go for a drink after this? We could talk about your family."
"I don't need your sympathy. Get back to work!"
These guys sure love to tease me because I overreact to everything, huh? We'll see who's laughing when I "forget" to hand in their payment slips.
Earlier today, I personally climbed a twelve-foot ladder to hang golden streamers across the ceiling, for a long grueling time, only for my assistant to say, "They made another choice; we're changing the theme, so take it off."
"…"
I mean, what in the actual fuck? Are they doing it on purpose? Now I understand Robin Hood's rationale.
Not to mention hearing the celebs laughing and sipping champagne next door while I'm dragging flowery arches and velvet couches.
Well, I guess it's the food chain—and we're just somewhere below it, with the cockroaches.
Still, the work shouldn't eat my entire day. In a fair world!
Instead of clocking out at 7 p.m., I'm stuck here till just before midnight, get home to slurp ramen, watch two episodes of "Kumo Desu ga, Nani ka?" and collapse into bed—with four hours of sleep waiting before my phone starts ringing again.
Wait, I'm going to die at this rate!
I mean, sometimes I don't even get time to go home; I just nap on a pile of tablecloths in the storage room. What a life!
Inconceivable!
I have decid—