Big City

“You have arrived.”

I squinted to see if I recognized the building from Google’s Street View. I saw a nondescript warehouse. It was tucked away in the heart of an abandoned lot, and the street felt lonely. The only sign of movement was a flickering streetlamp. I parked my car and scurried to the murky fixture. CC was spray-painted on the door, identical to the lettering on my invitation.

This must be the place.

I sauntered over with faux confidence, preparing to knock. As I raised my fist, a man emerged from the shadows, iPad in hand. “First and last name, miss?”

“Melody Alondra.”

He typed my name into the tablet. I gazed at his fast-moving fingers, impressed by his accuracy. As I watched the frequency of the keystrokes, a profile appeared. He read the notes, furrowing his eyebrows while looking me up and down to confirm my identity. I smiled sheepishly; he remained stone-faced.

He kept my invitation and didn’t look up when he handed me a keycard. He kept his eyes on the iPad, positioning it so I couldn’t see his writings. He glanced at me periodically, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as he typed.

He opened the doors and huskily ordered me to ask for Luisa. His face shone in the white light of the screen, looking friendlier now. Before I could say thank you, the doors slammed behind me.

I walked down the hallway, which contrasted the gloomy appearance of the building. Instead of dark and menacing, the ambiance was playfully modern. The walls gleamed of pink and purple tones, highlighted by mood lighting in matching shades. It gave the space the feel of Virgin America’s now-defunct flights. Mirrors of various shapes were scattered across the luminous painted walls, paired with shelved candles. A sultry song I didn’t recognize echoed throughout the corridor. The sounds of the pulsing 808s were hypnotic, and I bobbed my head to the mesmerizing syncopations.

I observed my appearance across the array of mirrors as I floated across the floor. In the row of reflections, my pink lipstick fit in with the design of my surroundings. My face was enhanced by the brilliance of the dazzling hues, spotlighting my cat eyes and pouty lips. It was the perfect backdrop for a photo. I posted one – sans filter – with the caption “In living color. In loving color.”

An enormous mirror spanned the length and width of a narrow wall at the end of the hallway. It displayed a neon quote by Albert Einstein: Imagination is more important than knowledge.

I took another picture, this time a shot of myself in the mirror, and the shining rendering of the saying was tattooed across my silhouette in the glass. The mirror doubled as a door, and I pulled the knob to see what was on the other side. I spotted rows of humans behind glossy tables. No one looked my way. “The Writers Room” was inked on the wall behind them.

Everyone wore uniforms: identical black outfits with the Albert Einstein quote thickly embroidered on their sleeves. Distracted by the throng of people, I was startled when I heard my name.

“Melody? Welcome to Creative Coalition.” Her words oozed.

“Are you Luisa?”

“Yes! We’ve been waiting for you! Follow me.”

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We reached a row of brightly colored doors and stopped at unit 213143, identical to the set of numbers on my keycard.

“Please change into the clothes hanging in the closet, and leave your items there. Meet me at the front desk to get your assignment.”

She closed the door gently. My new wardrobe matched the group’s, and I pulled on my ensemble with pride.

When I made my way back to Luisa’s desk, she handed me a smoky charcoal-colored box with my ID number embossed on the lid. “Here’s your Creator’s Kit. Time to get started,” she chirped.

We walked to a door that had Inspiration Room grafitti’d on it. A schedule was listed. All of the entries were crossed out except mine (Melody Alondra – You’ve Got Mail, 8:00 PM). I glanced at my watch: 7:45 PM.

“You’ll start with research.” Luisa guided me to the empty room. She flipped on a light, and I realized it was the back room of a focus group space. “Take a seat and look at the materials I’ve provided. Your respondents and accomplices will arrive shortly.”

I plopped into a stylish armchair directly in front of the two-way mirror and started to unpack the box. My eyes widened: I found an AMEX Centurion Card (the limitless black credit card!) taped to the front of a black Moleskine notebook, multicolored post-it notes, a technicolor set of markers, pens, a camera, studio headphones, and Austin Kleon’s book Steal Like An Artist.

These were my weapons.

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Luisa returned with three men. They towered over me and introduced themselves and their roles: Grayson Maddox (Director), Mathias Benson (Sound Design), and Omari Smith (Producer).

“We’re guiding your apprenticeship, Melody,” Grayson said, “Welcome.”

I was bubbling but feigned a cool composure. I applied to join Creative Coalition unsuccessfully three times before but persisted. After a grueling interview process, I was finally given a coveted spot in the “Remix Lab” residency. Candidates dissect cult films and reinvent them. One lucky storyteller from the pool of 50 apprentices would have their film backed. I was as squeamish as I was thrilled for the life-changing opportunity.

Luisa dimmed the lights and passed out wine glasses and an assortment of cheese and caramel popcorn. I sipped my drink slowly and watched as moviegoers filed in. It was hard not to gawk at the group. It felt like a United Nations meeting with unbelievably attractive people. The moderator looked understated relative to them. She donned the same outfit that I was wearing, and the attendees rocked their own garb, distinguishing us from them.

“Hi, Everyone,” the moderator gushed. “Thank you for coming. We’re watching You’ve Got Mail today. I’ll ask questions: what you liked and things you’d change. Before we begin, can you introduce yourselves? Tell us your name and age.” The attendees were seated in a boy-girl pattern.

“Alessandra, 24.”

“Thomas, 33.”

“Isis, 29.”

“Lucca, 35.”

“Isabel, 31.”

“Chase, 36.”

The moderator listened with her hands on her chin. She squeaked, “It’s so great to meet all of you beautiful people! Please fill out the release forms in front of you.”

The room quieted, soundtracked with rustling papers and scrawling pens. “We’re grateful that you are a part of this. Now let’s watch this bad boy,” she said.

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I scribbled their commentary on dating in the Internet age, serendipity, New York itself as a prominent character, and the chemistry throughout the highs and lows.

“Melody,” Omari slurred, with signs of having downed too many glasses of wine. “Why don’t you go in there and ask what you think will help you with your concept.

“Will do, sir!”

“Cut the sir bull,” His eyes crinkled as he smiled with Cabernet-stained lips.

“Hi everyone,” I stammered. “I’m Melody Alondra.”

“Nice name,” Lucca said. “Sounds famous.”

“Thanks, Lucca. In the film, the characters’ occupations in competing bookstores played a big role.” I stumbled a bit, “What jobs would you have given the characters?”

“Musicians or photographers,” Chase asserted. “That way, their art is part of the narrative.”

“Yes! And instead of meeting in an AOL chat room, a dating app,” Isis declared.

Chase jumped back in. “But not Tinder because I hear that’s for meaningless hookups. I don’t know which app, though. I don’t date online.” He turned up his nose.

I jotted their suggestions in my Moleskine. “That’s helpful! If you could twist something in the plot, what would it be?” I felt childlike waiting to hear their responses.

Thomas offered the first suggestion. “Give it an unhappy ending. Having them not end up together would be more interesting.”

“I much prefer a happily ever after,” Alessandra contested. “Perhaps the woman could be the one who knows her love interest’s identity versus the other way around.”

Before I could ask another question, the moderator chimed in. “Alrighty, that’s our time. Thank you, and have a good rest of your night!”

Just as the moderator exited the room, Luisa appeared. “Grab your stuff, Melody. I’ll take you to your next stop.”

I glanced at my watch. It was 11:33 PM. In the same graffiti’d fashion as the Inspiration Room, the next door we stopped in front housed the words Ideation Room.

“Now to the fun part,” Grayson said. “It’s time to start brainstorming your ideas from today. Lean on your imagination and your cast’s feedback.”

“My cast?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Yes, your cast. Some or all of the people you just observed will star in the trailer for the film you develop.”

Omari poured coffee into the lone mug and handed it to me. Armed with supplies and caffeine, Grayson guided me to the only white wall in the room.

“Group your ideas into sections across the wall. Start plotting out your character development, themes, tensions, climax, and so on.”

I rolled up my sleeves and wrote as Mathias cued upbeat music and increased the volume. The speakers were so powerful the room shook. Coffee splashed out of my mug in response to the vibrations. The music was a lovechild of genres: reggae, trap, and dubstep.

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I started writing, unconsciously swaying to the music. When I ran out of post-its, the wall was concealed with untidy notes. Filled with adrenaline, I wanted to keep going. I had more post-its in my kit and went to retrieve them. I took a break to gulp my now cold coffee and worked diligently until sun rays filled the room.

I worked all night, and yet I was unwilling to stop, fueled by immense amounts of energy. I took to my notebook to further map out the development of my concept.

At 7:00 AM, Luisa interrupted my obsessive documentations. She brought me a breakfast tray: avocado toast, turkey bacon, sliced strawberries, and green tea. “Eat this and meet me when you’re done. See you soon.”

I devoured the food while I examined my wall. I grabbed my new camera and took photos: close-ups of each grouping and the whole wall from various angles. The motive was twofold: to review my thoughts later and to have ample assets for a presentation. After compulsively taking over 100 photos, I left. Everyone was outside.

Without uttering words, the team went back to the room and traced the perimeter plastered with my film’s blueprint.

“I like where you’re heading with this,” Grayson said. “I’m able to visualize it in my head. Can you give us your elevator speech?”

“We’ll give you time to write it down,” Omari said.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote:

Giselle and Marco are multi-instrumentalists in New York. They join an invite-only social network for creatives in hopes of finding inspiration and collaborators. The two set up anonymous profiles and instantaneously experience a creative and romantic connection. While they work together virtually, they get signed to opposing labels headed up by fierce competitors. When Giselle secretly uncovers Marco’s affiliations, she cuts off their online communications. Still longing for him, she finds ways to contact him through her music. On the brink of stardom, Giselle chooses the love of her muse over her budding career, but things slowly fall apart.

I handed them the little black Moleskine, and they hovered over the page.

“We’re going to the studio in Manhattan right now,” Mathias said. “Your film is set in New York, right?” He handed me a check in the amount of $20,000. The memo read: Remix Lab Winner - Advance.

“Bright lights, big city going to my head,” I sang Gary Clark Jr. in my mind and imagined the muscularity of the city’s skyline. “You’re gonna know my name by the end of the night…”

It was time.