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The Designer
ML Preston
1
With the club opening in a month, I shuffle through the recommendations and come up short on anyone who may be available to take on a job of this magnitude. My designer, Ella, stormed out of my empty building, leaving me without a drop of paint on the walls or places for people to sit. I have a reputation in this industry as a hard-ass, but my work speaks for itself. I’ve opened nightclubs across the globe that are tailored to the locale and offer a unique VIP experience. Let me clarify, I build them; I don’t operate them. I’m hired for a job and I make sure it’s carried out down to the finest detail. I don’t have time to put up with whiny babies who aren’t strong enough to withstand my gruff.
Sure, I’m labeled as difficult, hard to get along with, and a bit egotistical, but still, my work is regarded as the best in this field, so I don’t care what others think or say. Except at this moment, I’m a bit against the clock.
“Here are a few more options for the designer position, Mr. Phillips. You should take a look at the one I have marked with a star.” Darlene, my assistant, is burdened with the task of trying to find someone who can take on the job with short notice.
I hesitantly go through her recommendations and weed them out. I have to find someone and meet with them today, and they have to start in the morning. None of these candidates will work. They either haven’t booked a job in the past five years or never. I decide to place a call to my friend, Spencer, to ask if he knows of anyone. He renovates old restaurants like the guy does on that show, Bar Rescue. I figure he may recommend a person or two.
“Hey, Spence. How you been?”
“Good, Brent. Nice to hear from you. I understand you landed the Marquis brothers’ club build. Nice going.”
“Yeah, it was a great construction, but I’m hoping you can recommend a designer for the finishing touches.”
“Sure. Ella Monroe is great. She does a lot of my renos.”
“Yeah, she just walked out on me about twenty-five minutes ago.”
“Shit, man. What did you do?”
“She said she couldn’t work with someone like me and under my level of pressure. I think the words ‘fuck off’ were uttered as she walked away, too.”
Spence laughs for a moment before calling out names of other individuals. Each one I have contacted and has either been hung up on or told they didn’t have the availability.
“I think you are out of options,” Spence says in a jovial tone.
“I may place an ad and hope I can find someone who…”
“Hasn’t worked with you? Doesn’t read the trade magazines? Good luck with that.”
“Fuck you, Spence.” I chuckle along with him, but he’s not that far off.
“Thankfully I got someone here that can do that and do it well.”
I catch the giggle of a young lady and take that as my cue to end the call.
“Oh, you have company. I’m sorry, man. Nice talking with you. We should catch up soon.”
“All right, man. Let’s schedule something soon. Talk to you later.”
We disconnect, and I review the remaining résumés. They’re left wanting in so many areas. Sure, they have great accolades from previous jobs, but they lack in the big projects, and I can’t just give my money to anyone and say: here, design. That’s like giving my credit card to my ex and telling her to go shopping for a dress and she comes back with the whole store. I cradle my head in my hands and let out a scream. I can call Ella back and smooth things over, I think desperately.
“Why don’t you just call one of these applicants?” Darlene says, handing me a stack of mail.
“They’re inexperienced. It won’t work,” I patiently explain.
She takes the résumés from me and goes through them with inspective eyes.
“I tell you what. I will set up an interview with Kara Brown, and if she isn’t someone who can help you out of this pickle you got yourself in, I will call Marlissa and get her to come clean up your mess.”
Marlissa Gay was my first designer. She helped get my company to where it is today with her design skills. When she asked me to make her equal partner, I turned her down, and she quit. It was all amicable, but I didn’t want to put any of the company’s liability on her. If it failed, I wanted it to be all on me.
“Fine. Set it up and have Marlissa on standby. I’m going to grab a drink. I want her here in the next forty-five minutes.” That’s all the spare time I have. I need orders placed by week’s end.
“Yes, sir,” she replies, leaving the potential candidate’s résumé on my desk and taking the others with her.
I skim it once more, trying to find the positives.
“Independent owner, featured in a few New Orleans design mags, appeared on a local morning talk show,” I mumble to myself. There is nothing here that says: can complete a massive club design in four weeks. It takes about two weeks to get the furniture in, and if you have to custom order stemware, that could take a little longer. “Fuck,” I say, grabbing my keys to head to the bar on St. Charles.
