Work sucks. It’s where we spend more than half our lives. But there was one job in my life where each coworker carries with them a little part of my home.
INT. DAYLIGHT: The depressed college senior gets a call while hungover from a party in NYC that they’ve won a full ride to grad school. Cue: streamers, lights, and a chorus of friends and family cheering.
Actual: The depressed college grad moves home to live with their mom and continues doing school, FKA the thing that’s making them depressed.
During my last semester of undergrad, if depression had a monarchy, I was its queen. I tried therapy, but it’d maxed out on my 8 free visits. So instead, to manage, I’d break into my friend’s house every morning, empty all the blunt butts in her ashtrays, take out the keify flower, and light them on a “gib,” filling a Liter sprite bottle with smoke, and inhale. Then, I’d catch the free city bus from my North Carolina apartment in Carrboro to Chapel Hill.
To my stoner credit, I never missed class. I woke up every morning to watch the light turn blue. I did all of my assignments. I prayed to Time. Time, I’d pray, please, I beg, get me through this. I promise, Time, if I get through this I will never do school again. Just one day at you, Time. Just one.
In late winter, my mom called me.
“Jay,”
“Ma?”
“You should apply to UB for grad school. They have a full ride fellowship for the MFA.”
“Seriously? I don’t wanna go to grad school though, ma.”
“I know Jay, but it’s for writing. Like the only thing you’ve ever actually wanted to do.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“No, you write.” She said.
I was awarded the fellowship. I worked out the summer in Carrboro at a very tasty, yet very racist Greek restaurant, and hid every paycheck under my mattress. When I moved back in with Mom, I had no car, no job, and only one real friend in the city.
The second week I came back to Baltimore, I deposited all my summer checks and bought a car.
But, the first week, I applied to jobs.
At that time, my mom was nearly 30 years into working as a law librarian at the University of Baltimore. I had grown up between North Charles Street and Maryland Avenue, wandering aisles on tort codes and divorce law, in the old student commons— yes, the one that has been recently converted into a cop training facility (heaves; pukes).
One night, before grad school began, I was spending the night with my mom at her job when my high school best friend texted me:
Yo, my friend just tweeted that there’s an opening at The Charles; you should get an app.
I felt a spark. A three-prong plug put into a wall. A zing towards employment. A ping in the vicinity of money. Immediately, I walked the four blocks from UB to The Charles Theatre.
Most love stories have two versions—the cinematic and the way things actually happened. But there was one time in my life completely eclipsed in cinema.
Cue: fairy lights, a saxophone, rose petals. At the the counter, a sweet faced 19-year-old hands me an application. I smile and thank him. He’s shy, quiet, withholding except for a grin that spans the wingspan of his face.
I filled out the application on the spot and returned it to one of the managers. The next day, I got called in for an interview.
The Interview:
“Why do you want to work here?”
“I love movies. I used to come here for the Film Fest.”
“What is your favorite movie?”
“Um, definitely Wes Anderson something” (I lied, but the manager seems like he would like that answer.)
“Your availability?”
“Whenever you need me.”
“Experience?”
“Waitressing and barista-ing.”
“Working interview?”
“Sign me up.”
As soon as the interview ended, I saw that same young sweet-faced boy working at concessions. I went up to him.
“Hey,” I said, peering into his empty tip jar, “I’m Jalynn.”
“I’m Jalen” he responds, looking me blankly in the face.
Is he mocking me?
“No, I’m Jalynn.”
“Yeah, and I’m Jalen too.”
“Oh,” my curiosity growing, “so how is it working here? How do they treat us?” I emphasized the last word so he knows I mean skinfolk.
“I don’t know; it’s only my third day out here.”
A few days later, I worked my first shift. Behind the concessions counter with me was a 16-year-old white boy who had recently dropped out of BSA (“Yeah, f- high school. No one needs it,” he’d say) and a mid 20s Black guy with long locks (“You wanna smoke?” he’d say). On our break, we put in an order at Lost City Diner (R.I.P) and I followed them to an alleyway to enjoy what white boy called “That Afghani.”
At the end of the night, through a zooted haze, I scooped popcorn, filled fizzy drinks to the brim, and lazily counted the change. My drawer was short.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Manager said.
By the end of the first month, Jalen and I had become good friends. Every time I walked into work, he’d immediately get this silly grin on his face. I had begun telling my friends there was a boy at work who had a crush on me.
When the movies went on, there’d be two hours to shoot the shit until the next rush. During these breaks, I would read, eat, and laugh— in that order.
At that time, minimum wage was $10.10 and hour. Which, with the neighbor-employee 50% discount, I could afford two crepes at Sofi’s Crepes for every hour of work at The Charles. When I wasn’t filling my mouth with food or my mind with books, Jalen and I would film “The Jaelyn Show.”
Tickled by sharing a name and a zodiac sign, we had spontaneously begun shooting videos of us like two slap-happy 9-year-olds at a sleepover.
Episode 9: When the Jaelyns asks nonsensical questions like, Do you know what it’s like to be committed to frog?
Episode 12: When the Jaelyns change the marquees between theatre 4 and 5.
Episode 35: Our birthday season turn-up at The Crown (before the club’s radical facelift)
Episode 100: When Jalen had his wisdom teeth taken out and the swelling in his cheeks is the size of a football.
Episode 140: When Jalen interviews me about my “Met Gala” outfit (pictured above).
One day, I needed to know if he liked me liked me or if he just wanted to be my sister.
Cut to: EXT. Sofi’s Crepes. Two Jaelyns outside, enjoying their crepes during break.
Jalen: Yeah so Beyoncé said love is love so that’s the first tattoo I want.
Me: That’s gay. Are you gay?
Jalen: No
Me: C’mon, I’m gay. It’s fun. You’re gay. Stop lying.
Jalen: Ummmm.
After outing him, we went from good friends to blood sisters. I took him to his first Pride. I introduced him to his first butch queen sisters. But our love story is just one of many Charles love stories.
I worked there at a time when each of us was duplicate— there were two Yusefs, two Bens, two Jalens. I learned how love affairs with coworkers always end badly; and I learned that embezzlement is the flavor of this glorious city (yes, the manager who kept telling me my drawer was short, was just shorting the drawer); I learned that it’s easy to love someone with my own name.
Each person I met there is still a wholesome, love-filled pal today. Just last week, Jalen and I went to see Willow Smith at the Enoch Pratt Central branch. We saw two other Charles alumni walking in. We greeted like distant cousins. I see fierce beauty and artists in each of us. Maybe we’re the real Charlie’s Angels?
