Sorrow

into an explanation about how the position was not to replace her. She was the personal and administrative assistant, she said, and did not work on projects in the studio.
The tone of Rae’s voice told me she took herself and her job very seriously. And I could tell she was protective of her boss. Though when I made reference to her boss—because at that point I still didn’t know October’s name—she said, “I’m more like the artist’s friend who happens to organize her life, yeah?”
Rae, I would quickly come to learn, had a habit of ending the majority of her sentences with “yeah?” even if they were not questions. I can be easily annoyed, and this was a quirk that never ceased to get on my nerves.
I told Rae I was interested in the position, though I had no idea what it required.
“Like I said, you’d be the studio assistant. October needs someone to help her with a film project she’s been working on, as well as various other art and technology projects. Someone who will not be intrusive. Someone who knows how to work cameras and lighting equipment, can build things, and has a general understanding of art. Is that you, Mister what-is-your-name?”
“Harper. Joe.”
“What is your current occupation, Mr. Harper? You work in the film industry, yeah?”
“The ad didn’t say anything about that being a requirement.”
“You’re an artist then?”
I explained to Rae that I was currently employed by an organic produce delivery service called FarmHouse. My job consisted of driving around to local farms, picking up fruits and vegetables, eggs, and jars of various pickled foods, and delivering them to people’s homes. The pay was shit, but spending the day visiting farms in Northern California was more appealing than working for my dad’s construction company, which was what I’d done for almost a decade after college.
“You deliver vegetables?” Rae exhaled with obvious irritation. “You have no experience with film or art?”
I thought about being honest and telling her I was applying for the job because of the trees mentioned in the ad, but she didn’t sound like someone who would appreciate that. So I told her how I’d spent ten years working in construction, which seemed to soften her a bit, and then I added something stupid about how in high school my art teacher said I was good at drawing.
“I used to play guitar pretty well too. If you count that as art.”
Rae did not make a sound to indicate if she did one way or the other.
“I’ve built entire houses, so I’m sure I can build anything an artist might need. And I’m a quick learner.”
“That’s something,” Rae groaned. “The truth is we need someone ASAP. Our last assistant got a job on a feature film and left us in the lurch. Tell me you have an eye for composition and can decorate a set.”
“Sure,” I said, though I wasn’t confident that was the case.
“And you can come in for an interview first thing in the morning, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you familiar with October Danko’s work?”
“Full disclosure? I’ve never heard of her. Do I lose points for that too?”
“No. October would prefer it, actually. You should know this before you come in. She’s a very private person. Sensitive. Needs a lot of space. Her assistant has to be quiet and unobtrusive.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “I’m pretty introverted myself. Trust me, she won’t even know I’m there.”
“Also,” Rae went on, “October is not into people who make a fuss about her, so don’t come in and try to impress her with a bunch of stuff you think you know about her or you’ll be out of luck.”
“I just told you I don’t know anything about her.”
“I’ll text you the address. Be there by nine, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The next morning I was heading west on the Richmond Bridge just after sunrise. There was an accident up ahead, and traffic was at such a standstill that I put my truck in park, reclined my seat, and scanned my brain for a positive thought on which to focus.
That day, like most days, I’d woken up with the sense that I was invisible, that I’d disappeared inside the heavy, cloudlike mass of my past, that I’d gone too far astray and was unable to get back on track no matter how hard I tried.
The city of San Francisco was to my left; to my right the fog was just starting to lift from a midpoint above the water like a big white circus tent being erected over the Bay.
I kept staring out to the north, and maybe a mile in that direction a tiny rock of a landmass off Port Richmond caught my eye. The rock was East Brother Island, a light station built in the late 1800s to guide sailors safely in and out of the Bay.
That morning I could see the light in the lighthouse blinking. Having grown up in the Bay Area, I’d driven across the Richmond Bridge more times than I could count, but I’d never noticed a light on in the tower, and for one surreal moment I wondered if I was the only person who could see it. I watched the flare trying to reach up toward the sky, barely making it through the fog, and all I could think was That’s me.
As the traffic began to lurch forward, I put the truck back into drive and did something I do when I’m feeling lost: I talked to my dead brother. That day I asked him for a sign. I needed him to remind me that I wasn’t as alone as I felt, and if he could let me know whether this job was the right move, that would be cool too.
I didn’t necessarily think Sam could hear me, let alone respond, but I figured it was slightly possible, in as much as it was highly improbable, that his energy or spirit or whatever you want to call it was out there somewhere, probably rolling its spectral eyes at me but