The classified section was thicker than he expected. James flipped through the back half of the Los Angeles Times, scanning ads for secretaries, clerks, switchboard operators, and bookkeepers. Most were full-time. Most required "office experience," whatever that meant. And nearly all of them paid less than he was offering.
He circled a few numbers anyway, just in case. No one answered.
On Tuesday he tried walking the streets near Magnolia, past real offices with names on the glass: tax prep, private insurance, two firms that claimed to do both. A few buildings had corkboards in the lobby or signs taped to windows "Receptionist wanted," "File clerk needed," "Call Rhonda." James jotted numbers, followed up. The people who answered sounded tired. One woman thought he was applying for a job. Another said they didn't hire under-the-table, even after he explained he was the one doing the hiring.
He stopped at a temp agency, but the receptionist barely looked up when he gave his name.
"You need a business phone line," she said, flicking a red-painted nail toward a clipboard. "Minimum three references. We place people with companies, not hobby clubs."
James didn't argue. He just took the pamphlet and left.
That afternoon, he went back to the Glendale Library. The building always smelled like paper and dust and an old type of glue he couldn't quite name. In the front lobby was a bulletin board labeled Local Jobs and Services. Most of the postings were for babysitting, moving help, and piano lessons.
He brought a clean index card and used the library's typewriter to punch out the text.
Small independent film company hiring part-time office assistant. Typing, phone, filing. Flexible hours. $4/hour. Contact by phone.
He added the office number in pen at the bottom and pinned it with a bent thumbtack between two daycare listings.
For the next two days, the phone didn't ring.
He kept writing the script in the mornings, but his eyes flicked to the phone every half hour. No dial tone, no blinking light, no messages.
On the third morning, it rang.
James picked up on the second ring.
"Fantasy Pictures."
A woman's voice. "Hi, I saw your job posting at Glendale Library. Is the position still open?"
"Yes."
"Okay. What kind of place is this? What do you actually do?"
He paused. "It's a new company. Small office. I'm working on a horror film. I need someone to help with typing, phones, and basic admin stuff. Three days a week. Nothing complicated."
"Is it studio work? Or like a freelance thing?"
"Independent," he said. "All private. No investors yet."
There was a short pause, but not the kind that ended conversations.
"Okay," she said. "I'm in classes two mornings a week, but I can come by Wednesday after three."
"That works."
"Name's Linda. I'll see you then."
She hung up. No questions about titles, future prospects, or upward mobility. Just clean logistics.
James stared at the receiver for a second before setting it down.
Then he looked around the office and noticed the coffee cup stains on the desk and the pile of unopened mail in the corner.
He started clearing space.
She arrived at 3:01 on the dot.
James had cleared the desk that morning, wiped down the phone, and stacked the folders into something that looked vaguely intentional. He wore a clean shirt, sleeves rolled up, trying to look like someone who'd done this before.
Linda stepped through the door, glanced around, and gave a small nod. She was tall, early twenties maybe, hair tied back, wearing jeans and a faded UCLA sweatshirt. She carried a notepad under one arm but didn't offer it.
"You must be Linda," he said.
"That's me."
"I'm James. Thanks for coming."
"No problem."
He motioned to the spare chair, and she sat without hesitation. He took the seat behind the desk. There was a short pause as she looked around the small room. One desk, one phone, a copy of the logo thumbtacked above the window.
"So," James began, "it's a small operation. Right now, it's just me. I'm setting up a production company for a horror film. I need someone to help with office basics typing, phones, keeping track of calls and expenses."
Linda nodded once. "Alright."
"You mentioned you've done phone work before?"
"Some. Summer job at my uncle's garage. Took down parts orders, invoices. Nothing fancy, but I know how to keep a message clear."
"You type?"
"Thirty words a minute. I can format letters, memos. I'm not a secretary by trade, but I don't need training either."
James glanced at her.
"You a student?"
"Yeah. Two classes a week. Mornings."
He made a quick note.
"Three days a week. Flexible hours. Four dollars an hour to start. It's just basic support. I don't expect you to know film or anything."
"I'm not trying to work in film," she said, tone neutral. "Just need work."
"Good. Then we're not trying to impress each other."
She almost smiled. "That's rare."
James opened a small folder beside him and pulled out a plain form not a contract, just a typed outline of hours and rate.
"If this works for you, you can start tomorrow."
Linda skimmed the page, then nodded. "Works for me."
"I'll have a desk cleared and a typewriter set up."
"Okay."
She stood, folded the page, and tucked it into her notepad.
"I'll be here at nine."
He reached out to shake her hand. She returned it, firm and short.
As she turned to leave, she paused just long enough to ask, "Rowan, right?"
"Yeah. James Rowan."
"Alright. See you tomorrow."
She shut the door behind her without any more words.
James sat back in the chair and looked at the desk she'd just vacated. It was still mostly empty. But not for long.
She showed up at 8:55.
James had been there since 7:30, pushing the desks around to make space, wiping dust off the windowsill with an old T-shirt, and trying to make the office look like something other than an empty room with a logo tacked to the wall.
He'd found a second-hand desk through the classifieds beat up, one drawer missing a handle, but solid. He'd hauled it up himself the day before. The typewriter was from his aunt's garage. Heavy, loud, a few keys sticky, but it worked. On Linda's side of the room, he'd placed a legal pad, a fresh pen, and a ceramic mug filled with paperclips. It looked like an attempt, at least.
When she walked in, she gave the place a once-over and set her bag down next to the desk.
"You weren't kidding about it being small," she said.
"Nope."
She pulled the chair out, sat down, and opened her notepad like she was clocking in at an office job she'd had for years.
James gave her a simple list of tasks. Nothing formal just things that needed doing. "Track phone calls, note who calls and what they say. I'll draft letters longhand, you can type and format them. If I'm out, just answer the phone and take names. Don't promise anything. Just get their info and I'll follow up."
She nodded through all of it, occasionally jotting a keyword down in shorthand. No questions. No pushback.
"Let me know if you need anything," he said.
Linda pulled a pen from her bag. "I brought my own. But this mug's a nice touch."
She started working. No noise. Just the click of the typewriter as she transcribed two of James's rough pages into clean copy. Her rhythm was fast, not showy just precise. Every so often she'd glance at the page, make a small correction, and keep going. She didn't waste time asking what font to use or how to title the draft. She just formatted it the way any normal office would.
By noon, she'd typed four pages, copied a handwritten call log into a proper table, and reorganized the drawer with the missing handle. When she stood up and gathered her things, James looked up from his notes.
"Done for today?" he asked.
"I've got class at one. But I'll be back Thursday."
"Need me to write down anything?"
"No. I've got it."
She reached into her notepad, took out the folded sheet from yesterday. Her rate and hours and left it on the desk. "You can file this now."
Then she left. No handshake this time. Just a glance at the clock on her way out the door.
The office felt quieter after she was gone, but not in the same way. Less empty. More paused.
James opened the company ledger, flipped to a clean page, and wrote down her name.
Employee #1: Linda Meyers
Start Date: Feb. 14, 1978
Pay Rate: $4/hour
He stared at the line for a moment, then closed the book and set it aside.
There was still no camera. No crew. No cast. No shoot dates. But he wasn't alone in the room anymore.
And that mattered.