I stand against the wall outside of the well-known Zoom meeting spot, my ankle-grazing
brown coat not stopping the wind from biting me with its harsh teeth as the cold rain drizzles down my head. I check my silent phone. The only notification I have received is a new Slack message sent from another person on my team. It is a Tuesday night and a few passing car lights flash in my eyes. A cat runs back into the alley between Instagram and Snapchat, then across the street to where I just emerged. I check my watch and see that it is fifteen minutes past our designated meeting time. I wonder if she forgot that we were supposed to meet to share the intel that we have each gathered.
She finally emerges from the same direction I came from, obviously having followed in my footsteps. Her hair is short and neat, and there is a tall grace about her that is full of power. She looks across the street with her fierce brown eyes, finally coming to a halt and matching my gaze. In a few brisk steps across the street she is beside me. In silence, we stand there for a moment, taking each other in. In part it is for us to sum up one another, and for me to brace myself from the sheer authority of her presence, something her and her team must possess in order to do what they do.
There are few who know the truth behind the many different sides of the new Arts and Lectures Student Ambassador website. We have Playlists, whose sweet music captures the audience with sounds that bring out the true feelings of the soul. There are Events, people who seek out the most delicious and entrancing events and give lines of detailed instruction to become involved. My team is the Blogs. We write on the recent and most juicy topics to draw people in to share our different secrets Then there is the Websites, who oversee all of the other teams, keeping them in check, sort of like the Boss to our little group. However, there exists a team that works behind the scenes, collaborating in the dark. They are a secret, logic-driven group of people who strike where others least expect it.
“What do you want to know?” the woman asks me with a quiet intensity. I hand her an envelope, regretting the shabby contents enclosed. She opens it, glances inside, and hands it back. “That’s all? You offend me. We are infinitely more complex than that and this is not enough to go over the details that you are looking for.” She turns to walk away and I quickly reach forward to grab the edge of her jacket.
“Wait! I’m sorry.” I blurt out hastily. I shove a second envelope into her hand and look into her eyes, pleading for her to stay. I need this intel. Otherwise the other Blogs will give me the.... I don't want to think about it.
The woman thinks about it for a moment, her eyes flicking up into the corner of her vision under furrowed eyebrows. They knit together, relax, and then knit together again. I can tell she wants to share with me what she has, but I have no idea what the consequences are going for her. She gingerly reaches forward this time to take the second envelope along with the first, seeming to have decided to tell me what I have come to learn.
"Where do you want me to start?" She asks, her disposition once again calm and collected. She took a step back and rested herself against the brick wall, one eyebrow perked at me, either a test on my part or just in amusement at the relaxation in my face.
“Well, first I would like to know your name and a bit about yourself. I feel like introductions are in order if we want to get to know more about each other and our compatriots. My name is Colson.” I state with a slight fire in my voice, a small retaliation to her jesting stare.
With a slow deliverance she let her name slide off her tongue: smooth, sharp, and yet delicate all at the same time.
“Joyceline. Joyceline Fekete as a matter of fact. As you probably already know, I work directly for the team that is in question…”
“Which is..?” I urge her to move forward as I don’t know how much time we have before we get spotted.
“Data obviously.” Her matter of fact tone catches me right in the throat as a small lump forms out of fear and curiosity. I’ve never known someone to actually say it out loud before.
“We are the unseen branch of this whole organization. We work in the secret of the many data banks of the past and present Arts and Lectures. Many of us are probably working on something right now as we speak.”
“What sort of work is it?” I adjust myself into a more comfortable position against the wall with both arms up and hands folded behind my head, the epitome of lounge. In this manner I hope to express that I am searching for a long answer over the abbreviated version. I don’t think she finds it amusing. She pushes herself back off the wall to take herself one small pace in front of me, like a panther who knows she can snap me if she wants. I hold my ground and for a longer-than-normal pause, we stare. Joyceline sighs, turns, and begins walking down the sidewalk, gesturing with her hand for me to follow.
“Statistics, my friend. Well it’s mostly statistics. We take the data that seems irrelevant and make it relevant, as almost all data is. This can include how many patrons attend our ‘events’, how many hours our ‘artists’ interact with our guests, and much more. This may seem like nothing to be noted, but don’t get me wrong, it is. We want to provide the best for our patrons and in order to do so, we must take everything into account.” She stops and turns to look out over the river we are walking by. It is still raining, gently now, a soft mist covering her head.
“How do you divvy up the work so that no one person gets swamped?” I come to meet her staring out over the river.
“We meet on Mondays at 3. I’m not going to tell you if it's in the a.m. or the p.m., nor will I tell you where because that is too much of a breach in our security. Every week a person decides what their target is going to be, their own focus if you would like to call it. They take that part of the data that they are going to investigate and ‘clean’.” Her eyes slid over to gauge my expression as the words sunk in, arms crossed over her chest. I schooled my features, careful not to give her a reaction though I wanted to glare in frustration. My mind was racing over the information, trying to make sense of what she was inferring in her evasive explanation. Clean? The heck does she mean by-oh. My head snapped over to look at her, eyes wide and full of shock. A slight smirk graced her lips as her eyes bore into mine, lighting up in wry amusement .
“ By cleaning you mean-”
“Yes,” Her gaze returned to the river, her small smirk remained but her eyes were cold, “We pull what we can from our target, extracting as much content as possible, before re-evaluating and organizing the chosen information into categories. Individually, we wring out as much information as possible, adding our findings together to create a cohesive data set. We get the most results that way.” The smirk had fallen away, her face returning to its calm and composed state from earlier. “Anything else?” I see her place her hand in the pocket of her thick dark brown jacket, obviously feeling at the two envelopes contained inside.
“How do you collect the data? Where do you all gather it?” I look down at my feet and click my shoes together, hoping that I didn't overstep my boundaries.
She surprisingly responded openly. “Have you ever heard of the forms “Google” or “Excel”? We send out these secret messages in the code of SLACK, it is translated back from there to our crew who begin working on placing the data in the correct form. This allows for commonalities to be collected and for us to see it more clearly.” She fiddled with the edge of her collar folding it back into a perfect place.
“After we categorize what we have chosen from the target, we process it through Canva or through DataBase. They know how to organize our specimen to create ‘infographics’, perfectly laid out to be presented the best way. This way our guests can really see and admire their patronage."
“How do you work within the Website’s plan, then?” I am finally getting to the juicy questions that I needed to ask. “How does what you all do fit in with what we do overall?”
Her eyes narrowed at my somewhat eager questioning and she turned to face me. I met her gaze fully, standing my ground. Silence stood between us as she scrutinized my facial expression. Fighting my instinct to squirm under her intense look, I raised my chin in an act of slight courage, not backing down. A moment passed before she turned back to the river. “Those ‘infographics’ provide Website with information that can be shared within the organization and the public. They provide the Website team with a lead, directing their next actions and where their focus should be. It doesn't just affect the Website team though." A ring interrupted her explanation. Pulling a phone out of one of her jacket pockets, she skimmed through the message she received. A slight frown formed on her lips before she tsked and put her phone back in her pocket. I was curious about her atypical show of emotion, but before I could ask she continued with her explanation.
“Through 'infographics', data can be shared and used to direct certain teams in their missions. For example, ‘infographics’ can identify the more popular events within a season, guiding the Events team in their research. They can highlight the various age ranges that our organization provides for, helping the Playlist team and Website team retrieve content that would be suitable for these specific groups. They reveal the relationship our organization has with our patrons and vice versa, allowing the Blog team to share experiences, opinions, and various perspectives,” Her eyes shifted towards me. At the mention of my team, I stood taller. Wry amusement shone in her eyes at my movement. “The teams are able to focus on the public and their needs and desires through the data provided. Our organization is successful because we can meet our patrons’ expectations in a professional manner.” She turned her back to the river and began to stride away. The rain had faded to a light sprinkle, misting over the street. I hesitated a moment before following after her.
“That’s an understatement.” I say, knowing how much we provide for our patrons. Having been with our whole organization for almost four years, I’ve really gotten to know the ins and outs of what we do.
“Do you like what you do?” I ask quizzically, wanting to know if she had the same enjoyment in her position that I have in mine.
“Well of course!” She responded with a quick turn of her head in my direction, still walking but slowing as we neared the place where we had first come into contact. “I wouldn’t be there if I didn’t, right? I love my team and we have a great way of working together that is cohesive, efficient, and gets the job done with perfect execution.” She begins to pick up her pace, a car having passed that she had been waiting for.
Hoping to get a little more information I open my mouth to ask my final question.
“So. Who is your leader?”
She steps over a puddle and comes to a stop, having arrived at where we had started. She turns and looks at me with a smirk on her face and an eyebrow perched on her forehead, a hawk waiting to attack. She lifts her chin while still staring at me, her lips pursed in a tight line. I stopped right before her, the air filled with tension and my regret as I knew I had overstepped.
She sighs, the air loosening around us. “Well I of course can’t tell you that. That’s something that you are going to have to figure out yourself.”
Joyceline sticks her hand out, which I grab in a firm handshake. “It’s been a pleasure.” I honestly say. She has given me more than I was hoping to get from this conversation, showing me glimpse of the world that she lives in.
“Same.” She responds. With a curt nod, Joyceline turns and walks away, the flaps of her coat billowing behind her, leaving me graced with her power and even more questions.
Comments