Quiddities Dev, Inc.

On Saturday morning I ran into the office at about 7:00 AM, pre-coffee consumption, in the same jeans as the day before, trying to jerk myself out of the lifeless stupor that usually accompanies oversleeping. All was lifeless. There were no sounds of typing, of air conditioners, of the occasional cough. No trickling fountain. No scrolling plastic tropical fish.

I was looking for a receipt that reflected I had purchased $160 in bagels. Upon discovering it wasn’t on my dresser, in my pants pocket, or on my kitchen counter, I decided it must be in the office; naturally, just having given up on finding it after combing through a sea of paperwork I discovered its secret location–inside my purse, right where I had left it.

My car is an environmentally-friendly, gas-efficient Scion xA. It bears the signature cheese-wedge shape and the seats are designed to maneuver into different positions to create more storage space. Regardless, after packing inside three ten-gallon coffee carafes, twelve containers of cream cheese, five bags of bagels and a series of baskets I had borrowed from the caterer, it was snug.

Good thing I was going to the BarCamp. As soon as I parked my car and began unloading the carafes from the back, a man came running out of the museum and down the stairs.

“Somebody said there was a pretty girl with a lot of [stuff],” he said, enthusiastically lifting one of the carafes and schlepping it inside. By the time I had unloaded everything, there was nothing else to carry in. By the time I made it inside, volunteers had taken it upon themselves to set up the coffee, put out the plates and utensils, and lovingly arrange the pastries in the decorative baskets.

In retrospect, it’s difficult to imagine anything going wrong. I guess that’s what makes BarCamp so magical: whatever happens is the only thing that could have. At the buttcrack of dawn, even at that ungodly hour, guests were sipping coffee from eight ounce cups and eagerly assembling the conference. I watched them standing in line to sign-in and get the coveted Freelance Camp t-shirts, chatting and laughing–

“Des, where are the safety pins?” Mindi asked.

“I thought you had them. …I’ll be right back.”

Putting on my hoodie I began an exodus to Longs. (At the time, I did not know it would be the first of six.) I honestly felt a little embarrassed. It was my job to make sure that breakfast was assembled but our conference-goers had taken it upon themselves to help me. I settled for a feeling of gratitude. After waiting at the register for what seemed like twenty minutes while the gentleman in front of me counted out not-so-exact change in nickels and dimes for a Starbucks coffee beverage, and then engaged the clerk in a lively dispute as to the price, I returned, bearing assorted safety pins.

“Here you go.” I handed them to Tracy.

He looked confused. “I brought the safety pins from the office.”

“Oh. Thanks. Never mind.”

Morning ceremonies were winding down and I began to settle in. Freelance Camp was not short on diversity: there were comely older folks, trendy married couples, a gaggle of twenty-somethings, and one guy who I knew personally from high school. There were sandal-clad ladies with their hair down and serious-looking women in immaculate suits; men in slacks who kept stepping out to take calls on bluetooths and long-haired dudes that stroked their beards during conversation. Regardless of appearance they all had similar mannerisms. They toasted bagels, picked through the t-shirts looking for their size, and they kept running up to each other with open hands thrust out in front of them: “Hello, what is it that brings you here?”

We all entered the conference room to begin scheduling the day. I sat, bagel and coffee in tow. Again I was summoned to Longs. Despite deliberately putting my food in the seat of my chair, when I returned, the conference room was so clogged that I couldn’t get close enough to hear what was going on.

Ah, well. I was there to work anyway. A few more attempts were made on my part to sit in on workshops. Most were unsuccessful. Charged with the tasks of putting sodas on ice and arranging 150 lunch boxes in the foyer, I spent about twenty minutes of my morning dozing in the corner of a workshop before it was time to eat.

Of course, I had help with lunch. Tracy and Mindi (for some reason) were stalking the halls when I began to pack the coolers and take out the lunch boxes. Both were eager to lend a hand. (So eager, actually, that they became somewhat possessive of stacking the lunch boxes on the table, which was fine by me.) I had been downing coffee from my eight ounce cup like nobody’s business but was beginning to wonder if, by some accident of nature, it was decaf. I sat down on a 5′x5′ platform in the middle of the staircase to rest my eyes and woke up an hour later when a gang of people from the workshops upstairs started walking right by my face. Back to work.

As 5-o’-clock drew nearer, Jeremy came out of the woodwork. Jeremy is one of the proprietors of NextSpace, usually found wearing flip-flops and a bluetooth. He was enjoying the conference, I’m sure, but since NextSpace was to host the Freelance Camp after party, my next job was getting ice in the coolers to keep the free beer chilled. We got in my car to drive to (you guessed it) Longs. I turned on the Scion and we were greeted by the angry chauvinist beats of Eminem blasting from my speakers at full volume. Awkwardly I turned it down to spare Jeremy, who seemed to enjoy himself and bobbed his head animatedly.

“I never hear music like this,” he said. “I usually listen to a lot of Sesame Street.”

When we drove back, my Scion had dropped six inches due to the 120 pounds of ice in the back seat. I returned to a massive surplus of bagels, muffins, and lunch boxes. I wasn’t sure quite what to do with them. (Our office ‘fridge, at Quiddities, is home to a half-and-half carton, six cans of soda, four bottles of Guinness, some cream cheese, and a ball of leftovers sheathed in tin foil, and it’s completely full.) Luckily, the young man sitting at the museum’s front desk took advantage of the leftovers with gusto upon learning there was free food.

Everyone was finished with the workshops for the day. A handful of people had assembled before me.

“Desiree, how can we help?” They chimed, their eyes glittering.

“Uh,” I looked around. “Well, we need to get all this stuff across the street to NextSpace…”

The volunteers filled their arms with boxes and baskets. I moved over some potato chips and an extension cord. The party was about to start. Free pizza and beer is right up my alley, but somehow my nap on the staircase had proved less than restful. I decided to make my way home.

A dark-haired kid who had bummed a couple Camels from me throughout the day stopped me on my way to the car. We made eye contact.

“Hey, um, can I be a complete jerk and–”

“Sure,” I said, handing him my pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Hey, thanks.” He selected one, lit up, and handed me back my things.

“So, uh, what is it that you do?” I asked. It occurred to me that I had spent the whole day at Freelance Camp and I hadn’t actually participated in any of the workshops or met any new people. David explained that he, like Margaret, won a grant from the Knight Foundation. It was for Spot Us, which by my understanding is a site that will enable independent journalists to receive community funding for their stories, and generate an array of publishing opportunities. He handed me his card. We parted ways.

My experience was certainly different from many of the people at Freelance Camp. Nonetheless, it was great to lend a hand at the conference. Everyone seemed to massively enjoy themselves. There was no shortage of activity among the guests. Jeremy informs me that the after-party was a blast. Rumors of another BarCamp–Public Media Camp–have begun to circulate. If I get a chance to help I’ll certainly be doing some things differently: being more organized, sitting in on more of the workshops, and–most importantly–starting the day off with a double-shot of espresso so as to be sure I don’t pass out on the stairs again. David, I’ll most likely see you there.

To everyone who showed up at Freelance Camp and to all of our sponsors, a great big thank you is owed. The BarCamp would not have been the bustling hub of excitement without you. I would also personally like to thank Andrea of Lifestyle Culinary Arts Catering, Manthri of Lulu Carpenter’s, Jay and Wally of Pure Water, Eric Mendelson of Lighthouse Bank, Jeremy Neuner of NextSpace, and Shane Pearlman and Peter Chester of Shane & Peter, all of whom personally assisted me in my job. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.