I finish with the cleaning up and wipe down the sink. “Ash, I’m almost one-hundred percent sure that Joanna was screwing with you about that whole Mister Romance story. But even if he does exist, I’m never going to be given a real news feature if I suggest something that’s meaningless fluff.”
She loads the plates into the dishwasher. “Then make it not meaningless. The guy has the city’s social elite in a frenzy, even when he doesn’t sleep with them. What’s he providing to these rich housewives of NYC that their million-dollar lifestyles and powerful husbands aren’t? That’s the big question. And if you figure out the answer, it’s going to be one hell of a story.” She closes the dishwasher and kisses me on the cheek. “Just think about it, okay? See you tonight.”
After she leaves, I think about what she said. I can’t deny that her idea intrigues me. All I need is one solid story to pull me out of the mire of banality in which I currently find myself. One big break that will prove to my pig-headed boss that I have more to offer than mindless drivel. A good-looking conman fleecing Park Avenue’s finest out of their Botox allowance could do the trick.
With fresh energy, I grab my laptop and Google Mister Romance. Apart from several million hits for books and websites with the word romance in the title, there’s nothing that looks remotely like what Johanna described. I scour page after page, looking for even the slightest clue that he really exists, but after an hour I still have nothing.
I shut my laptop and rub my eyes, hating myself for wasting time chasing a lead from Joanna the compulsive liar. Good God, I think I’m catching my sister’s hopeless gullibility.
How mortifying.
With a grunt of frustration, I pack my computer into its case, grab my purse, and head toward the subway station. Looks like I’m off to another week of intellect-destroying, morally-vacuous meme generation after all.
Oh, joy.
TWO
A Dick Says What?
I’m banging my forehead against my desk and groaning quietly when a shaggy head of light brown hair appears over the top of my cubicle. Hazel eyes follow, and the rest of my friend Toby’s face appears.
“Tate, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Punishing myself.”
“Why?”
“Because after the festering pile of bullshit I just submitted, I need to pay.”
Toby sighs and walks around into my poor excuse for an office space. As usual, he looks like Gulliver visiting the town of Lilliput.
Toby was one of my first friends when I began at Pulse, partly because we shared a warped sense of humor, and partly because we were cubicle neighbors. He’s one of the few reasons this job hasn’t driven me insane. A self-confessed geek, he writes the technical features. The best way to describe him is that he looks like a Green Bay Packer who wandered into a cardigan store by mistake and emerged looking like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, if Shaggy were six-five and on steroids.
Now, he stands behind me and lifts my head away from the desk with his giant hands. “Okay, that’s enough.”
“You don’t understand.”
He comes around to sit in the other chair. “I do. You’ve inflicted the most heinous dickfungus from the dark side of your brain onto the unsuspecting interwebs. What else is new? It can’t be that bad.”
“It can. It is.”
“Show me.”
I sit up and slap at my mouse listlessly, until my latest three posts open on the screen.
Toby leans forward to study them. The first heading reads, THE SECRET SHOCKING PICTURES THE GOVERNMENT DOESN’T WANT YOU TO SEE!
He looks at me. “Let me guess. Fake alien autopsy?”
“Yep.”
“Lame. And old.”
“Yep.”
He clicks on the next post. It’s a video. PEOPLE WHO DON’T LIKE SPICY FOOD TRY SPICY FOOD! SEE THE HILARIOUS RESULTS!
He narrows his eyes. “You filmed this?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me it’s not those three dweebs from accounting who have zero personality but are up for anything if a pretty girl asks.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you it’s the Three Doh-migos.”
“But it is them, right?”
“Yep.”
He sighs and goes back to the screen where the third article screams, THESE ARE THE WORST SERIAL KILLERS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! TAKE OUR QUIZ AND SEE WHICH ONE YOU ARE!
When I put my head back down on the desk, he doesn’t stop me. “See?”
“Okay, no. It’s not your best work. I mean, it’s like you’re not even trying to destroy innocent folks’ productivity by enticing them to click on crap.”
“My heart’s not in it.”
“You heart doesn’t have to be. Just the greedy, selfish part of you that likes having money for food and rent.”
I sit up and push my hair out of my face. “That’s easy for you to say. You get to write about tech stuff and video games things you love.”
“Yeah, but I wrote my fair share of click-bait crap before Derek moved me into the IT core.”
“I was the editor of the Washington Square News, Tobes. I won the Hearst Award, for God’s sake.”
“I know. And you were down to the final two for a junior reporter’s job after you interned at the New York Times, yadda yadda yadda. But none of that means squat these days. The sad truth is, you can’t throw a cronut in New York without hitting an unemployed journalist, and a lot of them are just as qualified. You have to face the reality that your journalism degree is as useless as an ejector seat on a helicopter. The job market is like a war zone right now, but at least the pay here is above average.”
“So what do you suggest? That I keep doing a job I hate? Or quit to find my dream job and risk being unemployed and homeless?”
“I dunno, Tate. You need something to make Derek sit up and take notice of you. Are you working on any features to show him?”
“Actually, yes.” I sit up and grab my notebook. “Scam parking tickets are showing up all over New York. The fines look real, but the bank account listed for payment isn’t on file with the city. Some con artist is raking in the cash.”
Toby nods. “Not bad, but hardly Watergate. What else do you have?”
“Uh ...” I look down my list. “There’s a renegade street artist who spray paints huge penises on potholes, so the city is forced to fill them or risk offending passersby?”
Toby chuckles. “I like his style, but again, hardly enough for a full feature.”
“Okay.” I scan my sparse list of story ideas. Already, I know it’s a waste of time. If there were something here that was meaty enough to impress Derek, I’d have walked my ass into his office by now and suggested it. This is all dime-and-nickel stuff, when what I need is solid gold.
I put down the notebook and look up at Toby. “I have nothing.”
He gives me a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Well, that’s your problem, Tate. You need something to get somewhere.”
I’m in the middle of flipping him the bird when “Bootylicious” blares out of my phone. Toby immediately sits up a little straighter. He knows it’s Asha’s ringtone, and he’s had a crush on her ever since they first met. Whenever she’s around he’s like a giant Labrador being told he’s going for walkies.
I give Toby an apologetic look, and he heads back into his own cubicle as I answer. “Hey, Ash. What’s up.”