“So this means, if I leave, I can’t take Food Disclosure with me? But it’s my creation.”
Jake shrugs his shoulders, and I can’t decide if the expression on his heavily wrinkled face is of bitter dismay or of bitter excitement.
“Right,” I scoff in the discovery of an epiphany, “this is about my Facebook post this morning. I posted it under the Food Disclosure Page.”
Jake nods in silence.
“So, now what? Are you gonna sue me since I inadvertently published a post under that name?”
“No, Penelope. My goal is to keep you on board, not to sue you.” He sits on the edge of the desk with his arms folded, seeming to wait for my response.
And when I offer no reply, he finally continues.
“But clearly you don’t wish to work here anymore. I was afraid of that.” Jake walks around his desk, opens the top drawer, and removes three envelopes. “If you’re seriously not staying with the Bee, I’m obligated to allow you out of your contract due to the circumstances. Inside of these envelopes are items that may be of great interest to you. One contains a check for the money we owe you for this pay period plus accrued vacation time. Another has a letter of recommendation, which I feel more than obliged to give you given the course of unsatisfactory events that has led us here today. And one contains a check in the amount of two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars, for the purchase of the name Food Disclosure.” Jake holds up each envelope, brandishing them like one would three gold medals.
Without the slightest bit of hesitation, I grab the envelopes, deciding to leave the newspaper with my name, dignity, and a respectable amount of money to boot.
At once, a surge of anxiety builds up, making me feel as though this building is going to suffocate me. Waiting for the elevator can’t possibly get me out quickly enough. I run down the twelve flights of stairs as if my total existence depends on it. Once on the ground floor, I shove the exit door open, stumble onto the busy sidewalk, and desperately breathe in the smog-filled New York City air. I gratefully take in the bewitching essence of freedom and notice a touristy couple walk past me, both holding a small to-go bag from Cristofano Woods.
The irony makes me smile and an unexpected urge to bid Hudson News Bee a proper farewell pours over me. I pivot to face the building and eloquently present a much-deserved one finger salute. Here’s to bigger and better things.
Chapter 3
I roam down bustling Fifth Avenue, lost in a pitiful satire of reflection.
What the hell are you gonna do now? I mean, really? You’ve got no boyfriend and no job.
While quite annoying, my flustered introspection makes me realize I’ve never truly considered not working for the newspaper. Not having a boyfriend? Who the hell even cares? Single is the new Prada; anyone who can afford it seemingly flaunts it with this sort of blatant swag. I’ve got swag—I think. And if I’ve learned anything from watching How To Be Single, it’s best to embrace my new-found status for as long as I can.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of New York: whooshing city buses, blaring car horns, and the ear-piercing scream of a NY City cop’s whistle. Watching him perform an animated dance directing traffic in the middle of a pothole-infested road causes me to snicker in amusement. A quick glance at the street sign above reveals I’ve walked at least three blocks, landing on West Forty-Sixth Street and Eighth Avenue. Old habits really do die hard. I mean why wouldn’t a natural-born food critic be drawn to Restaurant Row? A dedicated stretch of New York’s finest eateries, as described in some article I read online. Finest? Well…I suppose most of them are.
Amid a pity-party-induced trance and an all too predictable force of habit, I step into FlashBurger. Sebastian always says, “Everyone needs a good burger when they’re having a shitty day or a celebratory day.” Obviously, I’m here to memorialize my shittybratory day.
I’ve eaten here plenty of times, yet have never written a review. Oddly, Garrett had something against the newspaper reviewing ‘burger joints’. Pompous little grinch.
Once I’m seated, I order a Bonfire Burger and fries, then whip out my iPhone to text Sebastian.
Me: Met with Jake. News to share when you’re free.
Sebastian: WTF woman? I’m so gonna FaceTime you right now.
One second later, Sebastian’s face is electronically embedded onto the screen of my iPhone.
“Hey,” I say, welcoming his flashy expression.
“I’ve got 15 mins to get the 411, so spill the coffee beans, please.” Sebastian pats his blond, spiky crown, appearing to idolize his own image on the screen. “Wait, are you where I think you are?”
“Yep. FlashBurger.”
“Please tell me you’re about to indulge the hell out of a juicy cut of beef based on pure celebratory reasons? I’m so freaking jealous right now.”
“More like a shittybratory event, you know—shitty plus celebratory?” I explain.
“You’re so comical at times. Okay. Talk to me.”
“So, after you left this morning, I posted on the Food Disclosure Facebook Page,” I begin, as a perky waitress delivers my food.
“I know, I read it while en route to the office. You know I get those wonderful notifications each time you post.” He smiles wryly.
“Okay. Well, immediately after the post, Jake sent me a text. And in an effort to make this part of the story short, he asked me to the office for a meeting.” I swirl a few fries in ketchup and effortlessly cram them into my mouth. Sebastian’s eyes widen, colorfully illustrating his amusement. Although, I can’t make out if he’s reacting to my eating antics or to my story.
“So,” I take a sip of water and continue, “I made my way to the office, only for him to try to get me to stay. When he realized I was clearly ready to just move on, he brought up some clause in the contract I signed two years ago.” I remove the top bun from the burger before taking a bite—gotta stay away from carbs to remain fit if I’m gonna own my newly appointed station as ‘single girl.’
“Um, what clause?”
“Right. Apparently I signed a stipulation of payment for the name Food Disclosure in the event the employment contract comes to an end.”
“Please, honey,” he shakes his head and massages his temple, “you’ve gotta break it down into legal shit for dummies jargon. You know I get brain freeze when I think too hard.”
Sebastian’s timely theatrics make me giggle. “Basically, I agreed to sell my rights to Food Disclosure upon termination of my employment contract. No longer am I able to use that name for anything, including social media, blogs, you name it. It’s all theirs now,” I explain, suddenly losing my appetite.
“So how much did those trolls pay you for your valuable commodity?”
I dig into my bag. “Two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars.” I grin, holding up the check to the iPhone screen.
“Oooh la la! One quarter of a mil? No wonder you’re having a whatever-bratory meal.” He claps his hands in excitement.
“It’s shittybratory,” I correct even though I know he’s being his cynical self. “Shitty to actually leave the newspaper, yet celebratory because I didn’t leave empty-handed. My name, dignity, and a decent amount of dinero walked out of Hudson News Bee in one piece.” Instinctively, I place the check back into my bag when the waitress comes to remove my plate from the table.
“Congrats, baby girl,” says Sebastian. “I’ll make us a couple of commemorative cocktails when I get home this evening. I’m thinking some fruity cosmopolitans are in order. So, are you like gonna rename that page?”
“Yep, sure am. Just as soon as I can conjure up something catchy to call it.”
“Better be quick, my dear. My guess is they’ve paid you for the name and are probably expecting you to abide by the agreement. Do you have your MacBook?”
“Um, of course I do. To me, a MacBook is like the new old slogan for American Express: Don’t Leave Home Without It,” I say, in an unsuccessful attempt at being witty.
I ask the waitress for a cup of coffee (aka thinking serum) and pull out my MacBook. The post from this morning has now reached over eighty-thousand likes. And the comments? Endless.
One says:
Penelope you are the best! So looking forward to your next journey. Don’t stop informing us where to eat. We depend on you!!
And another says:
Penelope Monroe, I only read The Hudson News Bee once a week—for your review! Please keep posting. Love ya!
There are lots more and all give me much-needed peace of mind. Perhaps I can do this on my own? Who needs an overtly stilted periodical anyway? Not me.
The waitress brings me a hot cup of coffee. “Brewed a fresh pot for you,” she says and smiles. “Would you mind if I leave the bill with you now? I’m going on a break soon.”
“Uh, no. I don’t mind at all.” I smile, thinking I owe this place a review—a good one. Wait! The exact thought of giving FlashBurger a good review invokes a pretty conceivable notion; only I can’t dial it in without a helping hand from Sebastian. Between the two of us, he’s the visionary architect.
I send him a quick text message.
Me: Hey, I’ve got an idea that needs your creative expertise. See you later at home?
I sit staring anxiously at my phone, awaiting a reply.
Sebastian: Yes! Brainstorming session!! And we can totally do this with our cosmo bevs in hand. Oooh, we can order Indian takeout too. Feeling super excited! Catch ya later, babe. Oh, and by the way, I totally need your help with a project. I’ll fill you in tonight. xo
Help with a project? Sebastian is skilled at ending our text message convo’s with a cliffhanger—he appropriately calls them text-hangers. And now, as he probably predicted, I can’t help but ponder the kind of project he needs my help with.
I pack up, pay for my scrumptious burger, and make my way toward the jam-packed NY Subway station. Thanks to Jake Simms and his generous payment for Food Disclosure, I now have to make a dreaded run to the bank before going home. While most would be beyond thrilled about receiving an extra $250,000 buckaroos, I’m not. Not really, anyway. Why? That’s a subject I’ve been able to masterfully evade at all costs… Well at least so far, anyway.
Chapter 4
Winfield Bank and Trust is owned and operated by the Winfield family, a semi-aristocratic bunch, well known for real-estate investments and venture capitalism. I’ve known the family for what feels like ages, as my parents and Mr. Winfield served twenty years together in the military. Gracie, the youngest Winfield, was at NYU with me, however, she abruptly disappeared junior year. Rumor has it, she spent the majority of her time drinking at frat parties and subsequently failed all of her courses (except for the swanky Fashion Couture 101 online course). Anyway, justly disgusted with her reckless behavior and concerned about the possible blemish to the family name, Mr. Winfield apparently yanked Gracie out of NYU and shoved her deep into the nuts and bolts of the family banking business. Since then, she’s been sort of managing the Winfield Bank branch close to my Harlem loft.
Only seconds after I walk through the branch’s gold-trimmed doors, Gracie greets me with an erratic wave.
“Penelope! Great to see you!” Outfitted in a bronze tight-fitting pencil skirt, a fuchsia cashmere button-down sweater, and black stilettos, she approaches me with a jovial grin. Her ensemble reminds me of something the character Rizzo from the movie Grease would wear.
“We haven’t seen you in quite some time now. How are you?” The tone of her voice drags on as if she’s training to be some kind of debutant.
“I’m okay. Just here to deposit a couple of checks.” I take a quick look around and notice the extensive queue of customers.
“Oh, of course! I can certainly assist you with that. Just come on over to my desk and have a seat.” She sort of bounces as she takes the lead to her desk at the far end of the bank.
“Thanks Gracie.” I stifle a giggle, trying hard not to offend her.
“Oh, it’s always a pleasure!” She gestures for me to take a seat in one of the high-back chairs, sits down, and types on her desktop computer. Her long ruby-colored acrylic nails perform an exuberant tap dance across the keyboard as if in desperate need of attention. “Just give me a quick second to pull up your account. Uh yes, here we go. You mentioned a deposit?”
“Yes,” I gratefully give her the checks, feeling relieved to rid my hands of them.
Gracie browses over each check, looks at me briefly through her blue-framed Coach eyeglass lenses, and produces a half-cranked grin. Using a fancy electronic calculator, she tallies both checks and promptly processes them for deposit.
I nervously tap the tip of my shoe against the chair leg. To be honest, banks really aren’t my thing.
“Will you need anything else today?”
“Nope. Just the deposits, please.” My heart begins to sprint.
“Okay then. Just let me grab your statement from the printer and you’ll be all set.”
Gracie jaunts over to the printer and returns with my bank statement, but takes a seat again before handing it it me.
Please, just please, give it to me so I can be on my merry little way. I place my hand over my chest to keep my racing heart from jumping out.
“Penelope, are you sure you don’t wish to make any changes to your account?”
Oh goodness. Here she goes.
“I’d be more than happy to set up a market rate account for you,” she continues, “or even a simple investment account which will allow your funds to grow.”
There is a brief pause as she nervously fumbles with the keyboard. “As of now, the money is just sitting there—doing absolutely nothing for you.” Her tones sounds patronizing, however, I know she means well. At least the expression on her extensively made-up face suggests she’s sympathetic. It’s the same furrowed-brow look she produces each time she consults on my money management.
“No thank you, Gracie. I’m happy with my account the way it is.” I extend my hand—an obvious reach for my bank statement.
“Of course.” She politely smiles, shakes her head as if disappointed, and finally hands me my statement. “Just let me know when you’re ready to make changes.”
After thanking Gracie for her help, I make a mad dash through the bank’s double doors, pleased to have successfully averted the chronic panic attack I usually get during every dire trip to the bank.
I take a few steps away from the bank and lean against the cool concrete wall of the coffee shop next door. Get a hold of yourself. When are you going to be able to walk into the bank and not freak out?
Taking in the soothing breaths my crafty yoga instructor models, I brace myself and peek at the statement.
Balance: $2,559,789.08
Yep. It’s all there. Still. Thanks to Mom and Dad—a melancholy reminder of their eternal absence.
“Hun, what’s the name of that Indian restaurant we order our takeout from? My overindulgent pallet is longing for some of their Chicken Tikki Masala—mainly that damn sauce. It’s like heaven on a freaking plate. Or hell on a plate, depending on how spicy they make it.”
Sebastian is in the kitchen mixing our shittybratory cosmopolitans as I sprawl gloomily on the couch in the living room.
“Mazaydar,” I shout in reply.
I have been in this same spot since my return home from the bank this afternoon and seriously doubt Sebastian has noticed my somber mood. He’s been talking nonstop since he arrived home a little over an hour afte
r I did. First, he mumbled something about the Uber driver’s “hot-licious” face. Then, a trivial mention of setting aside time to shop for shoes, followed by a smug remark about me needing to update my “drab” wardrobe to reflect my newly single status.
“Yes, Mazaydar! I’m gonna call and place an order. Want some of that curry chicken you always get?” He appears from the kitchen holding two cosmopolitans in the silver-rimmed cocktail glasses we won on a Caribbean cruise with his younger sister Hannah three years ago. With care, he places my drink onto the oval coffee table and switches on the floor lamp. The bright light gleams upon my face like I’m under some type of vehement interrogation.
“Sure,” I grumble from underneath the fringed pillow where my head is now appropriately buried.
“Honey…are you okay?” Sebastian removes the pillow and looks at me with a bewildered expression.
“Me? Okay?” I sit up and take a hearty sip of the fruity drink. “Not really.” I lie back down and squeeze my eyes shut. “I went to the bank earlier today.”
Sebastian drops into the oversized chair adjacent to the couch and conveys nothing verbally—his silence alone speaks volumes, offering an empathetic gaze—the sort of empathy only a true BFF can adequately provide.
A trip to the bank always leaves me feeling solemn for hours—or sometimes even days afterward, bringing back to mind the ugly truth that my parents are no longer alive. They were abruptly taken from me a year ago by a truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel. As an only child, Mom and Dad meant everything to me. Their untimely demise still hurts. And that money—a combination of funds from a life insurance policy and a settlement from the truck company that employed the driver who took them away from me—is a dismal and harsh reminder.
“Oh Penelope, I am so sorry. You should have waited and I would have gone with you in a heartbeat.” Sebastian reaches over and grabs my hand. “I know how much you hate the bank. Was Gracie there?”
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 3