by Lulu Wright
Cutting me off with a hot glare, she arches her eyebrow. “Don’t you remember what last night was?”
I scour my brain for the right answer and look to see what T-shirt she is wearing for a clue. If she attends a protest, her shirt screams the cause. But it’s The Bangles, so that doesn’t help. I’m taking too long to put it together and I can see her frustration growing, until her face is twisted in disgust and she’s snorting like a bull.
“You don’t remember, do you.” It’s an accusation, not a question.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Geo, I don’t.”
She shakes the coffee pot at me. “The Frightened Rabbit interview.”
“That was tonight,” I protest.
Rolling her eyes, she turns her back on me and fills the coffee pot with water. “And what day is it, Rose?”
“I, uh…” How long did I sleep? Did I check the reminders on my cell when I left Mark’s place yesterday?
Was that only yesterday?
It was Saturday, I know that much, because we’d had a whole day of lounging around his cabin planned, complete with more pizza delivery and so much more sex…my stomach roils just thinking about it. About him. About how badly I fucked up.
Then I squint at my phone and my stomach clenches even tighter. Shit.
It’s Monday. I slept right through Sunday, the whole day. And the whole night. Sunday night, when the band was able to squeeze in a brief interview with us after their gig.
I don’t know what to say. She pestered me for weeks to set up that interview. I finally got off my ass and did, and Geo was so excited. The precious few times I have been home, I’ve walked into an apartment filled with the sounds of Frightened Rabbit and print outs of the questions we should ask.
How could I forget something so important to our podcast? To her?
Banging the coffee tin and a single coffee cup on the counter, Geo avoids looking at me.
“I’m so sorry,” I try again.
She holds up her hand to silence me and for a brief second I think she might hit me. Then she slams the open coffee canister on the counter and it rains fair-trade grounds in our kitchen. “You broke the number one rule of our friendship. We always said we would never let a dude come between us. Next thing I know you are fucking Mr. Bat Boy and what do you know! It’s like I don’t exist. Like all of our plans mean nothing to you.”
“I…”
“I! Yes, exactly! Let’s talk about how much you love yourself right now. Always Googling yourself, staring at pictures of yourself. You have become a complete narcissist! And every time you’re here I try to talk to you, drag details of your day out of you, try to make plans for our podcast, but all you ever want to do is run right back to his place. If you didn’t want to do the podcast anymore, you should have told me.”
My eyes drop to the side and I cower in shame.
She slams her hand on the counter. “I am moving out, Rose.” She stomps off to her room, throws the door opens it and slams it again. Shuddering, I wait to hear what her soundtrack of anger will be. Sex Pistols or L7?
She surprises me by making the walls vibrate with Megadeth. Geo is not the metal type. She is seriously pissed.
After I clean the coffee grounds out of the kitchen tiles, I take a long hot shower. As the water cleanses my body, a feeling of sadness overwhelms me. I look at the drain. It’s like I am washing Mark from my body. His kisses. His touches. It’s all pooling in this tub, rolling down that drain, away. I slide down and cry as the water rains down on me. I sit there until my fingers have prunes from the water. When I exit the shower, I hear that Geo has switched off Megadeth, but her door is still closed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bolstered it with a chair under the knob.
She’s moving out.
I can’t believe she’s leaving me. It’s another layer of shit in my life.
She’s been my roomie since college. I have never had another roommate. I never wanted one. We have been through so much together. Those financially insecure first days when we would come home to no electricity. That disastrous first grown up dinner party when we burned our fancy dinner to a crisp and someone from the building called the fire department.
Flirting with those hot firefighters who came to check up on our mistake.
Painting the living room that weird purple color and loving it. The couch we found outside that we had to drag back out when we found mice living in it. Her first job, my first job. Her first heartbreak, my first heartache. I remember holding her all night when her mom died and she cried herself to sleep. She did the same for me when my gran died.
And now she can’t even look at me without anger and disappointment. I have really let her down. I haven’t been there for her at all. I was supposed to partner with her on the podcast, put in an equal amount of work, help her find band hookups. It was our baby. Our creative venture that we were both excited to launch. But I dropped it. I dropped everything. The podcast was going to be a way to help her get out of that bartending job she hates, but I didn’t even give it one ounce of attention once Mark and the new radio gig came along.
And when I was hurting, when that picture of Mark and Amber came out, she was there for me. She ferried me to work every day and defended me against the angry diehards.
I have been awful to her. I have been a terrible friend these last few weeks.
I lie down on my bed and start to cry again. For hurting Mark. For hurting Geo. I suck. But one of these, at least, I can mend.
I sit up in my bed. I find a piece of paper and a pen and write Geo, my lovely Geo, a note. When I finish I slide it under her door and go to bed to cry myself to sleep.
I smell s’mores.
No, I must be dreaming. Can you dream smells? Closing my eyes, I draw a big lungful of air through my nose. Maybe it’s a scented candle. That’s it. Right? Surely Geo is too wicked pissed at me to make my favorite comfort food.
Cautiously, I open my door and peek out to see Geo puttering around the kitchen. Yes, my nose was correct. A half empty bag of marshmallows slumps on the counter. Some graham crackers are stacked on a plate. I see Geo’s bare feet on the linoleum and her Doc Martens on the shoe shelf by the door.
“Geo…” I squint at her.
Looking up, she points a spatula to a kitchen chair. “Sit,” she barks. “We have some shit to talk about.”
Obedient and brimming with remorse, I sit down where instructed, fold my hands on the table and wait. Geo scoops a steaming, melting s’more on a plate and slides it to me. I smile, but it drops when I see her face remains stony and cold.
She sits down in the chair across from me with her oven mitts still on and a spatula in her hand. “I read your letter.” Her face remains expressionless. “So you don’t want me to leave?”
“Of course not. Geo, I—”
She holds up a hand to silence me. “And you don’t want our friendship to be over.”
“Never. Not at all.”
“Good. Neither do I.” She draws a long breath. “But, Rose, you can’t keep doing this. Standing me up, flaking on our projects, without so much as a single word to prepare me. And please stop shutting me out. I feel like I only see you when things with you and Mark are going sour. When things are okay, you aren’t even here and you won’t even answer my texts.” She raises an eyebrow pointedly. “Am I right?”
I wince. “You saw the news?”
“I didn’t have to. You’re here, something must have gone down between you two. And I get it, new relationship, hot guy, super exciting—”
I open my mouth to stop her, but she talks right over me.
“And that’s awesome. But just don’t forget your friends along the way. Especially when it comes to working together. This podcast means so much to me, Rose. It’s like my national radio show, you know?”
I bow my head. “I know.”
“So, I want to give you another chance. But I have some rules.”
“Anything.” I mean it. I would rob a liqu
or store for her right now if she asked. Anything.
“Number 1.This podcast will be recorded next Saturday or I am out.”
“OK.”
“Number 2. Be a better friend. I am not just someone to pay attention to when your current guy doesn’t work out. That’s not how friendship works.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Number 3…you need to nut up.”
I blink. “Huh?”
Peeling off her glove, she takes my note out of my pocket and unfolds it. “I am getting fired. I am sure they will call me tomorrow to let me know, since I didn’t go into the station today,” she reads. Then she looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’m guessing they’ll call me when—”
Geo shakes her head hard enough to make her dreads dance. “Yeah, they’re going to be pissed at you, Rose. Maybe even fire you. But that’s not what I mean. You need to go in there and face the music in person. Don’t be a wuss. That’s not the Rose I know. Got it?”
I burst into tears of relief as I look at Geo. I have no words. I see her face soften and she climbs out of her seat and wraps her arms around me. “I am so sorry,” I say, slobbering into her dreads.
She pats my arm. “I have one more question for you.”
I blink my teary eyes at her. “What?” I sniff.
“Why the balls did you feel the need to make your note rhyme?”
26
Rose
Geo stops the car just outside the parking lot. Diehards are still milling in front of the station, more than we had last week, and Mark isn’t even here today. He left last night for spring training. The beaches, the nightclubs, the willing supermodels of Miami. His new national show starts in two days.
Without me.
Without us.
Geo touches my shoulder. “Ready to nut up?”
Swallowing and nodding at once, I force a smile. It’s a fake one of course. My stomach is twisted in knots as I eye the diehards and paps. This is going to be the worst gauntlet ever, not to mention the first time I am facing it without Mark.
Geo rolls the Corolla into the parking lot. The crowd parts like the Red Sea and starts shouting my name. Not with adoration this time, but anger. Blinded by flashbulbs and dizzy from adrenaline, I really don’t think I can do it. I cling to my seat, paralyzed.
“Nut up,” Geo repeats. I feel her touch my shoulder and her tone softens. “You got this. I am going to pull over there and wait for you. One way or another. Just text me when this is done.”
I exit the car into a sea of overwhelming stimulation. There’s so much shouting that my head spins. Feeling a panic attack coming on, I try to find the will to move my feet, one step at a time. I eye the station’s front door, longing for it like salvation itself.
“Look at the backstabber.”
“Bitch!”
“Whore!”
I try to walk, but the crowd presses in against me. Some woman throws a torn W-ALT banner in my face, screaming about selling out. Someone else spits on the ground at my feet. Someone shoves me from behind, and panic makes me shut down. My body stops moving through the crowd. I don’t know if I’m stuck because I’m trapped by the people, or if I am just physically paralyzed. Probably the latter. I suck in deep breaths, but no oxygen reaches my lungs.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Someone grabs my arm and gently tugs. At first I flinch, and try to pull away, but then my eyes focus on the security guard, a huge wall of a man. He smiles. “Come on, hon.”
I could kiss him right now, but there’s no time for that. He pulls me to the front door, opens it and nudges me in so hard I bang into Chad, who awkwardly catches me. “Whoa,” he says. “Kinda tough out there. We sent security to look for you.”
Chad is not the only one in the lobby. Kristy is there, along with the new general manager and a couple of suits I’ve never seen before. Halcyon HR maybe? To talk about my firing, no doubt.
I look around at them one by one. Meeting me upon arrival in the lobby. I guess I’m getting fired before I can even take off my coat. I suck in a deep breath to start talking, but before I can, one of the suits—the one in the blue tie—steps forward and thrusts his hand at me.
“Rose. Greg Turnbull.”
Dumbly, I take his hand and get a proper hand-pumping. He’s smiling as he does this. “Let’s go back to the conference room and have a chat.”
Well, this is it. Time to get my pink slip. I take a deep breath and follow them to the conference room, trying to remember how much I have in savings and if unemployment will cover basic human existence. Maybe my rent. Probably not food to live on in between rent checks.
Then Chad opens the door to the conference room and my brain shifts from panicking about money to wondering WTF.
I don’t recognize what used to the be the employee break room. Before, there was an ancient microwave that was probably leaking enough radiation to turn us all into superheroes, fluorescent lights and a tiny fridge that hummed like a dragon dying. The walls were faded yellow and the tiles were loose and cracked.
Now, as I take my seat in the middle of the table, my butt is cushioned by a state of the art ergonomic chair. The table under my hands is black lacquer, reflecting light from the mod-looking light fixture above it. There is a plasma TV bolted to the wall and framed arty black and white photography around the room. Mostly NYC shots.
Overall, it feels like a corporate tomb and I can’t help but feel elated. A smile spreads across my face as I realize that as bad as everything is, at least I am about to be released from this corporate prison. I will be as free as Night Vixen and Becks and Chris. Maybe they will forgive me, now that they see I haven’t sold out after all.
This room sums up Halcyon perfectly—boring, dead corporate bullshit—and I am never going to have to look at it again.
I am going to be okay. I will find another job. I will move on, and I won’t have to fake my death and move to Costa Rica to do it. This, today, is just one bad day. It doesn’t define my life.
I straighten my spine and toss back my hair. Noticing I feel hot, I peel off my coat and lean on the table. I eyeball Chad. I eyeball Greg. I eyeball that other nameless suit.
“Well this is different,” I say in my best ScarJo voice to date. “Looks like the cover photo for a Fight Club poster right before Brad Pitt tears into it.”
Chad chuckles. “You aren’t wrong.”
Yes. The walls are beige. Chad is beige. Halcyon is beige. But I am not.
I am bright blue and popping green with tinges of purple and fiery red. Fuck these people. I wiggle my butt on the seat and flash a big smile. “So, guys, let’s do this. I have a nail appointment in thirty minutes.”
Chad opens up his laptop and Greg mirrors him like they are corporate twins. The other dude just sits there staring at me with a small smile on his thin lips. “Rose. I’m Scott Thorson, VP of PR here at Halcyon.”
Of course his name is Scott. “Nice to meet you.”
He tugs on his tie and chuckles. “I’m happy to meet you.” He rests his elbows on the table and leans in. “Huge fan. I have never once missed a show. I love everything about your show. Even the music.”
I roll my eyes. Ugh. What a bullshit corporate way to fire someone. A compliment before they lower the boom. “Let’s cut the bullshit,” I say. “What kind of severance package are we talking? Because I have a required notice period in my contract with Doc, and I’m pretty sure you have to honor those terms.”
Laughs circle the table like I’m Louis CK.
Chad raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you think we were going to void your employment with Halcyon this morning?”
Void my employment? My tongue loosens. “No,” I drone. “I thought you were going to straight-up fire me.”
Again laughter flows around the table. I am truly on fire this morning. Too bad they don’t pay me for comedy shows.
“No, Rose,” Scott says. “Nothing like that.” He drums the ta
ble with his fingers. “You are a valuable asset to this company.”
“Asset?” I cross my arms. “The Morning Zoo already released a parody song about me. Jimmy Fallon tweeted jokes about me last night. I’ve lost track of the number of angry hash tags and Tumblr posts. People hate me. How could I possibly be an asset?”
Scott wags his finger in the air. “Precisely. People love to hate you.”
My mouth falls open. I knew Halcyon was corporate as hell, but really?
“You have always had a strong Q rating,” Scott continues. “And we think that will go through the roof when we get you back on the air. Especially with all this tension crackling between you and your cohost.”
I gasp so loud the men wince. They must be joking. This must be some corporate frat boy joke, a sick way to give someone the shove. “Back on the air? With…?” I can’t even say his name.
Scott gives me an enthusiastic nod and a huge smile. “We’re sending you to Miami to cover the Yankees’ first preseason game.”
Back in the car, Geo is silent as I tell her what went down at W-ALT—or should I say, Halcyon’s—latest meeting. Keeping her eyes on the road, she nods when I take a breath to energize my rant, but otherwise doesn’t interrupt.
“And,” I shout. ScarJo is gone, Louis CK too. Now I’m channeling Louis Black. “They said refusing to do this would be in violation of my contract. So if I don’t go down, they can fucking sue me.”
Geo smiles. “They said fuck?”
“Well, no. They summarized it more politely.” I take a breath. “But it’s pretty clear. I do this, or my career in radio is over. Dead. Kaput.” Geo says nothing, and I feel the urge to fill her Corolla with more whinging. “Maybe I can just leave the country or something. I mean, I have nothing. What can they sue me for? My old busted down Mustang? My collection of new wave 45s? Maybe I can just move to Costa Rica and change my name and work in some beach bar with tourists.” I collapse against my seat and catch my breath.
It’s a gray winter day and Geo’s heater is not great, so it’s cold in the car, yet I am sweating. My release of hot air out of my angry, panicked mouth fogs her windshield. Geo switches on the defogger and stays silent.