I tried not to laugh. “TenderNob? As in the area between the Tenderloin and Nob Hill?”
“My point exactly. If people can come up with the TenderNob, why can’t I come up with Prodromou Gulch?”
“You are nuts. How exactly do you expect to get people to start calling it Prodromou Gulch?”
He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows and lowered his voice. “That’s where my genius comes in. I figured I’d place a few ads on Craigslist for apartments there. Maybe rate a few bars on Yelp, have my friends sprinkle a few comments on Facebook and Twitter. Plant some digital seeds, then step back and watch them grow.”
“That’s your genius plan?”
“Do you doubt me?”
I tilted my head to one side and thought about it. “That’s actually pretty creative.”
“Of course it is.” He patted himself on the back. “Okay, I gotta run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A few minutes later the meeting started, but I couldn’t focus on anything anyone was saying. I sat in silence and doodled aimlessly on my notepad, just like I used to do in high school. This time, however, instead of drawing hearts and sunsets, I wrote the same sentence over and over.
I miss you, Jake McIntyre.
That afternoon I had a call with Wyatt Clyndelle at Smithers Publishing, the company that managed the printing and distribution of my Honey Notes.
“Have you put any thought into new cards like we talked about?” Wyatt said. “Sales are steady, but some new cards would really help give the line some legs.”
“I’ve definitely been thinking about that.”
“That’s great news. Anything you’d care to share?”
“Actually, let me rephrase that. I’ve been thinking about thinking about that.”
He laughed. “What?”
“I know that sounds crazy, but I swear I have an idea brewing. It’s just in the very early stages, so early that I’m not exactly sure what it is yet.”
“Well, keep me posted. My ears are always open.”
“Okay, will do.”
I hung up and reached inside my desk drawer for a pad of sticky notes and a spiral-bound notebook. I wrote “HONEY BRAINSTORM” on a note and stuck it to the edge of my computer monitor. Maybe that will help speed along the creative process. Then I opened the notebook and began to jot down some thoughts, determined to bring life to the idea rolling around in the back of my head. After filling several pages, I reviewed what I’d written and smiled. It needed work, but I liked where it was going.
My brain was getting tired, so I decided to shift gears and spend some time on my column. When I put the notebook and sticky notes back in the drawer, I noticed the envelope with the mysterious red handwriting. I pulled it out and took another look at the lone sheet of paper inside.
Be
“Be what?”
I put the letter away and opened my e-mail, eager to distract myself with stories of lives other than my own. After scrolling through the bunch, I picked three to include in that week’s column:
Dear Waverly: Last night my boyfriend sat me down and told me he’d done a lot of thinking since graduating from business school. Apparently he wants to run his life like a Fortune 500 company, because he basically informed me that, while he does care for me, he doesn’t see a future for me within the organization. He laid out his case like a hard-core business plan, and then he laid me off.
My reply: Honey, note to self: Don’t date MBAs unless A) you knew them way before they went to business school, or B) they work for a nonprofit. No offense to any other MBAs reading this, but you’re probably a little full of yourself.
Dear Waverly: Let’s see if you can top this. I went to a “date my friend” party last night, where everyone had to bring someone of the opposite sex they love but don’t LOVE. Built-in screening for cool people, right? So where was that filter when the girl I started talking to said she was studying colonoscopy, then added, with a freakish amount of energy, “I love the colon!” Okay then. I’m out.
My reply: Honey, don’t go knocking the potential for free medical care. I agree, however, that professing a passion for the large intestine is a bit odd. But something tells me that if she’d been smokin’ hot, you’d have found her strangely attractive, as opposed to…just strange. Come on, you know I’m right…
Dear Waverly: I live up in Tahoe, right in Tahoe City. I went on a first date with a guy the other night, and it was really fun. He even called the next morning and wanted to meet for lunch, but I told him I couldn’t because my car was snowed in. Then he offered to come over and shovel my driveway for me. Flattered, I said, “You’d really do that for me?” And you know what his response was? He said, and he was NOT kidding, “Sure, why not? I could use the money.”
My reply: Honey, you totally should have let him do it. Then, after he’d toiled long and hard to free your car from the snow, you could have driven away with an air kiss and said you’d pay him back by letting him kiss your ass.
I reviewed the column and laughed, already feeling better about my own romantic situation.
I was about to close the program when a new e-mail appeared in my inbox. As soon as I saw the sender’s name, my mouth went dry. I clicked to open it:
To: Waverly Bryson
From: Jake McIntyre
Subject: re: How are you doing?
Hi Waverly, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. It’s been an emotional trip, and to be honest I didn’t want to drag you into it. Just a hard time all around on the family. Nat’s doing better now, though.
You must be getting geared up for the big appearance on The Today Show. I know you’ll do great—you always do.
Take care,
Jake
I read the e-mail over and over again, then leaned back in my chair. I had no idea what it meant. It was hardly flirtatious, but it was definitely kind. I had to remember what he was dealing with, right?
I hoped I wasn’t grasping at straws.
After a few minutes, I sat back up and replied:
To: Jake McIntyre
From: Waverly Bryson
Subject: re: How are you doing?
Hi Jake, I’m glad to hear things are going okay. Don’t worry about not being in touch. I completely understand that you need to deal with this right now. I’m thinking a lot about you though, and your family too.
Things out here are going well, and yes, I’m definitely nervous for my TV appearance next week. Here’s hoping I don’t trip on the way out to the stage. But if I do, please don’t post the video clip on Facebook.
Love,
Waverly
I hesitated for just a second, then hit send.
The next evening I took a cab over to the Northstar to meet Nick for a drink. He was sitting at the bar when I arrived, and as I approached he stood up and majestically swept his arm across the room, as if showing me a lovely dining set I could win on The Price Is Right.
“Welcome to Prodromou Gulch.” He did a little curtsy.
I curtsied back. “Why, thank you. It’s a pleasure to be in such an up-and-coming part of town, especially one that’s your namesake.”
We sat down at the bar, and I leaned forward to check out the shirt he was wearing under an unbuttoned checkered flannel. It said, “I’m Even Better Looking in Person.”
I laughed. “How long have you been dressing like this?”
“A while. I like to keep things interesting.”
“Well, you’re certainly doing a good job.” I patted his shoulder. “You’re nothing if not interesting.”
“Why, thanks. Now what can I get you to drink?”
We ordered a couple Blue Moons, and then he turned to me. “So did you hear about Larry?”
“Larry from the Sun?”
“The one and only.”
“What happened to him?”
He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Gone.”
“What? Why?”
“Laid off.”
“A couple hours after you left. I told you there was trouble brewing.” He pretended to churn a vat of butter.
“Oh my God.” Suddenly I remembered the unhappy look on Larry’s face when I’d seen him the day before. “You were totally right.”
He took a drink of his beer and set it on the bar. “I’m always right. Haven’t you realized that yet?”
“So what happens now?”
“I heard they’re handing the department over to Eloise Zimmerman.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You’ve never heard of Eloise Zimmerman?”
“Who?”
“You’ve never even heard of her hair?”
“I work part-time, remember?”
“Okay, true. Eloise Zimmerman’s been at the Sun since…like…a hundred years before we were born, and let’s just say she’s…”
He paused.
“She’s what?”
“Whacked.” He took another drink of his beer. “Yep, that about sums it up. She’s whacked, and she has this matching crazy black beehive hairdo. It’s totally old school. Amazing, actually.”
“Wonderful. And she’s my new editor?”
“For the time being, at least.”
“Did anyone else get laid off?”
“I think about twenty percent of the company.”
“Oh man. I wonder if I’m next?”
“Could be. I have no idea what they’re paying you, though. And you don’t get benefits or anything, so maybe you’re safe.”
I played with my earring. “Hmm, I’m basically working for minimum wage given how much time I spend on my column, so maybe you’re right.”
He held his beer up to mine. “Here’s to being cheap.”
I laughed and clinked my glass against his. “You should put that on a shirt.”
We ordered two more beers, and before long we were a bit tipsy. Or at least I was.
“So Eloise Zimmerman really has a beehive?”
He nodded. “It’s unbelievable. High and black, with some white stripes on the side.” He lifted his hands about a foot over his head. “From the right angle, it could pass for a skunk.”
“Wow.”
“It’s phenomenal. And I’ve heard that when she gets angry, she can yell pretty loud and shake her head, and sometimes she shakes it so hard that some strands come loose from the hive. That’s when you know she’s pissed.”
“Lovely. I’m really looking forward to that.”
“I haven’t seen it, but I hear you could charge admission.”
I lifted my glass to my lips. “Our librarian in high school had a beehive. But she was nice, and she never yelled. I bet raising your voice breaks some librarian code.”
“I slept with the librarian when I was in high school.”
I nearly spat out my beer. “What?”
“It was amazing. And she definitely raised her voice.”
“You slept with the librarian? Who does that?”
He pointed to himself and grinned. “That would be this guy.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“It was a good time. Oh yeah it was.”
“So was she right out of college or something?”
He shook his head. “Oh no, she was old.”
“Please, she was probably like twenty-five. That just seemed old back then.” I took another sip of my beer.
He shook his head again. “No, I mean she was old. She might be dead now.”
This time I did spit out my beer.
“Oh my God, you’re hilarious.” I reached for a napkin to blot the beer off myself and the counter. “How are you not a stand-up comedian?”
He shrugged. “There’s still time. Actually, I have been kicking around the idea of a TV show.”
“A TV show?”
He nodded.
“A TV show about what?”
“Me, of course.”
“A TV show about you?”
He nodded again.
“How so?”
“I was thinking it could be like a workshop, or perhaps a clinic. Whatever the format, it would teach people how to be like me.”
“You want to make a TV show to teach people how to be like you?”
“Exactly. Not that anyone could ever totally be like me, of course. But it would be something aspiring awesome people could do. It would be like a boot camp for how to be awesome.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Of course I am. I’m amazing. Now let’s order some real drinks.”
I waved my hands in front of me. “No thanks, I don’t do so well with those.”
He scoffed. “Please. We’re ordering something amazing from that bartender right over there, although I’ve chatted with the dude before, and I know he prefers to be called a mixologist.”
“A mixologist? What’s that?”
“My point exactly. It’s like trying to call a mechanic an automobile surgeon. Hello? Dude, you’re a bartender.”
I laughed. “You can order whatever you want. I just feel safer ordering beer or wine.”
“Why? Mixed drinks are fun.”
“I know, and that’s exactly the point. But you can go really quickly from having like, one vodka Red Bull, to waking up and asking yourself, What happened last night? You know what I mean?”
He laughed. “Oh yes, I do, and that’s the genius of it.” Then he turned and ordered two vodka Red Bulls.
I stood up to use the restroom. “Okay, but I’m only having one.”
Three drinks later, Nick and I were still sitting at the bar. I figured that was the safest position for me to be in because I knew I’d wobble if I tried to stand up.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “So, what’s your deal? You show up at the office once a week and write about romance, yet you aren’t married, and you don’t appear to have a boyfriend. What’s the story there?”
It was bound to happen. I was about to be exposed as the little guy behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz.
“I almost got married once,” I blurted, then quickly covered my mouth with my hand. Stupid mixologist.
“Really? I had no idea. When?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“What happened?”
I picked up my drink. “Want to know the truth?”
He nodded. “Always.”
“He called it off two weeks before the wedding.”
Nick suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Oh man, I had no idea. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m over it now, finally. It took a long time, though.”
“That really blows. Did he tell you why?”
I cleared my throat. “He said he wasn’t in love with me.”
“Oh man, that’s brutal.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t fun.”
“So what about now? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, not really.” Because I’m an idiot, I thought.
“Do you want a boyfriend?”
I tried to smile. “Doesn’t everyone want a boyfriend?”
“I certainly don’t.”
I pushed his shoulder. “So witty. So, so witty.”
“So is there a guy in the picture now?”
“Yes…sort of…I mean…yes…I think so.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“Well, I’m pretty gun-shy given what happened to me before…and it’s complicated because he doesn’t live here, so I’m…and I’m…just trying to take it really slowly. I’m also hoping I don’t blow it. Although I fear I may already have.”
He laughed. “Just hoping I don’t blow it. Now that would be a great aspiration to put in your Sun bio, since you’re the resident relationship expert and all.”
“Thanks for that, Nick. So what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not currently.”
“Do you want one?”
“Do I want a girlfriend? Sure. Do I
want more than that? No.”
“More than that as in a wife and kids?”
“Bingo.”
I pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “So you’re not cut out for a life in the suburbs?”
He paused for a moment before answering. “Maybe someday in the future, but definitely not yet.”
I completely understand.
“In fact, sometimes I have nightmares about picket fences…and little people,” he said.
“Little people?”
“You know, little people.” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “Kids.”
“Nick Prodromou, you’re crazy. Although I’ve recently had a nightmare or two of my own about kids, so I guess I’m crazy too.”
“Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat. It’s terrifying.”
I laughed. “Seriously, you need to think about stand-up comedy. I’m not joking.”
“So hey, speaking of your column, I have a question for you.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward me.
“Talk to me.” I lowered my voice too.
“I sort of have a dilemma in the romance area.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You? I’m surprised.”
He sat back up straight. “Why do you say that?”
I took a sip of my drink and set it down on the bar. “With the baby daddy T-shirts and bowling team stories and all, I just figured you weren’t one for romance.”
“Okay, I’m a little inebriated, but I have a confession to make.” He leaned in close to me and put his hand on my knee. “You see, the thing is, I have a crush on this really cute girl from the office.”
I felt my hands go cold. “You do?”
“Totally. And when I see her, I get so nervous that sometimes I end up coming off a little cocky.”
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