by Dana Bate
Meanwhile, I had Zach. We met freshman year at Lower Merion High School when we both joined the school paper. Immediately I was attracted to his geeky, sideways smile and big truffle-colored eyes. Other girls probably laughed at the way his pin-straight brown hair stuck upright in the front, thanks to his severe cowlick, but I thought it was adorable. He must have thought the same about me because within a week of meeting, we were inseparable. We were like two black jellybeans in a sea of reds, two nerds who didn’t really fit in with everyone else. We weren’t outcasts. We were just . . . different. Old souls. Rather than spend the weekend drunk in the woods around a bonfire, we would cook each other dinner and watch the original Japanese version of Iron Chef. When I went to Northwestern and he went to Princeton, we maintained a long-distance relationship all the way through graduation. Everyone assumed we would get married. I thought so, too. And then he lied to me and broke my heart.
“Obviously you will be the maid of honor,” Libby says.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s how you respond? ‘Are you sure?’ ”
“It’s just that work is so crazy, and you know I’m the worst when it comes to parties. I want you to have the maid of honor you deserve.”
Libby grunts. “You’re the maid of honor I want, okay? But if you’d rather I choose someone else, just say so.”
Realistically, I would rather she chose someone else—not because I don’t want to support Libby, but because helping with her wedding, after everything I’ve been through . . . it’s too much. But I can’t say that. Not if I want to avoid an onslaught of teary hysterics and a stern call from our mother.
“Of course I’ll do it,” I say. “I’m honored—no pun intended.”
Libby squeals. “Fantastic! How do you feel about coming up here tomorrow morning to look at bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“Already? Have you even set a date?”
“August 6,” she says.
“But that’s, what, eight months from now? What’s the rush? Isn’t a lot of stuff booked up already?”
“Matt knows the wedding coordinator at The Rittenhouse, so he called in a favor. We lucked out with the florist and photographer, too, so we’re pretty much set.”
The Rittenhouse. One of Philadelphia’s fanciest hotels. That’s where I always thought Zach and I might get married. Not that I fantasized about our wedding in any great detail. I wasn’t lying to Libby when I said party-planning isn’t my forte. But one time in high school, while Zach and I were having a picnic in Rittenhouse Square, we saw a bride and groom getting their photos taken in front of the hotel. And as I bit into my Di Bruno Brothers sandwich, I thought, Who knows? Maybe that’ll be us someday.
Of course, as the years went by and I realized what a wedding at The Rittenhouse would cost, that fantasy gradually withered away. And then everything with Zach fell apart, so it hardly mattered.
“The Rittenhouse Hotel? Mom and Dad are okay with that?”
“Sure,” she says. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“You know money has been tight. . . .”
“Yeah, but this is my wedding. And for all they know, it may be the only one they ever host.”
“Thanks, Lib . . .”
“I’m just saying. Anyway, can you come up tomorrow?”
“I’m not even sure Amtrak will be running. The snow has shut everything down. And since I don’t have a car—why don’t we put a pin in that for now?”
She groans. “Fine. But I’m still going to need help with color schemes. I’m pretty sure I’m going with the jade chiffon for the bridesmaids’ dresses. So the logical color accompaniment for the flowers is white and yellow. But now the florist thinks I need a third accent color, and I don’t know what to do.”
Libby pauses, and a long silence ensues. I pull my phone from my ear to make sure I haven’t dropped her call. She is still there. And, apparently, waiting for me to say something.
“Syd? Hello?”
“I’m here,” I say.
“Well, what should I do? What goes with yellow, white, and green?”
The only person less qualified than I to answer that question is someone who both is colorblind and has a penis. My work attire revolves around five pairs of slacks—two black, two gray, and one khaki—and a limited variety of solid color tops, the “wildest” of which is a red sweater. Style has never been a personal strength.
“Lib, you repeatedly tell me my entire wardrobe is a crime against fashion. I think you might be better served asking one of your other bridesmaids. Or Mom.”
“Mom is more indecisive than I am, and my other bridesmaids are too worried about their own weddings. You’re the only one left.”
I lean back in my chair. “Okay . . . What about . . . lavender? Or violet?”
“Matt hates purple flowers.”
“Wait, Matt has an opinion about flowers? What guy has an opinion about flowers?”
“Sydney—stop. Help me.”
I clench my fist into a ball and bite my knuckle. “What about hot pink? That’s bright and summery.”
Libby goes silent, presumably mulling over this very important decision, upon which rests the fate of the human race.
“That’s perfect!” she says. “See? There is a fashion sense somewhere in there. Just takes a little digging.”
“Glad I could be of service.”
“You’re my maid of honor,” she says. “Being of service is your job.”
“Ah,” I say. “Right.”
This wedding is going to kill me.
When I hang up with Libby, Melanie storms over to my desk, her arms folded across her body.
“Hey—Boogerface,” she barks. “You off the phone?”
It’s at times like these that I remember Melanie grew up the youngest among five brothers. Sensitivity does not come naturally. Jokes revolving around poop and boogers, however, seem to flow with ease.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Check your e-mail. Memo from the network prez. It’s happening.”
I scroll through my in-box and find a message from the network president, Andrew Halliday: “Structural Changes at the Network.”
This can’t be good.
Dear colleagues,
The past decade has brought massive changes to our industry—both in the way we cover news and the challenges we face from other news sources. So far, we have risen to the occasion and have served our audiences well. Our news coverage is stronger today than it has ever been. That is down to all of you.
However, the time has come to address these changes to the industry head-on—not by reacting to them, but by implementing a plan that will get ahead of them. The digital delivery of news poses both opportunities and challenges, and in order to overcome those challenges and embrace the opportunities, we must reconsider what we do and how we do it.
To that end, we will be reorganizing our network in the most cost-effective way possible to move into this new era. . . .
The e-mail continues, using expressions like “consolidate,” “promote efficiency,” and “eliminate redundancies.” The bottom line? They are going to close bureaus, combine jobs, and fire people.
“Holy crap,” I say as I finish reading the e-mail.
“I told you this was coming.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t realize . . . I mean, I didn’t think it would happen today. Or be so extensive.”
Melanie pushes her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “No one is safe. Every job is up for grabs.”
“How many jobs are they eliminating?”
“How should I know?”
“You knew about the restructuring, didn’t you?”
She tucks a pin-straight lock behind her ear. “I’m hearing at least four hundred positions.”
My eyes widen. “Four hundred?”
“Apparently Halliday is calling the bureau chiefs today. He’s delegating.”
My heart rate quickens. This may not be my dream job, but I make
a respectable salary and have decent health insurance. And given that I’m behind on rent and have a knee-high stack of bills, any job is better than no job.
“He’s not telling us in person?”
“I think he wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. Out with the old year, in with the new.”
Before I can exacerbate my anxiety with more questions, Charles waltzes past my desk, his thermal underpants only adding to my nausea.
“What’s with the somber faces?” he asks.
“Check your e-mail,” we say in unison.
Charles glances down at his phone, and his dopey smile morphs into a sober stare as he scrolls through the two-page memo.
“How long have you known about this?”
“I just found out,” I say.
Charles nods solemnly, scrolling through the memo a second and then a third time. It’s the most serious I’ve seen him in the four years I’ve worked here. Even when the Dow dropped almost eight hundred points in a day and all of our futures seemed to splinter before our eyes, Charles injected levity into the newsroom with an occasional bad joke or cheesy story. But not today. Today his face is as white as the snow outside, and he utters not a word.
As Charles reads through the e-mail for a fourth time, our bureau chief Linda McCoy—a woman I have spoken with a grand total of two times in my four years of working here—walks into the newsroom, dressed smartly in a black suit, baby-blue shell, and pearl studs. She is not smiling. The entire newsroom stares at her, none of us smiling either. We know why she’s here. There’s no need to pretend.
Linda smoothes her brassy bob with the palm of her hand and pulls on her suit jacket. “I just got off the phone with Andrew. I take it all of you have seen his memo.”
We all nod, slowly and almost imperceptibly. No one wants to stand out. No one wants to let his or her anxiety into the open, to give off a vibe that says, I’m nervous. I know I’m hanging by a thread. But that’s what we’re all thinking. We’re also thinking, Don’t get rid of me. Get rid of her. Or him. But not me.
“I think it would be best if I spoke to each of you one-on-one to discuss your future here, and the future of The Morning Show.”
She drags her eyes across the newsroom and back again, until they land on me.
“Sydney,” she says. “Why don’t we talk in my office?”
As much as I try to tell myself that everything will be okay—that she wants to discuss the new duties I will assume and the cuts to my 401(k) match—I know from the pitying look in her eyes that we will not be discussing any of those things. We will be discussing something far worse. And everyone in this newsroom knows it.
CHAPTER 3
“Have a seat,” Linda says, gesturing to the smooth, gray chair across from her desk.
I lower myself into the chair, gripping the cool, metal armrests for support.
“As you know, the network is going through some major changes,” she says. “And one of those changes is to consolidate operations in the Washington bureau.”
I nod soberly as my throat begins to close.
“They have decided to combine several of the producer and reporter roles and enhance our digital presence. As such, they are eliminating all of the associate producer and producer positions for The Morning Show.”
A wave of nausea crashes over me. “All of them? Then . . . who is going to produce the morning segments?”
Linda presses her lips together and clears her throat. “Charles.”
“Charles?” Linda nods. “What about Melanie?”
“Melanie will maintain some of her production duties, along with helping to maintain The Morning Show’s digital presence. It’s where the business is heading.” Linda folds her hands together and places them on her desk. “But, unfortunately, this means your position here is no longer needed.”
A second wave of nausea knocks me over the head. This can’t be happening.
I strain to speak through the ever-shrinking opening in my throat. “Is this . . . is this because I let Charles wear skis this morning?”
Linda rumples her brow and stares at me quizzically. “I—sorry?”
“The live shot this morning. When Charles knocked over the camera.”
Linda slowly shakes her head, and from her expression I gather she did not see Charles’s skiing fiasco. “No,” she says. “This is purely a business decision. I hope you understand.”
I try to come up with a response, but at the moment I cannot construct complete sentences. Besides, what am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to affirm her declaration, to say, Yes, of course I understand? That would be a lie. I don’t understand. I’ve worked my butt off for four years. Frankly, if it weren’t for me, Charles would probably have the network embroiled in some nasty lawsuit.
“You’ll need to clear out your desk and leave the building within the hour,” she says.
I look at my watch. “Within the hour?”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t my decision. It’s company policy.”
I start to get up from my chair, but then I remember something I read for a recent unemployment story we did. “What sort of severance package should I expect?”
“Unfortunately, due to the financial strains on the network, the severance isn’t as generous as it once was. You’ll receive payment for your work through today, and then one month’s salary—a week for each year you worked here.”
I do the math in my head. That’s barely enough to cover my rent, especially given how far behind I am on payments, thanks to some absurdly expensive oral surgery two months ago that my insurance didn’t cover. Forget spending the money on anything else, like food or heating or other such luxuries.
Linda reaches into her file drawer and hands me a thick packet. “You’ll find information in there regarding allocation of the severance, as well as a primer on unemployment insurance and resume building.” She pushes her drawer shut and shakes her head. “I’m sorry about this. It isn’t what any of us wanted.”
I flick through the packet and then give Linda one last probing look, hoping there is even the slightest chance she will realize she’s made a mistake. But Linda simply stares back, her lips pursed.
Finally, she reaches across the desk and grabs my hand, shaking it firmly. “Be well,” she says. Then she gestures toward the door. “Please send in Abby on the way back to your desk.”
Be well? Be well? No, I will not be well, Linda. I will be very, very unwell, thank you very much. I had misgivings about this job, but somehow that makes losing it even more painful. It’s like being dumped by someone you don’t like. All you can think is, I should be the one dumping YOU.
As I walk back into the newsroom, everyone’s eyes follow me to my desk. I catch a glimpse of Charles, who still isn’t wearing proper pants and yet is one of two people in this room who will still have a job in an hour. This has to be a sign of the apocalypse.
“Linda wants to see you,” I say to Abby, dropping the unemployment packet on my desk. I yank open my top file drawer and begin stacking my folders in a pile next to my computer.
“What happened in there?” Melanie asks.
“I have an hour to clear out my desk. I’m toast.”
Charles taps his pen against the side of his computer. “Did Linda say anything about the rest of us?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss our conversation.”
“Puh-lease,” Melanie says. “We’re all going to find out within the hour anyway.”
I turn to the Queen of Gossip, the only producer among us left standing. “Then you can wait.”
The meetings are brief and orderly, and by the time Linda has finished speaking to everyone, the atmosphere in the newsroom approximates that of a funeral. Even Charles and Melanie, the two of us who still have jobs, look as if they’ve lost their childhood puppy and best friend on the same day. I don’t blame them. They’ll now be doing the jobs of two or three people for less money and fewer benefits, and neither of them signed up
for that.
I manage to load all of my folders and tchotchkes into a large cardboard box I found in the storage room, the only downside being that the box now weighs approximately six hundred pounds, there are multiple feet of snow outside, I live twelve blocks from the office, and there is no one to help me.
“Would either of you mind if I stored this under your desk? I’ll pick it up when they’ve done a better job clearing the streets.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to come back in the building,” Melanie says. Then she waves me toward her desk. “Throw it over here and call me when you want to pick it up. I’ll bring it down to you.”
I shove the box behind her desk, give her and Charles each an awkward hug good-bye, and then say good-bye to Tony and the few other friends I have at the network.
“Where are you off to now?” Melanie asks as I throw on my jacket and gloves.
I give one last look around the office, pull my fleece hat over my head, and clap my gloved hands together. “To get drunk.”
CHAPTER 4
The problem with getting laid off at noon on one of the snowiest days in Washington’s history? There is nowhere to get drunk, other than your own apartment. And when the only drinkable alcohol in your apartment is a half-empty bottle of vodka and a few airplane miniatures of gin—well, let’s just say the situation is less than ideal.
A high-speed wind whips at my face as I stomp through the piles of snow in my fat snow boots, my chin tucked tightly against my chest as the tears stream down my face. Renting an apartment twelve blocks from the office sounded like a fabulous idea when I signed my lease six months ago, in the balmy days of early June. Twelve blocks: a touch too close to justify public transportation, but more than a ten-minute walk. I told myself the walk would be my daily exercise, as if exercise had ever been a priority. Plus, the rent was surprisingly cheap—though, apparently, not cheap enough when combined with my payments to Dr. Larry Gopnik, DDS. But now I wish I’d spent a little more money on an apartment closer to a Metro stop, because between the wind and the snow, I cannot feel my face and may have permanently lost the use of my left index finger. Also, I now live twelve blocks from an office I will no longer visit.