“Sorry, I’m at the gym,” she said trying to slow down her legs.
“Fantastic. Important to get in those workouts and stay trim. Speaking of which, can we get your cameraman to frame you a little looser? Don’t sue me for saying this but you have a nice chest and we’re a visual medium. I’d like to see more of you on camera, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course,” she said, telling her dignity to stand down. This was an opening to speak up and ask for an assignment that would play to her strengths. One that involved actual reporting.
“I was very impressed with your work today,” the Chief was saying. “I like bringing your gravitas and smarts to more entertaining stories. Powerful combination.”
There’s nothing wrong with entertaining viewers, she told her conscience before it could protest.
“How would you like to get together and discuss new ways to pursue this?” the Chief asked.
Okay, this is going in the right direction. “I’d love that, Chief,” she said hurriedly. “I can be on a plane to New York tonight. Do you want to meet tomorrow?”
He chuckled. “No need, my dear, I’m in Miami Beach. Flew down with Jazzmyn this morning for a golf tournament.”
She felt a chill, suddenly sensitive to the air-conditioning and her clothes, damp with sweat. Karima’s words echoed in her head—The New York executives like to take the girls to corporate golf tournaments. This way they can expense it—and she was hit with a reflexive wave of judging Jazzmyn.
“Oh. I hope it was a successful,” Natalie said, aiming for a neutral tone.
“Yes, great game. Jazzmyn had to head home with a family emergency. Maybe you want to join me for dinner?”
Shivering, she got off the bike, found a gym towel, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She’d heard the Chief’s words and knew she should be excited—dinner in Jazzmyn’s place. In Miami. That’s an offer any reporter would kill for—but instead felt rolling anxiety. What if he wants more than dinner? Pulling the towel in tight she thought no, there’s no way. With all the MeToo stuff, there’s no way he’d risk it. Would he?
“I really want to see you do well, Natalie,” the Chief was saying. “And I think if we put our heads together, we can make it happen.”
An offer you can’t refuse.
“That’d be great,” she heard herself agree.
“Wonderful! I’ll have my assistant contact you with details. See you this evening,” the Chief exclaimed, as if he was surprised by her reply. As if he thought she had a choice.
17
SexualPolitik
The Nuit Noir Lounge had a certain brothel feel to it, with indigo velvet curtains you didn’t want to brush up against and the kind of seedy splendor that only sticky seats and the scent of Pine-Sol-over-dried-beer confers. It was still early afternoon so the dim interior was cool and relatively quiet. There were plenty of booths but Natalie, Matt, and Dasha had slid into seats at the bar, drawn by the warm glow of several television sets. It was a professional hazard, particularly when the screens were all tuned to local news.
They’d agreed to meet for a midafternoon council of war which they now put on hold to watch a wide-awake-looking anchor nod emphatically at her coanchor and say, “That was a really fascinating story, Rob.”
Matt pointed at the TV. “That means, I wasn’t listening to anything you said, in Reportuguese.”
“In what?” Natalie asked.
“The language of television reporters,” he said. “It’s probably more like a dialect, actually, but it’s totally different than print. I’m studying it.”
Perched on her stool, Natalie leaned slightly away from Matt. “Really? Give me another example.”
Matt pointed at the screen where a reporter had just said, “Time will tell. Back to you, Rob.” Matt continued, “Time will tell. Translation, I have no fucking idea how to end this live shot.”
“Yes!” Natalie laughed, getting into it. “Sometimes that also means ‘Olive Garden closes in twenty minutes so let’s wrap this up pronto.’”
“Or Yarmouk Martyrs Brigade has laid siege to the town,” broke in Dasha. “Turn off all lights and take cover before RPGs strike.”
“Wow, duly noted,” Matt said as he stared straight ahead, eyes wide.
After a moment of consideration Natalie added, “You know which is my favorite? Stay tuned.”
“What does stay tuned mean?” Matt asked.
“It means, I have a lead on a story and I’m not letting you in on it till I’ve got it solid. So get ready.” For a moment she remembered that feeling, the satisfaction of being on a killer story.
“Stay tuned,” Dasha said and nodded. “Is good.”
When the TV cut to commercial, the group got silent and Natalie suspected they were all having the same thought: how nice it’d be to chase down a real lead on a real story. For example, they could be investigating where the First Lady really went. Her mind flashed to an image of herself walking in slow motion, coat flapping behind her, hair perfectly silky, through the streets of the First Lady’s hometown of Maraicabo, hunting down clues to her disappearance. Watch out, people, reporter on the case.
“All right, cell phones out, everyone,” Matt ordered, interrupting the reverie as he spun around on his barstool. “Time to research the opposition. We need to know just how strong the opponent is. We’ll devise a strategy for attack.”
Acquiescing, Natalie pulled up her social media accounts but she already knew what she’d find: a total ass-whooping by Team Ryan.
On Twitter #McChesty was trending; a Facebook page called Ryan Raw had 13,200 followers; and he’d already inspired a BuzzFeed listicle of the top topless photos of the decade.
“It hasn’t even been a full five hours,” Matt marveled, looking at a POPSUGAR slideshow of screenshots of his bare chest which they’d edited into a montage over the song “I Don’t Know How to Love Him.”
“He’s a genius,” Natalie murmured. “He’s made himself a victim, a sex symbol, and an advocate all at once.” She shook her head. “An absolute genius.”
Dasha, who had been staring at the pictures of Ryan, grunted. “Too many muscles. Why chest so shiny? Why hair so greasy?” she sneered. “This is boy, not man.”
The waiter came by to take their orders.
“Who’s ready for shots? Tequila?” Matt asked.
“I’m not drinking,” Natalie said.
“Come on, Savage. Don’t be a bore. We all need a drink. It’s the only move.”
“We bond,” Dasha said, knocking on the bar. “We drink.”
“Nah, I don’t drink,” Natalie said firmly.
“What do you mean you don’t drink?” Matt looked bewildered. “All reporters drink. It’s mandatory.”
“Where I am from, many people maskünem. Is okay,” Dasha said and mimed taking a shot in an imitation of a drunk.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Natalie shot back, more sharply than she’d intended. Then, feeling she’d been rude to Dasha, added, quietly, “My dad was.”
Stop this at once, young lady, she heard her mother’s voice in her head. There is no need to air the family’s dirty laundry in front of everyone.
“I am sorry,” Dasha said, with a softness that surprised Natalie.
“Oh it’s fine,” Natalie waved the sympathy away. “He quit when I was a kid.”
As she explained, she flashed to a memory of her dad at his desk littered with empty green bottles of Canada Dry ginger ale, his go-to addiction after he’d gone sober.
“Beats taking up smoking,” he’d tell Noreen whenever she’d harangue him about the link between sugary beverages and heart disease.
“Wow, a crack in the armor,” Matt said, eyeing Natalie with surprise and something that approached compassion. “She admits a vulnerability.”
“I hardly see how no
t drinking is a vulnerability,” she countered.
Matt ordered two tequilas and picked up a menu. “How about food?” he asked, checking his watch. “It’s only four o’clock but we may as well eat. Who knows where in the world we’ll be by dinner.”
“I think we’ll be here in Miami tonight,” she said vaguely. “Pretty sure.”
“Why do you say that?” Matt asked, looking surprised.
Natalie stared at the bar top, simultaneously wanting to come clean about her dinner plans and dreading Matt’s response.
“The Chief’s in town,” she said quickly. “He came with Jazzmyn for a golf tournament but she had to leave, so he asked me to have dinner.”
“What? That’s fantastic!” Matt lit up. “Best news all day! This means he’s leaning Team Natalie. It could increase our VOP.”
She smiled, telling herself Matt’s right. This is a good thing, she intoned silently, trying to beat her intuition into submission. She looked over at Dasha, who let out a slow whistle, then made a clicking sound with her tongue.
“What?” Natalie asked defensively.
“You meet at restaurant or hotel?” Dasha asked.
Natalie shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Avoid hotel,” Dasha said ominously.
“What are you guys talking about?” Matt asked, incredulous. “The head of the network wants a one-on-one with you. This is great!”
Ignoring Matt, Natalie shifted to face Dasha. “But what do you think he’d do?”
Dasha considered this a moment and then offered, “Maybe is like Abu Fazl, from Saddam’s army. Always asking girls for dinner in hotel room. He put pills in wine, then put wang in girl.” Her eyes got a faraway gleam in them. “Abu Fazl had very bad death.”
A shocked laugh burst from Natalie. “Of course he did.”
“You guys are being crazy,” Matt insisted. “There is no way the Chief wants you to be his sloppy seconds.”
Dasha shot him a dose of Watch Yourself eye and he amended, “I just mean that he’d get fired if he tried anything. Too many guys have been taken out for MeToo stuff. No way he’s risking his career to play hide the sausage with you.”
Natalie shot Matt a quizzical look and let out a hollow laugh. “Who are you kidding? He wouldn’t lose his job because I’d never complain.”
“Govno!” Dasha agreed. “Never. Not after what happen with Raheema in Baghdad.”
Natalie spun around to face Dasha. “What happened with Raheema in Baghdad?”
Shaking her head Dasha said. “For sure you have heard this. Raheema had problem with you-know-who whacking off in car on assignment. She report whacking and now she doing weather in Youngstown.”
“Oh right,” Natalie said with a knowing look.
“What? Who? Who did that?” Matt demanded, nearly hysterical.
Dasha scowled at him and, narrowing her eyes, said to Natalie, “Is also bad with Hal.”
“Hal is such a creep,” she agreed. “He stopped by my building the other night and asked to come up at, like, 11 p.m. He’s been punishing me ever since.”
Dasha’s eyes darkened and she looked around the room as if to assure herself that Assad’s forces weren’t lurking in the shadows. “I hear rumor. With the young girls, he presses the wang into the back.”
Matt rocketed forward in his chair. “What did you just say?”
“The assignment girls. When she sit at computer, Hal make the wang hard, stand behind, then push wang into her.” She made a disapproving face. “Wang attack.”
“That’s disgusting.” Natalie wrinkled her nose, remembering how Hal had grazed her body in the editorial meeting. And Bibb had been sitting right there in front of them. Come to think of it. “I bet Bibb knows. She’s an A and A.”
“What’s this? A and A?” asked Dasha.
“Aider and abettor,” Natalie explained. “Enabler. I think there’s one at every place. The senior woman in management who scares the female employees under her into silence and submission.”
“Yes, they make the system working.” Dasha got a faraway look in her eyes. “They punish the women who make the complaint. Too much complaint and they say this girl is crazy. This girl get Abu Fazl killed. This girl is rough.”
“Tough,” Natalie corrected. “They call us tough.”
“Okay, tough,” Dasha agreed. “They like better we say nothing.”
“I don’t understand,” said Matt, exasperated. “If Hal’s so bad and you guys all know, why don’t you turn him in to HR?”
“Haven’t you heard anything we’ve just said?” asked Natalie, indignant. “HR doesn’t care. Why don’t you turn him in? Now you know as much about his creepiness as we do.”
Matt threw his hands up. “Okay, okay! I’m not the enemy.”
“HR worst,” Dasha elaborated. “Like KGB, secret police.”
“Yep, if you complain, they paper your file to show that you’re the problem.” Natalie sighed. “HR exists to protect management from the employees.”
“Yah. Nelly Jones, too,” Dasha said, shaking her head.
Natalie straightened to attention. “What about Nelly?”
“She taping special on harassment. Big show. Six cameras,” Dasha said and gave a hollow laugh. “For sure will not mention problem at ATN.”
“Oh my god, could you even imagine?” Natalie agreed, laughing.
Matt held up a shot of tequila and said, “Well, cheers to us. Reporters obliged by management to expose everyone else’s dirty secrets, while hiding our own.”
“Cheers,” said Natalie, raising her glass of water. “To the total double standard we live with. Like how Chesty can take off his shirt and he becomes stronger and more untouchable for it. But if I tried—”
“If you did that, our VOP would be through the roof,” Matt said, bitterly.
Laughing, Natalie felt herself relax. Strange, but it felt good to say all this out loud. No one ever discussed these things at the office, as if group silence was the price of participation.
“Enough.” Dasha banged her hands on the bar. “We make happy conversation. Not work.” Dasha crossed her arms, clearly determined to make small talk. “You, Matthew. What sport do you play?”
Matt blinked, confused.
Dasha waved her hands in the air. “You understand what I am saying? Sport. The games. You play?”
“Well, I’m a grown man so I don’t play games. But if you mean what do I do for exercise, I lift weights and swim.” Natalie found this unlikely. “And I played lacrosse in college,” he said, warming up to it. “I was the varsity captain.”
Dasha frowned. “I do not know this game. Is it like bowling? You look to me like you would do bowling.”
Matt turned an interesting color and said, “It is nothing like bowling. Lacrosse is very athletic and exciting. And I was captain of the softball team at the Post.”
That caught Natalie’s attention. “You were at the New York Post?”
“No, the Washington Post.”
Natalie couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “You worked at the Washington Post?”
“Yes,” Matt said slowly.
“You once had journalistic integrity?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Matt said, with a challenging gaze.
“Was married,” Dasha said matter-of-factly while Matt looked at her, mouth agape.
“How did you know that?” he demanded.
“You were married? You were not married,” Natalie said, floored.
“My friend is friends of the ex-wife of Matthew,” Dasha confirmed. “She say is nice woman. Move to Iowa.”
“You have a nice ex-wife who lives in Iowa?” Natalie asked, still floored. Matt blushed furiously.
“It’s old news,” Matt said and picked up his phone.
Natalie was searching for an appropriate response when her phone buzzed.
“VOP is here,” Dasha called out, scrolling on her own screen.
Holding her breath, Natalie opened the email.
From: The Chief
Subject: VOPS
Ryan 54. Natalie 42. Great work by all today. Keep it up!!!
Twelve points. He was beating them by twelve points. Looking at the numbers, Natalie was overcome with exhaustion. “I give up.”
“Wait, I’ve got just the thing,” Matt said, and Natalie, in a daze, watched him reach into his satchel and pull out a handful of little blue pills. “Xanax,” he announced.
She looked at them, feeling unmoved.
“It’s not addictive. It’ll just turn down the volume in your head,” Matt said, sounding a lot like the high school campus drug dealer.
Lacking the life force to fight Matt, she stuck out her hand, watched as he placed two pills on her palm, and stuffed them into a pocket. “Okay, I’m going to my room,” she said and with some effort, hopped down off the barstool. “Then I’m going to dinner with the Chief. Wish me luck.”
18
Natalie in Wonderland
Natalie was under the monkey fever comforter in her own room at the Hampton Inn trying to breathe through the nauseated feeling rolling through her. Her body was cold and her head felt compacted, like she’d just drunk an entire Slurpee in one go. Shivering, she pulled up the cover and reread the email that was open on her iPhone.
It was from the Chief’s assistant, letting her know that the network was sending a black car to pick her up at 8 p.m. No word on her destination. No mention of a return car at the end of the night. She reminded herself of all the articles she’d read calling the Chief a family man, dedicated to his new wife and kids. It was borderline egotistical to think he’d try anything tonight.
Pressing her eyes shut, she tried to make her mind go blank but it was a losing battle. Twelve points, her mind screamed. That was the real problem. She was trailing Ryan by twelve points. Yesterday, after the on-set debate about the sexless sex tape, she’d been only four points behind. Now, after a killer story that involved an actual shooting live on air, Ryan had more than doubled his lead. Cancelling dinner with the Chief wasn’t an option.
Savage News Page 17