—cb
Colin,
Eloquent.
Lena
Lena,
Thanks. Your turn.
—cb
He had a way of unnerving me. I felt like I had to answer his questions. And well.
Colin,
Because it’s the dividing line. It’s the point between yesterday and tomorrow, between reasonably late and obscenely late. It separates the men from the boys, so to speak. Does that make sense?
Lena
What was I talking about? I had that feeling I got when I realized that I had said something intensely personal without meaning to.
Lena,
Are you a writer?
—cb
I didn’t know what to say—or write. I was so embarrassed by my poetic declaration. He was a writer, not me.
Lena,
Hello? Are you there?
—cb
I exhaled and sat up straight…
Colin,
Don’t be silly…I’m just a TV producer—that annoying person who’s supposed to sum up your life in 9 minutes and 22 seconds. As such, it’s my professional duty to remain impartial, objective, inscrutable. Now, start sharing.
Lena
He was trying to have a real conversation and I had blown it. He made me wait for his answer. Retribution?
Lena,
How am I to spill my innermost feelings to an “impartial, objective, inscrutable” listener? Hmm?
—cb
Good question.
The next day, Colin finally relented.
Lena,
I will boldly get this ball rolling, if for no other reason than to stop my publicist from leaving me threatening messages— I think I’m getting some insight into that boss of yours. Now, forgive my bluntness, but here is a list of the people who will likely (hopefully!) speak about me in unwavering, hyperbolic platitudes.
MOM (also known as “Libby Bates”): A no-brainer really. Should be very useful for teary, sentimental moments, if you so choose…
DR. ARTHUR LEEDY: Bespectacled, tweed-wearing professor who wisely spotted young Colin’s burgeoning talent and took him under his esteemed albeit aged wing.
CALEB: Best friend since boarding school, like a brother, good for embarrassing but good-natured stories about youthful high jinks.
There. A perfectly embarrassing start. Please kindly refrain from undue mocking.
Yours,
Colin
I sat at my desk for nearly an hour before it sank in that my job—my professional mandate—was to examine the life of my most recent crush.
How fitting. I was, after all, a girl with a long and tortured crush history. They had started early and with a fierce intensity. The first one, as is so often the case, was the most painful. His name was Rodney and he loved Spider-Man. I spent endless recesses watching him play dodge ball, wishing unchild-like ill will on his opposing teammates. When he got a nosebleed during a lecture by the local fire chief, I cried quietly in the bathroom, hoping for his swift recovery. I wanted to know everything about him. I watched which foods he chose at lunch—sloppy joes or hot dogs, which ice cream he liked—Nutty Buddies with the occasional Fudgsicle for good measure. One day, he gave me a plastic Minnie Mouse ring on the playground. I thought it meant something. It, time cruelly proved, did not. Rodney moved away to Akron a year later. I looked it up on the map—it was three thumbs away. It might as well have been Africa, I remember thinking.
So, here I was, twenty years later, and not much had changed. Except this time, I held the key to the lock box of my dear crush’s inner world—and I was required to look inside, inspect the contents thoroughly and report my findings. As difficult as it would be, I knew I had to quell my feelings and get serious. I might work for a show that considered a segment on Sienna Skye’s Buddha collection to be hard-hitting news, but I was still a journalist, dammit!
I picked up the phone at least three times to begin my investigation, only to put it down swiftly when the realization of my task overwhelmed me. I needed coffee. That was it. I could be a different person when properly caffeinated—nothing would stand in my way. I was hyped-up, no-non-sense Lena after a particularly potent espresso.
I marched to the kitchen to search for my loot. I stopped short when I noticed a rim of spiky gelled hair peaking over the refrigerator door—it had to be Chase. The door closed. It was just me and the Cheese.
“Leeena. Heeey!”
He was holding a Stonyfield Farms yogurt, french vanilla. I felt strongly that it was not his. I always wondered who would steal their co-workers lunch out of the communal fridge. Cheese would. I had no doubt.
“Hi, Chase. Just getting some coffee.”
“Midafternoon slump, huh?”
Could blood really boil? I pondered the thought.
“Uh, no Chase. I’m riding high on the adrenaline of my job.”
“Oh right.” He looked flustered. “Me, too.” I’d challenged his own intensity. Cheese apparently had no capacity for sarcasm.
“We’re just tweaking the Skye piece. It looks aaaaawesome, I have to say.”
He had to say that his piece looks “aaaaawesome.” Perhaps because I shot all the footage and did all of the pre-interviews. Perhaps because I had all the visuals selected and edited. Perhaps because all Cheese had to do was position himself behind the editor with his arms crossed, and nod while Nadine called the few remaining shots.
“How’s that thing you’re working on?”
Physical violence seemed inevitable.
I said nothing. I eyed his yogurt. He shifted uncomfortably. I eyed his yogurt again and then looked into his beady, lying eyes, burrowing through his tinted contacts to pierce his dark, little soul. Yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese.
“Okay, well I’ve got to get back to the edit,” he stammered, backing away. I waited.
“Hey, Chase.”
He turned cautiously. I paused.
“Don’t you want a spoon?” I let the words slither out slowly.
His mouth was slack, his eyes wide. He said nothing and scampered away like a roach caught by the kitchen lights.
I marched back to my desk, resolute. I didn’t need coffee—I was running on rage. Call number one: Professor Leedy.
I punched the numbers as casually as if I were calling Tess. It rang. I waited.
“Hello?” An elderly man answered.
“Hello, Professor Leedy?”
“Speaking.”
I could hear classical music in the background. I imagined he was working on a lecture, editing a book, formulating a new school of thought, while smoking a pipe of some sort.
“Hi, I’m Lena Sharpe. I’m working on a television profile of Colin Bates.”
“Oh, yes, yes, dear—he told me you might call.”
I