Me vs. Me

by Sarah Mlynowski

  I run to the cooler for water. I need to douse the fire in my throat.

  Six o’clock comes and goes, and I’m still thirsty. We are not taping. We are preparing for a live show. My hands are shaking. Not that I wish anyone harm, but if the fire dwindles to a flicker, I’m screwed. I keep checking my BlackBerry. Is it wrong that I’m praying that the fire doesn’t stop? A doctor doesn’t wish for a person to get sick, but face it, without sick people, doctors would be unemployed. Maybe everyone will be saved and we’ll get a few hero stories. Hero stories are upbeat, are they not?

  It’s 7:58. The fire is still roaring. It’s out of control. One of our affiliate producers is there right now, getting us some horrific and overwhelming images. People are trapped inside.

  “And we’re live.”

  “Good evening,” says Ron, looking directly into the camera. “We have some very disturbing images coming out of Texas tonight. You are looking at an oil refinery outside of Houston, and we believe several people might be trapped inside the smoldering refinery. At three fifty-seven central standard time this afternoon, a gas-tank explosion ignited a fire at a major oil refinery just outside of Houston. Several fire companies are on the scene, responding to the blaze.”

  We have graphics, we have live images. We have it all. Meanwhile, I’m waving at the assistants, who have been trying to make phone contact with someone inside the building.

  “We got one,” an assistant whispers to me, ten minutes into the newscast. “His name is Alex Manasin. He’s an engineer and he’s in the back of the building. Let me connect him.”

  Holy shit. “Are you sure talking to us doesn’t put him in any danger?”

  “He’s trapped in one of the control rooms. He can’t go anywhere.”

  I adjust the script and tell Ron about the caller through his earpiece. His eyes light up. This is huge.

  “We have an engineer, Alex Man…a…ton from the refinery on the phone live with us.”

  “Manasin!” I scream at the screen. “Not Manaton!”

  “Alex, can you hear me?” Ron says in his best voice-of-God.

  I hear a man’s voice, and it’s not Ron’s. “Hello?”

  “Alex, are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better,” says the voice. “It’s damn hot in here.”

  “Stay with us, Alex. They’re coming to get you. Can you tell us what’s going on in there?”

  “It just kinda came out of nowhere. It was a very normal day and then just before four a loud explosion came from the south side of the facility.”

  “What’s on the south side?”

  “The south side is the G-sector where refined oil is taken from the facility for distribution.”

  “How far were you from the explosion?”

  “It was just down the hall…maybe five hundred feet.”

  “Is anyone with you?”

  “There’s about twelve of us in this control room and another five next door. We’re all stuck…there are flames right through the hallways.”

  “How many employees work at the facility?”

  “Could be as high as twelve hundred, depending on the work shifts.”

  “Mr. Manaton, do you have any idea how this could have started?”

  “Tough to say…hold on…. Ted, tell Joan to stay low…”

  The phone muffles. Ron, clearly not at his best when live, stares blankly at the monitor for some guidance. This dead air is killing me. I’m about to insert a new graphic when thankfully Mr. Manaton, as he’s now been ordained, comes back on the line.

  “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “We certainly understand. Your safety and the safety of those around you is most important here. Now tell us, do you have any idea how this could have started?”

  The engineer coughs loudly into the phone. “Tough to say. I don’t think it was an accident.”

  Yes, yes, that’s it, say the T-word.

  “We’ve had union issues these past few months.”

  Ron visually slumps with disappointment.

  “But who knows? Some of us here in the control room think it was terrorists.”

  Bull’s-eye!

  “What does it look like in there?” Ron asks. “Is there smoke?”

  More coughs. “Yeah, hold on again.”

  We wait a few seconds. Any more dead air and I’m going to get fired.

  “Get me someone else! Can we get the mayor on the line?”

  “We got him,” a bushy-eyed intern yells my way.

  I patch the mayor through to Ron, who immediately bursts into, “Houston we have a problem.” Oh God, tell me he didn’t just say that. “Mr. Mayor,” he continues, “what can you tell us?”

  For the next twelve minutes, our live coverage of the Houston refinery fire is, well, no need to be modest here, outstanding. I cut to images from the choppers overhead. I insert graphics with factoids about the refinery. I point out how a refinery fire could force gas prices higher.

  I cut to commercial.

  I glance up at the monitors of the other networks and notice that, except for CNN, they aren’t showing the story. Instead they’re airing their prerecorded stories about the snowstorm—boring. It’s January, people. Snow happens. CNN is just beginning their coverage, but we’ve already made contact. We beat CNN!

  I snap back to the screen with the realization that in one minute and fifteen seconds we’re coming back live. “I need an expert on the phone,” I scream at no one in particular. “Someone who can talk about oil, gas, refineries, anything like that. Ron, open with a recap. Two minutes, then we’ll get you back on the phone.”

  Ron’s ad-lib skills are practically nonexistent. He changes the location of the fire twice in two minutes—first on the north side, then the eastern section of the refinery. But he does a good job hitting the key points, and the graphics team helps him along.

  After the recap, we check back with Alex Manaton/Manasin, then with the fire chief, then move on to an economics expert. Halfway through the hour, all the other major news networks have abandoned their taped segments and are picking up our feed. And I’m feeling damn good about my decision to go live.

  The rest of the hour flies by, with other major stories to even it out. Eventually, our time is up and we wind down our efforts. The enthusiasm in the room is palpable. One of our only live outings, produced by yours truly, has been a massive success. We had drama, we had excitement, we had heroes. And adding to the celebration, not only were there no fatalities, no one was injured.

  Tomorrow we cover the union dispute. Perhaps, live.

  I’m closing down my computer when I notice that Ron is leaning against my desk, a huge grin across his face. “Where do you think you’re going, Arizona? I’m taking you to dinner.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. You were a superstar tonight. What’s your favorite place?”

  Sushi on Third is pretty much the only place I’ve ever eaten at in this city, except for the Italian place Heather took me to once. “You choose. I trust you. You are one of the most trusted newsmen in the nation.”

  “Cute, Arizona. Let’s go to Gramercy Tavern. I have to get this makeup taken off and then make a few stops, so I’ll meet you there at ten.”

  I do a quick search on the Internet and discover that Gramercy Tavern is one of the best and priciest restaurants in the city. Then I run to the restroom and try to fix myself up. I look down at my running shoes. Shit. I can’t go to one of New York’s best restaurants in these! Maybe I can just run across the street and—

  I glance at my watch. It’s already nine-thirty. All the stores will be closed. I’m going to have to make do with what I have on. Which are baggy black pants, a purple blouse and these damn black running shoes. Okay, what can I fix? I unbutton the top button of my shirt. And the hair. I can definitely fix the hair. I remove the elastic from my ponytail, flip my head, add water, shake it out and flip back up. That’s better. Unfortunately, I don’t carry much makeup with me, exce
pt for a lipstick. But that could work. It’s rosy. I rub the color onto my eyelids, my cheekbones and finally my lips. And then I smile.

  “We’ll have a second bottle of the Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac,” Ron tells the waitress.

  What will forever be known as the best day ever is getting better by the second. I saw the price list. And that wine cost over three hundred dollars. There is no feeling in the world like getting drunk on a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Although, if I’m going to be honest, Ron has done more than his share of the drinking.

  So far, the food is delicious. No, delicious isn’t a strong enough word. I have mini orgasms every time I lift my fork to my mouth. And there’s still so much more to go. I’m only on course three out of seven!

  When I realized that just the two of us would be having dinner—Ron said he couldn’t find Curtis—I was worried we’d have nothing to talk about. But the conversation is as smooth as the wine. I’m pretty well prepped, since I’ve read his biography in my other life, and therefore know everything about him. Born in Boston in 1949. Father died when he was ten from a heart attack. Mother remarried twice thereafter. Moved to Connecticut where stepfather worked. Graduated with a B.A. from Yale. Married Janet McKinsey, whom he met in a communications class. Got a master’s in journalism from Columbia. Fathered one boy, then twin girls. All three kids are in their twenties. Lives with wife in Greenwich, Connecticut.

  Besides, I end up doing most of the talking, since he asks me a million questions. What was it like moving from Arizona to New York? How do I like my job? How do I like working with Curtis? Do I have a roommate?

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Just outside of Los Angeles,” I answer, savoring my tuna tartar.

  “Ah, La-la Land. You didn’t want to be an actress?”

  “God, no. That world is so fake.”

  “I know just what you mean,” he says, holding my gaze as if I had said something meaningful.

  “Half the girls in my class had breast implants by their sixteenth birthday,” I add, then wonder if I should slow down on the wine.

  Luckily, he laughs, and then asks me about my parents.

  I haven’t gotten this much attention in years.

  Sure, this would be way more fun if he wasn’t married. Not that he’s my type exactly, being over fifty. But there’s something about him that’s sexy. The maître d’ giving us the best table even though we didn’t have a reservation probably has something to do with it. Or maybe it’s because everyone in this entire country trusts him. Or because he’s powerful and brilliant. Or maybe it’s the wine goggles I’m sporting.

  “Gabby, tell me, how come you went into producing and not reporting?”

  “Not my thing. I prefer being behind the camera.”

  “You would have been a terrific reporter. That smile would have looked great on camera. But I’m happy to have you as my producer. You’re doing a phenomenal job. For the work you did tonight, we could be talking Emmy.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my heart swooning.

  I take another bite of my foie gras as the waitress refills my glass with, oh, I’d say seventy-dollars worth of Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac.

  Since we are in the midst of a snowstorm, Ron gives the hostess the TRSN account number and asks her to call for two private cars.

  My own car. My very own car. I’ve taken subways in this city. I’ve taken cabs. But a black, tinted-windowed car? “You don’t have to,” I say. “I’m fine grabbing a cab.”

  The coat guy helps Ron into his black cashmere coat. “It’s my responsibility to make sure you get home safely and comfortably. We’ll need one car to SoHo, and one to Murray Hill.”

  “I thought you lived in Connecticut,” I say, as the coat guy now helps me with my very-not-cashmere coat.

  “I do, but on nights like these I stay at the Soho Grand. Easier that way.”

  “Got it. Well, thank you so much, Ron. For the car, for dinner, for the job.” I feel myself getting teary with emotion, because really, I am overwhelmed with admiration and happiness. This was indeed the best day ever.

  “You deserve it.” A car pulls up in front of the restaurant. “Go ahead, Arizona. You first.”

  A burst of winter air blows in as I push open the door. “Thanks again. You were great today,” Ron calls behind me.

  What would normally be a ten-minute drive ends up taking thirty because of the slippery roads. But I enjoy every second of it. In the back seat of the limo, I feel toasty and happy and brimming with pride.

  I’ve made it.

  Back at the apartment, I’m about to drift off into a blissful well-deserved sleep when the phone rings. Perhaps it’s Ron calling to tell me what a valued employee I am. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Gabby.”

  I sit up in bed, surprised. “Cam. Hey. How are you?”

  “Fine. Good, actually. How are you?”

  “You know. The usual. Working hard. How’s work with you?”

  “Good.”

  Fortunately, I already know about the insurance-bankruptcy case he’s working on. “How’s your family?” Still annoying? Of course, I don’t say this.

  “They’re fine. So how was your date?”

  Was tonight a date? Wait a minute. Cam wouldn’t know about tonight. And then I remember. Brad. Wow, I haven’t spoken to Cam in a while. “Shitty,” I say, and then laugh to myself. I feel ew-y all over again.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Come on,” he says. “Tell me. It will make my day.”

  “It’s too awful.”

  “Please?”

  “I’d really rather not. No more dates for me. You were right. Maybe I’m not ready. It’s too soon, you know?” Silence on the other end. “Cam?” Continued silence. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you, Gabs.”

  No one ever likes a statement that starts with there’s something I have to tell you. “Yes?” I ask with trepidation.

  “After you told me about your date—”

  “Yes?”

  “I was upset.”

  “Yes?”

  And more silence.

  Oh God, he slept with someone. I feel the steam flowing from my ears and I reel it back in. I can’t get mad. I just can’t. I’m the one who broke the engagement. I went out on a date. If he hooked up with someone, I have to deal. I have to handle it. I have to—

  “And I called Lila,” he says.

  Huh?

  “To pick up my bookshelf.”

  Stop. Just stop.

  “And we started to hang out. As friends.”

  No, no, no.

  “And then a few weeks ago, she told me she was starting to think of me as more than her ex-roommate’s ex-boy-friend and we…hooked up.”

  My heart stops. Literally stops. “You did not!”

  “I’m sorry, Gabby. I know you’re not going to like this. But Lila and I are dating.”

  The room swirls. He’s dating my maid of honor. My fiancé is dating my maid of honor. I try to stay calm, and say simply, “No.”

  “Excuse me?” he says.

  “No. You can’t. It’s against the rules.”

  “There are no rules, Gabby. You broke our engagement. I can do whatever I want. You can’t tell me who to date.”

  “But she’s so…organized.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “You know what I mean. She’s like the opposite of me.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He laughs.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Come on,” he says softly. “That’s not fair.”

  I sigh. Damn, damn, damn. Why is he ruining my best day ever? “I know. But she’s supposed to be my friend. How could she do this to me?”

  “She wanted to call you to tell you, but I thought it should come from me.”

  “Still, a best friend shouldn’t do it.
”

  “Come on. Have you even spoken to her since you’ve moved to New York? You’ve moved on, Gabby. And so have we.”

  A large pit has begun to sprout in my stomach. We’ve e-mailed a few times in this life. I guess this proves she isn’t much of a sister. Best friend by routine maybe.

  God, I can’t believe I asked her to be my maid of honor. Alice was right. You can’t trust friends. Sure, they help you pick out a dress, but they’re secretly plotting ways to steal your fiancé. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

  “Please don’t be like this.”

  “Just tell me this—when we were together, did you have a thing for her? Tell me the truth.”

  “I swear, I never once thought of her as anything more than your roommate. If you were here, I wouldn’t be going out with her. You know that. It wasn’t like I meant for this to happen. I was just so miserable and she—”

  “Bye.” I slam down the phone and kick my heels into my mattress. Now what am I supposed to do? I am exhausted, yes, but I don’t want to go to sleep and return to Arizona. I don’t want to see Cam. Traitor.

  I cannot believe this. I’m not sure who to be more pissed at. Cam or Lila. They’re both assholes. She probably wanted him the entire time that I was with him. Skank.

  I need to talk to a friend. Someone who knows Cam. I turn on my light, find my old Arizona Palm and dial Melanie Diamond’s number.

  “Hello?” she answers in her breathy voice.

  “It’s Gabby. Did I wake you?” Then I remember it’s only eleven o’clock out there.

  “Hey, stranger! How are you?”

  I realize that this is the first time I’ve spoken to her in this life, too. I take a moment to update her on the happenings of the last few months.

  “I’m so coming to visit. When do you want me?”

  “Come in the summer. You have no idea how cold it gets here.” I pull my covers tighter to my chest as if to prove my point.

  “Maybe I’ll move to New York. Guess what? I chopped off all my hair. I got a pixie cut!”

  “Adorable. Please move here. You’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you. Lila is dating Cam.”