Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  To: MerryWay@pulsemag.com

  From: P_Manning@state.gov

  Subject: You know how she gets

  My Dear Girl,

  Your mother is, perhaps, a bit histrionic. But she isn’t entirely wrong. Best to keep her name from your online escapades in future, don’t you think? She feels it reflects badly, and things are delicate right now, what with fund-raising season at the foundation coming up, and my meetings with the State Department and all.

  Glad you’re having fun though, sweetheart. Be safe and watch out for centipedes.

  Your loving father,

  Pierce Manning

  P.S. Thanksgiving is still on, I hope. Time is running out and your grandmother’s estate must be settled.

  To: MerryWay@pulsemag.com

  From: BananaHammock@MeMail.com

  Subject: Hidden Depths

  Squatchy!!!

  Crocheting!? Troubled teens?! Talent shows? My God, you’re a wild woman!

  Seriously, I didn’t realize you still had it in you, Li’l Sis. And I’m so frickin’ glad you do. Was worried for a while there.

  Save me some of those sweet-sounding biscuits the old lady makes, okay? I need something to give my trainer fits about.

  Your way hotter brother,

  Marcus

  Oh, and P.S. That Sam guy treating you right? Sounds like you got the major hots for that dude. Lemme know if he needs beating up or anything. Can’t risk this pretty face myself (frickin’ insurance, you know?), but I know a couple guys…

  P.P.S. I don’t know how much longer I can hold off the ’rents. You’ll have to see them sooner or later. Turkey Day?

  Some days it doesn’t pay to check email. Merry scrubbed a hand over her hungover face and hunched down in her booth at the café, which Bob and his helpers had magically put to rights overnight. A cheese-and-chile-smothered breakfast burrito sat next to her laptop, daring her to test her queasy stomach, and a latte with a tiny foam skull and crossbones floating in it steamed at her elbow, promising sweet succor for the margarita-and-shame-induced headache that throbbed behind her eyes.

  Café Con Kvetch was as quiet this morning as it had been hopping last night. And thank God for that, she thought, fighting the urge to slap shut her laptop and crawl back to her cabin at Dolly’s. But like it or not, she was going to have to face this day. She’d tossed and turned all night over Sam’s very public diatribe, wondering how much truth there was to it, and what, if anything, she could do to set things right.

  She’d grown up with more than most people ever dreamed of having, and she knew it. She’d never wanted for anything, from educational opportunities to financial support. Her parents had enthusiastically backed her in her quest to win Olympic gold, paying for her training, flying her all over the world to compete. She’d had everything a kid could want—unless it was acceptance one wanted. She’d certainly never been through the kinds of things Joey, Thad, and the other Survivors experienced on a daily basis.

  Was I insensitive? Am I so used to getting things my way that I’d bulldoze those kids for the sake of a story?

  The truth was, Merry didn’t know. She’d never given much thought to the effect her articles might have on their audience—or their subjects. She’d simply never considered herself that influential. Of course, in her competitive days, she’d been conscious of her responsibilities as a role model, and had kept her nose clean. But now?

  Does anyone really give a damn what I do?

  If I want to know the answer to that, she told herself, I’d better see how the column is doing. She’d been posting as the evening went along last night—she refused to call it live-blogging—but she had no idea how the little experiment had gone over. She switched her attention back to the laptop.

  Then groaned again as another email caught her attention.

  To: MerryWay@pulsemag.com

  From: J_Jonas@ChicagoManagementLTD.com

  Subject: Urgent: Your apartment

  Dear Ms. Manning,

  It is with regret that we must inform you that the tenant you selected to sublet your apartment has not paid the agreed-upon rent. He has, however, been using the premises as an unauthorized Airbnb hotel. There have been reports of unapproved guests coming and going at all hours of the night, upsetting many of the building’s residents, who have made formal complaints. The terms of your lease are very clear, and you are in violation of several provisions.

  We have asked your tenant to find other living arrangements, and we will also expect the same of you. At your earliest convenience, please provide an address to which we may ship the belongings in your storage bin. It goes without saying that your security deposit is forfeit.

  Sincerely,

  Jonathan Jonas

  Managing Agent

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Merry yelped.

  And just as she was digesting that one, another email popped up. It was from her editor, and it said only one thing:

  Call me, kiddo.

  I’ve got good news and bad news, kid,” Joel said.

  The bandwidth at Café Con Kvetch was as sluggish as Merry herself this morning, causing his face to freeze on the Skype session so Merry couldn’t read his expression properly. Her own image, captured in the unfortunate little inset window, was scary enough. Despite her attempts to tame it, her hair seemed determined to escape her pounding headache by standing out all around her head. Her skin was pallid, and dark circles—whether caused by guilty conscience or ghostly visitation was a toss-up—ringed her bloodshot eyes. Way to be a professional, Merry, she thought with a wince.

  “Which am I going to want first?” she asked the tableau of Joel with half-closed eyes and unhinged jaw. She saw what she feared was egg salad in the depths of his mouth, and shuddered. Her screen jerked and jumped. Her stomach lurched.

  A smile burst full blown across his chubby features, then vanished just as quickly. “Good news,” he said definitively. “That’ll make me feel better, anyway.”

  “Okay then…hurry, lay it on me before the connection cuts out.” Or before that burrito I just finished comes back to visit. Merry could see Joel lean back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk and very nearly knocking over the takeout container from his lunch. He was wearing a shiny new pair of wingtips, she noted; the cool-kid Converse he’d been sporting last time nowhere in evidence. The red sweater vest he had on over his usual rumpled oxford even looked clean, as if he was posing for a Christmas card photo.

  Merry found herself very uneasy.

  “Good news is, Don’t Do What I Did is now certifiably a thing! Hashtag and all.” Joel paused to let that sink in.

  Merry’s mouth dropped open, until she caught a glimpse of how unflattering that looked on Skype, and shut it. But…Ho-ly wow! Becoming “a thing” on the Internet was a Very Big Deal, as Merry had learned during the many social media lectures she had been required to attend during her tenure at Pulse. Like going viral, it was nothing one could control, and every bit as desirable. Because once you were a thing, people didn’t forget you. If #DontDoWhatIDid was trending, it meant it had made it into the vernacular. “You’re shitting me,” she said, hardly able to take it in.

  Joel shook his head. “I shit you not. The data is in, and readers are lapping up those llamas like you wouldn’t believe. Your numbers are through the roof, and your click-through rate on the ads has half of sales out of the office with celebratory hangovers.”

  “That’s great! Well, not the part about the hangovers, but you know what I mean.” Merry had a lot of sympathy for hangover victims just at the moment, and even some for their sales force.

  Joel smiled indulgently. “Knew ya could do it, kid. And I knew I was a genius for creating Don’t Do What I Did in the first place.”

  Merry let him have his moment of self-congratulation. She was having one of her own, if more discreetly. “I’m so glad,” she said. “I really think this place is something special. The minute I got here, I knew people would love Do
lly and the ranch.”

  “That Sam dude is going over even better,” Joel said. “You should read some of the comments after that picture you posted of him playing guitar last night.” He tsked his tongue. “Filthy minds you ladies have.”

  I’ve got no one but myself to blame for that little fiction, Merry reminded herself. Sam would no doubt go through the roof if he found out she’d snuck a picture of him into her column. Not that it was likely possible to make him any angrier than he already was. “Yeah, well,” she said, “that all sounds fabulous. So what’s the bad news?”

  Joel was silent long enough that Merry nearly reset the connection.

  “Well, kid. Bad news is, you’re fired.”

  Sorry, Joel, My connection must have cut out. Can you repeat? Heh, heh. You won’t believe what I thought you said.” She couldn’t tell if the screen was frozen again, or if Joel just looked like an axe-wielding executioner all of a sudden.

  “I said you’re fired, kid.”

  “Shit, Joel. I think I better call you back from a landline. I keep mishearing what you’re saying. It’s so hard to get a good Wi-Fi connection out here!”

  “Kid,” Joel said.

  “Yeah, Joel?”

  “You didn’t hear wrong.”

  “But…what about what you just said? About how great DDWID is doing? I mean…a thing! You said it’s a thing!”

  Her editor sighed, reached for a takeout cup and tipped it to his lips. He made a face that said, “Ew, sour milk” and tossed the container in the general direction of his wastebasket, which, like everything else in his office, was filled far beyond its capacity. A small, disconsolate thunk accompanied its dismissal.

  A lot like the noise my soul is making, Merry thought.

  “It’s nothing you’ve done, Merry. Thing is, Pulse just got bought out, and the new owners aren’t keen on a lot of our old content.”

  “New owners? What the hell, Joel?! I hadn’t heard anything about a buyout.”

  “Well, I’m guessing Bloomberg Business isn’t part of the cable package out there in North Bumblefuck,” Joel said drily. “Anyhow, word only just came down from corporate last night. Mandate’s changed.”

  Merry wasn’t of a mind to enjoy his attempts at levity. “Who are the new owners?”

  “Good Word OmniGlobal,” Joel told her. Even with the poor connection, Merry saw his wince.

  “The right-wing Evangelical Christian conglomerate?” Merry noticed that her voice had gotten all funny and high. She swallowed.

  “The very same.”

  That explained the wingtips and the sweater vest. “But…Joel, why would they want Pulse? I mean, we’re not exactly their speed.” Merry frowned, bewildered.

  “Anything with seven million page views a day is their speed,” Joel said with a sigh. “They’re gobbling up sites like the Rapture’s tomorrow. And if they don’t like the content, they just…rebrand it.”

  “Can’t they rebrand me?” Merry asked. “Joel, I promised Dolly. I can’t just leave in the middle of my gig…” And without a home. Or money to rent a new place.

  But it was more than that. She was just getting to know the people of Aguas Milagros. And the longer she stayed, the more she felt their lives deserved better than a few tongue-in-cheek features on the Internet. “I feel like…well, like the story isn’t finished.”

  Joel shook his head. “Afraid it is, kid—at least at Pulse. You didn’t make the cut. Something about ‘swimming in llama shit’ didn’t sit well with OmniGlobal. They’re sanitizing all our features. You should see what they did to Allison’s ‘Advice from an Active Alcoholic.’” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, though it couldn’t have been later than eleven in the morning in Chicago. Not finding a glass handy, he scrounged around at his feet until he found the Starbucks cup and shook the last of the contents in the vicinity of his garbage pail. He poured a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark into the container and slugged for all he was worth.

  “Anyhow, I couldn’t save you this time, kid. OmniGlobal plans to make ‘Don’t Do What I Did’ a cautionary column about underage sex and the perils of rejecting Jesus as your personal lord and savior. Nothing I could do to dissuade them. I’m halfway out the door myself. If I can’t get current with Evangelical megachurch culture within the week, I’ll be out on my ass.”

  “But, Joel, what am I supposed to do? My place in Chicago just kicked me out, and I’ve got bills like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t go home, and I can’t afford to rent another place either.”

  “What about your family? Aren’t they insanely rich?”

  “Yes,” Merry said through tight lips. “Also insanely insane.”

  Joel made a sympathetic face. “Heard that. Family’s the worst. Can you believe my wife threw me out last month? Said I was a slob.” He rolled his eyes.

  “I can’t imagine what possessed her,” Merry murmured.

  The look on her editor’s face became thoughtful. “What about…can you stay with the woolly folk awhile longer?”

  Merry shrugged. “I’m only meant to be here another week or so, until their regular hand comes back from his honeymoon.” Besides, she thought, I dunno about Dolly, but I’ve sure’s hell worn out my welcome with Sam.

  “I’m sorry, kiddo. I managed to get you a couple weeks’ severance, and we’ll pay you to write one final column, but that’s about the best I can do. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.”

  Merry gulped. I’m not exactly known for landing on my feet. Not since the accident, anyway.

  Joel’s “buck up, kiddo” mask slipped into something much closer to sincere. “Listen, Merry. You’ve got a lot of talent, and this assignment has shown me you’ve got grit too. We hired you because we thought readers would enjoy the novelty of a badass skier and we could capitalize on your name recognition. But this past year, you’ve proved you’re a badass writer too. You’ve got solid journalistic instincts. You say there’s a story still to be told out there. So if it was me? I’d follow the story.”

  “But…” Merry protested. “Without Pulse, how can I?”

  “People can’t get enough of your dispatches from llama-land,” Joel said. “So screw OmniGlobal. Direct your fans onto your own site and do whatever the hell you want with ’em. They love you, Merry. You’ve got a voice that makes readers want to cuddle up with you and rub your feet. They want to eat pie with you and braid your hair at slumber parties. So take that, and make hay with it.”

  I can’t eat hay, Merry thought. Maybe my alpaca friends can, but I need a bit of lettuce, myself.

  “I’ll think about it, Joel. And thanks, I guess.”

  “Chin up, kid. If you ever need a reference, you can always hit me up. That is, if I’m not editing the Koch brothers’ corporate newsletter by then.” Joel gave her a salute, then cut the connection.

  Leaving Merry stranded deep in the heart of North Bumblefuck, and facing, once again, a very uncertain future.

  She bolted for the bathroom before the burrito could make its second appearance.

  When she emerged, Bob was there to greet her. He had a damp dishcloth in one hand and an icy can of soda in the other. “Forehead,” he said, waving the cloth. “Back of neck.” He waggled the frosty can. Before Merry could protest, he led her back to her booth and applied both as directed.

  Merry let him.

  Normally, she hated to be fussed over. She hated to be seen in moments of weakness. But right now…she was on empty, and it wasn’t just her roiling stomach.

  “Breathe,” Bob advised. He took on his notable-quotable voice. “‘When we pause, allow a gap, and breathe deeply, we can experience instant refreshment. Suddenly, we slow down, and there’s the world.’”

  Merry endeavored to follow the advice. “Who said that?” she asked after several deep inhalations.

  “Pema Chödrön. Or at least, her social media manager. I saw it on her Facebook page.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for
the world,” she confessed. The cold can on the back of her neck was helping; she no longer felt as if she might faint. Quaking, however, was still very much on the menu. “I guess you heard all that?” She gestured to her laptop.

  “It’s a small café,” he acknowledged. “Sounds like you’ve hit the end of the line with that website you work for.”

  “Yeah. With a splat.” Merry scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling the screws under the skin. Right now the titanium felt like about all that was holding her together. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Dolly. She was so excited about me bringing in new business for the ranch through DDWID.”

  Bob looked thoughtful. “You know, I really dig your column, Lady Hobbit. But have you ever thought of doing more with your writing?”

  Merry shrugged. “Not really. I’m still pretty new at it. I don’t even know what I’m doing most of the time. My editor was always teasing me about trying to write the great American novel when I should have been pleasing Five-Second Sally.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” said Bob. He scratched pensively at his beard. “I don’t know who this Sally chick is, but seems to me you could give her a run for her money.”

  Merry’s lips twisted ruefully. “That’s sweet of you, Bob. But I’m not a real writer. Most of the time I’m just pulling stuff out of my ass.”

  “My dear,” said Bob, “most of life is ‘pulling stuff out of your ass.’”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did.”

  Merry gave him a wan smile.

  “Seriously, why don’t you try it? You could write a book about life with the llamas.”

  “Like, a novel?”

  “Could be.” He shrugged. “But I was thinking maybe you could take what you’ve already been doing—your profiles of the town and the people here—and turn the whole thing into a book. Like one of those travel memoirs. A Year in Provence, or Wild. That sort of thing. Be good for tourism,” he said, gazing around at his near-empty establishment. “And the Buddha knows we need more of that around here.”