by Micol Ostow
“Oh, you came!” John said brightly, looking up briefly from a monstrous computer screen.
Hadn’t we just established this, like, ten seconds ago outside? I wanted to join the newspaper staff. Hence, I came. “Yeah!” I said, trying not to sound confused. Where was the famed “open house”?
“So you, ah, want to write for the paper?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. I decided a direct approach was probably best. “Can you tell me a little bit about the process?”
“It’s not too complicated,” he said, turning away from the computer screen and joining me in the doorway. “Basically, you tell us what you’re interested in writing. If we’ve got something in that department to assign to you, we will—”
At this, the thin girl who’d soundlessly helped me managed a short laugh.
“And, you know, you’ll try it out. If we like what you write and you like writing, then you can probably contribute more regularly. After three pieces you go from contributing writer to staff writer, and if you’re staff writer for at least a semester, you are eligible to be nominated for department editor.”
“Sounds fair,” I said, since it did. Also, I wasn’t sure why the girl sitting in the main room was practically choking back her laugher.
“That’s Megan,” John said, clueing in to my complete bafflement. “She’s one of the news editors. And she’s laughing because, as a daily paper, we will almost always have something to assign to you, if you’re game.”
“Please. You’d have to be pretty crap not to make staff writer if you wanted,” she clarified.
Fab. Thanks for the pep talk.
“Do you have any clips?” Megan asked, suddenly all in my face and brusque.
“Um, do I really need them?” I countered. It didn’t sound like they were so selective.
“You don’t,” John said, glaring at Megan.
Right. Me being the only person at the open house, and all.
“We can assign something to you. Deadlines are five p.m. the day before the article is set to run. You’re welcome to come down here and write. Our office opens at ten. The editors put their departments to bed at nine. When you come down, you’ll download your article onto the respective department’s disk. Does that make sense?” He looked at me intensely, freckles quivering.
I nodded.
We gazed at each other for an uncomfortably long time. Even John’s freckles were still—no small feat, I noted. Finally, I had to break the moment. “Right. So, ah, what should I write on?”
“Yes!” John said, clapping his hands together as if celebrating my incredible brilliance (which he was, of course, welcome to do). “Do you want to cover the Senate’s first meeting of the semester?” The look on my face must have given me away, because he quickly amended, “Or, you know, I think there’s a ‘take back the night’ thing…”
“Right, I think my friend’s going to that,” I said, feeling panicked. I didn’t want to reject his every suggestion outright, but then again … maybe I did.
John looked at me semi-desperately. “What would you like to write?” he asked pleadingly.
I shrugged. Back at my high school I’d been one of the arts editors. But in high school, “arts” meant covering the middle schools rendition of Fiddler. I had a feeling it was slightly more competitive here. Still, it was worth asking. “I like, um, plays, and books, and movies, and music,” I said slowly.
“Arts!” John said, slapping his hand against his forehead in either relief or despair. “Got it. Cool. Okay, so the person you want to talk to is Gabe Flynn.”
He put his hand on my shoulder—surely unnecessary, no?—and rotated me about three feet clockwise. He reached out his hand and pointed. “That’s Gabe,” he said. “Hell hook you up.”
The floor fell out from under me and it was all I could do not to swoon. If you had asked me my own name at that moment, I don’t think I could have told you. There was only one thought I could process, and it was quite straightforward:
I for damn sure hope so.
To clarify, “always” should, in fact, never constitute any hour before 10 a.m. 10 is really a very key hour for me, as I’m sure you’re starting to see.
Two
8/27, 9:14 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Life-Altering Events
Hey, lady—
Just kill me now.
Since my last e-mail, I have had the questionable benefit of undergoing no fewer than three life-altering events.
“But how?” you ask. Well college is the time for new experiences, for expanding one’s horizons, is it not?
“And so quickly?!”
Yes, I do not fault you your disbelief. And yet. Fate plays no favorites, my dear.
But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself.
“I want to write for the paper,” I said, “once I get to college. It’s my ‘thing,” it’s what I do. I want to get ‘involved.’
“And, by the way, I want to be boyfriend-less.”
How do these thoughts tie together? Work with me, sister.
When last I left you, I was a mere naive babe in the woods. Now, Charlie was interested in the orientation “activities fair.” She had designs on tutoring her peers and taking back the night, but I myself had eyes for the Chronicle and the Chronicle only.
Thus, I found the editor in chief, one John O’Shea, who schooled me in the ways of the daily paper. It wasn’t complicated. He directed me to one Gabriel Flynn, the chief department editor of the arts section.
Behold: A Life-Altering Event.
You ask if I’ve spoken to Drew, if I’ve wanted to speak to Drew, how I feel about the breakup with Drew, and I’ll admit, I’ve had my moments. I’ve wavered, and I’ve questioned my decision, to be sure. Oh, but Ellen, if you could have been there, with me, at my side, you would have understood why I solemnly swore instantaneously to waver no more.
Gabe Flynn, you see, is a god among mortals. And I, precious sister, am in love.
Now, I had just selected “arts” out of thin air. I mean, really, I’m not an alterna-girl, I’m no rock diva, and I’m no big into film theory (though, who knows, with my new major in media studies, we shall see …).
I mean, there was nothing inherently drawing me to Gabe. Hence, I must fall back on the Fates.
Clearly, it was the Fates that inspired me to “cut the cord” (or any number of puns we’ve made at poor Drew’s expense) that caused John O’Shea to nearly decapitate me (don’t ask). And clearly it was the work of the Fates that Gabe happened to have two tickets available for Rice and Beans at the Tin Room (that’s a group, and a club, respectively. Latin-punk fusion. Keep up, babe).
John pointed me in Gabe’s direction. I turned, saw Gabe, and the angels wept (provoked, in part, by a tight T-shirt and thick, styled-yet-somehow-carelessly-mussed hair). I stumbled, momentarily, but regained my composure.
Sort of, I thought, remembering. So I temporarily lost my capacity for speech. These things happen. There are some cultures in which that’s considered a certain kind of composure.
It wasn’t that bad. After a beat, I pulled myself together.
“Hi,” I said, so softly that he probably thought he was imagining things. But then he fixed those penetrating blue eyes on me and saw, no doubt, the thin trickle of drool running down my chin. There was to be no further misunderstanding that I was, indeed, talking to him.
“Hi, I’m Gabe,” he said, extending a hand.
I shook his hand and tried not to cling to it when it was time to let go.
“I was told you could hook up with me—I mean, that you could hook me up,” I stammered.
No matter, I’m told I look better with a little color in my cheeks.
“You wanna write for arts, right?” Gabe asked slowly, looking at me like I had seven heads. Which, I mean, who could fault him, what with the drool and the indecent proposals flying right, left, and center. I wante
d to focus on what he was saying, but I was distracted by his voice, which was low and smooth, like honey poured over gravel.
“Yeah, John told me you could assign something to me,” I said.
“Okay, well, I’ve got the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley movie,” he said, scooping up a pile of press releases from his desk, “and, um, some open-mic night at the local comedy club.”
He paused. I took the opportunity to appreciate his fine bone structure. After a beat, I pulled myself together. “Whatever you’ve got is fine. I mean, I have to pay my dues, right?”
Gabe shrugged his beautiful shoulders. “Nah, I mean, we need to fill the page.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound agreeable on all points. “What would you recommend?”
Gabe fished a sheet out of the clutter. “Here. This one is a concert. Rice and Beans. Latin-punk fusion. Have you heard of them?”
Urn, not so much.
I shook my head. It was safer than yielding to the Tourettes’s-like compulsion to open my mouth and confess a secret love of (or, at least, embarrassing familiarity with) Britney Spears. I mean, Latin-punk fusion? What is that? The Pixies meet Enrique Iglesias?
“And the Tin Room is a pretty reliable venue,” he continued. “I mean, I almost always like their lineup. There are two passes.” He frowned, and sort of squinted at me.
It was a weird kind of look and, to be honest, it made me slightly uncomfortable. This was all fun and games when I was drooling and vibing on my new friend the music-editor-slash-sex-god. But now, suddenly, it felt like he was checking me out. And, I mean, I’m not usually totally lacking in the self-esteem, but there I was in my Old Navy tank and my Gap jeans, lip gloss a faded memory and hair having seen better days, feeling very unhip and not my most sexy.
For a split second, however, I allowed myself a fleeting hope: Maybe Gabe wasn’t about image. Or maybe he’d had enough of the punk-fusion types and was looking for a pop-listening Gap girl. Who knew? I mean, I couldn’t explain it, but there was something supercharged about the moment. Something meaningful in the way his eyes held mine. And for half a second, it seemed like my mad lust-hold was at least partially returned. Was he going to suggest accompanying me to the show?
“Ugh, god, not the Tin Room again, Gabe. She’s just an innocent freshman. Leave her alone, please.”
Behold: Yet another Life-Altering Event.
As I explained, Ellen, I wasn’t completely convinced that our Moment was, in fact, mutual. Or even anything more than a figment of my own imagination. But I was willing to step back and see, to let things unfold and marinate in their own due time.
I was in love, you see (again, I’d refer you back to the first Life-Altering Event). My breakup with Drew had a newfound meaning. The Fates had smiled on me.
But the Fates, I was to learn, were a fickle bunch.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bathing in the glow of the computer screen. What had happened next was far too humiliating—not to mention demoralizing—to recount.
Was Gabe checking me out at the Chronicle office? I’ll never know. Because my little love-haze was suddenly broken by a light, airy voice.
A female voice.
Said female wafted into the room touching lightly onto the floor with gaminelike legs. The dulcet choir of angels that had erupted into chorus when Gabe first spoke to me? I think they were on loan from this chick. Because now they were pretty much circling her head like a crown of ethereal roses.
“She’s just an innocent freshman,” the voice said, wrapping one long, lithe arm around Gabe and sidling up to him cozily. “Leave her alone, please.”
She smiled at me and extended her free arm. “I’m Kyra. Kyra Hamilton.”
I mustered my last ounce of mental and physical energy to return the gesture. “Hi, I’m—”
“This is Claudia Clarkson,” Gabe said, cutting me off. “She’s our new staff writer.”
“I mean, I hope so,” I babbled.
Kyra beamed at me beatifically. “That’s awesome. I write for features.” She flipped a strand of long, wavy hair—so blond, it was almost white—over her slim, pale shoulders.
Features. Cats in trees, I thought fleetingly, imploring myself not to be intimidated by her.
It wasn’t working.
“Kyra’s the Answer Goddess,” Gabe explained, gazing at her adoringly. I couldn’t blame him (though I did sort of want to puke). She was the cherubic, tow-headed love child of Gwyneth Paltrow and Helena Bonham Carter (with the wardrobe of Drew Barrymore). On my best day, I was the spirit of Christina Ricci (with the wardrobe of a refugee from the J.Crew catalog). If I hadn’t hated her for wrenching my one true love from me (and also being my complete and polar foil), I might have adored her myself.
“He’s not just being annoying,” she insisted. I resisted the urge to make a snarky comment. “I write an advice column, ‘Ask the Answer Goddess.’”
“Go ahead, ask her something,” Megan chimed in, actually sounding earnest. “She’s like our den mother. Seriously, she gives great advice.”
Oh, Answer Goddess, wherefore did thou steal Gabe Flynn’s heart? And will I ever love another?
“Oh, hey—all I really need to know is how to get to the Tin Room,” I said, keeping my voice as low and steady as possible.
Gabe and Kyra both laughed maniacally as if this were the most hysterical joke anyone had ever told. Which would have been cool, except for the fact that I’d been totally serious. Any hope I’d held that Gabe might want to go to the show with me was completely and utterly dashed. Why had I even been fooling myself? Guys like Gabe didn’t want Gap girls.
They wanted girls like Kyra.
8/28,1:13 a.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Latin-punk what?
Heya, sister. Sorry to hear that Gabe is otherwise involved, romantically speaking. I think that buckling down and working on the review is a good plan. After all that’s why you went down to the paper in the first place, right? Focus on yourself, your writing, your classes. You’ve got your whole first year of college ahead of you. No need to get all hung up on some guy. And I’m not just sayin’ that because, well… you know …
One question, though: Have you ever written a music review? I mean, you know, a review of Latin-punk fusion? I’m just wondering if there’s a certain familiarity with the genre that would be helpful….
Never mind. I’m not worried. You’ll ace it.
Luv ya, sis. And Daria does too.
8/28,2:11 a.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Latin-punk fusion
I am sure that I will be just fine at reviewing Rice and Beans. I will bring an objectivity to the piece that a more experienced writer might be lacking.
After all, how many critics would be able to compare Rice and Beans with the earlier works of Madonna?
—xx
8/28, 2:27 a.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: Latin-punk fusion
Maybe I’ll just Google the band quickly.
Couldn’t hurt.
Right?
RICE AND BEANS LIVE AT THE TIN ROOM
A Tasty Treat
While the underground punk scene in Boston has, of course, garnered a loyal and lively following since its comeback in the late eighties, one could argue that it’s been at least that long since a band brought anything “new” to the genre. Emo, grunge, and even ska are little more than variations on a theme.
We should be grateful, then, for Rice and Beans, a group that dares to blend the strong, frantic bass of post-punk with a smooth samba rhythm. Never heard of Latin-punk fusion? Well, good. This is probably the best introduction you’re going to get.
The five members of Rice and Beans were at the top of their game this past Saturday when they played the blessedly int
imate Tin Room. “This is our first gig outside of New York or California,” lead singer Tim Hollander announced, before launching the band into a supercharged rendition of “Eat This,” the first single off of their cult hit album Recipes from the Homeland. “We’re hoping you’ll all help us in our mission to bring Latin-punk fusion to the mainstream.”
Rice and Beans’s sound can only be described as unique, but they cite their influences as varied and recognizable. “Yeah, we’re all over the map,” bass drummer Rick Warren told press. “I mean, The Descendents, The Sex Pistols … and, you know, Enrique Iglesias….”
8/30, 4:38 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: So?
Don’t hold back, babe—how was the show?! Daria is needy to know about the music.
8/30, 5:03 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: So?
Yes, the show. Charlie, god bless her pretty little soul was more than happy to accompany me (we both felt mucho cool heading to a “show” on a random Tuesday night). So after a rigorous day of touring the campus, we cuted ourselves up and off we went.
The bouncer at the Tin Room spent about three seconds examining my press pass and let us in without carding us. The perks of being a bona fide member of the paparazzi. It was a small venue, dark and dimly lit inside. Crowded, but not thick and oppressive. The floor was beer-stained but thankfully not sticky. In such an environment, I supposed, I could reinvent myself completely, just totally leave behind the whole Gap girl thing. Though, without Gabe around, it was hard to imagine the motivation.
