by Dana Bate
CHAPTER 32
There is no reason why this situation has to end badly. Okay, yes, there are a million reasons why it could end badly or should end badly, but that doesn’t mean it definitely will. Then again, this is me, and these days my life and disaster seem to go hand in hand.
Case in point: Two weeks later, just as the horsemeat story is beginning to coalesce, I run into Charles Griffin at the farmers’ market. This, in and of itself, is not a disaster, but whenever Charles is involved, disaster is never far behind.
He moseys up to the Wild Yeast tent around 10:00 a.m., his hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy chinos as he breathes in the balmy May air. I haven’t spoken to him since he linked me up with Stu Abbott more than two months ago, but I’ve caught a few of his recent spots on The Morning Show. The last one I saw had something to do with the national debt and involved Charles dressed in a dollar bill costume made of skintight spandex, which confirmed my dismissal from The Morning Show had been a blessing in disguise.
“The Sydster!” he crows as he parks himself in front of the basket of brioche.
“Well, well, well. Chaz Griffin. Long time, no see.”
Back at The Morning Show, Melanie, Charles, and I prided ourselves on coming up with the most annoying nicknames we could think of for one another. He would call me The Sydster and Square Sydney, and Melanie and I used to call him “Chaz” and variations thereof: DJ Chazzy Jeff, Chazberries and Cream, Chaz-been. One of the few times I saw Charles get really angry involved a particularly stressful in-studio live shot, when Melanie called out during a break, “How you doing over there, Princess Chazmin?” I’ve never seen his face turn redder.
“Stu tells me you have a major scoop,” he says as he scans the basket of cinnamon-speckled snickerdoodles.
“He told you about my story?”
“A bit, yeah. I told you we have a content-sharing agreement now, right?”
“You did. Sorry. I forgot.”
“He’s been light on details, but it sounds like you’re ready to drop a pretty big bombshell. We’ve been talking about how the network plans to cover this, and I’d love to get the exclusive for The Morning Show. Interview you the morning the piece comes out—something like that.”
“An interview with me?”
“It’s your story, isn’t it?”
“It is. But . . .”
I’m about to say I didn’t expect the story to become about me, but that isn’t entirely true. Aside from wanting to expose a fraud, I also pitched this story to gain entry into the exclusive club of serious food writers. I wanted to tell a story, but I also wanted people to know I was the one telling it. But that was before I realized my reporting could hurt other people’s businesses and reputations. That was before I knew how far-reaching the impact of this story could be.
“I’m not sure I’m camera-ready,” I say.
“Of course you are.” He narrows his eyes as he studies my face. “You could use a haircut. And some tooth whitener. But with some good lighting and a lot of makeup, I think you’d be fine.”
I wait for him to break into a laugh and say he is kidding, but he doesn’t. The Charles Griffin ego is alive and well.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I say. “There are . . . some moving pieces.”
“Understood.” He glances down again at the snickerdoodles. “Are these cookies any good?”
“The snickerdoodles? Epic.”
“Then I’ll take three.”
“Coming right up.”
I bag up the cookies, each one nearly an inch thick and the size of a DVD, and Charles hands me a twenty, which I take over to the cashbox to make change. As I tuck his bill into the fat stack of twenties, Heidi sidles up beside me with a ten-dollar bill in her hand.
“Is that Charles Griffin?” she asks, nodding over her shoulder.
“The one and only.”
“What is he doing here?”
“Buying snickerdoodles. And trying to convince me to come on The Morning Show as a guest when my story comes out.”
Heidi snorts. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nope. The network has a content-sharing agreement with the Chronicle. Charles wants the ‘exclusive’ with me.”
Heidi bursts into a full-fledged laugh, her eyes filling with tears.
“Is there a problem over here?” Rick asks, creeping up behind Heidi and me. “What’s so freaking funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, grabbing Charles’s change from the box.
Heidi brings her laughter under control. “Sydney is dealing with some highly entertaining first-world problems.”
“Well, hey, here’s a newsflash: I don’t give a shit.” Rick pulls a lit cigarette out of his pants pocket and takes a quick puff. “Get back to work.”
He stuffs the lit cigarette back into his pocket, as if it were perfectly normal to keep close to one’s groin an object that is, technically speaking, on fire.
I head back to the corner of the table where Charles is standing, and he smiles as he stuffs the bills in his pocket. “Let’s stay in touch about this story,” he says. He wiggles his eyebrows up and down. “This could be your ticket to stardom.”
“A ticket to stardom?” says a voice to my left.
I whip my head around and feel the blood rush to my face. “Jeremy—hi.” My stomach sours. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d swing by to say hello. But given your expression . . . I’m thinking I should turn around and go home.”
“No, no—you just surprised me, that’s all.”
“So what’s this about a ticket to stardom?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Charles butts in before I can speak. “Our friend Sydney is working on a big story.”
Jeremy locks eyes with me. “Oh, really?”
My stomach churns. “It’s not that big,” I say.
“She’s being modest,” Charles says. “It’s huge. At least from what I know.”
Jeremy looks Charles up and down. “I’m sorry—who are you?”
Charles stares at Jeremy in utter disbelief. “Who am I? Who are you?”
“I’m Jeremy. Sydney’s . . .” He trails off as his eyes search mine.
“Boyfriend,” I say, surprised at how easily that word rolls off my tongue.
“Ah. Well, I’m Charles Griffin.” He waits for Jeremy to acknowledge him, but when Jeremy doesn’t bite, Charles lets out an exasperated huff. “From The Morning Show? With Diana Humphrey? I used to work with Sydney?”
“Oh, right. You’re the guy who always does those crazy stunts.”
“It’s called visual storytelling.” Charles tightens his grip around the bag of cookies. “And I assure you, the story Sydney and I are working on is far from a stunt.”
I ignore the fact that Charles just took credit for a story he has had nothing to do with and try to steer the conversation in another direction. “Hey, Charles, remember that time you got attacked by a turkey?” I laugh nervously.
Charles and Jeremy look at me and then back at each other. “So what’s this big story, then?” Jeremy asks.
“We can’t talk about it,” Charles says. “Sorry.”
My jaw tightens as I glare at Charles, unsure whether I’m more upset over his spilling the beans about my story or his appropriation of a story to which his contribution has been zero.
“That’s too bad,” Jeremy says. His eyes drift over my shoulder and land on Heidi, who is making her way to our corner of the tent.
“Everything cool over here?” she asks.
“Fantastic,” I say through a tight smile.
Heidi’s eyes land on Jeremy, and she pushes forward, extending her hand in his direction.
“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” she says. “Heidi Parker.”
“Jeremy Brauer. Sydney’s—”
“Boyfriend,” she says, cutting him off as she shakes his hand.
“Right.”
Charles leans back
on his heels as he waits for Heidi to extend her hand in his direction. When she doesn’t, he puts on his cheesiest smile and reaches out his hand.
“I’m not sure if you recognize me, but I’m—”
“Charles Griffin. I know. Nice to meet you.” She shakes his hand matter-of-factly and shifts her attention back to Jeremy, Charles visibly put out by her disinterest. “So what are we talking about? You all look so serious.”
“Apparently Sydney and Charles are working on some big story together,” Jeremy says.
“I don’t think it’s fair to say you’re working on that story together,” Heidi says.
“We are.” Charles catches my stare. “Well, sort of. We will be.”
“What story?” Jeremy asks. “What are we talking about?”
I clear my throat. “It’s nothing. Really. Charles is blowing this out of proportion.”
“No, I’m not,” Charles says, completely missing all of my cues to shut the hell up. “You’re honestly going to tell me that—”
But before Charles can continue, Jeremy’s eyes wander to the opposite side of the tent. “Sorry to interrupt, but . . . Sydney, I think your boss’s pants are on fire.”
I spin around and see that, indeed, Rick’s pants have begun smoking in the vicinity of his left jean pocket. Rick, unfortunately, is in the middle of chatting up a lithe brunette in spandex pants, and thus the only fire in his pants of which he is aware stems from his underserved libido.
“Um . . . hey, Rick?”
Rick carries on with his pointless flirtation, ignoring me.
“Rick?”
His face reddens, but he does not tear his eyes away from the attractive woman in spandex, and it is clear he does not want to be interrupted.
“RICK!”
He whirls around to face me, his jaw clenched as he forces a fake smile. “Yes, dear.”
“Your pants are on fire.”
He takes a quick peek and notices they are smoldering in an area precariously close to his crotch, and then he glares at me and rushes out of the tent to the area behind the truck.
I look back at Jeremy and Charles, whose mouths are hanging open as they follow Rick with their eyes. I hear Rick rattling through the ice chest in the back of the truck, followed by a series of muffled expletives involving “Jesus Christ” and “son-of-a-bitch” and “mother-bleeping-balls.” And then I hear what I have been waiting for:
“Sydney! Could you come back here, please?”
On any other day, dealing with Rick and his singed pubic hairs would approximate a punishment worse than death. But in an indication of how far I’ve backed myself into a corner, I’d rather attend to Rick than continue this conversation with Jeremy, Charles, and Heidi. It is a sad commentary on the current state of affairs, and not something I’m proud of, but there is no denying the fact that, today at least, I am very glad to contend with Rick’s flaming crotch.
Which, as far as I can tell, means I have lost my will to live.
CHAPTER 33
What is wrong with Charles?
That isn’t a rhetorical question. I’m seriously asking: What is wrong with him? Is he demented? On drugs? Because otherwise I honestly don’t understand what just happened. What kind of person takes credit for a story that isn’t his? And what kind of person, when I make it abundantly clear I do not want to discuss said story, proceeds to blather on about it?
And now Jeremy thinks I’m working on some juicy story. Which I guess I am, but he doesn’t need to know that. Well, okay, he does need to know eventually, but not because Charles threw a hissy fit in the middle of the farmers’ market. Jeremy deserves to hear the news from me, on my own terms. And he will. But not before I make sure the story is airtight.
Later that evening, I meet Jeremy outside his apartment before the two of us head to the Georgetown waterfront for a picnic. Both he and Charles quickly fled the scene earlier this morning, Rick’s flaming nether regions a prospect too gruesome for either of them to contemplate. I don’t blame them. I had to avert my eyes to prevent the image of Rick unbuttoning his pants from tattooing itself on my brain forever.
I stand on the corner of Twenty-fourth and M, grinding my flats into the pavement as a balmy breeze blows through the sleeves of my silky white tunic. May has ushered in a spell of warm weather, and the fresh spring air feels delicious against my pale skin. Jeremy bursts through his front door, carrying a large paper bag by its bottom and looking characteristically handsome in his dark jeans and gray-and-white plaid button-down. I take no pride in admitting I’d feel less guilty about this whole situation if he were ugly.
He pulls a small paper bag out from within the larger one and passes it to me. “Can you handle the beer?”
“Sure.” I glance inside and spot four bottles bearing the Brauer’s Brew label. “Another Brauer creation?”
“A Brauer-Strauss creation.”
“This is the porter we brewed last month?”
He smiles. “Yep. I think you’ll be happy with how it came out.”
He leads the way down M Street and over the Rock Creek Parkway, entering the bustle of Georgetown. As we cross Twenty-eighth Street, the air fills with the incongruous scents of Ethiopian berbere and Middle Eastern falafel, which emanate from two restaurants on the corner and are otherwise foreign to this decidedly preppy neighborhood. We cross the street and make our way south toward the waterfront, treading along the uneven brick sidewalk as we pass tall brick office buildings and squat Federalist town houses festooned with shiny black shutters.
When we hit the water, we follow the narrow wooden boardwalk until it dead ends and continue onto a paved pathway that runs along the edge of the river at a higher elevation. To the right of the path, a wide expanse of grass extends toward K Street, studded with curved granite benches, walkways, and beds of butterfly milkweed and tall grasses and reeds.
Jeremy guides me down the pathway until we find an empty spot on one of the granite benches beneath a large metal and glass trellis. When we sit down, he pulls out five Tupperware containers and arranges them on the bench beside him.
“Dude, no one with testicles should own that much Tupperware,” I say.
“Says who? The Tupperware police?”
“I’m just saying. That’s a lot of plastic storage for one man.”
“What would you prefer? A crinkled wad of aluminum foil?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you try to be difficult, or does it come naturally?”
“It’s a gift.”
“One that, unfortunately, didn’t come with a return receipt.”
I nudge him. “Oh, come on, you love my quirks.”
“Yes, in what may be considered one of the great mysteries of our time.”
He pulls the lids off the five containers, revealing an assortment of provisions that includes, among other things, an enormous stack of fudgy brownies.
“Come to mama,” I say, reaching for a brownie.
Jeremy pushes my hand away. “Not so fast—those are for dessert.”
“Which is why I should eat them first. I’d rather spoil my appetite with brownies than with potato salad.”
“Fine.” He lifts the container toward me. “Salted fudge brownies. Enjoy.”
I sink my teeth into the thick, fudgy square, whose velvety crumbs coat my gums. The brownie is sweet and salty, with a slightly bitter edge from the dark chocolate and the texture of the silkiest fudge. It is, quite possibly, the best brownie I have ever eaten.
“Wow. You could give Rick the Prick a run for his money with these.” I lick a few crumbs from my fingers. “Seriously. Are you sure you’re in the right line of work?”
“Somehow I don’t think beer and brownies are the basis for a viable business plan.”
“You’re kidding, right? Chocolate and alcohol? That sounds like the best business plan.”
He laughs. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Not maybe. Definitely.”
I scoff down the re
st of the brownie, savoring each chocolaty bite, and wonder if it would be too piggish to have a second now, before dinner.
“Have you ever thought of putting beer in the brownies?” I ask, after deciding, yes, a second now would be a bit too gluttonous.
“Beer in the brownies? Uh, no.”
“You should try it. I used to make these Guinness brownies in college with Zach, and they were off the charts.”
I don’t realize I’ve mentioned Zach’s name until I notice the blush in Jeremy’s cheeks.
“They weren’t as good as these,” I quickly add.
He smiles awkwardly. “It’s okay if they were better. My feelings won’t be hurt.”
“They weren’t better. Just different.”
Jeremy’s expression relaxes. “I’ll have to try it some time. Maybe with my oatmeal stout.”
“Correction: your award-winning oatmeal stout.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says with a grin. “I won’t find out if I made the finals for another week or two. In the meantime. . .” He reaches into the paper bag and pulls out two bottles. “Let’s give this porter a whirl, shall we?”
He pops off the caps and hands me a beer, whose malty, almost coffee-like flavor catches me by surprise. “This is really good,” I say.
“You helped make it.”
I take another sip. “Obviously I am a brewing genius.”
“Obviously.”
The two of us begin assembling pulled pork sandwiches from the ingredients in the containers, layering the jalapeño-lime slaw on top of piles of chipotle pulled pork and capping it off with a fluffy white bun. The sandwiches are smoky and spicy, with a slight tang from the slaw, and we wash them down with hefty swigs of our full-bodied porter. Between bites, Jeremy hands me a fork and the container of Yukon gold and purple potato salad, which we pass back and forth until there is nothing left but a few scallions in a pool of mustard-laced vinaigrette. I’m tempted to compare the experience to the times Zach and I had picnics along the Schuylkill River or Lake Carnegie, but I decide comparing the two experiences is a futile exercise. Like the brownies, one experience isn’t better than the other. They’re just different. And if I don’t stop comparing every guy I meet to Zach instead of judging him on his own merits, I’m going to drive myself crazy.
