by Lucy Kevin
I hope these men haven’t been able to forget me. Because, no matter what I do, or how much time passes, I can’t forget them.
*
I was unpacking my things in Diane’s guest-room when I suddenly realized that it was time to let go of all of the things that had been holding me down.
Looking back, I can see that I never thought I could do that—I always just figured I had to live with the “truth” of who I was. But here’s the thing I finally figured out: It wasn’t my truth. It was the truth according to someone else. I sure as hell wasn’t the one in charge of taking those pictures in second grade where my underwear was sticking out of the waistband of my cords. And I know I wasn’t in full agreement to have my portrait taken for the school yearbook when I had that terrible haircut and braces in junior high. And frankly, my parents had no business getting behind the lens of a camera at all. What an awful knack they had for capturing me in the fattest light, in the stupidest poses.
It was time for me to re-write my past. Sort of like a “Create your own history” day at school, where I could invent a new life for myself straight from the depths of my imagination.
Sitting in Diane’s apartment, pulling old photo albums out of a box, I finally realized it really wasn’t me in all of those embarrassing pictures. Nope. She was some girl that some loser, no talent bozo with a point-and-click decided to create.
I threw away almost everything. And as the garbage bag filled up, I felt better and better. As I whittled down through things, I found lots of cute pictures of me as a kid. Happy smiles, good hair, no glasses, playing, laughing, having fun.
I had just uncovered the real Georgia Fulton.
The Georgia Fulton that my grandkids would see.
The Georgia Fulton that I was proud of.
*
It took me the better part of a month to get back on my feet. Lots of long walks along the water and late-night dancing at the clubs with Seth and all of his boy-toys.
Slowly, things started to look up.
Seth came out to his parents, which was awful at first when they treated him like dirt, and then amazing when they came around on their own and apologized for treating him so poorly.
Diane was finally, truly happy for the first time in her life. All because of the carpenter, a simple, wonderful man who had shown her the kind of love she deserved, and who helped her forgive her parents for being so self-centered.
Even my parents had seemed to accept that I needed to live my own life, my own way. My mother couldn’t resist the occasional jab at my dearth of boyfriends, but at least she was trying.
And then one day, I was reading the Sunday paper with Seth and Diane at Cafe Cafe when Diane shrieked, “Oh my god! Georgia, I’ve found it!”
“Found what?” I was just the slightest bit worried by the tone of her voice.
“Your new job,” she said in as serious a voice as I’d ever heard fall from her perfect lips. She handed me the paper and pointed one long red nail at the following advertisement:
FEMALE TALK RADIO HOST NEEDED FOR NEW SEATTLE TALK/NEWS STATION. ONLY EXPERIENCED HOSTS NEED APPLY.
I handed the paper back to her. “Not interested.”
“What the hell?” she exclaimed. “Of course you’re interested.”
I shook my head and Seth said, “Girl, I don’t care if I have to talk in falsetto and make the phone call for you. You’re going to that interview!”
I held my hands up. “Fine. I’ll do the stupid interview. But be prepared for me to say ‘I told you so’ when they give me the big ‘R’.”
Diane snorted. “I don’t even know what the big ‘R’ is but you are so going to get this job. Use my cell. Call now!”
And so, with the prodding of my very pushy friends, I found out where to send my press kit and audition tapes. Since neither Seth nor Diane really trusted me not to wimp out, that afternoon they forced me to put together my package and on Monday, Diane mailed it for me from her spa.
I can’t tell you how surprised I was when I got the call requesting me to fly out to New York to interview with the head of the network.
Color me surprised.
*
I have always hated airports—almost more than I hate hospitals, but not quite—and will take rather extreme measures to avoid them. Like, for instance, never traveling outside of Washington state if I didn’t have to.
The problem is, simply, that I’m not a good flyer. When I was twelve my parents and I flew to London for a vacation. I threw up nonstop the whole flight. I remember switching planes in Chicago for the leg to London, walking down the long narrow corridor to board, throwing up all over the walls and the carpet just from thinking about getting on another plane.
God bless the inventors of Dramamine. I swear I’m going to write them a song to the tune of “God Bless America” and mail it to the company headquarters one day. Dramamine flat out saved my life. I am mindlessly devoted to it.
God willing, may the Dramamine Company never go out of business. At least I know I’m doing my part to keep them flush, with no less than five bottles stashed throughout my travel bags and my medicine drawers.
I’m a really messy flier too. I’m one of those chicks who gets off the plane all red-eyed and static-haired in baggy clothes, comfortable shoes with an old bag stuffed full of everything from neck pillows to CDs to crafting projects to romance novels.
Geek-girl extraordinaire, your limo is waiting.
I’ve always marveled at women who travel in tight jeans, heels and perfect coifs. Honestly though, I’m amazed by these women even on the ground. Don’t they ever get yeast infections? How early do they need to get up to put on their face? And do they have a personal shopper that only gives them coordinating, non-wrinkle separates?
Okay, so it’s just another subset of women that I’m insanely jealous of. From high school beauty queens to no-static-cling travelers, I feel that the sheer evidence of their existence screams out how inferior I am.
Like they stopped working on the Georgia Fulton model long before they had perfected the design.
The day of my interview, I set the alarm for 4:15 am, which is approximately five hours too early for this girl to even be stumbling out of bed to pee.
The 6:30 a.m. departures were cheap and I figured that I could brave a little sleep deprivation if it meant I’d have a couple hundred dollars left over to spend on something fun. Given my sacrifice, in return all I asked the higher powers in the sky was to make my flight as painless and uneventful as possible.
Not a chance.
Standing in line at the baggage checkin, I woke up enough to notice that the “Flight Status” next to my flight said ‘Cancelled.’ I was hoping that this wasn’t a sign of disasters to come.
By the time I inched up to the ticket counter, the flight staff woman got on her computer and booked me onto the 6:30am flight to New York on a competing airline in the other terminal.
I was standing there thinking, “You’re fucking kidding me, right? That plane leaves in twenty minutes! There’s no way I’m gonna make it and then I’m gonna be totally screwed,” but maybe because it was so early in the morning and I was still comatose, I didn’t say anything. I just took my reservations and walked away. Can you believe it? Me neither.
Anyway, I get the sense that the airline staff-woman thought she was doing me a huge favor by putting me on the next available flight. No that’s not true. What I really think is that she figured it was easier to pawn me off to another airline so that she could get on with her day more painlessly.
I gathered up what few wits I had that were awake and I ran outside with my suitcase to get on the inter-terminal bus. In the new terminal it took precious minutes to track down the airline rep in the mob of people waiting to check in. And then, as fate would have it, right when I had finally managed to push and shove my way through the crowd and was about to ask for her assistance, she yelled “Same to you!” to some angry guy who was stomping away.
&n
bsp; Flustered and out of breath I said, “I just got switched to the 6:30 flight. Can you help me make my plane?”
She glanced at her watch, which now read 6:15, and then looked back at me. Maybe I was hallucinating, but I’m pretty sure she was smiling. “Not a chance. You need to go to the back of the line and wait to be transferred to another flight.”
She turned away, but I refused to back down. I needed to make this flight or any potential future I was going to have in big-time radio was probably out the window. Bye bye career!
I grabbed her arm. “You’re kidding right? You actually expect me to stand in a huge line again today?”
She shook my hand off, her eyes angry slits. “Yes,” she spat at me. “You need to get back into line. I can’t do anything for you.”
Yeah, right. Try “won’t” lady. So I gave it one last shot.
“What if I run to the gate and have them gate check my suitcase?”
I must have gone too far with my final questions, because this time she grabbed my arm and yelled, “Look, I’m telling you to get back in line. There is no way they are going to gate-check your bag.”
Totally pissed off, I turned to leave and, even I have to admit, did something really nasty. I rolled my suitcase over her toe. I know it was badly done, and yet every time I think about it I laugh out loud.
As I quickly made my retreat back through the throngs and out toward the gate, she screamed, “Excuse you!” I could swear that I heard the faint streams of applause from the other helpless travelers stuck in line under her nasty, little thumb.
Desperate and out of options, I decided to go for it. I made my way through security in record time and ran like hell for my gate, which was, of course, the final gate down a long corridor.
Sweaty and breathless I shoved my ticket to the attendant at the gate and begged for mercy. “Please, please, please, could you gate check me for this flight?”
In an act of pure, sweet benevolence, she let me board.
In my seat, before I dozed off, it struck me that maybe this was what life was all about. Not necessarily smooth, no guarantees, but if I could just hang on through the tough times and be ready to run, eventually I would end up where I was meant to go.
*
I landed at JFK and caught a taxi. After taking a quick nap at the hotel I went downstairs to see if the restaurant looked any good.
I was checking out the menu in the glass case when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Georgia, my sweet cupcake, you are a difficult one to track down, aren’t you?”
I spun around and stared into the face of Jerry, my semi-psycho caller who I had completely forgotten about since the last time he had called me. The last day Bill and I had ever seen each other.
Jerry looked different than I thought he would have. He was tall – more than six feet if I had to guess – and good looking. And young. Almost the kind of guy I would have gone for.
I shivered slightly. “What are you doing here?”
I was trying not to seem too panicked. After all, we were in a public place. What could he pull in the lobby of the hotel?
“I need to talk to you,” he said in his creep-o voice.
I looked around at all of the people milling about in the lobby. “Fine,” I reluctantly agreed. “How about the bar? And don’t try anything funny, Jerry, or I swear to god I’ll scream so loud you won’t know what hit you.”
He didn’t say anything he just sat down at one of the empty tables. The waitress came by and he said, “Whiskey on the rocks for me and something fruity for the lady.”
I nearly laughed. “Actually, water’s just fine for me,” I said before she walked away. I couldn’t help myself from asking “What’s with the whole fruit thing?” now that we were face to face, and there was clearly no escaping until he said whatever it was he wanted to say.
He looked a little hurt. “You don’t like it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course I don’t like it. It’s creepy!”
“Oh,” he said as the waitress delivered his drink. He downed it in one big gulp. “Actually, Georgia, I wanted to let you know I’m on the board of the ClearView Media radio network.”
“You’re what?” For a moment I felt as if I had fallen down the rabbit hole.
“That’s right. You may find this hard to believe, but I’m a very wealthy man. Not always the happiest one, I’ll admit, but rich.”
I knew my mouth was hanging open, so I forced myself to shut it.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
He gave me a small smile. “I knew you’d recognize my voice in the interview tomorrow and I was hoping I could ask you for a favor.”
“You want me to do you a favor?” I exclaimed. Yes, I was definitely in the Twilight Zone.
He nodded seriously. “Look. I was going through a tough divorce during the past bunch of years and I guess I should have seen someone about my depression long before I did.”
I just stared at Jerry in shock. “Depression?”
He looked morose. “That’s why I was such a weirdo during your show. I had insomnia and that early in the morning after never getting any sleep I was less normal than usual.”
I picked up my glass of ice water and took a huge gulp. “Jerry,” I said slowly, “this is quite a lot of information to take in right now.”
He nodded quickly. “I know. And I know you probably don’t believe me. But if you want to check out my story you can look up Jerry Huntsville on the Internet and you’ll see that it’s all true.”
“Okay.” I was more than ready for our insightful little conversation to be over. “What do you want from me?”
“Please, Georgia,” he begged, “if you don’t tell anyone about my mental illness, I promise you, you will get this job.”
“Hey buddy,” I said, suddenly angry and no longer the least bit afraid of him. “I’m gonna get this job on my own merits, so don’t do me any favors!”
And with that, I stalked out of the bar and went up to my room to figure out just what the hell I was going to do about Jerry tomorrow in my very important interview.
*
I arrived at the ClearView Media skyscraper just off of Central Park and smoothed out my new black suit. Diane had helped me pick out the perfect outfit for the interview – one that said I am professional, yet young and sassy, all at the same time.
The jacket was tailored to fit my waist like a glove and the skirt hit two inches above my knees. We had decided I needed to set myself apart in some way, so I was wearing a red lace tank under my jacket and when I moved you caught glimpses of the hotter side of Georgia Fulton.
I had prepared a portfolio on how I thought my show, Seattle Girl, really played to the female, twenty-five to fifty year old demographic that owned the airwaves.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the huge glass doors and took the elevator to the 20th floor. Stepping out of the elevator, I walked down the hall and trained my eyes on the receptionist’s desk. My legs were a little shaky, and I knew I just needed some simple mile-stones to push past my nerves. Goal one was to check in with a clear and confident voice.
“Hello,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a serene way. “I’m Georgia Fulton and I’ve got an interview with-“
The middle-aged, slightly plum woman cut me off with a big smile. “Oh I know who you are! You’re Seattle Girl!” she exclaimed. She leaned closer to me. “I heard your tape. Very funny.”
I laughed, and felt much more relaxed all of a sudden. “Thanks. I needed that right about now.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, honey. You’re going to do just fine. Now, have a seat in the waiting room around the corner and they’ll be calling you in shortly.”
I blew out a sigh of relief, smoothed back my hair, and headed for the waiting room.
I couldn’t believe it when I saw Bill sitting there in a suit and tie.
“Oh my god! What are you doing here?” I asked in a higher-pitched voice than either of
us was used to hearing come out of my mouth. “I had no idea New York was full of so many surprises.”
Bill stood up awkwardly and reached out his hand to shake mine. I just stood there looking at it and then suddenly I knew what I had to do.
I said, “Put that away,” and reached up and put my arms around him in a hug.
In that moment, I felt something course through me that was more powerful than anything else I had ever felt before.
Evidently Bill must have felt it too because he jumped back from me about as fast as I jumped back from him.
“Let’s sit,” I said to diffuse the situation.
We did and then he turned to me. “Georgia, I’m really sorry about being such a jack-ass that morning on your show.”
I shook my head. “No. It was me. I overreacted. You were just trying to protect me from myself.” And then I gasped as I remembered about Jerry.
“You’re never going to believe this, but I met Jerry last night.”
“The stalker guy?”
“The very one. He came to find me in my hotel.”
“Georgia, you need to call the police. This has gone on for way too long.” He pulled out his cell phone, clearly ready to make the call even if I didn’t want to.
I grabbed the phone from him and put it on the seat behind me so he couldn’t reach it. “No, Bill, check it out. He didn’t want to hurt me or anything. It’s actually kind of sad.”
Bill crossed his arms across his chest and waited for my explanation. “He said he had some kind of mental illness that was set off by his divorce. But now he’s taking meds and he’s better.”
“And that matters how?” Bill asked doubtfully.
“I don’t exactly know, but I think he was telling the truth. But here’s the twist: He’s on the board of directors of ClearView Media and he’s going to be in my interview.”
“In your interview?”
“Yeah. They’re thinking of putting Seattle Girl on the air.”
“Wow, this is amazing.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m here because they’re thinking about putting my show on KSEA too.”
