by Maria Geraci
Despite the fact I’ve only had half a beer and a few sips of my cosmopolitan, I think I’m going to be sick.
I have to get out of here.
I hand my drink to Kimberly, who looks confused when I tell her I’m leaving, and before I know it I’m making a mad dash out the front door.
chapter three
I arrive at my town house and my cell phone dings, telling me I’ve just received a text message. It’s from Ben.
Amy too drunk to drive. Am taking her home. Have fun.
At least he has the courtesy (audacity!) to let me know what’s going on.
Torie and Kimberly arrive five minutes later demanding to know what happened. I hate that I ruined their night, but I am glad they followed me.
“Ben took Amy home,” I say in a voice that sounds surprisingly devoid of emotion.
“Maybe it’s not what it seems,” says Kimberly. “She was pretty drunk. He’s probably just doing a good deed and making sure she gets home safely.”
I tell them about the kiss and Torie looks surprised. “Good deed, my ass! I can’t believe I was wrong about him.” Torie prides herself on being able to “read” men, and although I know 99 percent of her indignation is all on my behalf, there is 1 percent that is miffed for herself.
Driving home, I had time to evaluate the situation. Ben might be a great guy, but he’s just a guy and the temptation Amy presented was too much to overcome. I’ve seen Amy in action before. This is her modus operandi. She gets drunk and uses it as an excuse to do whatever she wants. Frankly, I don’t care. If Amy wants Ben and Ben wants Amy, they can have each other (it seems they are in the process of doing just that).
I break out the Absolut from my freezer and we end up having a girls’ slumber party. By the time we fall asleep somewhere around three a.m., we have concluded that Amy is a skank, and that we all hate Ben’s guts.
Neither Torie nor Kimberly mentions the ugly girlfriend thing, although I know Torie had to have told Kimberly what Amy said in the bathroom.
It is like the big five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room that no one wants to go near.
It’s Monday morning and I always bring donuts to work on Monday, so I make the trip to the Krispy Kreme on West Kennedy. I’m in luck because the “Hot Now” sign is out and the donuts are so much better when they are fresh. Three years ago I brought donuts in for the weekly Monday staff meeting and everyone loved them so much I kept doing it.
The editorial headquarters of Florida! magazine is located on Howard Avenue, which is near, but not too near, downtown Tampa. The office is a one-story remodeled Craftsman with dark hardwood floors and cream-colored crown molding. Framed prints of the magazine’s best photos spanning its forty-year history cover the sage-colored walls. There are only two private offices—Ben’s, and the one that the sales team uses when they’re in-house. There’s also a conference room, and one open room that houses four tiny cubicles. This is where the rest of us work, including Ben’s assistant, Lisa. Jackie, Richard, and I are the only full-time writers on staff. The rest of our articles are written by freelancers, and Ben communicates with them by phone or e-mail. The sales team, photographers, and the rest of the production staff work out of Dunhill Publications’ main office, located sixty miles away in Orlando. But here in Tampa, at Florida! magazine’s editorial home base, we’re one small happy family.
I take the donuts to the conference room, which is currently empty. I can tell that Lisa is here because the coffee is made. I pour myself a cup and open the donut box to pull out a hot, delicious Krispy Kreme. I bite into it, savoring each and every warm sugary nibble.
I confess, I briefly thought of going cold turkey on the donuts this morning. But then I remembered reading somewhere that Frenchwomen do not get fat. And it isn’t because they are constantly dieting. It is because they practice moderation. They enjoy themselves without worrying about every little thing they put into their mouths. Their reward for this is a happy and fulfilled life with a natural-looking body admired worldwide by connoisseurs of good living.
Although I’ve never been to France, I’m feeling very Parisian today. I’m wearing my gladiator sandals along with my favorite denim above-the-knee shirtdress cinched with a brightly colored scarf to accentuate my waistline. Yesterday I got a pedicure and let them paint my toes red. My dark hair is pulled back in a purposely sloppy (but hopefully) chic-looking knot at the nape of my neck. Besides the red nail polish, I’m also sporting red lipstick (a shade I’ve never worn to work before) and have purposely worn my glasses. I usually wear my contacts only when I play soccer or go to the beach because they make my eyes itchy. I feel much more “me” in my glasses and I am perfectly happy with that, just like I am perfectly happy about everything this morning.
Unlike most people, I happen to like Mondays. Mondays are about beginnings and new possibilities. I have decided the hell with Amy. She and her flying monkeys can take a hike. As corny as it sounds, today is the first day of the rest of my life.
A person’s a person, no matter how small.
Yes, I am quoting my favorite poet of all time: Dr. Seuss.
I have my pride. I might not be a beauty queen, but I too am a person (even though there is no arguing that I am not small). No matter how plain I might be, I am deserving of love. I refuse to pine after any man. Not even Ben Gallagher, who has certainly fallen in my eyes.
I’m just finishing off my donut when Ben enters the conference room. He’s wearing a suit and tie, something he used to do daily when he first came to work here, but now only wears on special occasions. It didn’t take Ben long to figure out that most Floridians only wear a suit if they’re going to court. I don’t think Ben has killed anyone, so he must have big plans for today.
Like all men, Ben looks great in a suit. He eyes the Krispy Kremes and moans. “Frazier, I think I love you.” He reaches over and pulls a donut from the box.
I point to his tie. “What’s the occasion?”
“Lunch with T.K.”
T. K. Bennet is our publisher, so either Ben is driving to Orlando to meet him or T.K. is coming to Tampa. As far as I know, Ben has never met T.K. for lunch on a Monday before and I’m instantly curious. I wait for Ben to say something else about his lunch, but instead he says, “So, did you get my text?”
I could be coy and pretend I didn’t, but we Parisians are very frank. “Yep. Thanks for letting us know Amy got home safely.”
“Did you have a good time Friday night?”
I roll my eyes and make the “God, yes!” face. “I always have a good time at Captain Pete’s,” I say cheerfully (so maybe occasionally I might have to revert to some American chicanery).
Ben clears his throat, something I know he does when he’s nervous. He looks like he’s about to say something more, but then Jackie walks in. She takes one look at the donuts and lunges.
Jackie is forty, fashionably thin, wears only designer clothing, and religiously avoids sweets except for the Monday-morning donuts (or so she says). Jackie used to be a buyer for Ralph Lauren until she started writing for Glamour magazine. She ended up in Tampa a few years ago after she got married and she’s a good writer. Florida! was lucky to nab her. Jackie and her husband, Chris (who is a plastic surgeon), have been building their dream home on Davis Island for what seems like forever. I call their future home the Death Star because Jackie has been keeping the details on the q.t. (as in super hush-hush). She won’t tell anyone exactly where it’s being built or how big the place is or anything. Jackie says the secrecy is because she’s part Armenian and Armenians are superstitious about this kind of stuff. Personally, I think it’s because she just wants to wow us with a big unveiling when the whole thing is done.
She inhales a donut, then stares at me hard like she’s trying to figure something out. “Nice lipstick,” she says finally. I don’t think Jackie has ever complimented me before on my appearance. I vow then and there to always wear red lipstick.
Richard, as usual, is the
last one to arrive. He immediately pulls out two donuts. Richard is thirty-three, eats more than anyone I know, and never gains an ounce. He has the metabolism (as well as the hormones) of a sixteen-year-old boy. Today, he’s sporting a tan, which is pretty cheeky, if you ask me.
I don’t know if Ben has caught on yet, but since February Richard has called in sick every fourth Friday, which effectively gives him a three-day weekend each month. Richard has worked for Florida! the longest of anyone in the Tampa office—almost eight years—so he probably has a lot of sick time stashed away. Still. It’s not very professional of him, which kind of disappoints me. Richard is a good journalist but he tends to cut corners. I’d love to see him live up to his potential, but I’m not his mother, so there’s not much I can do about that.
“You’re looking awful healthy for someone who was dying of the flu on Friday,” I say to him.
“Aw, Emma, were you worried about me?”
“You know I was.”
Richard grins in response.
This sort of meaningless banter between Richard and me is another Monday-morning tradition at Florida! magazine. I have sat less than ten feet away from Richard five days a week for the past six years, long enough to know that if a paper bag walked into the room wearing a skirt, Richard would flirt with it too.
Lisa sets up her laptop to take notes, and before you know it, the donuts are gone. Honestly, these people would probably die without their donut fix. Krispy Kreme is their crack and I am their dealer.
Richard points to Ben’s suit. “Who’d you kill?”
Lisa giggles the way she always does at Richard’s jokes, whether they are funny or not.
Ben ignores Richard’s quip and dives right into a recap of the September issue, which, thank God, we’ve just put to bed.
As per the magazine’s forty-year tradition, September is our “Life Beneath the Water” issue. A few months ago the staff drew straws to determine who would be the lucky writer assigned the task of writing the feature article celebrating the beauty and uniqueness of this year’s selected topic, the Florida manatee.
If you guessed me, then you’d be right.
I admit, at first I was bummed. Despite that I am usually the one who writes the nature and environmental pieces, a two-thousand-word article on the migratory and mating habits of the manatee seemed like a surefire way to put our readers to sleep. But after some extensive research (and a little imagination) I found an angle that elevated my story to the next level.
It seems there was an old female manatee nicknamed “Susie” who died earlier this year. Susie used to hang out at the Manatee Viewing Center at Apollo Beach, which is sponsored by TECO (that stands for Tampa Electric Company). TECO pumps warm water into the river and this attracts the manatees during the cold-weather months, only Susie liked hanging out there year-round. Now the biologists who keep track of the manatees at Apollo Beach have noticed an older male named “Sam” who has broken off from the pack. He swims in circles all day long and no one can figure out why. I think Sam must have known Susie (in the carnal way). I think this is where they met and I think Apollo Beach was their special spot. What makes the whole thing pretty amazing is that manatees are indiscriminate breeders. In other words, the males will go for just about anything that’s in heat (similar to their brethren mammal—the Homo sapiens).
I think the fact that Sam is pining for Susie is very romantic. Currently, there is no scientific evidence to back any of this up but I was able to word it in such a way that this was my own personal version of what might have happened.
To my surprise, Ben passes a copy of my article around the table. “This is an example of a really great piece. Not that I’m buying this manatee love stuff, but hey, Frazier basically took a crap assignment and made it into something fun to read.” He catches my eye. “Good work.”
Richard and Jackie mumble something similar under their breaths, but I can’t tell you exactly what they are saying because my heart is pounding so loudly it’s causing my ears to buzz. I’ve told you before that Ben is a brilliant editor, but he is not the kind of boss who goes around blowing smoke up your ass. A simple “I like it” from Ben is worth a million “love its!” from anyone else.
I am still riding high on Ben’s praise when he goes to agenda item number two, which is to brainstorm stories for future issues.
Richard immediately pipes up. “What about a sports piece?” Richard played baseball in college and always tries to work a sports story in whenever he can. He was a relief pitcher for Florida State and played in the minors for a couple of years, until a rotary-cuff injury shut down any hopes he had of making it to the pros.
“What do you have in mind?” Ben asks, but before Richard can say anything Ben warns, “No more fishing articles.”
This is obviously what Richard had in mind because he looks visibly deflated. “Okay, so how about something on college football?” Richard tries again. “We could showcase all the big ex-players.”
“I want something sexier,” Ben says.
I sit up straight. Ben has never said anything like this at a staff meeting. The words reverberate in my head. I want something sexier. I cannot help but think he is talking about more than just the magazine.
Richard snorts. “You do know this is Florida!, right?”
“How about NASCAR?” Lisa says.
“Is that even a sport?” asks Jackie.
Lisa looks insulted. “It’s just the most popular sport in the country.”
“Go on,” says Ben.
“How about something on the Daytona 500?” suggests Richard.
Ben frowns. “Didn’t the magazine do a piece on that last year?”
And this is when my big idea occurs to me.
Ben wants sexy? I’ll give him sexy.
“How about a day and a night in the life of a NASCAR superlegend? More specifically, Trip Monroe.”
Everyone turns to look at me.
“Yes!” Jackie says. “Now, that’s sexy. And he’s a Florida native.”
Ben ponders this over for a few seconds. “I like it.”
“Trip Monroe is an impossible interview,” says Richard. “My buddy at Sports Illustrated did a piece on him last year. He basically says nothing. Just spouts the party line over and over.” Richard breaks out into an exaggerated southern drawl: “‘Thank God that Jesus and all the angels were with me tonight when my car almost blew up!’”
Lisa begins to giggle again.
Okay, this kind of gets me mad. I have a tiny drawl myself that Richard has made fun of upon occasion. Richard is a native Floridian, but he’s from Fort Lauderdale and Florida is one of those states where the farther south you go, the more northern you sound. “Trip’s accent isn’t that heavy,” I say.
“How do you know?” Richard asks.
“I know because I actually know Trip Monroe. We went to high school together.”
“Get outta here.” Richard appears startled and I take a secret glee in this because Richard always thinks he knows everything. Which he usually does, so it’s kind of satisfying to rock his boat a little.
“Yep. Catfish Cove High. Home of the Fighting Crusaders.”
“How come you never mentioned this before?” he asks suspiciously.
Jackie and Lisa start talking at the same time. Ben asks in a low voice so that only the two of us can hear, “How well do you really know this guy?”
God help me, but I cannot control myself. I hold up two intertwined fingers.
“Trip Monroe and I are like this.”
Ben looks both impressed and skeptical. “Do you think he’ll consent to an interview?”
“Sure!” I hear myself say.
“Okay,” Ben announces. “Trip Monroe and NASCAR it is. Frazier’s on it. We can feature him as the top headliner in the October ‘Famous Floridians’ issue.”
“I thought that was going to be my piece on the guy who’s opening up all the new strip malls near Whispering Bay,” says Richard.
>
“You mean the guy who’s ruining the beaches?” I say.
“You mean the guy who’s shaking up this crummy economy with actual jobs?” Richard shoots back.
“Oh yeah, that guy. What’s his name again?” Jackie asks.
Richard slumps in his chair. “Point taken.”
I almost feel bad for taking Richard’s feature spot away from him. Normally, the same writer doesn’t get the magazine’s feature slot two months in a row, but Trip Monroe definitely trumps this guy whose name nobody can remember.
“Trip Monroe is gorgeous,” Lisa gushes. “I can’t wait to see what kind of cover we come up with.”
“Maybe Trip will consent to go shirtless,” Jackie says with a giggle. I don’t think I’ve heard Jackie giggle before and this suddenly worries me.
“Is he as handsome in real life as he is on TV?” Lisa asks.
“Um, sure,” I say.
It just occurs to me that I have promised my boss I could get an interview with someone I haven’t spoken to or seen in over fourteen years. Worse is that now that I think about it, I don’t remember ever talking to Trip Monroe. But that can’t be possible. My graduating class had fewer than a hundred students. I would have had to talk to him at some point.
Ben goes on to talk about the Christmas magazine and this involves more Jackie than me, which is a blessing because I can just sit back and keep my mouth shut. Which is probably what I should have done in the first place.
I glance over at the empty Krispy Kreme box and silently curse Richard for taking the last donut. Practicing French moderation is all good and fine, but right now I could use a good old American sugar high.
I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. What am I getting so worked up about? Trip Monroe is a superstar. He gives interviews all the time. For argument’s sake, let’s say Richard is right and they are boring interviews. I am not just any journalist. I am a fellow Catfish Cove Crusader. Trip and I are bonded by the threads of high school angst, and if there is anyone that Trip will spill his deepest, darkest secrets to, it will be me. Compared to all the tedious research I had to do on the manatee article, Trip Monroe should be a piece of cake.
