by Maria Geraci
chapter four
It’s four o’clock and Ben still isn’t back from his lunch with T.K. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I’m not sure. The one thing I am sure of is that with the exception of Lisa and myself, no one knows where he is. Jackie has been grumbling since two p.m., saying that she needs to talk to him about a big idea, and why isn’t he here or answering his cell? Richard is too busy Tweeting and playing on Facebook to even notice that Ben is gone.
For the first time today I am worried. The I-4 stretch between Orlando and Tampa is worse than maneuvering the Daytona 500. What if Ben got in an accident? I might hate Ben’s guts, but I don’t want to see those guts splattered on the highway. I send up a silent prayer. I’m not religious, but when I was a little girl Mama J taught me that if you ever have a bad thought, it could be nullified by sending up a personal request to God. I’m not sure how that works, but I feel better after doing it.
After this morning’s meeting I got the number for Trip’s PR firm and called to request an interview. The firm is in Dallas and a woman with a thick Texas accent tells me she will be happy to send me some “materials.” When I explained that I wanted a live interview and not a press kit, she told me I needed to put the request in writing, and although I hated sounding all schmoozy, I had no choice then but to mention that Trip was a personal acquaintance of mine. She still didn’t budge. So I whipped out what I thought was a pretty fantastic e-mail and sent it to the PR firm and I’m still waiting to hear back.
Meanwhile, I decided to spend the day doing background work. It’s amazing how much information you can pull off the Internet. I Googled Trip’s name and got like a gazillion hits. Trip is basically the Mother Teresa of NASCAR. He’s given away hundreds of thousands of dollars to charity, which is commendable. But what makes Trip interesting is that he’s gorgeous and apparently modest as well. A couple of years ago, he was named People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Lisa is somehow able to get a print copy of the two-year-old issue. (She later admitted to having it hidden in the bottom drawer of her desk.)
According to the article, Trip has dated several Hollywood actresses, an assortment of models, and it was even hinted that he was once secretly engaged to Carrie Underwood, although Trip denied this, saying, “Carrie and I have always been good friends.” Trip goes on to say that his “playboy” image is all a facade and that he’s looking for a girl “as sweet as his mama to raise a passel of kids with.”
I hate to admit it, but as usual, Richard is right. Trip is a boring interview. Although it doesn’t matter much because the photos in the piece are first class. Lisa, Jackie, and I spent considerable time salivating over them. The best one is of Trip wearing one of those one-piece mechanic outfits with the top half zipped down to his navel, exposing what has to be the most perfect six-pack ever.
Richard glanced over my shoulder to study the picture. “That’s airbrushed.”
“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “I’ve seen him in a few commercials and he looks pretty buff.”
In the photo Trip is leaning back on his race car and it’s…well, I had no idea he was this sexy. I’ll be honest: I can barely remember Trip from high school. The last time I saw him was on graduation day. He didn’t come to our ten-year reunion, which disappointed everyone since he is our only celebrity alumni and it would have been cool to have him there.
I decided to jostle my memory by doing some personal research. So during my lunch break, I drove to my town house and searched my closet until I found my senior yearbook, which is both fun and slightly painful to look through (I had forgotten I was president of the glee club). Even though Trip and I weren’t what you’d call friends, I do remember talking to him now, as well as other things about him.
He was a member of the basketball team his freshman and sophomore years, but after that there is no listing of any extracurricular activities. This is because the summer before junior year, Trip’s daddy died of a heart attack and he went to work at his uncle Frank’s auto repair shop after school to help his mama make ends meet. We were in the same English class our senior year and he sat one row over from me. We worked on some kind of English project together, although I can’t remember the details. He was quiet and a decent student and didn’t stand out much. He wasn’t even that cute. He was tall and skinny and always in bad need of a haircut. Plus, he had acne. Boy, has Trip changed. Another thing I had totally forgotten was that Trip signed my yearbook.
My senior year I won the poetry contest. I never meant to win, because I never meant to enter, but my English teacher submitted a poem I had written for my senior literature portfolio. I found out the day before the end-of-the-year awards program that I was a finalist. I could have withdrawn, but I’m glad I didn’t.
The poem was about my two mothers and about my father. Or rather, the male person who provided half my DNA. Mom used a sperm donor to get pregnant. She has never tried to hide this from me, so I’ve never had any big angst over it, but writing that poem released a lot of emotions I never knew I had. I’ll never forget the look on her and Mama J’s face when they heard my poem for the first time (along with the rest of the student population at Catfish Cove High). It turned out to be the best day of my teenage life.
Back to Trip.
This is what he wrote in my yearbook:
Emma,
I liked your poem. Good luck in the outside world.
Trip
Not exactly eloquent, but when you consider this was written by a seventeen-year-old boy, it’s not half bad either. Short and to the point. I wonder what I wrote in his yearbook.
I’m still thinking about this when Ben returns. All in one piece.
Thank you, Mama J.
He disappears into his office and a heartless Jackie (can’t she see how tired he looks?) follows him inside shooting off question after question. After about fifteen minutes, Jackie leaves Ben’s office looking decidedly unsatisfied. I’m tempted to go ask him how the lunch went (and more importantly, what it was about), but I want to give him space.
I’m ready to leave work when Ben comes to my desk. “Frazier, got a minute?”
I follow him back to his office and settle into the sofa, where I always sit when I go into Ben’s office, which is my dream office. The room itself isn’t particularly special, but there’s a private door that leads to a small enclosed patio that boasts some pretty tropical landscaping, an Adirondack chair strategically placed to get the best afternoon sun, and an outdoor fountain. Stuart, my old boss and Ben’s predecessor, used to smoke out there. That patio was totally wasted on him, but not on Ben. When the weather isn’t oppressively hot, like it is now, Ben likes to sit out there and write, and I’m totally jealous of this. I would also love to sit in that chair with my laptop propped on my knees, listening to the soothing trickle of water gurgling from the fountain, instead of sitting in my cramped little cubicle with the chair that wobbles, trying to ignore the pounding beat of Richard’s hard-rock radio station.
I sneak a peek at the wall behind Ben’s desk. This is something I always do too. Why I do this, I’m not sure, but I can’t help myself. Hanging in a brown frame is his diploma from Columbia and next to that is a picture of Ben rowing crew. Ben is thirty-four, so the picture is at least twelve years old, but Ben hasn’t changed much. He’s still got the same broad shoulders and crooked grin he had in college.
I look away from the picture. “How was your meeting with T.K.?”
“Fine.” Ben loosens his tie and settles back in his chair. “About Friday night…I liked your friends.”
Yeah, well, they hate you.
“They liked you too,” I lie.
I will admit that Friday night was the last subject I expected Ben to bring up. Might as well get it over with. “So did you and Amy hit it off?” My mind goes back to that kiss. Of course they hit it off. What a stupid question.
“Amy? Oh yeah, sure.” He shrugs and I take this as a man-yes. I guess that answers that.
Neith
er of us says anything for a few awkward seconds.
I wish I could control myself and stop from asking, but I can’t. “Are you going to see her again?”
Ben clears his throat. “We’re having dinner this weekend.”
“That’s great! Amy’s a terrific girl. She’s really smart, you know.”
“So…we’re okay?”
“Well, of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be okay?” He looks so uncomfortable that I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “About the Trip Monroe article,” I say, directing us back to business. “I think I found an angle.”
Ben looks surprised by my change of subject but nods at me in encouragement. “Go on.”
“In high school, Trip was basically a nobody. But now, besides being this big sex symbol and superstar on the track, he’s also this reluctant playboy with a heart of gold. He’s the embodiment of the American Dream. It’s Zero to Hero. Everyone knows about the Hero, but there’s not much written about the Zero. I’m going to focus on Trip’s roots and what made him the man he is today.” My voice rises in excitement. “I’m going to find out what makes Trip Monroe tick and I’m going to write the best damn juiciest article on NASCAR’s golden boy of the tracks that’s ever been written.” Pause. “While still keeping to the magazine’s high journalistic standards of course.”
Ben chuckles. “That’s my girl.”
And in this, he is partially right, because no matter how much I would like to hate him, I can’t. He has shitty taste in women, but he is still the best boss I’ve ever had. As far as work is concerned, I will always have his back.
It’s Thursday morning and I’m trying not to panic. I’ve received an e-mail from Trip’s PR firm in Texas refusing my request for an interview. I call and get the same secretary I talked to on Monday.
“Mr. Monroe’s schedule is completely booked for the next six months,” she says in her twangy accent. I grew up in north Florida, where the accents are twangy too, but in a different way. Why didn’t the Yellow Rose of Texas tell me this when I talked to her on Monday?
“But there has to be an exception. This is Florida! magazine, and Trip grew up here in—”
“I suggest you call back at the end of December or perhaps January.”
December? I know a brush-off when I hear one. I ask if there is anyone else I can speak to who might help but she basically hangs up on me, although not before wishing me “a blessed day!”
I go back and do more research. The Sports Illustrated “interview” done by Richard’s pal was a runaround piece à la “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” only it is not nearly so clever. There is just one little quote from Trip, but everything else in the article is information garnered from other sources, which, as far as I can tell, aren’t even that close to Trip.
As impossible as it is to believe, Trip Monroe has not done a real, honest-to-God interview since his Sexiest Man Alive piece came out in People, which, interestingly enough, was their biggest-selling issue ever. Everything that has been written about him in the past two years has either been speculation, information from an unauthorized third-party source, or taken off his bland press interview, which basically says nada (even though I didn’t request it, Yellow Rose sent it to me). Getting an exclusive interview with Trip would be like hitting pay dirt. The only thing I can imagine that would sell more magazines would be an interview with Princess Diana from the grave.
I now want this interview more than ever.
That evening I go to soccer, where despite my bravado of the other night, it’s the Strikers who kick our asses. Brian barely speaks to me. The hell with him.
Friday morning comes and Ben is acting as if everything is status quo, but I can pick up a tenseness in him that wasn’t there before his lunch with T.K. Jackie is running on hyperactive mode, which means she’s probably back on her diet pills (obviously Jackie is not French). Richard is his same self-absorbed self, and I’ve broken out in a rash. If I don’t get a lead on this interview soon, I’m going to have to tell Ben that I basically lied to him about my close relationship with Trip.
It occurs to me that my best shot at connecting with Trip lies back in Catfish Cove. I call Torie to tell her I can’t make Friday-night drinks.
“This isn’t because of last weekend, is it?”
“What part of last weekend are you referring to? The fact that I’m apparently the ugly friend or that Ben hooked up with Amy?”
“You are not the ugly friend!”
I notice Torie doesn’t deny the fact that Ben and Amy slept together. Did Amy tell Torie about it at work? Did she give Torie a play-by-play at the watercooler? If she did, I never want to hear about it. I’ve already told Torie and Kimberly about my idea to interview Trip Monroe but they don’t know I’m having trouble making a connection, so I fill Torie in on what’s been going on. Now that she knows I’m not purposely ditching Friday-night drinks, she stops harassing me and wishes me luck.
I toss some clothes in my weekender and head north on I-75. I haven’t been home since Christmas and it’s long past time I paid a visit to my mothers.
chapter five
Although Mama J is not related to me by blood, she is as much my mother as my biological mother is. She is the softer side of our little family and the first person I go to if I need consoling. My mom met Jennifer Brewster when I was five. I remember that time clearly because Jenny lived in Jacksonville and we only saw her on weekends. The first time I met her she bought me an ice-cream cone and read me a story and asked me to call her Jenny. I fell in love with her instantly. After she came to live with us, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to call her Mom. But it got kind of confusing, so I started calling her Mama J and the name stuck.
I get to the outskirts of Catfish Cove and immediately slow down to thirty-five miles an hour. Like small towns everywhere, we take the speed limit seriously.
Let me tell you about Catfish Cove.
It has a population of seven thousand, and besides being the birthplace of a NASCAR superlegend, it is the annual home of “The North Florida Monster Truck Rally for Jesus.” My house is on the north edge of the city limits, so I have to drive through our little downtown, which consists of just a few blocks. The buildings all date to pre–World War II and the streets are paved in brick. There are three restaurants, as well as a converted movie theater where the Catfish Cove Community Theatre group performs three plays a year (this past spring they did Guys and Dolls and it was a huge smash). There’s also an upscale boutique, two antiques shops, a few novelty stores, some professional offices, and Carpe Diem aka Mama J’s bookstore.
It’s almost eight p.m. and it’s getting dark. White lights illuminate the majestic oaks that line Main Street and along the sidewalks are giant terra-cotta planters filled with bright red geraniums. It’s all very quaint and pretty, like something out of a movie set. My mother’s medical office is located in the more “modern” part of town, next to the Piggly Wiggly and the Ace Hardware store.
Walmart Corporation has not yet discovered Catfish Cove.
I hope they never do.
I pull up to the house I was raised in, a modest one-story brick ranch, and park my car behind my mother’s 1997 Volvo, which has fewer than sixty thousand miles on it. Mom is one of two practicing medical doctors in town. Most days she rides her bike to work and she rarely takes a vacation. She could easily afford a new car, but her mantra is “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
I walk in through the back door to find my moms arguing over how long to cook the pasta. Neither of them is a good cook, but they both like to be the boss of the kitchen.
Walt is the first one to spot me. He’s a four-year-old golden retriever named after Mama J’s favorite dead poet, Walt Whitman. He barks loudly, thumping his tail in joy. Mom drops the wooden spoon in her hand, causing marinara sauce to splatter over the stove top. “Well, look who’s here!”
Mama J spins around and lets out a squeal and runs to hug me. Mom comes up be
hind me and entwines her arms around Mama J’s, cocooning me in what, when I was a little girl, I used to call the “mommy sandwich.”
“What kind of sandwich are you today?” Mama J asks.
Walt barks enthusiastically (I think this is his way of participating).
The game always plays out the same. It is now my turn to tell them what sort of filling I am. Like peanut butter and jelly, or ham and Swiss cheese, or if I’m in a really good mood, my favorite sandwich of all time, turkey with cranberry relish. No matter what I say, Mom then responds with, “Yummy. That’s my favorite!”
I have long since outgrown girlhood but I always play along. It would break their hearts if I didn’t. But when I go to speak, my throat feels tight. Tears well up in my eyes. I have done such a great job of keeping it together all week long, but now, surrounded by the love of my family, I become a wuss.
My moms step back in alarm. Walt slinks to the ground and places his head between his paws.
“Oh no, here comes the drama,” Mom mutters. Mom hates tears. When I was a little girl, if I ever started to cry, she always chucked me under the chin and told me to “buck up, little cowgirl!”
Mama J, on the other hand, looks ready to cry herself.
“What happened? Did you lose your job?” Mom asks, cautiously optimistic.
While losing a job would seem like a catastrophe to most parents, my losing mine would not so secretly thrill Mom. She has always wanted me to go to law school, which was my original plan after graduating from college. But I loved writing so much, I just couldn’t do it. I know Mom is still harboring a hope that I’ll change my mind. She envisions me living in Washington, D.C., working for the ACLU righting wrongs like a caped crusader. But if I ever did become a lawyer, I’d want to be like one of those kick-ass prosecutors from Law & Order who puts the bad guys away in jail.
