#SoBasic

by Sara Celi

  “No.” His line of questioning made me uncomfortable, and I pulled at sleeves of my top “I don’t … I’ve never thought about it before. I don’t misspeak about big things; it’s not like that. I just blurt stuff out without thinking sometimes, and occasionally, that means saying things I don’t mean. I don’t want people to feel bad. I don’t want to offend anyone, so I try to go along to get along.”

  “What? You’re kidding. That might be the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Nope, I’m not kidding. I was taught to be that way.” I drank some soda. “Most women are. We don’t want to rock the boat, or make people upset, so we act like everything is fine, and that whatever is going on is what we want, even when it isn’t.” I motioned to him. “You said you wanted to eat here, so I didn’t want to crush you by suggesting something else.”

  This might have been one of the most honest conversations I’d had in a long time with anyone, and I marveled at the unexpectedness of that. I hardly knew this guy, and yet here I sat, spilling my guts to him.

  How refreshing. And terrifying.

  “So, I just went with it,” I added. “And I said I wanted chili, even when I didn’t.”

  “That’s sad,” James said. “Not the meal—the fact that you feel like you must act to the expectations of everyone else, even when something happens you don’t like.” He wiped his mouth and put the napkin on the table. “We can go somewhere else, if you want.”

  “No, I—” I laughed at the other absurdity of the evening—that I’d considered this a date, when it clearly wasn’t. “I’m glad I came even though I don’t like chili. I’m glad you asked me.”

  “And I’m glad I asked you too,” he said, and gave me a ten-thousand-dollar smile.

  The rest of the night held easy conversation, many laughs—often at me, but hey—and small snippets about our families. It was nice to have a gorgeous man take interest in tiny things, and I felt proud of Social Kitten under his praise. There was potential there; I could feel it.

  Too bad that from the moment he’d walked up in his dirty shirt to the diner he’d chosen, his actions clearly screamed “friends.”

  What a shame.

  Believe it or not, there was a paradox of looking for a job in a good economy. Just because the market might have plenty of jobs available, it didn’t mean they were the right jobs for me.

  And I’d just found that out the hard way. Switching careers—if that was what I wound up doing—wouldn’t be as easy a task as I’d hoped.

  “I don’t think you’re looking for a marketing director,” I said to Carl, the owner of Brice Furniture Direct, a lower-range furniture outlet on the north side of Cincinnati. His business had a long history in the city, and a penchant for running ads that looked like they’d been made in a high school AV class circa 1989. I stood from the slimy leather chair in front of his desk. “What you’ve just described to me is more of an office manager, not someone handling public relations.”

  Carl knitted his busy white eyebrows together. “I don’t follow.” He got up too. “I thought this interview was going well. You seem like the perfect fit for this job.”

  “Thanks.” I bit my bottom lip. How did I say this in the least offensive way possible? “You need someone to manage your office flow, keep track of administrative duties, and make sure the nucleus of your operation has an effective workday. Those duties would cut into any duties you might give me as a marketing manager or social media director.”

  He shoved his thick hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. “But the consulting team we hired at the beginning of the year said all we have to do is spend about three hours a day on social media and we’ll be able to increase our profits by at least seventy-five percent. We just need to be on the Facebook, and post some interesting videos on GramInsta—”

  “Instagram,” I said. “And, it’s Facebook, not the Facebook.”

  I sighed, and to make sure I didn’t upset the man, I chuckled. It really must be so confusing having to add social media into marketing strategies for those unfamiliar.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not right for you.” I picked up my purse and slung it across my shoulder. I’d shown up in my best black suit with such a hopeful outlook. Other news people had made the transition from journalism to public relations, so why couldn’t I? Plus, the job had an advertised salary of $55,000.

  “I wish you the best.”

  My stomach twisted. That didn’t feel great, but it was necessary. Yes, I was literally walking away from a well-paying job with a company that sold sofas for no more than $599 and who offered forty-percent-off sales during every federal holiday, but I didn’t want to sentence myself to a job I didn’t really want to do.

  But my parents would be so embarrassed if they knew I’d walked away from this—I could never tell them.

  “I enjoyed meeting you,” I said.

  “You’re leaving?” His eyes had widened, and his jaw had gone slack. “I’ve never had someone walk out of a job interview before, at least not before it is over.”

  “It’s a first for me too, but I don’t want to be here if we’re going to be fundamentally at odds.” I took a deep breath. “Marketing and social media are full-time positions these days. Especially when talking about video and chat platforms. It takes investment.” I held out my hand. “But I do wish you the best, really. I think you’ll find the right candidate—it just isn’t me.”

  Yes, here I was, turning down a job I’d be able to do in my sleep. And yes, this position paid more than I’d ever hoped to make at WCIN. But no, I wouldn’t do this to myself.

  “Thank you for interviewing me,” I said.

  I held out my hand, and Carl shook it. He protested a few more times, insisting I was the best candidate for the position, but I stayed firm in my resolve. Yes, I needed a job, but I didn’t want to take just any job. Working somewhere for a paycheck only would cost more in the end than waiting for a job where I knew I could thrive.

  Besides, I could walk a few more dogs in the interim. And maybe sell some of the old dresses and sweaters in the back of my closet on the Internet. That would be enough to hold me over for a few more weeks.

  After I left the interview, I booked three more appointments on Posh Pooches then stopped for a skinny soy latte at my favorite coffee shop on the corner. The barista did an impeccable job with the flower on the drink, so I spent about fifteen minutes taking the best photo I could for my @socialkitten account.

  Had to keep up appearances. Even if it meant that my coffee tasted cold and bitter once I finished getting the perfect shot.

  “Leave it to me,” I muttered as I walked out of the shop.

  Headed down Madison Road toward home, I realized I’d soon pass Gallery 29. When I stopped at the next red light, I tapped my hands on the steering wheel and considered my options. Should I?

  Paying James a quick visit in the middle of the business day just to say hello didn’t make me a psycho, did it?

  Nope. I’m going with nope.

  We were friends; we’d had dinner together. Plenty of friends popped in on each other when they had a chance. Why would we be any different?

  We wouldn’t.

  Gallery 29 had a small row of parking spaces behind the building. I pulled into the lot and found the spot closest to the street. I took out my makeup bag and re-powdered my nose. Once I was satisfied, I shut off the car, took my latte from the cup holder, and made my way toward the studio.

  “Hello,” I called into the vast, open-air main room as I pushed through the front door. Before I reached the first exhibit, James emerged from the back room carrying a small pad of paper and pen.

  When he saw me, his eyes widened and his face erupted into an awesome smile. I think I’m a little addicted to his smile. “Margot. What a nice surprise.”

  Yes! I’m a nice surprise.

  “Oh, thanks,” I stammered. “I was, um … yeah, I was just down the street getting a latte.”

 
Damn it, Margot, pull it together.

  I held up the to-go cup. “Coffee Co-Op makes the best ones in Cincinnati.”

  James smirked. “I’ll bet they do.”

  “What?” I took another step closer to him and tilted my head. “You don’t like that place?”

  “No, I do … it’s just … it’s a very ‘you’ thing to say, Margot.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just that you’re”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“you might not realize it, but sometimes you’re a bit of a typical white girl.”

  My mouth dropped open. “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. All you need is a fleece vest and leggings.” His smirk turned into a smile. “That’s part of your charm, really. You don’t realize you are one.”

  “Is that a compliment? It doesn’t sound like it is.” I drank some coffee. He might not believe me, but I liked their coffee. I did. Well, I liked designer coffee in general. But that didn’t make me—

  “Are you saying that I’m basic?” I huffed. “Because I am not basic.”

  “I didn’t say it—you did. You’re only in a category if you put yourself there.”

  This was not going the way I’d planned during the final seconds of the drive to the gallery. I was supposed to arrive here, breeze in, and have a flirty conversation with a guy I wanted to get to know better—not get accused of being a stereotype. Basic white girls had no personality, no spice, no sense of their place in the world, and a whole lot of privilege.

  I wasn’t one of them. Was I?

  “Fine.” I cleared my throat. “If you want me to leave—”

  “No.” He held up his hand and crossed the space that remained between us. “I don’t want you to leave, Margot. I want you to stay.”

  “Even though you think I’m basic?”

  James laughed. “Consider it an endearment, not an insult. I’m glad to see you.”

  “Well, good,” I said, still pouting a little inside. He wasn’t wrong, but it still stung.

  “Anything interesting happen today?”

  “Sort of,” I replied, brushing aside my minor annoyance about being called basic by someone I liked. “I had a job interview today.”

  “You did?”

  I nodded. “It was at Brice Furniture in their corporate office.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What happened to TV news?”

  “I’m keeping my options open. And this one would have paid better than WCIN.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “It was, but I didn’t take it. They wanted an office manager, not a marketing person.” My cheeks reddened. “Does turning it down make me horrible?”

  “That depends.”

  “I mean, I walked away from the job.” I sighed. “Who does that?”

  “Plenty of people,” he replied, but I barely heard it because I was wrapped up in my own thoughts.

  “I know I need a job, but that one would have made me miserable. I couldn’t see myself working there every single day.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “Carl Brice didn’t seem to understand the concept that a business needs to devote a single person toward marketing in order to thrive in the current marketplace.”

  He laughed. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I have to admit I can’t really see you working at that place. Remember the ‘busting through barricades’ commercial? That was so bad.”

  I closed my eyes. “Oh God, I hadn’t thought of that one for a while.” I opened my eyes, laughed, and shook my head. “Whoever told them to make that commercial was deranged.”

  “I think it was the worst local commercial I’ve ever seen.”

  About nine months before, Brice Furniture had become the stuff of Internet trolling and endless ridicule when the company ran a series of ads that featured Carl Brice busting through a wall of boxes, then falling on his mattress while screaming about barriers and prices. It had been the stuff of instant viral gold, and while it got a lot of clicks and views, it wasn’t the “good” kind of publicity.

  James crossed his arms. “You’re better than Brice Furniture, Margot. Trust me.”

  “I’m not better than anyone, but I appreciate the compliment.” My cheeks flushed. “I also need a job, and soon.”

  “That so?”

  I nodded. “I’ve been walking dogs to get extra cash. Now I’ll probably have to start selling my old clothes.”

  “Nice hustle,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I disregarded the embarrassment I felt about admitting my dire financial straits. “But I don’t know how long I can make that last. I need real work.”

  “Sure, but you probably don’t need that one. There’s more to life than just money.” He braced his hand on the nearby exhibit wall, shoved his other hand in his jeans pocket, and studied me. “And hey, that reminds me, if you want to do some extra social media, SocialKitten, I have a project that could use some of your skills.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m on the board of a local nonprofit. This Saturday we have an event that needs covered by a media team. We were going to hire one, but it didn’t work out.” He glanced away. “It’s complicated.” He looked back at me, and for the first time I saw something other than confidence in James. Uncertainty? “We can’t really pay anyone, because we have a minuscule budget, so this would be strictly volunteer. But it would be nice to have someone there to take photos and video. Try to pump up awareness about the event.”

  Was he embarrassed about the small budget? This man was far too gorgeous and genuine to be real. Totally.

  Meanwhile, the event sounded interesting and would give me more time to hang out with James, as well as a chance to show him I was more than just some basic white girl with a cold latte and an expensive education.

  “What kind of event is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a collective show for some artists in town.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Downtown.”

  “That could be fun.”

  “It should be. A few other local gallery owners have done this show for the last few years, and it has become a huge success. Every year, it gets a little bit bigger, but this is the first year I’ve been able to participate.”

  “So, you’d need me to do … what? Take photos, video—”

  “The usual. Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook Live, all that stuff. The typical methods to hype up an event. I know you’re very well versed in this.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to brag, but … yeah, you’re right. I am SocialKitten, after all.” I grinned. “And isn’t that a prerequisite for being a basic bitch?”

  He chuckled. “Is that yes?”

  I nodded. “Just tell me where and when.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it. Saturday, at five o’clock. The Overlook on Reading Road, right next to the casino. Park in the lower level parking, then follow the signs to the gallery space on the top floor.”

  “Great,” I said. “Looking forward to it.” Actually, I was over the moon at this opportunity. Score one more for “funemployment.”

  And it looks like my sexy neighbor is much more than a pretty face.

  “See you then, Margot.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, not bothering to hide the excitement in my voice.

  About thirty seconds after Margot left my gallery, I traipsed back into the office attached to the edge of the public viewing space. I was in a good mood, I had to admit, and it had been a long time since I’d been in one. Margot’s surprise drop-in had brightened my day, and I found myself smiling to no one in particular.

  “Who was that?” Hugh, my business partner, looked up from his desktop computer, when he’d been crunching numbers for the last hour in one of his Excel spreadsheets. “One of our patrons?”

  I thought back to Margot’s comments at the recent opening. “She’d probably like to be.”

  “She sounded pretty.”

  “Did she?” I regarded him. She sounded pretty? That was unusual, even for Hugh. “And what does prett
y sound like?”

  “Well, I mean—”

  “Mm-hmm. I figured you didn’t have a good answer.”

  I sank into the chair behind my desk. We each had half the office, and our workstations faced each other. Behind mine hung two large pop-art paintings. Hugh had vintage movie posters on the wall next to his.

  “I think her tastes exceed her budget.” I turned my head in the direction of where I’d just come. “Anyway, that was Margot Leesman, and she’s my neighbor.”

  “Oh, I see.” Hugh twisted away from his monitor, picked up a squishy stress ball from his desk, and leaned back in his chair. “So, like a sexy neighbor, or a single neighbor?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Dickhead.” I laughed. “Both, I guess. She’s like twenty-five, I think. I haven’t asked.”

  Hugh tossed the ball back and forth in his hands. “A twenty-something? Nice.” He drew out the word “nice” for extra emphasis.

  “That’s basically the same age as us. Last I checked, I’m twenty-nine, and you’re thirty-two. We aren’t old.”

  “We aren’t young, either.”

  “Dude, stop being morbid.”

  “I’m not. I’m being a realist. At some point, you must face the fact that we can’t keep going after the same scattered, random women we find in the bars that rim the University of Cincinnati. It doesn’t work.” He kept his attention on the ball. “What I’m saying is if she’s younger than you, but also more focused than the women you usually meet, that isn’t a bad thing at all.”

  I laughed. He was right in a way. And spending my time thinking about the gallery at the expense of my social life was growing stale. “She’s all into social media.”

  “What woman in her twenties isn’t?” He smacked the ball onto his desk.

  “True, but she’s pretty good at it.” I found my phone underneath some papers, opened the gallery’s Instagram account, and searched through the app. When I found what I wanted, I showed the screen to him. “She runs SocialKitten. Fourteen thousand followers and counting. Come look at this.”

  Hugh crossed the room and let out a low whistle as he took the device from me. “I’ve heard of that account. It’s one of the better ones in the city. She does a good job posting content that has natural lighting.”