As the team leader, I’m lucky enough to have walls and a door to my office that I can shut when I need silence, like I do right now. I’ve had enough of Chewy’s bodily functions and fluctuations to last a lifetime.
Picking up my phone, I tell the imaginary person who hasn’t called to, “Hold on a sec.” Then I shoo Carla toward the door with an apologetic look. “I’ve got to take this. Could you please shut my door?”
As she turns to walk off, she’s still talking about her dog, but now the unlucky victim is Alec Maestas, one of our junior analysts, who is about to get his daily Chewy update. I sit back in my chair, holding the receiver to my ear and nodding for good measure in case she looks back. After all, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I’m liable to scream if I hear the words “anal sac” again.
Through the glass wall, I see Alec giving me a dirty look as Carla descends upon his desk. I offer him a satisfied smile, then type Sorry, not sorry in our private chat. He sends back a middle finger emoji in return.
I’m about to reply with a GIF of Han Solo shrugging when my boss, Dev Grover, walks in and shuts the door. “Good God, you’d think she would just take the dog to the vet already. Wow, just wow,” he says, sitting down on the opposite side of my desk. “Speaking of wow — I’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime for you.”
“Really?” I ask, not liking the look on his face, which is a cross between trepidation and excitement.
Giving one firm nod, he says, “You know how we’re always lamenting the fact that we missed NASA’s glory days, when the entire nation would stop everything to watch a shuttle launch?”
“Yes …” I already hate where this is going.
“And you know how, when you took this position, I mentioned you’d be the face of our department when we needed to drum up publicity?”
“I also recall you saying that particular scenario would likely never come to fruitition since no one is interested in space exploration anymore.” I don’t know why I think pointing this out will change what he’s about to say, but I suddenly feel exceedingly nervous.
“Yes, well, it turns out, all of that is about to change!” he says with a wide grin. “A Caelum Supercluster-sized opportunity has popped up and we’ve finally got a chance to earn back the love of the masses.” His face morphs into something more sinister as he adds, “We might actually be able to steal some of the attention away from those Mars bastards.”
Dev’s a little bitter that he wasn’t put on the Mars team when it got started. He’s been one of NASA’s top astrophysicists for close to thirty years, so he should have been a shoo-in for the team. Somehow, a certain congressman’s son-in-law was given the last spot, so Dev wound up here in New York working at the Goddard Institute on a project that will likely not be completed in his lifetime. Or mine, possibly. People think marathons are long, but they’ve got nothing on space exploration.
I wait patiently for my boss to tell me exactly what this huge opportunity is. “You, my young friend, are going to be a guest on Wake Up America! next week.” Raising and lowering his eyebrows like an old-time comedian, he says, “Exciting, right?”
There are a lot of words I’d use to describe what he’s asking me to do — most of them are four letters and not considered polite. Exciting is not one of them. “Why not get Carla to do it?” I suggest.
Dev tilts his head in a you must be kidding sort of way. “We need someone with stage presence. Charisma!”
I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. “Have you ever heard anyone describe me as charismatic?”
“Me. Just now,” Dev says. “Remember the speech you gave at Clarissa Henderson’s retirement party? You had ’em rolling in the aisles.”
“That was because a bee landed on my hand and I screamed like a little girl for ten seconds straight.”
“Hmm … I don’t remember the bee, but I do remember the laughter.”
“So do I. That’s why I’m not going to do the show.” I glance out at the bullpen and say, “Pick someone else. Ewan would be great. He could do his C-3P0 impression. The audience will eat it up.”
Dev turns around and looks at the team. They’re all tapping away on their keyboards, looking totally engrossed in their work. Ewan picks up his nasal spray, parks it halfway up his nose and takes a whiff. Turning back to me, Dev says, “Him?”
“Maybe not, but also … not me.”
Dev makes a little clicking sound with his tongue. “Sorry, my friend. You’re the best-looking one of the bunch, and if there’s anything we know about regular humans, it’s that they’re far more likely to listen to good-looking people.”
Sliding my glasses back on, I contort my features, doing my best to look less attractive. “What about you? You’re good-looking-ish.”
“Tell that to my wife,” he answers with a wry grin. Then, shaking his head, he adds, “Can’t be me. The top brass wants young and hot. I’m over fifty and when I sit, you can see my love handles spilling over my belt. That doesn’t play well on television.”
My palms feel clammy at just the thought of appearing on television.
“If you go on the show, I’ll give you my ticket to Florida for the next launch.”
Oh, that bastard. He’s offering me the one thing he knows I want most in the world: the chance to go to the mothership — the Kennedy Space Center — and be part of the excitement of a launch. Only department heads get invited to those and it’s the most thrilling thing anyone in the astronomy world can do. Not only is there a tour of the facilities and front-row seats at the launch, but there are parties for days afterward. Wild ones — apparently with poker, booze, and hot women. Although that could just be an urban myth like Bigfoot or girls who love geeks.
I’m about to say no, when Dev stands. “Good. Glad that’s settled.”
“Dev, is there anyone else?” I ask, my stomach squeezing at the thought of going on live television.
“Nope. You’re my guy. And don’t worry because you’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll be better than fine. You’re going to be the next Neil Armstrong because you’re about to make one giant leap for nerd-kind.” With that, he walks out, leaving me to stew in my own juices.
They say that which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, but I’m guessing they didn't try to increase their adolescent popularity by running for junior class president. I still have nightmares about standing in front of an auditorium full of pubescent humans who jeered their way through my speech about my bad boy math club antics. Apparently, you can’t win over a crowd of high school kids with stories of that time you pretended you solved all four of Landau’s problems. Weird.
Anyway, as a thirty-one-year-old man, I’ve forgotten most of what I said, but the dawning awareness that I was committing social suicide is something that will always feel fresh.
I suppose the “what doesn’t kill you” people are referring to things like sore muscles from an extremely hard workout or perhaps going through a temporary-but-difficult time, such as your parents’ divorce. (I was seven when that happened —and as much as it sucked, it doesn’t accompany you everywhere you go for the rest of your life like a fear of public speaking does.)
Forget public speaking, I don’t even do small talk with strangers. In fact, I once sat beside a beautiful woman all the way from L.A. to Sydney, Australia, and didn’t say one word to her, even though she smiled at me several times throughout our twenty-two hours and twelve minutes together. Not one. I wasn’t even bothered by the awkward silence because for me, it was far more pleasurable than trying to come up with even one conversation starter.
Being on Wake Up America! is going to be like competing in the Olympics of small talk. And I’m going to come in dead last.
Three
Serafina
Everything I know about modeling I learned from watching America’s Next Top Model. Luckily, that should be enough to get me through hiring models for my upcoming television segment.
Yesterday, right after get
ting the call from Waltraut, Charley and I spent the day shopping in Herald Square. Turns out department stores practically bend over backwards to loan you whatever you want if you’ll mention their names on national television. I kind of wish I’d known that little tip when I was young and broke, not that anyone would have believed my claim that I’d be promoting them on television…
Since this week has been one of the hottest starts to July on record, we decided to go with twelve summery outfits. They vary wildly in style from each other, but I wanted to make the differences very obvious to viewers.
When we got home, buried under a mountain of bags, I called several local modeling agencies and set up auditions for models. I requested all kinds of women from a size two to a size twenty, all ethnicities, a variety of ages, and I even asked for short women, which in the modeling world means five feet, seven inches. Rude, I know.
Charley is currently sitting at my kitchen counter snacking on mixed nuts — typical Scorpio, craving salty over sweet. I sit down next to her and grab a donut. We Libras are the opposite. Give us a sugary treat any day and we’ll be your best friend.
“The models should start arriving in a few minutes. Are you excited?” I ask my young employee.
“I guess. Although I’m totally annoyed by what the mainstream thinks of as beautiful. The standard seems to be set to make normal women feel bad about themselves.”
After savoring the remnants of Bavarian cream in my mouth, I reply, “Yeah, but I’m the one picking the models. Don’t worry, I’m not going to exclude anyone. In fact, I was thinking I could use a fifteen-year-old goddess for the Scorpio outfit. What do you think, are you game?”
“For real?” Charley jumps up in excitement and starts to catwalk around my loft. After one pass, she sings, “I’m too sexy for the stars, too sexy by far …”
“Right Said Fred couldn’t have sung it any better himself,” I tease her.
“Who’s that?”
“The guy who sings that song.”
“Oh, I only know it from TikTok.”
“Ah,” I say with a nod. Sometimes I forget Charley is part of a whole new generation that I don’t quite understand. Twenty-eight isn’t old, but in the presence of a teenager, it often feels that way.
Not five minutes later, the buzzer starts ringing and doesn’t stop for the next several hours.
The rest of our day is spent deciding which models to hire after seeing them in a variety of outfits. To say I’m exhausted is an understatement. I’m starting to regard Tyra Banks as something of a superhero.
When the last women leave, Charley collapses on my sofa and declares, “I’m pretty sure I’d hate being a real model. We can only hire eleven of those ladies and the others get a ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ Talk about always feeling rejected.”
“The Universe has much better plans for you, my beautiful genius, but for one day, you get to strut your stuff on the runway,” I say with a wink. “Now, as to what you’re going to wear …” I hurry to the clothes racks at the back of my living room area and pull out a gorgeous and shockingly bright red dress. I bring it over to the couch where Charley is sitting and declare, “Bold and dangerous are in your DNA. What do you think about this?”
Sitting up, she studies the vibrant slip dress. “Maybe if we pair it with some leopard heels and purple belt or something.”
“I leave it in your hands,” I tell her. Then I literally put it in her hands.
My phone rings a minute later. It’s the producer for our segment on Wake Up America! I put her on speaker before saying, “Hey, Waltraut, what’s up?”
“I just did a little research on our NASA guest, Dr. Williams, and discovered he’s a Gemini. I thought it would be fun if you could bring in a sample outfit that would be suitable for him.”
“Oh … I could.” I sit down on a huge bean bag chair that’s positioned across from the couch Charley is lying on. “I’d need to know what size Dr. Williams wears.”
“He won’t have time to try it on or anything. I thought you could bring in a male model for the Gemini outfit.”
“Sure!” I try to sound excited even though that means the bright yellow jumpsuit I already picked out for Gemini won’t get seen. Poop. “I’ve already chosen the models so I don’t think I can switch any others out for men, but let’s face it, most of your viewers are probably women.”
“Seventy-nine percent, so we’re fine with only one male model. I’m really excited about this episode, Serafina,” she tells me. “If it goes well, we’d love to work with you in the future on other segments.”
Holy. Crap. The key to all business success boils down to marketing and there is no tool as effective as getting your product in front of a large audience. And free publicity? Well, there’s nothing better than that. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to impress Waltraut. I want to do all kinds of segments for her.
“I’m excited too!” I tell her. “I’m always up for a new adventure.”
“Great. We’ll see you on Monday then. Have your models arrive by five a.m. so we can make sure everything is ready to go by airtime at seven. When they check into security, they’ll be sent upstairs to the dressing rooms to meet with you and get ready.”
“Super!” I hang up, no longer annoyed that I have to get a male Gemini outfit and a new model. Being that yellow is the Gemini color, I’m hoping to find a yellow suit or some chic yellow cropped pants that I can pair with a smart pair of saddle shoes. I’m going to make sure my Gemini outfit will be the star of the show.
My segment has to go perfectly, which of course means getting on Dr. Williams’ good side. Waltraut needs to be impressed with me enough to have me back again and again. The good news is that Libras are very social and get along with everyone, so this should be an ace in the hole for me and the future of my app.
Four
Ben
My alarm goes off at four a.m., and for a moment, I’m completely disoriented. I allow a nano-second of thinking that I can go back to sleep when my eyes spring open. Today is my segment on Wake Up America! with Hal and Lacey, which means I’m going to humiliate myself on live television. Full-tilt boogie panic ensues.
Throwing off my covers, I sit up, displacing my tabby Mr. Spock, who was nestled under my arm. He opens his mouth to hiss but holds back, then snuggles himself back into the blankets. Mr. Spock is like the feline version of the Incredible Hulk — always ready to lose it. I wouldn’t be surprised if his temper is what landed him in a shelter in the first place.
My phone rings and I see it’s my mom calling. She lives outside of Portland, where I grew up.
I swipe the screen to answer while stumbling into the bathroom to brush my teeth. “What are you doing up?” I ask her, even though I already know.
“I was worried you’d oversleep,” she says. My mom still thinks I’m a kid incapable of setting an alarm.
“So you got yourself up at one a.m. to wake me?”
“It’s no trouble,” she answers. “I wanted to tell you I know you’ll be brilliant today, just like you are every other day.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. I truly love my mom, but she puts the mother in smother. At some point, I hope she’ll realize I’m a competent adult. Based on the facts before me though, I’d say there’s a low probability of that ever occurring.
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll be great.”
“Thanks. How does one go about not being nervous?” I ask sarcastically.
“Slow steady breathing,” she answers, ignoring my rude tone. “I checked with Marsha and she said this appearance is going to change your life.”
“Marsha?”
“My new psychic. She said to tell you that after today your life will never be the same.”
“Mom,” I groan before continuing. “Is this news supposed to relax me? Because so far, it’s failing miserably. Also, a psychic? I’d hoped you learned your lesson as far as psychics go.”
I’m referring to the time she went to a fortune te
ller at the county fair who told her that she was about to meet her Prince Charming. Phil showed up a week later and, believe me when I say, he was as much of a prince as I was a prom king. Phil lived with us for a year before leaving with Mom’s entire life savings — paltry as it was — along with the car they bought together but he conveniently kept in his name. While you’d think this would have put my mom off charlatans who predict the future for a price, it actually jump-started her interest in all kinds of crazy things like tarot cards, seances, runes, chicken bones…
“You’re such a party pooper, Ben. I don’t know how I ever had a child who was so closed-minded about the sixth sense.”
“I don’t know either, Mom. Wait, maybe it’s because you let other people make your life decisions based on what they see inside a crystal ball.”
“Please. No one uses crystal balls anymore,” she scoffs.
“Thank you for the wake-up call, Mom,” I tell her, realizing that she will never hear the truth of my words. The woman who gave me life is a die-hard lover of woo-woo nonsense that will likely bilk her of her savings and have her moving in with me by the time she’s sixty. “Why don’t you go back to bed for awhile,” I suggest.
“No way,” she says. “The girls are coming over in a bit to catch your big national television debut. I’m making my famous cornflake casserole.”
The girls are my mom’s two best friends, Lita and Lynda. My mom’s name is Lydia, so together they’re the L-Triad, sort of like a gang of middle-aged women who wear yoga pants and drink a lot of wine. They’ve known each other for a whopping fifty-one years now. When my dad left, it was Lita and Lynda who picked up the slack and helped get both of us through the fallout. “Tell them hi for me.”
“I will. Oh, and Lita said to tell you to break a leg.”
“I’m sure I will.” I immediately have a vision of tripping over my own foot and shattering my tibia on national television.
Text Wars: May the Text be With You ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 3) Page 2
