“Are you serious? Nobody said anything about bulls when I took the job.” I sigh loudly to let my producer know I’m really pissed this time. “Is there any way I can get out of it?”

“No. Anyway, why would you want to? One week in Montana surrounded by the toughest, hottest men on the planet, followed by a week in Las Vegas for the finals, where again, you’ll be—”

“Surrounded by the hottest men on the planet. I know the line, Teresa. You say it every time, and every time I remind you, I don’t like sweaty meathead jocks. And I’m certainly not going to be interested in a bunch of insane men in cowboy boots that smell like bull dung.”

Teresa, who is turning forty this year and remains very happily single, rolls her eyes. “You’d think I’m asking you to donate a kidney. It’s a two-week trip, then you’re back in L.A. where you belong.”

“I’m only going if you promise me you won’t make me get on a bull.” I fold my arms across my chest.

She looks down at her clipboard to avoid eye contact.

“Seriously, Teresa. I draw the line at riding a bull. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Risking a glance in my direction, Teresa gives me a sheepish look. “It won’t be a dangerous bull. We’ll find one that’s like, ten minutes from death.”

I groan and shake my head. “This is ridiculous. I need out of this contract.”

* * *

An hour later, I stalk out of the studio and climb into my ancient Volkswagen Beetle. It’s not much to look at but it’s great on gas and has a soft-top, so theoretically, I could let my hair blow in the breeze and get some sun on a nice day, which in L.A. is pretty much every day. I don’t leave the top down though because I’m of Irish-descent, so UV rays and I don’t exactly mix. I climb in the driver’s seat and prepare for the two-hour commute home to my small studio apartment in Pomona.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I think about where I am in life versus where I thought I’d be. Two years ago, almost as soon as I graduated with a double degree in journalism and history, I got hired as a reporter for WSPN, the biggest sports network in the USA. My uncle, who golfs every week with the head of the network, got me the interview. When they offered me the job, I snapped it up knowing it was the best way to get my foot in the door for what I really want to do—which is to be a real reporter, reporting on important world news. I want to sit behind an anchor desk at a respected news network and help analyze and explain world events to people everywhere.

But instead, I travel the country to interview sweat-drenched athletes, asking them the same lame questions and listening to their same canned answers over and over. “I’m really proud of the way our guys hung in there. We brought our A-game, and we proved we're the better team.” I stand next to them, smiling and nodding while they say nothing of any substance whatsoever and drip sweat on me.

I know it’s a good gig. I do. Most journalism students would give their left ovary for a shot at national news of any kind. And it’s a great way to cut my teeth in the industry, but there’s one problem. I hate sports. Hate with a capital H. Ever since I suffered the humiliation of Phys Ed class as a child. In school, just changing into those shorts and the T-shirt made me feel sick to my stomach. My head would hang down at the sound of the groans from the other kids when they heard my name called to go to their team. No matter how hard I tried, I was always the weakest link. Let’s just say, these hands were for holding books, not balls. So, when I donned my cap and gown at the end of senior year, I promised myself never to touch a ball again. (Well, not those balls. I figured, I’d probably handle those without incident when I was ready).

I managed to keep my promise about the balls (both kinds, actually) until I got this job. Then someone at the network realized how funny it would be to make ‘the brainy girl’ handle the balls (just the sports ones). And bats. And jump on the trampolines. And jump off the ten-meter platform at the Olympics. So, now, I have to try my hand at every sport because I’m so wildly uncoordinated that the viewers find it hilarious. So, as soon as I heard Bull-riding World Finals, I knew exactly what they had in mind. My stomach churns. I do not want to die on top of a farm animal.

I sit at a set of stoplights on Hollywood Blvd. that I know take exactly two minutes and forty seconds to turn green. Sighing, I dig my phone out of my handbag and call my mom, a Harvard professor. She’ll be finished with dinner by now and will be curled up in her favorite armchair, grading papers. My heart tugs when I hear her answer the phone.

“Julia, sweetie, I was hoping you’d call.”

“Hi, Mom. How’s the marking going?”

“I’m reading a paper by a young man who doesn’t know the difference between there, they’re and their.” It’s a pet peeve of hers, along with improper sentence structure, bad hygiene and lazy posture.

I can’t be too sure, but I may have gotten my impossibly high standards from her. “God, how do these people get into Harvard?”

“Money talks. This one’s father donated a new wing to the English building. Too bad he didn’t bother to teach his son how to use it.” I hear her sip what I know is herbal tea from a mug I made her in kindergarten, then she sighs. “How are you? Where are they sending you this time?”

“Montana, then Las Vegas.”

“Montana? At this time of year? What on earth for?”

The light finally changes and the traffic picks up from a dead-stop to a slow crawl. “To do an at-home piece on two of the contenders for the World Bull-Riding Finals.”

“They’re not going to make you ride a bull, are they? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“Then I won’t tell you.” The lane to my right seems to be moving considerably faster, so I signal and try to get over, even though the chances of someone letting me in are slim to none. It’s Friday night and everyone is either trying to get home or get to a party.

“I’m going to have to call your uncle and see if he can find you something more in your field. This started out as ridiculous and now it’s just plain dangerous.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful. I’ll be fine. I just have to pay my dues for a while longer, then I’m sure something serious will pop up.”

“Honestly, the longer you stay in sports and let them make you look foolish, the less likely it is that anyone in the real news is ever going to take you seriously.” 

I hear Mittens, our old tabby, purring in the background. He’ll calm her down. “Anyway, when do you leave?”

“Monday at four in the morning.”

“Well, make sure you pack winter clothes. It’s going to be freezing there.”

“I know.” Next, she’s going to tell me to pack summer clothes, too.

“Oh, and I suppose you’ll need to pack summer clothes for Vegas. You’ll probably need two suitcases. Will the network pay for the extra bag?”

“Yes. They’re very good about that.” Finally, a guy in a Tesla, who looks suspiciously like Billy Crystal, lets me into the right lane. I give him a wave and zip in front of him before he can change his mind.

“Who’s going with you?”

“I don’t know. I think they’re sending me with Creepy Kyle again.” I think about the tall, beefy camera operator who goes on most of my trips with me.

“You should just quit. You can move home. You could get a position with the school’s newspaper. I heard they need an editor.”

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I try to keep my patience. I always call my mom on the drive home, and at least seventy percent of the time I end up wondering why I did. “He’s not so bad anymore. After I turned him down in Chicago, he seemed to take the hint. Besides, I think he’s got a girlfriend now.”

“Well, deadbolt your hotel room door at night. I read an article about a woman who was assaulted in her hotel. She didn’t have the deadbolt latched.”

“I always latch it, Mom. Anyway, I should go. The traffic’s especially bad today.”

“Another reason to move home…”

“I know.” I look to my left and see that the cars in the left lane are now zipping along at twice the speed we are. In my rear-view mirror, I see Billy Crystal signaling to get left. He’s shaking his head and yelling something, which is exactly what I want to do at the moment. “Okay, I love you, Mom. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“Love you, too.”

When I hang up, I think about my life here in L.A. Four hours of my day are spent in this little, old car. Four hours. My mind wanders to my trip next week. “I bet in Montana, there are no traffic jams like this…” I mutter. “Nothing else there either, I suppose.”