Chapter Two
Jaimie
Rennie and I were just sitting down in a corner booth at the coffee shop, rain lashing against the windows, when I noticed that they had gotten my order wrong. For a moment I sat there, frozen in disappointment.
“This always happens,” I said, softly and sadly. “I specifically ordered a medium white chocolate mocha, and what did they give me? A white frapp.”
But Rennie had gotten so involved in the novel she was writing she barely heard me. She sat pecking away at her computer, nodding occasionally to make it look like she was listening.
I didn’t really care, though; I just felt like complaining.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” I added, “if this didn’t happen every damned time we come in here.”
“Why don’t you go back up there and tell them?”
Rennie pushed her computer away for a moment as though willing herself to pay attention to me. She was wearing an oversized robin’s-egg blue cardigan and had done up her hair in a loose knot. I got the distinct impression that she had been too busy writing that morning to bother much with getting dressed.
“I tried that once before, remember? When they gave me a latke instead of a latte? I asked the guy for a refund, and he wouldn’t give it.”
Rennie bit off a hunk of her walnut bread, thinking. “Maybe you weren’t forceful enough.”
Rennie had a strong personality and was accustomed to getting her own way. She had often told me my own life would be better if I would learn to demand things and not back down.
“How forceful do you want me to be?” I replied. “I’m not like you. I can’t just yell at somebody until I get my way.”
“Jaimie, honey, it’s not about yelling. It’s about being bold and persistent. You’re too timid.”
There was probably some truth to this. I had once encouraged a boy I was crushing on to go out with another girl because he said he liked her.
“In all the years we’ve been friends,” said Rennie, “I’ve never once lost an argument. I bet if you went up there and demanded a new order, he’d give it to you.”
“No, he’d probably just laugh at me.”
“That’s because you’re doing it wrong. Watch.”
Closing the lid on her laptop, she rose from the booth carrying my cup in both hands. I watched her storm away toward the counter with a nervous feeling. We were about to be kicked out of the coffee shop, and somehow it would all be my fault.
Planting herself in front of the register, she slammed the frappuccino down with a firm hand. “You listen to me,” she said. “My friend ordered a white mocha, and once again you got her order completely wrong. If you don’t straighten up and get your act together, we’re going to take our business elsewhere. This is your final warning.”
The cashier took my cup and shuffled away toward the back. A second later, he returned carrying two large white mochas.
“Accept this as a token of our apologies,” he said in a bored voice.
Rennie returned to the booth looking triumphant.
“How did you do that?” I asked her, incredulous.
Rennie shrugged. “You just have to be forceful, hon. Don’t let anybody walk over you.”
She went back to writing her novel, and we sat there in silence sipping our drinks while the rain battered against the windows. I sometimes envied Rennie for being so strong and assertive. She had a mysterious and seemingly miraculous ability to get what she wanted. I could never forget the night she had walked into a bar, picked out a guy at random, and said, “Get ready to leave; you and I are going out tonight.”
And they had.
With a personality like that, it was only a matter of time before she landed a book deal. I had read some of her prose; it was stunning. The kind of writing that wins awards and is featured in prestigious trade journals. As an aspiring writer myself, I couldn’t help but covet her gifts.
“Jaimie, sweetie,” she had said more than once, “we’re both excellent writers, and there’s no reason you couldn’t be successful if you really put some effort into it.”
I wanted to believe this was true. But she had a grasp of genre conventions and structures that I couldn’t figure out no matter how many books on the writing process I read. And whereas I found the publishing process labyrinthine and panic-inducing, Ren had landed herself an agent with envious ease.
“One of these days, we’ll be on the cover of Time together,” said Ren. “You and me, together. The two girls who made it.” It was a comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless.
***
But while I waited for fame to come I had accepted as a job as a CPA for an MMA league, Fates & Furies (FAF). It was miserable work, and I shambled through most days hoping I didn’t fall asleep at my desk. Because I had never entertained the slightest interest in seeing grown men pummel each other, even the fights were dull.
The one saving grace was my boss, Randy Carruthers, a genial and good-humored man in his late fifties with a shock of white hair and a taste for expensive suits. He had married late and had enjoyed three years of perfect happiness with his wife, Joy, before she succumbed unexpectedly to cancer at the age of forty-five. Randy had spiraled into a depression from which he was only just now coming out, and had nearly lost his own life in a drunk driving accident last year on New Year’s Eve.
When I arrived at the office that morning, I found him with his boots on the desk, silently watching the rain fall through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“You doing okay?” I asked him, handing him one of the mochas.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. “You know what they say about grieving: some days it’s better, and some days it’s worse.”
I nodded. I knew all about that.
“Anyway.” He planted his legs on the floor and folded his hands in a business-like manner. “I’ve been looking over the spreadsheet you sent me, and I was surprised at how well we’re doing financially. It’s not great, but it’s much better than I was expecting.”
“Given the state of the economy, I’d say we’re doing okay.” I took a sip of my drink, thinking. Attendance at our fights had flat-lined within the past year, but at least it remained stable.
“It’s a bad time to be in business, just in general,” said Randy. “Every day I read stories about how some once-prominent restaurant or department store is shutting its doors. The film industry is in decline, the NFL, fast food, publishing, nobody goes to church anymore… There are so many other things competing for our wallets and eyes, and frankly kids today are so glued to their smartphones they’ve lost interest in going out, in shopping, in the sorts of things that used to keep this economy ticking.”
I nodded along, having heard some variation of this speech at least a dozen times before. Randy was given to dark, apocalyptic moods that made him seem fussy and old-fashioned. He felt a keen sense of loss for the things of his youth, a sense that the world was changing in ways he was powerless to control.
“Well, it’s not just their smartphones,” I said. “It’s true that the entertainment industry has become a formidable opponent. Mass media and the internet have gotten frighteningly good at stealing our attention. But the reason we’re not giving money to those other industries is because we can’t afford to. My friends are having to work two jobs just to put together enough money to pay rent. We barely have enough left over for groceries.”
“I hear you,” said Randy. “I wish I knew of a solution. I really do.”
Reaching into my handbag, I pulled out my laptop and opened up the Excel sheet in question. “It would be great if we could increase our attendance levels.”
“It would. Lately, I get the sense that people aren’t as interested in MMA fighting as they used to be.” He retrieved an orange from inside his desk and began to unpeel it. “Same is true with wrestling. It’s old hat.”
I could think of a few reasons for that, though I knew better than to voice them aloud. Like wrestling and football, MMA fighting was masculine and hostile and aggressive—a barbarous relic of a world that was dying.
“If we want to spike our attendance,” I said, “we may have to shake up our routine a little.”
Randy peered intently at me from behind his glasses. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, we’ve been circulating the same five or six players for years now. It would be great if we could get some fresh blood, some charismatic up-and-comers.”
He nodded gravely. “No, I think you’re absolutely right about that. In fact, I was thinking about flying down to Florida over the weekend and scouting out some new talent. I’d love it if you could come with me—that is, if you haven’t already made plans for the weekend.”
I had no plans, other than to write. “No, I’d love to. It’s been ages since I’ve been to Florida. Last time I was there, the Wizarding World was just opening.” We had shown up with almost no money in our pockets, and Rennie had convinced them to let us into the park for free.
“Yeah, isn’t that just the darndest thing?” Randy shook his head. “I really thought the place would fold after a few years when the world lost interest in Harry Potter. But they love it. I mean, they absolutely love it.”
As soon as I left work that afternoon, I called Rennie.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked. I could hear what sounded like the whirring of a drill in the background.
“Nothing, I just left work and wanted to see where you were.”
“You ought to come down to the parlor. I’m just finishing up with my last customer, and then I was thinking about heading down to the West End. It’s Friday happy hour, and wings are half off.”
“Sounds cool.” I told her about how Randy and I were flying out to Florida over the weekend.
“Oo, la, la,” said Rennie, so suggestively I could almost hear her eyebrows wagging. “I guess you won’t be getting any writing done this weekend.”
“No, probably not.”
“Where are you going to be staying?”
“We’re flying into Orlando at noon.”
“One hotel room or two?”
I cringed inwardly at the thought. “Hopefully two. I love Randy and all, but I definitely don’t want to spend a night in the same room with my boss.”
“Well, you had better stay vigilant,” she said sagely. “It sounds to me like he wants some of that good good.”
“Eww!” I exclaimed, but I had an uneasy feeling that she was right.