Episode 2: “But I can’t even swim…”
Stick a fork in me, I was done.
Well, mostly just hungover, but considering I was only an hour into my day and already daydreaming about my bed, I was pretty sure the impromptu girls’ night with Allie had only been a good idea up until the point where I had to come into work the next morning.
I stared mindlessly at my laptop, and the sounds of coworkers chatting and starting their workday battered against my skull.
The resident writers of Scoop have a communal cubicle area on the fourth floor of our building in Manhattan known as the bullpen, and I sit just about dead center of it. I’m hoping, with what I’m assuming will be the great success of this amazing podcast, I’ll get moved out of this spot and into one with more natural light.
I’m much more knowledgeable about floor-to-ceiling glass windows than I am about bullpens. Hell, I’m not even one hundred percent sure where the term bullpen comes from. A sport, I presume, but hell if I know which one.
As I scrolled through my go-to websites, checking out the morning’s latest news, my stomach turned over with its leading headline: Lucky Needs to Vomit
Off-putting, I know, but my stomach is about as lyrically talented as Toby, our resident political guru at Scoop.
I’m sorry if you’re listening, Toby, but you should know, that morning, and pretty much any other morning when you prattle on and on about some tweet from a senator to pretty much anyone who will listen, I discreetly flip you the middle finger from behind my cubicle wall.
You’re a really nice guy, but for the love of God, I’d rather stab my ears out with a nail file than listen to one more interesting fact about Senator Anderson.
[laughs]
Something tells me I might come out of this podcast with a couple fewer friends than I started with.
Still, there’s one friend I can’t seem to shake, and you should all know by now, her name is Allie.
And that Thursday morning, the traitorous wench was way too goddamn chirpy as she smiled at my brilliant display of the bird and asked me how I was.
“I am currently shouting profanity at you, but I’m too hungover to actually say it out loud,” I muttered and put my head in my hands. “Seriously? Why did you let me drink so much last night?”
The perfectly charismatic smile on her face zoomed into focus, and suddenly, the level of her treachery came rushing back. “And how in the hell did you get away with drinking freaking soda all night?”
I’d been too busy imbibing to notice the night before, but for as much as she was pushing the booze like an all-out dealer, Allie hadn’t participated at all herself.
She just grinned. “You just need some coffee, and you’ll be all set.”
What I needed was never to listen to her girls’ night ideas again.
[laughs]
Spoiler alert: My track record on this little promise to myself isn’t exactly impressive.
Still, I felt like shit, and clearly, Allie was to blame.
What kind of friend thinks it’s a good idea for their depressed bestie to drink a shot of tequila for every jerk boyfriend they’ve ever had?
Certainly not one whose bestie has so many damn exes.
“I’m never drinking alcohol again.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what everyone says the next day.”
“Yeah, well, this time, I mean it.”
“And that’s also what everyone says.”
“You’re getting on my nerves. And, it should be noted, you are the very reason I’m sitting here wondering how I’m going to get through my monthly article pitch with Vanessa in an hour.”
“You love me, and you’ll be fine.”
“Right now, it doesn’t feel very much like love. Your unwarranted optimism is grating on my nerves.”
“You just need some coffee—and maybe a trip to the bathroom to freshen up your makeup,” she said through a soft laugh.
“What makeup?” I questioned. I had no makeup. I was lucky I’d managed to get dressed without vomiting on myself that morning. The reality that I’d even pulled it together enough to put on my favorite secondhand Chanel dress and nude pumps was a miracle.
Which, as a sidenote, is the complete opposite of my usual MO.
For those of you who don’t follow my Scoop columns, I’m a fashionista through and through. And while I can’t afford designer clothes at retail prices, New York is a fashion mecca and has more secondhand vintage shops than the Midwest has McDonald’s.
Not to mention, ever since my mom passed away several years ago from breast cancer, it’s been something I do for nostalgia’s sake.
She loved to shop, and finding vintage bargains was her thing. And about the time I turned thirteen, it became our thing.
[clears throat]
Anyway, even though I’d managed to dress the part of a successful New York columnist that day, I’d really dropped the ball when it came to hair and makeup.
Allie looked me over again with a little, knowing smile. “How about I make a quick Starbucks run for some coffee, and you focus on making yourself look a little more presentable?” she asked, and I put my head in my hands again.
“‘A little more presentable’? Is that your nice way of saying ‘you look like shit’?”
“Yes.” She patted my shoulder. “Go wash your face, maybe attempt to brush your hair, and put on some makeup to hide the bags under your eyes. I’ll run across the street and manage a non-boozy hangover cure for you.”
“I should probably say thank you, but seeing as this is your fault, I’m refusing pleasantries and manners.”
Allie grinned as she rose to her feet, and with an encouraging squeeze to my shoulder, she headed back down the hall on her heels while I attempted to relocate myself to the bathroom.
Just before I found the strength to haul my ass out of my chair, my phone pinged with a text message.
I figured it was Allie offering some stupid inspirational quote about having a great day or something, but sadly, I was completely wrong. It was a text from an unknown number from hell.
Lucky, it’s Tiago. I know you’ve probably blocked my other number, but please, let me talk to you. I want to explain. Call me back at this number. Please.
Yeah, the bastard wanted to explain. Trust me, I’d also love to know how he planned to explain faking an international move to break up with me.
But I refused to take the bait. He could go peddle his bullshit to someone else who actually cared.
With my fingers to my phone, I completed the first important task of the day. I blocked the asshole. Again.
Then, I forced myself out of my chair and into the bathroom, where I managed to run a brush through my hair and put enough concealer on my face to hide the dark circles.
That day might’ve been shit, but that didn’t mean I had to look like it.
An hour later, I sat beside Allie inside the conference room with the rest of Scoop’s columnist staff as we waited for our hard-ass boss to arrive.
Vanessa is notoriously on time and always prepared. In fact, she’s the best boss ever.
[pauses]
Hi, Vanessa! Hope you’re loving the podcast.
Just like always, you made quite the showing that day. I’ll probably overdramatize the theatrics of your meeting aesthetic for shock value in the name of listenership, so just, you know…don’t pay too much attention.
[nervous laughter]
Anyway, back to the story.
“Okay, people! Hit me with your pitch ideas and make sure they’re good,” Vanessa said as she stepped into the conference room at ten a.m. on the dot. She tossed her infamous little black notebook down in front of her seat at the head of the table. It hit the wood with a soft but ominous thud.
Instantly, the mood shifted.
If I compared our monthly pitch meetings with Vanessa to a firing squad, it would be an understatement.
I shifted in my seat and took a sip from my now half-empty cup of Starbucks Allie had picked up for me. I grimaced when the hot and bitter aftertaste of their Pike’s Place blend rolled down my throat.
As an aside—and I know this is going to sound blasphemous to most people—I’m not the biggest fan of Starbucks. When it comes to their darker brews, I might as well be drinking gasoline straight from the pump.
Sorry, Starbucks, but your brew is bitter, dude.
[laughs softly]
I guess it’s safe to say they won’t be sending me any promotional baskets if they listen to this podcast, huh?
Regardless, I am a coffee addict through and through, and there was no way in hell I would’ve been able to get through that hangover and meeting without the caffeine.
So, I drank the damn gasoline like it was my only lifeline for survival.
The room turned silent as Vanessa sat down in her chair, crossed her legs, and stared at the twelve of us sitting in front of her.
The weak would be caught and eaten.
And, as I glanced down at my notes for this month’s articles, it became startlingly clear I was the weakest link.
Seriously, guys, they were bad. So much so, I had to close my eyes.
Against my better judgment, I’ll read through a few, just so you have an idea.
Number One: Compare dating to cheese. Think mozzarella, gouda, parmesan…
[audible groan]
Number Two: A quiz showcasing your dating style based off of your favorite dog breeds.
Because everyone wants to compare their love life to a corgi, right?
Number Three: Dating with your political views in mind.
There’s nothing sexier than politics to find true love. Not to mention, the idea of doing field research with Toby is the equivalent of hell on earth.
And for one last taste of my rotten ideas, Number Four: Foods to avoid on your first date.
There’s nothing better than an in-depth, hard-hitting piece about the intestinal effects of Mexican food, am I right?
[laughs again]
See what I mean?
My ideas that day belonged in the trash with the rest of garbage.
And, sadly, I had another ten just like those ones inside my notebook.
No doubt about it, they weren’t going to win me a Noble Prize or, more importantly, any brownie points from Vanessa.
At least I had somewhere to focus my anger other than myself.
Tiago.
I mean, when was the last time someone faked an international move just to get away from you?
Never?
Well then. Take it from me.
It’s the kind of scenario that would screw with anyone’s head.
So, I’m sure you can imagine, by that point in the meeting, with my shitty pitch ideas in front of me and Vanessa’s eagle eyes at the head of the table, I was starting to feel a bit nervous…
“Landon?” Vanessa called out her first victim, and internally, I sighed in relief.
I knew it was a short-lived kind of thing, but I guess I thought maybe I’d come up with something noteworthy on the fly, before she locked eyes with me and called my name.
“Well…” Landon, Scoop’s resident foodie, fidgeted in his seat and adjusted his tie. He was probably in the same boat as me, but he wasn’t me. So, so sorry, Landon, you were on your own.
“I was thinking…” He paused again, and it only took point five seconds for Vanessa to strike.
“You were thinking?” Her bright red lips morphed into a scowl. “That’s good news, Landon. How about you go ahead and pitch your ideas to us before we waste away from boredom?” she asked. Her nails matched her lips, and let me tell you, she made it clear they were far more fascinating than Landon’s shitty effort at stalling.
Red is a staple in Vanessa’s wardrobe, by the way.
Red lipstick. Red nail polish. Red dress. It’s like she wears her past employees’ proverbial blood on her clothes as a shrine.
And that day was no different. The only thing not red on her body was her heels. But they were Louboutins, so, yeah, the soles sported crimson.
“Right. Right.” Landon chuckled nervously in response. “I want to do a showcase piece where I visit popular mom-and-pop restaurants throughout the city and encourage our readers to give small businesses a chance.”
Vanessa glared. “So, you want to publish a story about Joe Schmoe’s hot pastrami sandwiches and potato salad?”
“Uh… not exactly…”
“It’s either a yes or a no, Landon,” she said. “Either you think this is a good idea for a cutting-edge, always on trend website like Scoop or not?”
“Well, it sounded good, but now I’m not so sure…”
“So, now, not only are you wasting our time with shitty ideas, you’re also indecisive?” she questioned, but she did not give him even a second to respond. “How about we all learn a little lesson from Landon today? Come to our meetings prepared with ideas that are actually worthy of my time, or else you might end up at risk for a thirty-day demotion to the mail room.”
Landon’s eyes went wide, and my loins attempted to gird. I’m not sure they knew, or will ever know, how to perform the action, but they sure as hell tried.
“What are you waiting for?” Vanessa said directly to him and gestured an apathetic hand toward the door. “The mail room is waiting.”
An uneasy rattle left his lungs as he cleared his throat. “Are you serious?”
“Obviously, indecision is a staple for you, but I can tell you, I never say anything I’m not certain about,” she retorted with a lift of her index finger. “Now, get out of my conference room, and we’ll see you next month. Hopefully, the mail room will inspire you to get your shit together.”
Talk about a rampage.
It was at about that time that I started internally freaking out and trying to search out some kind of pitch that wouldn’t get me demoted, or worse, fired.
I glanced down at my notebook and frantically scanned the pages for inspiration. I had to come up with something or else I’d be sitting beside Landon, stuffing envelopes and licking fucking stamps.
Out of the corner of my eye, Allie picked up her pen and started furiously jotting down notes on her yellow pad of paper.
She only did that when brilliance spiked, and I took a large inhale through my nose in the hope that creativity had the power to permeate through the air, into my nostrils, and inside my brain.
“Lucky?” Vanessa’s voice might as well have been a buzzer going off in my ears.
Time was up, and I was fucked.
I looked up and met Vanessa’s already irritated gaze. Landon’s crappy potato salad idea had really sucked out whatever positive energy was left in the room, and there hadn’t been much to begin with.
“Your pitch ideas?” she asked, and I knew if I didn’t give her something, anything, she’d bare her fangs and eat me alive.
[laughs]
Again, Vanessa, if you’re still listening—for the love of God, I hope not—you’re lovely.
[hums]
Where was I?
Oh, that’s right. The desperate plight of a manic woman trying to figure out how not to screw up her entire career.
I glanced down at my notebook again and scrolled through my ideas in the hope that something would magically appear on the page. All the while, the Jeopardy theme song played inside my head.
Hell, maybe it played outside of my head too. You’d have to ask the other people in the room, though, and I doubt Toby is going to be amped up to answer any of you after listening to this.
“Lucky?” Vanessa said my name again, and before I knew it, I blurted out my pitch idea.
“Cheese!”
[deep sigh]
Yeah, I know, of all the things to choose, I picked cheese.
Literal face palm.
Trust me, my boss wasn’t amused either.
“Cheese?” Vanessa asked and quirked her eyebrow all the way to her hairline. “Are you hungry, or are you seriously trying to tell me your idea is about cheese?”
I stumbled. I fumbled. I just about swallowed my tongue. “Uh…Well…I—”
“She’s just kidding!” Allie chimed in beside me, and I looked toward her with what had to be the entire world’s panic written across my face.
I mean, clearly, I needed the help, but if her grand plan included me coming up with something better than aged dairy, we were both royally screwed.
Luckily, as it turns out, my vivacious blond sidekick is markedly better under pressure than I am.
“We actually have something we came up with together.”
Vanessa nodded for her to continue, and I crossed out the first line of the letter I’d started to pen Allie’s friends and family in anticipation of explaining her sudden disappearance. I’m not saying I was plotting her murder…but yeah. Make of it what you will.
“The Professional Surfing League is currently in the middle of this year’s men’s championship circuit, and we already have one sponsor interested in filling the pages of Scoop with ads to promote surfing to the public. Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a human interest piece running beside all of it. They want more eyes on their bread and butter, and I honestly think we’re more than prepared to help them achieve that goal.”
[laughs]
Are you wondering what surfing had to do with me?
Yeah, we’re on the same page, guys. Fuck if I knew.
“Keep going,” Vanessa said, and Allie obliged.
“Lucky would go on location to the rest of the events in the competition and give our readers a day-to-day insight into the life of a surfer and the overall competitive surfing league.”
I would do what?
“Lucky would go on location?” Vanessa asked. “Do tell how this would help achieve the end goal.”
What in the hell was Allie doing? I wondered.
I didn’t know jack shit about surfing. Hell, I didn’t even know how to swim…
[pauses and awkwardly laughs]
Yes, I’m aware of how ridiculous that sounds when it comes out of a twenty-seven-year-old woman’s mouth, but sadly, it was the truth.
I didn’t know how to swim. At all. If you’d pushed me into the deep end of the pool that day, I’d have sunk like a fucking rock.
Of course, no one in the conference room, including Allie, was aware of that fact.
Tsk me all you want, mighty saint listeners, but if you can honestly tell me you don’t have some silly little secret you haven’t told anyone…well, just go ahead and keep it to yourself because you’re a liar.
“Yes,” Allie responded confidently. “I think that’s what this series of articles needs. Most people don’t know anything about surfing. And, obviously, when it comes to this, Lucky is most people. But she’s also extremely clever and funny. And I know her creative twists on her experiences would only put a bigger spotlight on the sport itself.”
Silence descended over the room, and let me tell you, I made them all seem like heavy conversationalists.
Between Vanessa’s potential wrath and the idea of spending months on location near big ole giant bodies of water, my heart was two seconds away from crawling out of my throat and plopping itself onto my notebook of crappy ideas. I couldn’t speak. Not even if I’d wanted to.
Then the inconceivable happened, and Vanessa agreed to it.
She and Allie went back and forth, rapid fire, hashing out the details. My head bounced between them like a pinball.
“I think you might be onto something. When would she leave?”
“The sooner, the better since they’re nearly halfway through the competition.”
“And who is the sponsor that’s interested in increased coverage?”
“My brother Ollie’s company, Surf Arsen. They create some of the best surfboards and equipment in the world.”
“Big budget?”
“Very big budget. More than enough to jet Lucky across the world to exotic locales and bolster Scoop’s ad account generously.”
“Approval granted.”
Boom. Just like that, they’d planned the next few months of my life with the finesse of a bomb.
The conference room didn’t go up in flames, but my fate was sealed.
“Are you sure?” I asked in the hope that maybe someone inside the meeting would realize somewhere along the way we’d all gone insane. “I mean, this idea isn’t completely fleshed out and—”
“I’m certain,” Vanessa affirmed. I knew not to ask any more questions.
“Okay, moving right along,” she announced to the room.
Final answer. End of story. I was headed to Australia.
The meeting moved on around me, and I hardly noticed when Sandra left the room crying.
Obviously, my subconscious had absolutely no mercy. Boo-hoo, Sandra. I have my own shit to worry about.
I like to think I’m more compassionate than that when I’m actually aware, but who the hell knows. When I get done telling this story, you all will have to let me know.
Anyway, by the time Vanessa had called it a day and left the conference room, I was ready to choke Allie.
“What the hell?” I whisper-yelled. “I know nothing about surfing!”
“First of all, I think you should be giving me a little less attitude and a lot more devotion. We both know if you had continued with your dating cheese pitch, Vanessa would’ve shoved her heel up your ass.”
I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t dating cheese. It was comparing dating to different types of cheese.”
She quirked a brow, and I gave in.
I think we all know my cheese wheel had no legs to stand on.
“Look, I know it was awful, and I appreciate that you were trying to help me out, but a surfing competition? Are you out of your mind?”
“Girl, after all of that bullshit with Tiago, you need a vacation. Six months at the beach is going to be perfect for you. Plus, if I’m being honest, it helps me out a little…”
[laughs]
Just in case you’re not familiar…when a friend starts a statement with if I’m being honest, that’s the time to start paying attention. Everything else they’ve said prior has been complete horseshit, conveniently utilized to help their case.
Even in this case, when the reason for her pawn job wasn’t exactly apparent.
I mean, I was headed to several exotic locations, one of which she knew as home, and would be spending time covering something she loved, with people she knew.
If she didn’t want to go, there had to be a con in there somewhere.
Hell, for all I knew, her brother was, like, a devil-worshiper or something. It wasn’t like she’d ever talked about him in detail.
“Helps you out?” I asked. “Just to recap, this is a trip to the beach…with your brother…to cover a sport…right?”
She laughed. Ha-ha-ha, isn’t it so cute that I know something you don’t?
“What am I missing here?” I pushed, getting impatient. “Does your brother breathe fire or something?”
“Ollie? No way. He’s the black sheep of the family, but, like, successful. He just surfs instead of playing rugby. He used to be on the pro circuit himself, but he’s retired now. He’s a nice guy, and he’ll look out for you.”
If I narrowed my eyes any more at that point, I wouldn’t have been able to see out of them.
Finally, the little smoke-blower sighed. “Sam is tired of me always going on work trips.” Allie shrugged. “Especially now.”
Especially now. I had no idea what she meant by that, but I had an extensive background in Law & Order. If anyone could solve this mystery, it would be me.
Deep in the back of my mind, I ticked off the facts as I knew them.
She didn’t drink the night before.
She fucking loved the beach and loved work trips even more.
The trip would include her getting to see her mysterious brother, and she’d be covering one of the most vacation-like sports of all time…
All that was missing was a bloody knife and an unexplained bullet hole, but I had faith if I just kept looking long enough, while playing ominously toned music in the background, I would find the answer.
Still, it didn’t make sense.
Until it did.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, and her eyes widened as they met mine. “Are you…?” I paused and glanced down at her stomach, and instinctively, her hand reached up to cover her still-flat belly. “Are you pregnant?”
“Uh…”
“Oh my God! You’re pregnant?” I low-grade shrieked. I mean, we were in an office setting, but my best friend, my gal pal, my main bitch was pregnant.
Still is, by the way. How the hell long does it take to cook one of those, again? I really thought I’d have a baby to distract me by now.
[mumble from producer]
No. Obviously, I know how long pregnancy lasts, but this outrage is metaphoric. Just go with it.
[sighs]
Anyway, we did our friendship dance, jumping and circling and swirling with joy. I was the one really doing all of the moving, but she smiled pretty big.
It was only after we hugged and cried a little that she swore me to secrecy. At the time, she was only seven weeks along, and sharing with the gossips who worked in our building wasn’t really high on her to-do list.
But food was. Shocking, right?
After I got my shit under control, we headed out to the deli down the street to do the friendship thing.
Squealing. Gabbing. Mooning at each other over the table.
But mostly, she attempted to fill me in on the basics of surfing, Australia, and her brother Ollie.
According to her, it was all exactly what I needed, but I wasn’t so sure.
Still, there was no going back.
When Vanessa made a decision, she fucking made a decision.
I would be on assignment, following a goddamn surf competition around the world, and I’d be doing it under the watchful eye of Allie’s enigmatic brother.
And that’s the real headline, isn’t it? No offense, Allie, your pregnancy is worthy of great news and attention, obviously.
But come on. What’s the whole reason I’m here with all of you, recording this podcast right now?
Exactly. The jerk to top all jerks—Ollie.