“How’d the double date go?” Casey asks me the following morning at work. “Did you land the interview?”
I let my head thunk onto my desk. “It sucked. Gwen’s his PR agent.”
“What?”
“I know.” My forehead squeaks against the desk as I turn to look her way. “I’d say it can’t get any worse, but, really, this is pretty much as bad as it can get.”
“Did you have the chance to ask her about The Tribune doing a feature on Duke, at least?”
“She said no.”
“Damn,” Casey says with a shake of her head. She sticks her pen in her mouth, chewing on the cap. It’s a habit that she can never kick once she’s in deep thought. Her desk is littered with teeth-imprinted pen caps. It’s a little disgusting, but who am I to judge?
After a beat of silence, she adds, “Well, it was a good idea. On to the next, I guess.”
On to the next.
The words ring hollow in my ears. Realistically, I know that missing out on an interview with Duke isn’t the end of the world. My brain knows this. I can’t say that my heart recognizes this truth, though.
A knock comes at the door and I lift my head from my desk. Josh, The Tribune’s editor-in-chief and CEO, is standing in the entryway, shifting his weight side to side on his feet. He’s an edgy sort of guy, and by edgy, I’m not talking about his personal style. He’s a constant bundle of untapped nerves in a short, squat body.
As for the personal style part, that’s pretty much nonexistent. Everyday is a cycle of cargo shorts, beaten up sneakers, and a different color polo T-shirt. Usually stained with whatever lunch he scarfs down that day—the polo, I mean.
“Need something, Boss Man?” I ask. Josh never shows up to our office unless something is on his mind. Sometimes, when we’re lucky, Casey and I go weeks without making any contact with him.
Now, to my misfortune, he steps past the threshold and pulls his Red Sox baseball hat farther down over his bald head. “Denton, what’s going on with that ‘special piece’ you were blabbing on about the other day?”
Ah, crap. He’s talking about the Duke exclusive. “Oh, you know”—I run my fingers through my hair and my nail catches on a curl—“it’s going. It’s going great.”
The line of his mouth lifts with hope. “How great?”
I grapple for a believable lie because who am I to be such a hope-killer? “I’m almost done. Maybe just one or two more paragraphs left; some editing.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup!” My voice emerges on a high-pitched squeak. I sense the onslaught of Doom approaching quickly.
“I’d like to see what you’ve got so far. Maybe we can squeeze it into tonight’s edits, so it can go live tomorrow on the website.”
I’m nowhere near complete. Hastily, I scan the papers on my desk, praying that I’ve got something on hand that I can thrust forward as an almost completed project. The sheets fly out from under my palm, drifting down to the floor like my soul.
I’ve got nothing.
I am so screwed.
“You know,” I say, still fervently searching for something that can save my butt from getting the boot, “maybe it’ll be best if it’s a surprise.”
Josh’s brows furrow. “I don’t like surprises.”
Yes, I want to shout, we all know how the editor-in-chief hates surprises. Once, when I first was hired, I walked into Josh’s office to find him turning his socks inside out to, and I quote, “Keep Lady Luck with him during his annual dental exam.”
Give me a scientific study explaining how inside-out-socks statistically make a visit to the dentist suck less, and I’m right there with you. Until then, no.
I give one more pass over my unorganized mess and sigh. There’s no way I’m climbing myself out of this hole. This is it, I can feel it in my arthritic left shin. The moment I’m fired. “Josh?”
He pushes his Sox cap back on his head, all the better to stare me down. “Yes, Charlie?”
“I lied, just now.”
Casey gasps and then promptly rushes from the room.
Traitor.
Arms crossing over his square chest, Josh takes another step into our 1970s replica office. “I know, Charlie.”
I blink. “You do?”
“You’re a shit liar,” he informs me with a nod. He invites himself to Casey’s lumpy chair, acting a little surprised when he sits and the chair protests with an audible creeeeek. “You’ve always been a shit liar. Remember when I first hired you and you swore up and down that you’d personally interviewed Tom Brady?”
“Now, I didn’t say that exactly.” My wince is the stuff of legends; it cannot be concealed. “I’d said that I had interviewed Tim Brady, former Boston University hockey player. Minor difference.”
My interview with Tim Brady had taken place at a college frat party with BU’s golden hockey boy head first over the toilet. As Tim had prayed to the porcelain gods after way too many rounds of Jagerbombs with his teammates, I had questioned him on his stick play, his love for the penalty box, and why in the hell he’d decided to screw the coach’s wife.
The meat of the story, ladies and gentlemen.
Never let it be forgotten that Charlie Denton didn’t pull through for journalism.
Regardless, Josh is not looking so appreciative at the moment. His hat is resting on his knee and the fluorescent light is reflecting off his shiny head. “You said you interviewed Tom Brady,” he clips out.
I hold up a finger. “Tim Brady,” I correct pleasantly. “Trust me, I wish I could pull off an interview with the Patriots’ G.O.A.T.”
Josh’s knee bounces up and down, and he actually bites his lower lip like he really wants to tear me a new one, but is reviewing The Tribune’s HR policies in his head. Then, almost without warning, he blurts out, “Duke Harrison.”
“Excuse me?”
“Duke Harrison,” he repeats, slapping his Sox hat back on his head and pulling the brim low again. “We talked about doing a feature piece on him. Well, now I want you to interview him personally.”
I blindly reach for my coffee mug only to remember that I drained the last dregs over an hour ago. “You do realize that it’ll be pretty difficult to nail that down, right?”
Josh presents me with his back as he heads for the door. “I’m aware,” he throws over his shoulder nonchalantly.
My hands go to my desk for leverage as I stand, so that I can see him over the desktop monitor. “You’re aware that it might be difficult?” I try to keep my voice level, I really, really do, but I’m also internally panicking. I’ve been hounding Duke for days now, to no avail. And that was before my boss decided to officially assign me the story I was already chasing. “What if I can’t make it happen?”
He pauses. Twists around. “The same way you couldn’t make that interview happen with Tom Brady, NFL megastar?” This time, Josh doesn’t even wait for my response. “If this interview doesn’t happen, then you’re not a real sports journalist, Charlie.”
“Josh,” I say slowly in a tone that’s mostly reserved for dealing with wayward children on the verge of a temper tantrum, “I’m not sure what’s changed from yesterday. I’m going to get you that article, I promise. I’ll whip something up, get it prepped. You’ll have it by three p.m. this afternoon.”
“The Duke Harrison feature,” he announces curtly. His face is a mask of ambivalence and I’m more than positive that mine is red and blotchy from sudden stress. “I’ll be nice and give you until next Friday. That’s all of eight days from now.”
Eight days. I have eight days or . . . I gulp back my fear and ask, “What happens if I don’t make the deadline?”
Josh straightens out the brim of his hat like he means business. “You’ll be demoted.”
“To what?” There’s nothing below me. It’s not like The Cambridge Tribune is teaming with interns. Each “department” is bare bones. Hell, we clean our own offices—or, we did, until the vacuum broke. I suspect even the vacuum couldn’t take the 70’s throwback décor anymore.
“You’ll be my secretary.”
My mouth drops open at Josh’s words. I can honestly think of nothing less I would rather do than to be his go-to grunt girl. His last three secretaries have quit within a week. Not, however, because he’s demanding, but rather because he grows a bit too touchy-feely during late work nights.
Rumors spread.
I’m not about that life.
“Josh,” I try again, giving one more go at reasoning with the man who’s universally known among the office staff for being unreasonable, “Let’s think this over, maybe? How about we let go of this Duke thing and go for someone more realistic, like someone on the . . . the Kennedy High School’s basketball team. I can swing that, easily.”
“No.”
Would it be too embarrassing if I cry right now? I think it just might be.
Josh turns for the door one last time. “It’s Duke Harrison or nothing, Charlie. Oh! And before I forget, I recommend that you stop using your work computer for job hunting. It’s against company policy.”
And with that, my boss struts his way out of the room. I promptly drop to my chair, ignoring the way it jerks and twitches under the sudden onslaught of my weight. I do, however, gird myself for abruptly falling to the floor.
When it seems that I’m safe for yet another day, I stare sightlessly at the computer. Sure enough, I actually have the Careers page pulled up for The Boston Globe. I wouldn’t think that Josh is smart enough to have my Internet browser tracked, but clearly I’m wrong on that score.
I should probably tell Casey to stop checking her online dating website, but since she skipped out and left me to the wolves, I’ll hold off . . . for now.
So, it has come to this: Duke Harrison or becoming Josh Wharton’s office bitch. If there was ever any doubt in mind about what moves needed to be made next, none of it still exists in the aftermath of my conversation with Josh.
I snag my phone from its place in my top drawer and open the Twitter app. Duke’s message about me having a good day is the last one that came through. Not. Any. Longer.
My fingers fly across the touchscreen, and this time there’s no deliberation. I hit SEND within fifteen seconds and then stare down at the words:
I need that interview. Name your price.
