It’s hard to work weekends, especially in these perfect late-fall days. Early November is for Edisto: for roasting oysters over a bonfire at night, watching the soupy fog curdle on the shoreline at sunrise, and kayaking in the tidal creeks at high noon. But I’m stuck at work.
The moment I walked into the newsroom today, I detected a change. Something’s happened. There’s an eerie stillness. It’s always much quieter in here on the weekends, but this is a different sort of quiet.
“Simons.”
An unfamiliar voice summons me from across the newsroom. I turn to see that the voice belongs to a man who looks like he could be Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum’s older brother. He is widest at his middle. His body mass tapers upward at his pin-shaped head and downward at his little feet. Judging from his pallor, he probably hasn’t been outdoors in years.
He motions for me to follow him into his office, which is a corner room that I’d somehow never before been inside. Three of the walls are bare; the fourth has an interior window that overlooks a bit of the newsroom and all of Angela’s desk, which is empty. No computer, no stash of pens, no highlighters, no stack of Post-it notes. Where are the photos of Cooper?
“I’m Don Pendergrass,” he says gruffly, “your new boss. We’re changing things up around here, Simons.”
It’s even more refrigerated here than in the newsroom. I rub the backs of my arms.
“I’ve watched your shows. You’re the best writer we have.”
“Oh, thank you—”
He cuts me off. “So why do you work the shit shifts?”
“I—”
“From now on, you’re the six-o’clock producer. Monday through Friday.”
Oh, wow. “Thank you.” It’s got to be a promotion, for sure.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not a promotion.”
I blink hard, a bit stunned by his foretelling.
“It’s not a promotion because I’m not paying you more. Just consider yourself lucky to have a job.”
Well, balls. More stress but the same salary? Maybe I’d rather stick with the shit shift and work weekends.
“And no more namby-pamby save-the-turtles crap. The six o’clock is the crime and business show.”
“Environmental stories are business stories. And crime stories, for that matter.”
“Wrong. They are stories that just make people feel bad about themselves. People don’t want to feel bad about themselves, or about the wreckage they’re causing. They want to hear about how other people are bad. That’s what pays the bills. We’re running out of money. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Our reporters didn’t know either. So much for being hard-hitting investigators.” He reaches for a Big Gulp, sucks down a third of his soda, and bumps on his sternum as he suppresses a burp. “Who buys our ads?”
“Uh . . .”
“Car dealerships. Now even Granny’s Used Cars won’t buy our airtime. The dealerships are broke, too. We either need to figure out how to boost our ratings, or we need to figure out how to sell cars. And I don’t know how to sell cars.”
The AC has cycled on; an avalanche of cold air tumbles over my shoulders. What a waste of nonrenewable energy. My eyes land back on Angela’s empty desk. “Do you mind if I ask where Angela is?”
“No, I don’t mind. I fired her.”
Oh. Oh no. Poor Angela. The newsroom was her entire universe, other than her dog. No friends. No family in town. Just old Cooper and his bandanas and Santa Claus outfits. Why did he fire her? She gave everything to her job.
“You’re wondering why I fired her. I’ll tell you why.” His chair squeaks as he leans forward. “I had to trim the fat to keep this station alive. I’ll be the acting news director until people stop shitting themselves and start buying cars again.”
It’s at this very moment that I realize I don’t want to work here anymore. I can get a new job. Maybe not here in town, but somewhere daring, like New York. I’ll start looking tonight. And the minute I get an offer, I’ll resign. My shoulders relax. My body almost levitates I feel so light. What have I been doing here all this time? I never even liked it.
“What’s that say on your jacket? That button thing.”
After the funeral, I ransacked my house for my old button maker. I searched in the corners of my closet, under my sink, and in the cupboards next to the stove. I finally found it in a box I had planned on donating to Goodwill sometime around my move back to Charleston. It was one of those items that, when left alone long enough, was eventually forgotten. The last few nights, with steamy cups of tea and soy candles burning, I began to sketch again. I started with the slogan that came to me during Laudie’s funeral. I pinned it to my jacket. “SO OVER MALE GODS.”
He looks at me as though I did just levitate. “You worship fairies or something?”
“Ha!” I laugh, actually enjoying myself for a moment. I’m on my way out of here. I have nothing to lose. Might as well have some fun. “Who doesn’t? Tonight’s a full moon. Kind of auspicious, don’t you think? Maybe place that Big Gulp at the base of a tree, see if the fairies drink it.”
Don considers this for a moment. “I’m a Republican.”
I’m not exactly sure how his response makes sense, and as much fun as it is to say ridiculous things to this sweaty man, I’d rather get out of here and get on with my day. “Gotcha. I’m guessing I don’t need to write today’s shows.”
“No. Meghan’s on it.” Through the glass window, I see her hunched over her keyboard. Her diminutive body seems to have shrunk now that she’s been demoted. His phone buzzes. “Pendergrass, here.”
I seize the moment to hustle out of the room to enjoy my first weekend free in half a year. As I weave through the windowless cube farm, it strikes me how much I don’t ever want to come back.
* * *
On the way home, I blast my music, flipping through the dials and enjoying every song. Rap, country, gospel, metal. I want it all. And when I get to my apartment, I rummage through the old pile of CDs left over from the last tenant. I crank up the volume, kick off my shoes, and let loose. This time, it’s my very own kitchen dance.