meeting concludes with people reading select excerpts of their articles. There is a separate meeting called the Feed Meet, to get feedback before the articles are published, but this is reading the articles after they are already in the magazine. If we really cared we could just grab a copy of this month’s issue, but Herb insists that certain writers should read their articles during our staff meeting. There is no escape, not even in the fresh-squeezed orange juice and bran muffins. After the “special” writer finishes, we all have to applaud.
After the meeting I bring the carnage of the picked-over breakfast by my desk. This means that all day long, I’ll have all of them coming by looking at the leftovers as if there might be some new healthy snack that just appears. They also make goofy jokes about how the food is breaking down and are inspired to talk about how many miles and at what speed they have to bike in order to burn off a certain number of calories. Then it always deteriorates to fiber jokes and bathroom humor. Like I said, exercise geeks.
“Do you need any help?” Brian, the new semester slave, asks me after the meeting. I’m in the midst of e-mailing Tabitha.
“No, I’m fine for now.” Brian lives for these meetings. The bad thing about interns is they remind you of how little you have to do, and thus, how little you can pass onto them. Brian is going to be with us all semester, which means that I have him to look forward to until Christmas. “Why don’t you check out some of our old issues?” Brian is one of those interns who thinks if he asks enough questions and kisses enough ass, he’ll get a job here. When Brian isn’t slaving away or kissing ass, he is harassing me. He seems to think that part of the so-called learning experience is being involved in every aspect of the office.
“Hey, Brian. This—” I cover up my monitor “—is personal. It’s not some important job secret that is being kept from you.”
“Oh, okay.” He goes back to sit at his makeshift desk. I guess I should feel bad for the guy. At least I get paid.
He comes back fifteen minutes later under the pretense of getting a different issue. This time I’m on the Net trying to find Roseanne a recipe for gumbo. This is getting annoying. I quickly switch my computer back to the desktop and pretend to find it amazing. He decides to address me anyway.
“You know, I’m thinking of trying to write an article.” Mother of God.
“Great, Brian.” I don’t take my eyes off the screen, but I’m surprised how annoyed I am that Brian thinks it’s that simple.
“Did you ever think about trying to write?”
“Bikes don’t really interest me.”
“But still, it’s a great opportunity you have here.” I think they must brainwash them at the intern orientation. “I mean, you don’t want to be a receptionist all your life.”
“What?” This time I actually turn and look at him. Now, I have a very long desk that is sort of in the middle of a bunch of offices and cubes, but the receptionist sits in the elevator lobby. “I am not a receptionist! I am a department assistant. Big difference!” Brian walks away with his head hanging. Good riddance. But this raises another more serious question, do I really seem like a receptionist? Image is everything. What if I give off a receptionist image? I call Tabitha.
“If you seem like a receptionist, I seem like a receptionist, and I am certainly not a receptionist.” Tabitha has the same desk that I do and sits in almost the exact same position.
“Do you think it’s the desk? Is that what makes us seem like receptionists?”
“Hey, Eve, don’t clump me into the reception pool. It’s this shitty intern who is ignorant of the ways of Prescott Nelson. Don’t let it bother you. That’s the problem with these interns—they waltz in here with these ideals and think they can run the company.”
“Well, Tabitha, so do we.”
“Well, we can.”
“But here is the question, is there any more dignity in being an assistant than a receptionist?”
“Ah, the conundrum,” says Tabitha as my other line beeps.
“Hold on.” Tabitha sighs as if by putting her on hold I have ruined her day. “Eve Vitali.”
“Eve, Zeke.” Wow!
“Zeke! Hold on, I’m on the other line.”
“Is this a bad time I could—”
“No, I’m just finishing. Hold on.” I click back to Tabitha, who is incidentally singing a Spice Girls’ song, although she stops quickly when she hears me. “Hey, Slutty Spice, that’s Zeke.”
“Return of the Ape Man.”
“Thanks for consoling me about the receptionist thing.” I click back to Zeke. “Hi.” I will be strong. He can’t just decide not to call me and get away with it.
“Oh, Eve,” he growls. I might weaken a little. (I know, I know, but remember, I have needs, too.) “God, I’ve missed you.”
“Really.”
“I had to go to L.A. to check out a band.” I reminisce about why I first liked him. Say ’bye, ’bye receptionist, my carriage awaits. I can get over the hair, I know I can.
“How was it?”
“Oh, you know L.A.” I don’t, but someday I’d like to. “It’s good to be home.”
“Yeah.”
“So, Eve, can I see you?”
I agree to meet Zeke for Jamaican food. I must admit that he has a knack for picking restaurants. Tabitha thinks this signifies a chronic dater, but she gave me her blessing, because I might as well keep on getting some after my long drought. Roseanne wasn’t thrilled about spending the night alone with my parents watching “Nick at Nite,” but she agreed to corroborate my working late story. This being the only reason my mother would accept for not being a proper host to Roseanne.
Anyway, Zeke has on a dizzying shirt. It has black and white swirls and I wonder if he thinks it will hasten my drunkenness. Again, I intend to stand firm.
“Eve.” He gets up and kisses me (yes, on the lips). It’s not one of those gushy kisses—it’s worse. It’s one of those “we have something that won’t be cheapened by saliva, so let me take your face in my hands as if it is an exquisite jewel and kiss you with just a hint of the passion that will hopefully not explode all over the dinner table” kiss. You know the ones? Anyway, it’s troubling.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.
The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.
“I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.
