here I was, laboring at the task of crafting the story of Ms. Sienna Skye, attempting to inject heroic purpose into her work as…well, as whatever it is that she does.
Of course, telling the “story” of Sienna Skye is a mind-numbing affair to be sure, but despite her endless references to the powers of yogilates and her colonic therapist, there is a story there, nonetheless.
You see, everyone has a story. This I know for certain. The trick is to weed out all of the standard, boring parts that muddle up the narrative. Of course, you might find it all very interesting—the childhood crushes, the “hilarious” high-school pranks, the first car and the last deadbeat boyfriend. It’s your life, after all. Frankly, and I speak with some authority on the matter, no one else cares. Really. Better you realize that now, then on the winding-up side of a long-ass explanation of your last blind-date fiasco.
The trick is to find “the hook,” that little kernel of experience where your life and other people caring about it intersect. I suppose you could call me a “hooker,” which is actually a fitting alternate title for a TV producer, if I’ve ever heard one.
So, what’s my story then? That’s a question I don’t find so easy to answer. Of course, I could easily do the In Style version. That’s my job after all:
One might suspect the striking young woman seated before me to be an aspiring young model or perhaps the pretty young thing of some high-powered television executive. In fact, she’s Lena Sharpe and she is fast becoming a power player in the world of television all on her own. At this moment, however, she’s sitting with me in a charming café just down the street from her new Tribeca loft trying to decide between the egg-white omelette and the granola fruit plate. She looks glamorous, yet casual in slim Katayone Adeli pants and a crisp white Prada shirt (see how you can get Lena Sharpe’s look on here!), and I can’t help but notice the steady stream of gentlemen heading for the pay phone to sneak a look. She wears not a trace of makeup, but her skin appears virtually devoid of pores. (“Just a little soap and water. Nothing fancy. You can’t worry too much about your beauty regime when you’re field reporting in the Balkans!” she insisted earlier with a laugh.) “So, what would you like to know?” As Lena looks up from her menu and smiles brightly it becomes all too clear how this talented young reporter has won over an unprecedented Internet fan following as well as a coveted spot on People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People list….
But what about the 60 Minutes version? The Mike-Wallace-in-a-trench-coat-with-a-roving-camera-crew-and-a-running-litany-of-hard-hitting-questions version? Well, that was tougher. That required the truth and a lot of independent sources. What, in the end, would my story be? I kept turning the pages, past the twists and the turns and the disappointing moments, but I couldn’t even find where my real story began.
chapter 2
“Hey, Lena, your phone’s ringing,” I heard Sal shouting at me.
Dammit, Nick, I thought, but then immediately relaxed when I saw the number.
“Lena. Meet me at the corner of Tenth and C at ten o’clock.”
I could feel a wide smile spread across my face. It was Jake. And that meant that my night had taken a sudden U-turn for the better. You see what I mean? It can be as simple as that. Just one phone call, and everything changes. The city opens its arms and lets you play its secret games. Your moment could be just around the corner.
Of course, when I got to the corner, Jake wasn’t there—not that I had really expected him to be. He wasn’t the type to loiter for anyone.
I noticed a wobbly couple stumbling down the stairs of an unmarked brownstone and I had a hunch that that was my intended destination. Once inside, I followed the echoes of a throbbing bass up a spiral staircase. The building was abandoned and police caution tape lay tangled in a mess of cinderblocks in the corner. If I didn’t know Jake as well as I do (or if I hadn’t lived in a building with a similar aesthetic for several years), I might have been more than a little afraid.
At the top of the stairs, a guy with hooded eyes and a vintage Gucci fedora leaned against the door.
“Who do you know?” He squinted at me critically. I appreciated his ability to remain haughty and suspicious of my cool factor despite his obvious stupor—quite a talent.
“Jake Dunn.”
He glanced at the door in approval.
I rolled my eyes and entered. The place resembled a cross between a professor’s library and an opium den. Couples lounged about in various configurations on the pillow-strewn floor. A midriff-bearing waif with a swan’s neck balanced a tray of drinks with Hindi-painted hands. The scene was quintessential Jake. His coolness barometer was so precise he couldn’t even hang out at bars anymore—they were too passé for him before they even opened to the general public. For the past year or so, he had taken to organizing “social spaces”(as he would call them) in abandoned apartments or buildings. That way, he could quickly change venues before “the wrong crowd” (read: anyone who lived—or would consider living—above Fourteenth Street) caught on. This wasn’t a Jake event, but I could only assume it was the work of one of his acolytes.
Through the clouds of smoke, incense and various vapors of the illegal variety, I saw Jake’s profile. Not surprisingly, he was the center of a swelling crowd.
How could I sum up Jake? Physically, he is tall and lean with dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes, which he knows how to use to full effect. More simply put, however, Jake is just cool. He knows it, I know it, and just about everyone who enters his orbit knows it, too.
Now don’t assume he’s just another snide hipster who chooses to define himself by his Alphabet City address and perpetual lack of employment. Jake, I long ago decided, sees it all for the game that it is—and he’s the one to beat. The world is his to mock. I tell him he’s so far ahead of the rest of us that he has to work to keep things interesting. He kind of likes that explanation.
So what, you may be wondering, does he see in me? Honestly, I’m still not quite sure. We shouldn’t fit together, but somehow we just do.
I took a seat on a leopard-print chaise and quickly put on my studiously nonchalant “I’m alone at a party, but that means I’m independent, not dorky” face. A strung-out guy wearing entirely too much crushed velvet sat across from me. I began to ponder this point: Should a man ever wear crushed velvet? (I’m leaning toward no).
“Hey, sexy, you look thirsty.” Jake slid his arm around my shoulder and handed me my drink. And yes, I do mean my drink. At the moment, it was Absolut Currant with cranberry juice. Jake has counseled me that a signature drink is a crucial element of one’s personal style. I humor him (but of course it’s Jake, so I also follow his lead).
“Oh…my…God.” Jake fixed his eyes on a wide-eyed couple huddled at the door. “Honestly, pressed khakis? This place is dangerous. I shouldn’t have lured you here.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was either this or face the artist colony that is my apartment right now.”
“What? Nick the Dick?” he asked with bemusement. “Time to give that artist a chance to struggle.”
Jake says that there is no such thing as a regretful relationship if you get a good story from it. With Nick, I had my starving-artist story all set, not to mention a nude oil painting of myself to drag out when I got really drunk.
“So,
