Page 29 of The Business Trip

“McCarthy…M…” She scanned the sea of tags. “Oh, here you go. It has your assigned table on it. Can you sign in, please?”

She pointed to a sheet. I scribbled my name in a bold cursive that had a giantTand an even biggerM. It overtook the little box I was supposed to sign in and bled into the boxes above and below me.

“10-4, done and done. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you…” I looked at her name tag as an excuse to get my eyes from her nose ring to that chest again. “Willow. You have a great day now, and if I see your boss, I’ll tell him… orher… that you deserve a raise.”

I gave her a wink and a smile to show her that by saying “or her” I was not sexist.

“My boss is a gender nonconformist and goes by ‘them,’ but thank you,” Willow replied. I thought I saw her smirk.

I turned quickly on my heel, muttering: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” All this lib-tard BS. Boys were boys and girls were girls. You couldn’t mess with nature. I would never call anyone “them” or share a bathroom with a person who couldn’t decide what sex they were. Screw Willow and her whole generation.

The room in front of me was already buzzing with people in a get-to-know-you mode. There was a lot of handshaking and plenty of “nice to meet yous.” The outfit of choice was workprofessional, women mostly in smart-looking pants outfits, men in suit coats or button-down shirts. No one wore jeans. Not a lot of color variation either—mostly muted tans, grays, darker greens, and navy blues. I fit right in, just the way I liked it. The space smelled of aftershave, perfume, and coffee. A good number of people still had disposable cups from the Starbucks in the lobby in their hands.

Glancing at my name tag for my table assignment, I made my way to table four. It had four chairs around it, all set in a semicircle facing a stage. Only one person was already there, a tall Black woman wearing small gold earrings and a dark blue pantsuit. I extended my hand.

“Trent McCarthy, NBC6, Atlanta. You are?” I stole a look at her name tag, but it was truly just for the name tag. Her chest didn’t interest me at all. She had to be at least sixty years old.

“Dorothy Robinson, Boston,” she replied in a voice so deep that it surprised me. “I’m a former investigative journalist. I’ve been at the ABC affiliate for over thirty years, news director for the past eight.”

“Very nice,” I replied. We made a little small talk. Something in the way Dorothy spoke seemed as if she thought I should be impressed by her. I wasn’t. Instead, I was eager for new company, and I got it as another person arrived. This time it was a guy. He was small and wiry, with curly hair and glasses.

“Hello, my name is Alan Kozinski, WNJT, Kalamazoo.”

I sized him up immediately to be a small-market geek who would probably live in Kalamazoo forever. He was the kind of guy I would never be friends with. I was a Sigma Tau. We weeded out dudes like him every year. But wanting to be nice, I did what I always did when I met a new guy, clapping him on the back and talking sports.

“Michigan, huh? You think they’ll make it to the Big Dance?”

“The what?”

“The N-C-Double-A tournament.” What moron didn’t know the Big Dance? “Michigan is solid this year, Al.”

“Oh, basketball, yeah. The University of Michigan is in Ann Arbor,” he said. “It’s on the other side of the state.”

“Is it?” I had gone to school at Illinois, a place I had chosen for its frat and party scene, but aside from a few trips to Chicago, that was the extent of my Midwest knowledge.

“Well, trust me, Al, my pal. Michigan has a chance this year. You keep an eye on them. That center is built like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.” I fake dribbled and took a hook shot to emphasize my point. “Youdo knowwho Kareem is, don’t you?”

He nodded but turned and started talking to Dorothy. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Glancing around, I spotted a woman headed our way, and my eyes stayed on her, hoping she might be our final tablemate. She stood out right away because she had on a bright pink blazer in the sea of monotones, and a shorter black dress that showed her knees and calves. Her shoes kind of looked like weird sneakers. Her hair was brown, slightly wavy, and hung past her ears and just down onto her neck; she had a pretty face. Sure as shit, she was beelining right for our table. My lucky day.

“Are you the fourth person at table four?” I asked in what I considered my “welcome to the party” voice. She hooked a light blue purse on the back of the chair. I could smell a flowery perfume.

“Yes,” she said. “My name is Stephanie Monroe.”

Immediately I decided she was the one I would hit on at this conference. I hadn’t seen anyone hotter than her in the room.

“Trent McCarthy, NBC6, Atlanta, and it certainly is nice to meetyou, Stephanie,” I said, scanning her entire body head totoe. That was always a good opener with hot women; it made them feel sexy.

After introductions all the way around, Stephanie, Alan, Dorothy, and I settled into our seats, and the emcee walked up to the stage and clinked a fork on a glass.

“Welcome, one and all,” she bellowed. “We are so excited to have you at the News Coverage Summit. I hope you all had a good trip to beautiful San Diego. We have a jam-packed few days for you, so let’s get going!”

We spent the next two hours hearing from speakers who shared all kinds of data and PowerPoints. Dorothy and Alan took scrupulous notes. Stephanie and I didn’t. I started to get bored and pulled my phone out a few times, trying not to look like I was checking feeds. I noticed Stephanie also did the same twice but quickly placed her phone back in her purse.

I fiddled with my watch; I daydreamed a little. Most of what the speakers were saying was not computing with me anyway. I liked the way we did things in our newsroom. Some speaker was not going to change me.

For the final stretch before lunch, we were instructed to turn to our tablemates and share some things that were working in our own newsrooms. I cleared my throat and decided that naturally I would be the one to start. I was clearly the leader at table four.

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