Page 7 of The Close-Up
I shove the thought aside and skim over his “About Me” section. Simon is a licensed individual and couples’ therapist. He conducts one-on-one and couples sessions out of his home office but also holds seminars for men who want to be better husbands and boyfriends. Dozens of testimonials on his site speak of how he helped people strengthen their relationships.
“Don’t worry, Simon’s not one of those loathsome pickup-artist types.” Fiona wrinkles her slender nose.
I read on and see that Simon addresses this exact issue in the latter half of his “About Me.”
Warning: This is not pickup-artist garbage. Men who teach other men how to degrade and disrespect women are not welcome in any of my classes. I focus on improving relationships through self-examination, becoming more emotionally aware, and learning to be more vulnerable with yourself and your partner. If I catch any of you PUAs in my classes, I’ll throw you out myself.
I hand Fiona back her phone.
“You’re going to convince him to do his first-ever exclusive interview,” she says.
For a second I don’t say anything as I try to process all that Fiona has thrown at me.
“I know you normally pitch your own ideas, and I appreciate the initiative you take,” she says after a moment, seeming to notice my hesitation. “But I don’t want to sleep on this. My instinct tells me that this is going to be a huge hit. And you’re the only editor at Dash who I trust to do this interview justice.”
I soak up the compliment. Fiona isn’t one to throw around praise willy-nilly.
“Next week is August. I want three ten-minute interview segments we can run with ads at the beginning of the month.” She studies her phone screen once more. “See when is the soonest you can talk to him. I want him on Dash before anyone else has a chance to snag him.”
Her confidence in me unleashes a quiet motivation inside. I probably have close to a zero percent chance at sitting down with Simon after what happened last night. But I have to at least try.
“I won’t let you down,” I say to Fiona before she walks to her office.
My phone buzzes with another text from Harper.
Harper: Did you eat yet? You need to eat.
Me: Screw eating. CALL ME! You won’t believe what just happened.
One unanswered email and one voicemail later, still no word from Simon.
With any other assignment, I’d call this typical. Loads of the people I contact for interviews take at least a couple days to get back to me. But I haven’t vomited on any interview prospects before. Or shamelessly flirted with them. That’s likely why I haven’t heard from Simon.
As I sit on Harper’s plush couch, I mindlessly scroll through my email. It’s another late night at work for her, so that means I get her one-bedroom apartment in Nob Hill all to myself. I glance at the pile of boxes in the corner of her apartment by the door. I’m staying with her until I can find a place of my own.
Sighing, I set my glass down on the coffee table and pull up Simon’s website and read through all the info. A section in his bio catches my eye:
Yes, I was a cam guy. No, you can’t call me the p*ssy whisperer. No, I’m not ashamed of it, but I’m a therapist now and I want that to be my focus. Please respect that. But what I will say is this: it was fun as hell to cam. You’d be a lot less angry and judgmental—and a hell of a lot happier—if you spent more time focusing on yourself and less time policing the sex other consenting adults have.
I burst out laughing. His sense of humor and no-nonsense tone makes me think he’d be a lot of fun to interview.
I play a two-minute-long clip from one of his seminars at a crowded conference room. A thirty-something man in the middle of the rows of chairs stands up and describes his relationship problem: his girlfriend complains about how he’s not as thoughtful as she wants him to be.
The guy shrugs. “I mean, I do a lot, you know? I go to work every day. I take out the trash. I remember her birthday. I remember our anniversary. It just rubs me the wrong way that she thinks it’s not enough. And then when I ask her what more I should be doing she gets mad. I’m just trying to communicate.”
I roll my eyes.
Simon stands at the front of the room, his knit eyebrows indicating that he’s listening intently. “Let me ask you something...”
“Miles,” the guy says.
“Miles, what do you do for work?”
“I manage a sales team for a medical software company.”
“How would you feel if one of the people on your team came to work and did the bare minimum every day?” Simon asks. “They never exceeded goals, they put in just enough not to get fired. And when they did, they sat around the rest of the day. Then, every once in a while they asked if you needed anything. How would that make you feel?”
“I guess I’d feel kind of annoyed.”
