Page 22 of Pick-Up
“Not a date,” I answered.
“What’s a date?” asked Bart.
“A stone fruit,” said my dad from the couch, looking up from the sameNew Yorkerissue my mom had been reading the other day.
Larry, our giant gray cat who looks like a cross between Jerry Orbach and my late grandfather, grunted in his sleep as if to confirm this fact. I’d almost forgotten he and my father were sitting there.
“I gotta go,” I said.
I really did. For all the reasons.
In addition to keeping my eye out for any homicidal maniacs boarding my subway car, I spent the train ride trying not to panic about my mother’s sudden dottiness—the repeated calls about the 3:00 p.m. arrival time, the disorientation over the standard arrangement of my kitchen. The clear confusion.
I also tried to block out her insinuation about my love life. Or, I should say, lack thereof. Lately, she has been trying to convince me to join some dating app called Grattitude, where, instead of swiping a certain direction, you “bless” people. She says it’s more positive.
And I am positive I don’t want anything to do with it.
I hate first dates. And it turns out you usually have to go on one in order to have a second date. So, I will remain celibate for the rest of my life. Easy solve.
I met Cliff in college, so I didn’t have to confront that barrier. We went to class together, lived in the same dorm, had mutual friends, watched pretentious movies, went out and binge drank in groups and eventually—after due persistence on his part—found ourselves making out against the refrigerator in the communal kitchen one night instead of watching a pivotal scene inRevenge of the Nerds.
Cliff always insists we were watching Hitchcock’sRear Window. Revisionist history.
He hadn’t been my type. In high school, I’d dated DJs and basketball players, one hot brooding musician who turned boring quickly. My long-term boyfriend, Josh, had been a social beast, everyone’s favorite… everything. But he’d broken my heart again and again,and I was still licking my wounds in college. In an ironic twist, Cliff seemed just nerdy enough to be safe. Not. So. Much.
Now, I’m sitting in a stark conference room around a glass table with sharp edges. Out the window, we are blinded by the reflection of sunlight from other windowed skyscrapers. Derek, who isEscapade’s managing editor and clearly the engine behind the operation, is sitting across from me.
I have been offered filtered tap water, bottled water, spring water, sparkling water, Hint water, coconut water, collagen water, Vitaminwater and coffee.
“Hmm. I could really go for some Smartwater,” I deadpan.
My joke is met with uncomfortable grunts and fake laughs from the members of the staff sitting around the table, in addition to Derek. Stephanie (deputy editor, like a bustier Blake Lively), Peter (a burly, white, lumberjack-looking cameraman in a flannel shirt) and Jackie (a graceful, dark-complected set stylist wearing a black jumpsuit and necklaces layered in a way I can never get right).
Derek shoots me a compulsory smile. I give it a 6.3. The technical skills are there, but there’s no passion behind it.
Even though I cyberstalked him, he looks different in person than I expected. He’s smaller, lither, with shiny black hair. He’s wearing nerd glasses, a denim-on-denim ensemble and oxfords. And he has the tightly wound energy of an ostrich but with kind eyes. I like him right away. I vow silently to win him over.
“So, as I was explaining, we don’t usually outsource our content, but the previous HP—”
“That’s head producer!” Stephanie chimes in. Her neon pink lipstick is aggressive, and maybe so is she.
“Yes. That’s head producer. Anyway, he just left us suddenly to produce interstitials for a streamer. I won’t say which one—”
“Netflix!” Stephanie winks meaningfully.
Derek clears his throat. “So we’re in kind of a spot. There have been a lot of changes here lately and things are a bit in flux. The badnews is that we only have a few weeks to pull this all together. The good news is that—”
“We’re going to have the best time!”
Derek turns to Stephanie and looks at her long and hard. She shrugs at him.Deal with it.
“I was going to say, the good news is, if you’re interested, we are looking to fill that full-time position too. Should this go well and should our new editor in chief and you both feel this is a fit, there’s a potential permanent producer role on the team for you.”
“I see,” I say mildly. “So great to know.”
But I am only playing it cool. Suddenly, this meeting has taken on extra significance. My heart is pounding.
As it turns out, freelance video production work isn’t the best job for a single parent. It demands long hours, networking drinks, days spent pitching just to get a job in the first place. But then a lot of things that seemed like good ideas in film school in the late nineties and early aughts really don’t now. Cliff. The arts. Low-rise jeans. In those days, Cliff and I both figured we’d skyrocket to fame as multihyphenate writer-director-producers. Make our own hours; be rolling in cash. We certainly weren’t thinking about insurance benefits. We knew most people had to claw their way to the top, but we were already at the top of our class. Obviously, those challenges wouldn’t apply to us.
