Page 11 of Single-Minded
I’ve been eyeing the oatmeal raisin cookies in the bowl for the past three minutes, so I stand up to make a dash to the cookie bowl at the same, exact second Tank Turner, the tall, gray-haired man at the head of the table, sits down and says, “Let’s begin.” So now everyone else sits down too, while I’m standing up with my arms outstretched toward the cookie bowl. Well, that’s awkward. My face colors, and I sit down quickly, pretending to adjust my seat, and clumsily knock over the bottle of water I’d just opened. A fast-moving, kamikaze puddle makes an aggressive waterfall into my lap, spreads like a hostile army all over the table, and starts dripping down the table’s sides, as Michael and the executives leap from their seats to avoid water in their laps. Too late: the guy on my left ends up with a two-inch wet spot right over his crotch, which makes him look like he wasn’t able to make it to the men’s room on time. That will go over big at a sports network.
It would just be awkward to go get the cookie now, right? Still, they look pretty good. Grabbing a wad of napkins off the table, I fervently dab at the spill, trying to mop it up before it reaches the lap of the man sitting to my right, as the rest of the group scrambles to get papers and electronic devices out of the way of the flash flood of Pellegrino. When the spill is finally contained, Tank Turner gets back to business. I squirm around in my seat, trying to get comfortable for the inquisition, with a wet spot on my skirt the size and shape of a lobster. A gigantic, mutant lobster.
“Michael, Alex, thank you for coming to speak with us today.” Michael nods like he had an option and is there to talk about his hookup out of the goodness of his heart. I don’t say anything. What’s the point? “I’m sorry to be so personal, er, um…” Tank Turner clears his throat. “But, we need to clarify some of the, er… details.” Michael sits still as a stone, not blinking, not breathing. Oh dear God. This is going to take forever, if I don’t step in and take charge.
“You’d like to know if Michael and I were separated at the time of Michael’s relationship with Bobby?” I ask bluntly.
“Er, yes.” Mr. Turner nods. A look of mortified panic crosses Michael’s face.
“Yes. We were separated, we’re filing for divorce. I knew Michael was gay at the time, and the relationship with Bobby Cavale had my blessing. Anything else?” I ask. The quickest way to cut off this inquisition surely is to just tell them what they want to hear. If I didn’t take control of this mess, we were going to be here all damned day listening to Mr. Tank Turner “um” and “er” his way through Michael’s sex life. I don’t have the patience or the stomach for that. I hate to lie, but it seems almost worse to tell the truth.
Darcy instructed both Michael and me to call his smutty little fling arelationship,instead of abooty callor acheating bastard screw party,which is my personal favorite—she said it would make it harder for ESPN to fire him. If anybody knows how to ride out a scandal. it’s Darcy. She also said that me telling ESPN that Michael and I were separated at the time would be the quickest way to kill the story, which would be slightly less scandalous without the shadow of infidelity, at least on Michael’s end.
“Er, no, no more questions from me,” says Tank Turner as he glances around the room. “Anybody else have a question for Alex?” They all shake their heads silently. “All right, then.” He smiles at me. “Thank you so much for your, er, candor today. We do need to speak with Michael privately if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the lobby. Please take a plate of food with you, I wouldn’t want you to get hungry while you’re waiting.”
“Thank you,” the rest of the executives at the table echo. They all sound the same. They all look the same, even the woman. So I stand up, strategically placing my leather tote in front of the wet spot on my skirt, and grab a plate as I head toward the door. Suddenly I’m starving, and I pile the plate with two sandwiches, two oatmeal cookies (okay, three, but one of them is broken), and a bag of chips. I grab a napkin and a new bottle of water off the side table, and offer an awkward salute and something that looks a little like a parade wave as I leave the room. Well, that was awful. Balancing my teetering plate in one hand and my tote in the other, I make my way down the hallway and back to the main lobby. I wonder briefly if I should turn in my security pass, but I decide I should probably keep it in case I need to go back inside for some reason. Pulling out my laptop, I try to get some work done or at least avoid looking at the large television set blasting ESPN that is mounted on the wall. Powering up my computer, I open a charity benefit file and get to work on a set list for the orchestra. Tempo and musical selections are very important in creating an environment for charitable-giving events.
Four hours later, I’m still hanging out in the lobby. The lobster-shaped spill on my skirt has finally dried, and I’ve scarfed down the entire plate of food I brought from the conference room. It’s probably uncouth to go back for seconds, right? My client’s orchestra selection list is perfected, timed strategically with the big asks throughout the evening. I e-mail the rest of my clients to check in, or update them on details of their projects, and then reach out to some potential new clients. I hate pitching new business. But I make myself do it for twenty minutes every day.
Finally, and despite my better judgment, I spend the last thirty minutes watching clips and reading posts about Michael’s affair on FOX Sports and a slew of sports blogs. The commentators ridicule Michael and Bobby, and make observations that are often outright homophobic. They would not be getting away with this over at theHuffington Post,but somehow, in the sports world, nobody seems to get that upset when you refer to a twenty-one-year-old as a fag. Many of the fan and viewer comments are brutal and offensive, and for the first time it hits me that Michael’s trepidation about being out is genuine. Our group of friends, and the educated, progressive enclave we live in, are warmly accepting of, and include, gay people—but the rest of the world is not the same.
My instincts to protect him flare. Yes, I’m angry with him, and I have every reason to be. (Which I will be reminding him of until he dies of old age.) But no one deserves to be attacked this way, to be on the receiving end of the nastiness and cruelty that are being flung at Michael and at Bobby Cavale. Who are these awful people and why do they even care? The comments range from obnoxious gay sex jokes to quotations of scripture and assertions that Michael and Bobby will burn in hell. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to be the target of so much hatred.
What is taking so long? Could it really take four hours to fire or keep Michael?
Finally, Michael emerges in the lobby. He looks worn out and in need of a long, hot bath.
“Sorry that took so long,” he says, not giving anything away. “I had to meet with the network’s publicist.”
“It’s okay,” I respond. “What’s the verdict?”
“Outside,” he whispers. Damn, that sounds ominous. I gather up my belongings, which are by now strewn across two chairs and the coffee table in the lobby.
“Good night, Danny,” Michael says loudly to the security guard. The guard nods in return.
Michael and I push through the doors and out into the brisk evening air. Jeez, I should have brought a heavier coat. If I actually had one. Not much need for blizzard-wear in Florida.
“What happened?” I ask. “Are you fired?”
Michael looks tense on the way to the rental car, but does not utter a word until we’re inside the car.
And then, he bursts into tears.
“Oh my God. They fired you?” I ask, reaching out to hug him over the armrests of the rental car, and then patting him awkwardly on his shoulder. “Tell me everything.”
9
“I’m keeping my job,” he says quietly through the sobs. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and starts rooting around in the car for something to blow his nose on. The rental car is spotless, so his choices are pretty much limited to either the floor mats or the rental agreement. Reaching into my tote, I hand him the last of a small package of tissues. Yes, I’m analways be preparednerd. I never leave home without emergency supplies. Like tampons, and 3D glasses.
“What happened?” I ask. “What did they say?”
“It was just so humiliating,” he says. “They asked me every detail of what happened with Cavale, and whether we met while I was working, how old he was at the time, like I was some kind of pervert, if there were more videos, if there were more players I’d slept with, and a lot of very personal questions.”
“You didn’t have to answer those questions. They didn’t have any right to ask you that,” I say indignantly, aware I had asked him the exact, same questions. I know, I know. It’s weird I feel so angry I want to throw bricks at Michael’s head—but I’m also fiercely protective of him and don’t want anyone else to hurt him. Clearly, I’m going to need therapy, and lots of it. Maybe shock therapy, the kind that erases your memories. Do they still do that?
“I did if I wanted to keep my job,” he answers. “They’re suspending me from airtime for two weeks at the end of the season, and I had to sign something that says I would adhere to the ESPN ethics clause. The whole time in there I couldn’t stop thinking about how hard this must be on you, and how you must have felt this morning when the story broke.” He pauses for a moment to catch his breath. “I’m so sorry for how I’ve betrayed you. What you did in there for me was beyond friendship, and far more than I deserve.”
“I agree,” I say. “You owe me.”
