I was sitting at the bar with my supervisor, Maggie, still the prettiest person I’ve ever known. Our elbows rested on the counter, arms like toothpicks holding up tired heads, drinks tucked beneath our chins. We spun those tiny black straws in circles, the way only newsroom people do. Tired, restless. I never told Maggie how pretty I thought she was. I didn’t think it was an appropriate thing to say. To your boss, at least.
It was my twenty-first birthday. Maggie said she wanted to be the first to take me out for a legal drink. So she brought me to the rooftop bar, the one only the real newsroom staff usually go to.
I was an associate producer. I think Maggie felt bad for me. There was a mass shooting earlier that afternoon. At a small school, in Nevada. Twelve kids died. It happened fast. Maggie interrupted the staff singing me Happy Birthday to tell me to look on the social radar for pictures. “Choose ones that are appropriate for social media!” She shouted while the singing died out. I was eating my birthday cake while looking through all those goddamn pictures.
So there we were on the roof, staring down at the streets. From up there, the people looked like ants swarming through traffic. Maggie had some pink drink; I had vodka on the rocks. The bouncer didn’t even card me. I guess being with Maggie was enough. I felt ripped off. It was my twenty-first. The one time I actually wanted someone to ask.
Maggie asked me what I was most excited about now that I was twenty one. I said I was excited that I wouldn’t have to use my fake ID anymore, obviously. She said she couldn’t imagine anyone not believing I was twenty one, which I found strange because I am short with a youthful face, so I told her that. I told her I was short, with a baby face. She laughed. I asked what was so funny. She said, “It’s just… your face.” I stared at her. She laughed harder.
Two drinks deep and I reminded myself to slow down. After all, it was my last day with my boss, who could hire me again someday. But Maggie was also two drinks in, so I guessed it was fine. She asked me if I would ever work for the news again. I wasn’t sure how to respond to her question. I wasn’t sure what was the right thing to say. I liked working for Maggie, so I told her I figured I would, if the offer was ever on the table. She looked at me with a smirk. She asked me if that was really true. She asked me if that would really make me happy. Her questions made me feel like I could be more candid, so I said that honestly, it would make me happy. For a little while, at least. She laughed.
Then I asked her if this made her happy, if this was what she always dreamed to be, a local news producer. She told me that, honestly, it was. But it wasn’t what she expected. I asked her what she had expected, and it seemed that for the first time ever, she frowned. Or, her eyebrows twitched, at least. She said she was just tired of it all.
Then she brought up the helicopter crash that happened a few days before. One of those tourist helicopters had crashed in the Hudson. Five college kids were on board. They suffocated underwater while fighting like hell to break free from their seatbelts. Maggie shuddered and closed her eyes.
I wanted to say something funny, just to make her laugh, but I didn’t think it was appropriate. Then she told me if nothing else, she wanted to work for a smaller news company, maybe one in Florida, where she could report on the things that weren’t as tragic, like waste left behind on public beaches. I reminded her that bad things still happened in Florida, too. Like hurricanes. She laughed, then quickly covered her mouth and apologized. It wasn’t really funny, not when you thought about it. She changed the subject, said something about how we were talking about too many sad things, and asked me what I always wanted to be. I shrugged, said a meteorologist. I always did like the clouds.
I asked her later into the night when the vodka was making everything fuzzy why she gave me the gig. I wasn’t the most qualified. Just some kid who’d only worked kitchen shifts, scraping grease off grills to make the bills. I always figured those jobs would be the toughest, until I got into local news. Both were hard in their own ways.
She nodded, smiling but not quite meeting my eyes. “Good question,” she said, then shrugged and downed the rest of her drink in one gulp. I watched her throat bob as she swallowed. “I just liked you,” she said finally. “You were… funny. Just keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing, and you’ll be fine.” She gave me a dead-eyed laugh.
I wanted to ask her more. If there was some hidden meaning behind those words, or if this life was luck, or just noise, or some roulette wheel you pray never lands on your name. But I didn’t. Maybe not every goddamn thing is meant to be understood. Not everything makes sense. Maybe it’s not supposed to. Still, we show up for each other. We move forward together. Maybe that’s the story.
AK Holmes is a writer who experiments in all forms of storytelling, from literary fiction to 3-dimensional narratives. She works as a television producer in Boston, where she lives with her partner, cats, dog and a gecko. She also works in the English Department at a local community college.
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