At first, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working with someone whose sports writing is untested by me. But upon thinking about it, this company chews up and spits out writers so fast, I’ll take a monkey with a typewriter.
I walk over to the desk of our managing editor, Reese, who’s typing in his football stats into our database like a madman, his forehead vein looking like it’s out to pop out of his skin.
“Hey Reese, has the new girl called saying she’d be late?”
Reese purses his lips and says with an air of being put upon. “I don’t know anymore than you do, friendo. She was Perry’s special little snowflake hire that he met at the awards banquet, not mine. But I think she came up here from Florida so she probably doesn’t know how to drive in snow. So, this should work out great, then.”
Something tells me Reese isn’t taking too kindly at having no input on this personnel decision, and he’s taking it out on everyone else with sarcasm because he’s a withered middle manager who won’t stand up to Perry.
The politics of this office. Perry does whatever he wants and the rest of us eat shit because, well, it’s the best paper in the state in our circulation division, and that garners all of us staffers loads of awards.
I’m distracted by Reese’s disgruntled energy when I hear the creak of the back door opening. Boots stomping. A shivering, blowing out of breath and a female voice talking to herself about investing in warmer clothes. “Forgot to add blizzards right under tornadoes on my con list for relocating to Podunk City on the Plains. ‘Least I’ll look cute in some L.L. Bean gear.”
Oh god. Princess Snowflake is here.
I lean against my desk and cross my arms, waiting for the lady to grace us with her presence. When finally she emerges from the rear vestibule, I get ready to give her a speech about timeliness. But I don’t get the chance.
A tall, bubbly woman wearing an old fashioned trench coat and thigh high faux leather boots and an oversized scarf barrels into the newsroom carrying a large handbag and a portfolio. She
immediately fills the place up with her physical presence as well as her personality.
“Hey! Hi! You must be my new boss!” She thrusts out her hand and I take it in mine. Her hand is freezing but her skin is soft.
“I’m Avery Jacobs. Nice to meet you, boss. I’ve heard great things about you and Im excited to be working with you. I’m sure Perry told you, I have zero experience writing football, I mean, I’ve been writing about the arts and human interest pieces for so long I don’t know if I can even tell you what an RBI or relief pitcher is. But don’t worry! I’m a fast learner, I talk fast, I write fast and I can already tell we’re gonna be a great team!.”
“I’m Rory, but everyone calls me Beast,” I say, not bothering to correct her that I’m not technically her boss. Or, that RBIs and relief pitchers are baseball terms, not football. I don’t have anymore words, because her dancing brown eyes, quick speech and pure energy have dried my vocal cords right up. I am not a small presence myself, but I’m a sapling tree bending in the sudden storm of Avery Jacobs.
“Beast, Huh? Well, I am absolutely crazy about the name Rory but I will call you Beast as long as you promise not to eat me! Haha sorry, I’m buzzing from all that snow outside, I haven’t seen snow since I was little. OK! First coffee then worky!”
Avery marches quickly around the newsroom, evidently looking for the break room, chattering excitedly to herself about coffee and who knows what else. She finds the break room before I manage to mosey in her direction. She’s way ahead of me. I get the feeling she’s way ahead of all of us here.
I can’t tell what Reese is thinking, his face is as pinched as ever as he watches Avery spread her fast and upbeat energy all over the place.
I follow her to the break room, wondering if I should offer to take her bags, or make her a fresh pot of coffee, or — I don’t know — offer to shine her shoes. The sense I get is she doesn’t need or want anyone to do anything of the sort, but … something about her makes me want to be in the same room to watch what happens next.
Any sports editor in his right mind would be in a panic that his new writer doesn’t seem to know the difference between baseball and football. But as I watch her sip terrible break-room coffee with those full, pink lips, I know I’m far from in my right mind.
I’m in big trouble. This whole place, in fact, is in big, big trouble.
Epilogue
The following Christmas
Crosby
Ridley yawns, nearly unable to hoist herself up the staircase. “I’m going to bed.”
It’s our first Christmas as a married couple and to my surprise, Ridley wants to spend it at home. Not her childhood mansion on the tallest hill in town, nor at her father’s enormous lake house. But in our little bungalow on Main Street.
It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve just returned home early from our parents’ Christmas party. Ridley pooped out early, and I’m expecting an email with the prototype of the new game I’ve designed around a central character that looks oddly like Ridley on our wedding day.
I look up, and next to her on the stairs, I notice a lump in my stocking.
“But babe,” I say. “You said you wanted to open our stockings together tonight by the tree.”
She yawns again, holding herself up on the banister. “I know, but I’m so tired,” she says. “You can go ahead and fill my stocking and we’ll open them in the morning, OK?”
I watch her slump up the stairs, and then I go to fill the kettle to make her some tea. Perhaps she’s not feeling well and she’ll want some to drink later, I think.