Why Are You Here? Part 2 of ?
Thankfully the middle seat was empty and her seatmate wasn’t chatty during the flight. Andy moved her lap top over one space to the floor in front of the middle seat and stretched out her long legs. The soft drone of the engines had her focusing again on that awful aqua pairing and then recalling a truly terrible turquoise jacket. It was hard on the eyes, but easy to follow. The jacket led her to writing an expose` on the less than honorable Judge Randolph Spaultcher, III. Funny, how an unfashionable man indirectly helped her. Of course, Billy had a hand in it, too. His whispered watering hole was where she heard the tip that catapulted her out of the Metro section and onto the Daily Mirror’s front page two years ago...
Andy was sitting in a Soho coffee shop checking over her latest assignment on garbage contracts. After more than a year of working at the Daily Mirror, she was finally getting her name in print and earning a steady paycheck. If she wanted to be treated as a journalist, not a junior reporter, Andy decided she needed to be more daring with her writing career. Finding stories rather than having them assigned was the best way for that to happen.
The beat of New York politics was messy filled with scandals of rent boys, call girls and scorned wives and lovers. Andy longed to sink her teeth into something juicy like graft or corruption. Strike talks were a ways off, her current article focused on the first face to face meeting between the union reps and the mayor's office. Mostly alpha male posturing and testing out sound bites for traction during negotiations, fortunately her piece was almost done. Andy had tried to make it interesting by focusing attention on the Garbage Union's front man and the Mayor's favored in-house power broker. Mentioning their education, former jobs, the square footage of their homes and most recent vacations to Bahrain and Geneva might make them seem more out of touch with the working men and women of the city and the union. However, she knew instinctively as long as there was no strike in the heat of summer when fermented rot was the odor of the day and tempers flared, most New Yorkers would not care about her story.
Lately it seemed her career was all about garbage in, garbage out. Sure she added her spin to the final copy, but something was missing. She didn't even want to think about her personal life; she did anyway.
Lily was still not talking to her. Andy was not about to make the first move; Lily needed to apologize. That was unlikely to happen because she was too busy being Ms. Gallery and not over her snit with Andy. Lily could not stop her snide comments about disappointing Nate; how he was such a great guy to put up with her long hours, blah, blah, blah, etc.
Instead of honest communication to work through problems with her childhood friend, Andy received impersonal postcard invitations to the wine and cheese parties unveiling new artists. Frankly, the cheese was bland and the wine at Lily's opening exhibits was sub-par. Red or white, both varieties, sucked. They tasted either vinegary or saccharin sweet like a box of grape juice aged in a child’s forgotten lunchbox and then either refrigerated for white or poured if red. After a year of attending Runway events where every detail was managed with meticulous precision; Andy knew what was good. She was afraid to open her mouth lest she channel one of Miranda's scathing reviews on plebeian vintners at non-Runway functions or ghastly diatribes of what substances were on their fetid feet as the grapes were crushed below them.
Nate, well that ship had sailed. Boston was far enough away that she didn't need to be reminded of that relationship failure. When Nate left she couldn't cover the rent on her own.
Andy ended up moving to a 4th floor studio in a six story brownstone in Harlem. She described the street as a block away from the fixed up neighborhood in Sister Act. It wasn't gentrified; her neighbors truly cared and there really was a Catholic church with nuns nearby running a school.
Doug was the only bright spot, a true friend with a quiet apartment, comfortable couch and hot running water. Andy stayed over a lot. She could count on him and herself.
Her building had a few problems, and came complete with hissing radiators, a temperamental hot water heater and a banging headboard from the sex starved couple next door. Some nights the hissing and thumping seemed to be offering her a secret; Ricky Martin was ready to come out, Jimmy Hoffa was buried under one of the Soldier Field end zones. Dios Mio, fuck me, hurry and Jesus, pronounced Hey-Seuss told her so most nights before going to bed.
If she slept at her apartment a few nights in a row the radiator’s hissing affected her dreams. Andy often woke up swollen and wet with the word YES on her lips. Serendipity or not the cold showers helped. Her dream lover kept her on edge her features vague, her skill exquisite. Andy knew it was a woman she dreamed of nightly. Her subconscious gave her the pleasure denied in her waking hours.
End of Part 2
Part 3 kali-blue.livejournal.com/2497.html
Andy was sitting in a Soho coffee shop checking over her latest assignment on garbage contracts. After more than a year of working at the Daily Mirror, she was finally getting her name in print and earning a steady paycheck. If she wanted to be treated as a journalist, not a junior reporter, Andy decided she needed to be more daring with her writing career. Finding stories rather than having them assigned was the best way for that to happen.
The beat of New York politics was messy filled with scandals of rent boys, call girls and scorned wives and lovers. Andy longed to sink her teeth into something juicy like graft or corruption. Strike talks were a ways off, her current article focused on the first face to face meeting between the union reps and the mayor's office. Mostly alpha male posturing and testing out sound bites for traction during negotiations, fortunately her piece was almost done. Andy had tried to make it interesting by focusing attention on the Garbage Union's front man and the Mayor's favored in-house power broker. Mentioning their education, former jobs, the square footage of their homes and most recent vacations to Bahrain and Geneva might make them seem more out of touch with the working men and women of the city and the union. However, she knew instinctively as long as there was no strike in the heat of summer when fermented rot was the odor of the day and tempers flared, most New Yorkers would not care about her story.
Lately it seemed her career was all about garbage in, garbage out. Sure she added her spin to the final copy, but something was missing. She didn't even want to think about her personal life; she did anyway.
Lily was still not talking to her. Andy was not about to make the first move; Lily needed to apologize. That was unlikely to happen because she was too busy being Ms. Gallery and not over her snit with Andy. Lily could not stop her snide comments about disappointing Nate; how he was such a great guy to put up with her long hours, blah, blah, blah, etc.
Instead of honest communication to work through problems with her childhood friend, Andy received impersonal postcard invitations to the wine and cheese parties unveiling new artists. Frankly, the cheese was bland and the wine at Lily's opening exhibits was sub-par. Red or white, both varieties, sucked. They tasted either vinegary or saccharin sweet like a box of grape juice aged in a child’s forgotten lunchbox and then either refrigerated for white or poured if red. After a year of attending Runway events where every detail was managed with meticulous precision; Andy knew what was good. She was afraid to open her mouth lest she channel one of Miranda's scathing reviews on plebeian vintners at non-Runway functions or ghastly diatribes of what substances were on their fetid feet as the grapes were crushed below them.
Nate, well that ship had sailed. Boston was far enough away that she didn't need to be reminded of that relationship failure. When Nate left she couldn't cover the rent on her own.
Andy ended up moving to a 4th floor studio in a six story brownstone in Harlem. She described the street as a block away from the fixed up neighborhood in Sister Act. It wasn't gentrified; her neighbors truly cared and there really was a Catholic church with nuns nearby running a school.
Doug was the only bright spot, a true friend with a quiet apartment, comfortable couch and hot running water. Andy stayed over a lot. She could count on him and herself.
Her building had a few problems, and came complete with hissing radiators, a temperamental hot water heater and a banging headboard from the sex starved couple next door. Some nights the hissing and thumping seemed to be offering her a secret; Ricky Martin was ready to come out, Jimmy Hoffa was buried under one of the Soldier Field end zones. Dios Mio, fuck me, hurry and Jesus, pronounced Hey-Seuss told her so most nights before going to bed.
If she slept at her apartment a few nights in a row the radiator’s hissing affected her dreams. Andy often woke up swollen and wet with the word YES on her lips. Serendipity or not the cold showers helped. Her dream lover kept her on edge her features vague, her skill exquisite. Andy knew it was a woman she dreamed of nightly. Her subconscious gave her the pleasure denied in her waking hours.
End of Part 2
Part 3 kali-blue.livejournal.com/2497.html