The Play

Taking in a deep breath, I seek out Joe’s office, which is located at the end of the floor, between all the different departments. I’ve only been in there a few times, and Joe is pretty much the stereotype of your disgruntled, ornery editor. You would think I’d know how to work him a bit better because of that, but maybe we were too much alike.

His door is closed and I can hear him yelling at someone inside, so I wait a few minutes. I watch some of my colleagues in their cubicles. Some are furiously typing while wearing ginormous headphones, others are on their cellphones while talking and transcribing notes, others are just staring blankly at their screen. Then there is my friend Neil who is ru

Every one of the writers—Neil excluded—looks invested, involved, and dedicated to what they are doing. It stings, just a bit, knowing I don’t have that in my own life.

Finally the door opens and Mia, a writer I know, scampers away with her eyes down, papers in her hand, her cheeks flush with either anger or humiliation.

Oh great. So he’s in a bad mood, too.

Before I can change my mind, I knock on his door and call out, “Sir?”

“What?” he barks, and I take that as a sign to come on in.

Joe sits at his desk, dress-shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the ape-like quality of his hairy forearms. His hair is slicked back which only accentuates his crazy widow’s peak, and it looks like he has some kind of food stains on his collar. His office is a mess of loose papers, copies of the magazine, and discarded paper coffee cups.

“Oh, you,” he says, derisive. He barely looks at me. “You work with the ads. Why are you here?”

I step in, just a foot, in case I get sucked into his vortex of mess, and say, “Actually, I have a story idea and Lucy told me to run it past you.”

That makes him pause. “Story idea? You? Let me guess, you want to make your margarita Mondays into a column?”

How the hell did he know about that?

“No, wait,” he goes on. “Something about dating in the city and what a drag it is.”

I frown. I have no idea how he knows about my dating woes either. Maybe I’m more of an open book than I thought.

“No,” I say slowly, crossing my arms. “It’s actually for a charity of sorts.” I go on and explain about Bram’s project, hoping that by the end of it he’ll be somewhat impressed.

No such luck. His eyes have totally glazed over. He rubs at them and sighs.

“See if someone will write about it. If no one will, you’re out of luck.”

“Well, what if I write it?” I ask.

“You?” He practically stutters. “No, no. We may be laughed at from time to time, but we’re trying to bolster our serious image, not detract from it. Writing isn’t your forte.”

“How do you know?” I ask, unable to bite my tongue.

He looks at me sharply. “I’d ask for you to prove me wrong, but I don’t have the time.” He sighs and looks down at last week’s copy in his hand. “But the story does fit into our new agenda. Go find someone to write it for you.”

At that moment I want to kill Bram for putting me in this position. Still, I thank Joe and leave the office. I set my eyes on Neil and march over to him.

“Neil,” I say sweetly, putting my hands on his shoulders and giving them a massage.

“What did I tell you about sexual harassment in the workplace?” he says mildly, his nails nice and shiny, his attention focused on an inbox of a million emails.

“You told me it only counts if I have a cock.”

He makes a small sound of agreement. “And if you had a cock, I’d be all over you. Remind me again why you haven’t set me up with your brother?”

I squeeze his shoulders extra hard, hoping I’m hurting him. “Because you’re a total manwhore and I love Toshio to death. I’d hate to have his heart discarded on the streets of the Castro.”

“For one,” he says, wincing at my touch, “that’s so cliché. The Castro? Get with the times, Lieutenant Sulu. That’s where the uncouth hang out. For two, he’d find someone else in a minute. I’ve seen how cute he is. Just like you. And by the way, if I’m a manwhore, you’re a cockslut. Own it, bitch.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, before we get all racist and crude—“

“Whatever, I’ve called you Sulu for the last five years. Just like you won’t stop calling me Diego. And I’m not even Hispanic.”

I ignore him. “I need a favor from you. Actually, I need a favor for a friend, but I’m having troubles, um, fulfilling it.”

“Ugh, favors,” he says. I take my hands away. “Don’t stop,” he commands, patting his shoulder quickly.

I keep massaging. “It’s a good deed.”

“Double ugh. And why are you doing good deeds?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, I just am. But I need your help.” For the third time that day, I explain Bram’s predicament.

“But this isn’t even the guy you’re fucking,” he points out. “Aren’t you still on that stupid vow of cocklessness?”

“Yes I am, and no, I’m not fucking him, but he is my friend’s boyfriend.”

“I don’t buy it. Why are you really interested?”

Because he asked me, I want to say. Because it’s nice to feel needed, like I have the power to make a difference. And because, well, maybe because there is a hot piece of rugby playing ass attached to the deal.

“Because I just am,” I say. “Now can you write it up?”

“No,” he says.

I groan loudly and step away, throwing my hands dramatically in the air. “Why not? Please?”

“Kayla, honey, I’m swamped as it is. Why don’t you ask someone else?”

I look around me. Even though half the people in the office seem to be a big fan of Margarita Mondays and enjoy it when I have too many tequila sunrises and end up dancing on rickety tables, I don’t think they like me enough to write something I suggested. It’s kind of their job to come up with ideas, not mine.

“Or, why don’t you write it?” he suggests.

I glance at him, raising my brow. “Really? I said that to Joe but he laughed at me.”

“Joe laughs at everyone. It’s his thing. Along with being a grumpy old man who either needs to fuck or get fucked, I’m not sure which one.” I grimace. “I say write it anyway and hand it in. I’ll even help you with it, editing and all that. Clean it up. You said you went to school for journalism, didn’t you?”

“Communications,” I mutter. “Majoring in journalism.”

He waves his hand at me, stopping to admire his nails as they catch the light. “That’s good enough. Half the people in here don’t even have degrees. I don’t. Just blind luck and a pretty face.”

“Well.” I lean against his desk and give him a pleading look. “Can you give me some pointers?”

Neil spins around in his chair, hands folded at his stomach over his crisp, deep purple shirt. His lips twist into an amused smile and I’m reminded of a villain in a movie. “First, honey, you need an angle.”

“I just told you the angle. Rich guy does good.”

He makes a sound of disgust and throws his head back. “Boring!” he yells. Someone in the background yells at him to shut up but he just waves at them dismissively. He props his elbows on his knees and points his fingers at me. “No. No rich guy does good. No one cares about rich dudes, and unless they’re an Oscar-wi

“Not true,” I point out. “All the gossip mags are about the rich and all they are doing wrong.”

“Find another angle,” he says.

I try and rack my brain. “The city needs this though. Everyone is always complaining about the lack of affordable housing. People all over the world poke fun at our homeless populations. This is a solution. It should be a good thing no matter who does it.”

“Look, there are tons of people doing good every day. Most people don’t care unless you make them care. We’re all too trained to shut down from all the shitty, shitty details of life and the billions it screws over. We’re all selfish and self-centered, serving our own needs until someone makes it affect us personally. So, how can you do that?”