“I think the story could be bigger,” Scott interrupted as I had barely finished. I turned to look at him and felt my eyes narrow in his direction. He didn’t notice and kept command of the room. “I mean, I would go into the history of football in Los Angeles, the original Rams, the role that the Coliseum itself played in them leaving—you know, how the dangerous area around it really hurt home game attendance, and then, now the hope that’s returned with the possibility of a new Championship. This city is ready to win—especially after that painful loss in the 1990 AFC game.” The room groaned in sympathy with Scott’s sports trivia that went way over my head. What AFC game? What about people’s actual homes, Scott?
“Well, Scott,” I said. “That dangerous area was actually peoples’ homes and neighborhoods and was often a matter of perception…not actually…” Chris interrupted before I could really get going.
“Tabby, it seems like you’re pretty passionate about the real estate angle. Why don’t you take the next story and Scott, we’ll give you the Rams Stadium. Let’s pull some of the sports history into it.” I was seething, but it seemed pretty clear to me that Chris had made a proclamation without room to protest. I knew I could learn the football trivia if that was the direction that he wanted to go in, but I wasn’t going to be able to spew it in the next 2 minutes in that room, and certainly not enough to run the circles I needed to around “Golden Boy” over there who had stolen my story. How was this going to help me get a promotion? I thought about raising my voice to object anyway, but couldn’t find the courage, or the energy. With the room seemingly settled, Chris crossed off the stadium topic and moved into discussion of Los Angeles real estate.
When the meeting finally ended I took myself into the ladies’ room again to check on my makeup job and to get a small breather alone without having to head straight to my office cubicle. If I could make my way to Senior Reporter, I would also have an office where I could close my door for at least a little bit of privacy. Until then, this was my sole escape to try to regroup before again heading into a fishbowl. I placed my hands on the rim of sink that sat just beneath my hip level and used the leverage to push myself forward so that I could inspect the bags under my eyes. Just as I did so, the door opened, ushering through Lisa Sinclair, our midday anchor.
Lisa was everything that you’d expect of a Southern California anchor. She was lithe and statuesque, blonde and beautiful, with unnaturally perfect teeth that were set in a perfect mouth under a surgically-tweaked nose. She came from a St. Louis station a couple of years ago, and fit the part so well that they cancelled the other interviews on her first camera test. She and I had not spent much time talking except a hello in passing in the halls. This was the worst time for that to change. On any other day, she’d be a great ally and mentor, but today I wasn’t thinking clearly and needed to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
Lisa walked in and looked at me. She came over to the mirror to fix her hair and touch up her lipstick, which happened to be of exact perfect color. Who ever finds the exact perfect shade of lipstick to…”Tough meeting in there today,” she said, interrupting my thoughts.
I thought for a minute, looking for a politically correct answer to hide my true thinking: Yeah, I hate that jerk Scott Stone. “Not so tough, just the usual,” I said.
“Well, I couldn’t help but notice how Scott slimed his way onto your story. That sucked,” Lisa offered. I offered a slight smile back at the possibility that she could see through him as well.
“Yeah, but he does that all the time. Like I said, the usual,” I said passively.
Lisa finished the last flourished swipe of her lipstick and then turned to face me. “Look, this place isn’t easy—not for any of us. It’s definitely a battle to get your voice heard—especially as a woman. I remember before I made anchor, as a senior reporter—I had to always fight the guys for the better stories—and if it involved sports, well, you could forget it.” I nodded and she continued. “I’ve been talking to a few of the other women and we’ve been putting together a women’sissues group for the station. It’s part for support, but really to amplify our voices here and to get our concerns on the table…do you know that our healthcare plan…” Our healthcare plan? I could see her preparing to go into a rant of her concerns. I just wasn’t in the mood and I was already late to my desk. I needed to find an escape.
“Yes!” I said hurriedly. “Our healthcare, whew—really bad—could be so much better.” I moved to place myself on the other side of Lisa to reach for the door handle. “Lisa, I would really love to hear about this, but I have to meet with the Senior Reporter on my news team. Maybe we could talk later?” I said sheepishly as I pushed my way out of the door, knowing I was being awkward, but saving a larger embarrassment. “Keep me posted on the developments?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I just left Lisa Sinclair standing there, like a perfect statue with her beautifully decorated mouth slightly agape in bewilderment as I made my move. Crap. She had the security of an anchor position and seniority that I didn’t. What she brought up sounded like an unnecessary distraction and I just needed to focus on getting that promotion. Why couldn’t she be offering something that wouldn’t jeopardize that for me? Like being my mentor or something easy? Maybe she could afford to make waves in her women’s issue group focused on our healthcare plan, but I needed a raise. I needed Scott Stone to stop stealing my spot. I needed to stop my ovaries from quitting on me and I needed to learn how to feel safe in my own city. My mind drifted back to this morning’s traffic stop. I pulled out my phone on the way to my desk and sent a text to my friends Laila and Alexis.
C
Me: Drinks tonight—Post & Beam?
Alexis: Yes! Robert has the boys tonight—6?
Laila: 6 is good—I need a damn drink after today.
Me: Me too—last nerve officially just severed.
Alexis: LOLz—I’ll buy the first round!
And just like that, I had something to look forward to. At least I’d see my girls. Six o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.
C
Evening announced itself with a spectacular orange and pink wash of sunset. The soft pink made me think of an eraser, which is what I needed Happy Hour to be. I hoped for it to blur the fresh sting of a very tough day. As I walked into the door of Post & Beam, I immediately felt the sense of being at home. The place brought to mind the familiarity of “Cheers” mixed with the contemporary, yet warm, clean and neutral décor of an urban trendy restaurant. The open kitchen and glowing pizza oven in the center made it feel like a hearth of soulful offerings, southern comforts and general good vibes. I can’t remember a time being there that I didn’t see the owner walking around with greetings for everyone. Sometimes, when he recognized me or one of my friends, and we chatted with him a bit, he’d comp our first round of drinks.