Read Online Literacy and Longing in L. A. by Jennifer Kaufman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Kaufman
Ads: Link
overworked, harried look that creeps up on you if you don’t watch it. Sheslams down the receiver. “What a jerk!” she mutters, then sees me and smiles.
“Hey! What are you doing here, girl? God, you look so elegant. How are you? Let’s go outside for a smoke.”
We walk around to the back of the building and Brooke lights up. I’d forgotten about the smoking. It’s been years since I’ve been around people that smoked. In West L.A. you’re considered a pariah if you smoke. People look at you like you’re killing them and there’s this immediate hostile reaction that’s akin to road rage. But like most people under thirty, Brooke is oblivious to all this, and I sit there inhaling her smoke while I tell her my story.
“I’m trying to maybe go back to work because I’m separated and I’m kind of at odds, but not really.”
“God, Dora, I’m sorry to hear that, but why would you want to come back here?” she says with obvious reference to that phone call. “Honestly, I know it sounds strange but I think I get more and more antisocial every year. I’m even beginning to dread interviewing people about their problems,” she confessed, adding that she spends her weekends meditating with a yogi and staying away from crowds.
“I just realized one day that I could care less what sources have to tell me for these stories and when they call me back to elaborate or give me more quotes I find it so annoying. Pretty grim, hey, for someone in the news business.”
I feel better talking to her. The old misery-loves-company axiom, but I still know that, in my heart, I would trade places with her in a minute.
She can tell I’m discouraged. “Listen, Dora, if you really want to come back, I’ll talk to Eddie, who still has a lot of clout around here, and I know he always liked you. In fact, why didn’t you go to see him?”
I tell her that his office had sent me to that editor in Metro who couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
“You mean Miss Piggy? Everyone hates her. She’s so rude. Don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s the air in her office. It’s suffocating. Do you still have a copy of your résumé? I’ll make some calls, okay?”
As I walk out, I remember how I used to feel a combination of pity and disdain when older writers tried to make a comeback. Being in your thirties is not that old, but in the news business it might as well be. And now here I am trying to do something with my life and ending up exactly where I thought I would end up, which is why I dreaded doing this in the first place.
Stray Dogs and Other Companions
“Classic. A book which people praise and don’t read.”
~
Mark Twain (1835–1910)
~
I drive back to Brentwood in a brooding funk. For the first few miles or so, I work myself into a hyped-up, articulate rant in which my imaginary retorts to Miss Piggy are so blunt and uncomplimentary that I end up getting into terrible trouble. Daggers start flying across her office and, well, you get the picture. Some things are better left unsaid. Then again, some things aren’t. Why IS it that I always think of the perfect thing to say when it’s too late? Like with Fred. There I go again. I’ve got to stop massaging to death that pathetic scenario in the bookstore.
I cruise down the street just beyond Chinatown andturn on the radio. It’s daylight but the streets have a deserted, menacing quality about them that prompts me to lock my doors. If I could navigate the freeways, this wouldn’t be an issue. When I was a reporter, I’d drive around the neighborhood with a brazen, no-problem attitude, filing stories in an urban sprawl where whites, Latinos, blacks, Middle Easterners, and Asians all live in separate neighborhoods. The melting pot doesn’t exist in this town—people stay in their cars, shielded by metal and tinted glass.
I decide to call Darlene. I don’t feel like going home and dwelling on my failures. Or, for that matter, having to give Virginia an upbeat, bullshit
“Hey! What are you doing here, girl? God, you look so elegant. How are you? Let’s go outside for a smoke.”
We walk around to the back of the building and Brooke lights up. I’d forgotten about the smoking. It’s been years since I’ve been around people that smoked. In West L.A. you’re considered a pariah if you smoke. People look at you like you’re killing them and there’s this immediate hostile reaction that’s akin to road rage. But like most people under thirty, Brooke is oblivious to all this, and I sit there inhaling her smoke while I tell her my story.
“I’m trying to maybe go back to work because I’m separated and I’m kind of at odds, but not really.”
“God, Dora, I’m sorry to hear that, but why would you want to come back here?” she says with obvious reference to that phone call. “Honestly, I know it sounds strange but I think I get more and more antisocial every year. I’m even beginning to dread interviewing people about their problems,” she confessed, adding that she spends her weekends meditating with a yogi and staying away from crowds.
“I just realized one day that I could care less what sources have to tell me for these stories and when they call me back to elaborate or give me more quotes I find it so annoying. Pretty grim, hey, for someone in the news business.”
I feel better talking to her. The old misery-loves-company axiom, but I still know that, in my heart, I would trade places with her in a minute.
She can tell I’m discouraged. “Listen, Dora, if you really want to come back, I’ll talk to Eddie, who still has a lot of clout around here, and I know he always liked you. In fact, why didn’t you go to see him?”
I tell her that his office had sent me to that editor in Metro who couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
“You mean Miss Piggy? Everyone hates her. She’s so rude. Don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s the air in her office. It’s suffocating. Do you still have a copy of your résumé? I’ll make some calls, okay?”
As I walk out, I remember how I used to feel a combination of pity and disdain when older writers tried to make a comeback. Being in your thirties is not that old, but in the news business it might as well be. And now here I am trying to do something with my life and ending up exactly where I thought I would end up, which is why I dreaded doing this in the first place.
Stray Dogs and Other Companions
“Classic. A book which people praise and don’t read.”
~
Mark Twain (1835–1910)
~
I drive back to Brentwood in a brooding funk. For the first few miles or so, I work myself into a hyped-up, articulate rant in which my imaginary retorts to Miss Piggy are so blunt and uncomplimentary that I end up getting into terrible trouble. Daggers start flying across her office and, well, you get the picture. Some things are better left unsaid. Then again, some things aren’t. Why IS it that I always think of the perfect thing to say when it’s too late? Like with Fred. There I go again. I’ve got to stop massaging to death that pathetic scenario in the bookstore.
I cruise down the street just beyond Chinatown andturn on the radio. It’s daylight but the streets have a deserted, menacing quality about them that prompts me to lock my doors. If I could navigate the freeways, this wouldn’t be an issue. When I was a reporter, I’d drive around the neighborhood with a brazen, no-problem attitude, filing stories in an urban sprawl where whites, Latinos, blacks, Middle Easterners, and Asians all live in separate neighborhoods. The melting pot doesn’t exist in this town—people stay in their cars, shielded by metal and tinted glass.
I decide to call Darlene. I don’t feel like going home and dwelling on my failures. Or, for that matter, having to give Virginia an upbeat, bullshit
Similar Books
