At drinks with Steve a few nights earlier, I related to him, all swagger, three drinks of merlot in, how I’d once identified the exact second I realized I would definitely not have sex with a guy: when I saw him rocking out to a jam band, a glint coming from the gold chain on his chest.
“Every woman does that,” I explained. “Every woman has that moment.”
“I love it,” Steve said. “That’s a story. ‘How He Blew It.’ That’s the headline.”
In the back of my mind, while I’m supposed to be focused on Star, I keep thinking about how I will soon be subjecting this jam-band-loving man (an extremely sweet doctor whom I have grown close to over the last few months) to the exact same exercise that I am about to subject Star to: I am going to string him up by his words and actions. It fills me with dread and the feeling that everything is moving faster than I can control.
But “How He Blew It” is not right now. That is in the future. I need to triage my anxiety.
One foot in front of the next. I am writing tomorrow’s features cover.
Inside the gorgeously swanky club, as I listen to Star go on about her cult of success, my eyes dart around. I’m looking for the focus (the one big idea) Steve taught me about, a way to connect her seemingly scattered, grandiose, and humility-allergic quotes. I have until 5 p.m. to file the story. I glance at my watch as she talks, and I see that it is almost 3:40 p.m. Shit.
I turn off my voice recorder, thank Star, and sprint off the elevator to find a cab to bring me back to 1211 Avenue of the Americas.
“How was it?” Steve asks.
“Great,” I say. “She said she inspires victims of Hurricane Katrina.”
“Hilarious,” he says. “Go, write.”
Back at my desk, the clock turning 4:12 p.m., my voice recorder to my ear, with forty-eight minutes to write the next day’s cover story, I realize that the idea can be found in her book title itself.
Shine.
“Star Jones Reynolds is shining,” I write in between scarfing jelly beans and sucking down a triple espresso. “Her hair is shining. Her lips are shining. Her bling is shining.”
I play, rewind, and play again on my voice recorder any quotes that are usable, so terrified of even getting a single preposition wrong. I listen back to myself nervously asking about Howard Stern’s use of crack whores to reenact fights between her and Joy Behar.
Star’s voice plays in my ears: “They’re making their money. That’s their jig. Their job. That’s their gig. I don’t think they want to be helped.”
And then, as I type, I realize I can bring it all back around to the One Big Idea once more.
“Star lets it roll off her back,” I write. “They’re not shining.”
Of course, Star did not know, nor did her publicist, that I returned from my interview to write the story for the next day’s paper, a mocking layout already under way, peppered with preselected ridiculous quotes from her book (“As a Christian, I have to say, ‘There’s nothing anybody did to me any worse than they did to Christ.’ So, if he can forgive so can Star.”).
The next morning, I grab the paper and hold it to see if it is real. There it is. “Star Bursts: Star Jones Tells Fans How to Get Her Perfect Life.”
On my way to the train, I check my messages. The first one is from her angry publicist. I feel bad, but I push the emotion away.
When I arrive at the office finally, I grab a cup of corporate coffee from the kitchen and join Katherine in our shared office.
“Nice piece,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say.
Star knows the game, of course. It was hit piece lite. Nothing truly eviscerating beyond her own lack of self-awareness. Plenty of book promotion for her. Besides, critical press tends to get more pickup.
Do I sound like I’m justifying? That’s because I am. I fucking hate writing hit pieces. You’re actually taught how to do them in journalism school. You’re taught to weigh short-term versus long-term access. Short-term you can burn. Long-term you have to weigh the restriction of access that might occur if you offend your source.
I replay the publicist’s message, “Mandy, I wish you would have told me the piece was coming out the next day . . .” and realize for the first time that I apply the same tactic to my personal life. If I realize that I can’t stand someone, I let loose with burn after burn. One time I told a man right after making out with him that he had bad breath. I informed another man that he was full of shit and a waste of my time. What did it matter? I was never going to see them again.
Ducking out of the office, I go to the hallway and dial the doctor who is the inspiration for the “How He Blew It” piece I will soon be writing. It is no longer just a barroom conversation. There is a scheduled run-date and everything. As much as possible, I resolve to be more transparent and not to skulk around the sidelines of modus operandi.
“Tom,” I say when my friend answers, “I need to tell you something.”
He laughs—and it sounds like music—when I relay the story.
“That’s why you didn’t sleep with me,” Dr. Tom says. “That’s hilarious. And I’m honored. How many people get to say that they’re the inspiration for a funny story in the Post?”
“Oh my God, you’re the best,” I say, a huge weight lifted off of me. “You’re a literal angel.”
“No, you’re the best, Mandy,” he says gently. “Now go write. I can’t wait to read it.”
A funny thing happens when you don’t hook up with a guy—and you don’t burn the connection. You can develop an actual relationship.
NOT TOO LONG after telling Dr. Tom that I am writing about him,
