What did she say again?
Oh, yeah. “We’re friends.”
That one hurt. Then again, all is fair in love and war.
She thinks she’s winning.
Okay, she’s winning.
But it’s not just her I’m thinking about. I’m thinking a lot about Sammy’s well-being. Growing up for me was pretty hard. I’m from Brooklyn, and I wasn’t one of those rich transplants either. Kids didn’t think twice to pick on a guy from a scrappy neighborhood. It defined what this world could be for some, ruthless.
There was an alternative route. I saw that some people were rewarded with different opportunities. After what happened to Sammy took hold of both our lives, I wanted her to be one of those people who didn’t have to worry. So far, I’ve done okay. But this school bully worries me. I can’t supervise her every hour of the day. For the first time in a very long while, I feel out of control.
I hate feeling like this...
Another text comes in from my photographer and good friend from University, Brian. He’s got the most boring name in the world, but he manages to bring the party every step of the way. Without him, I don’t know where I’d be today.
“Where you at, brother? I’ve got fifty thirsty execs, but there’s only enough Coors Light to last us another hour. Now, I know you told me to call you only if there was an emergency. But I’d say it’s nearing fuckin’ panic time.”
Clenching the phone, I almost toss it out the window. I’ve always hated the board of directors, the executive class. I got rich by besting them. When I was young, I had a plan. I was going to put my head down and work as much as I could for the worst people, and earn their money.
I kept with it for a long time, actually. Then some other things happened, other projects and the like. More and more, I fell into that chaotic rhythm of work. Eventually, I won the opportunity to own my first company. And then I had an even better idea. I was going to buy all of the failing magazine companies in the country, the small ones that were dying, and I was going to resuscitate them. Shine them up and make them feel new.
I gathered them all up in my basket, and I started to believe I could do anything. It was really easy, just like shopping.
Look at me now.
Rather than text, I order another case of beer, and I return Brian’s message with a call. “Got another thirty pack coming your way,” I say.
“That’s all you got?” he asks.
Leaning my head out the window, I act like a physicist and try to calculate the exact moves to get this traffic moving again. I’m only a few miles from my exit. If everyone just slowed down and went the suggested speed limit, we wouldn’t be in this problem.
I’m turning into my father.
A few cars start honking behind me. It triggers everyone’s nerves. Pretty soon, the entire freeway is blowing their horns like a school band. “Damn this traffic. You think they’ll need more than thirty beers?” I shout.
“You know how these guys act. They’re animals. Most importantly, they’re your animals. They’re out for blood, and I think you’re first on their list,” he says.
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“I can see it in their eyes. Pupils are fucking pins, dead sharp,” he says. “Not to mention, they keep mentioning your new Seattle venture.”
“Right. The Seattle merger,” I say. “The reason I moved here to begin with.”
About a year ago, I bought a magazine that targeted a niche demographic. Turns out, it doesn’t make money, so the investors started getting antsy. They want a strong return, which they’ll get. They’re just too stupid to realize one magazine can’t sink one hundred.
There’s a part of me that gets it. Poor sales figures make them and the company look bad. But I can’t ditch the project. I want to stay here, not return to New York. There might be a way to turn it around. I just need a few weeks to think it over.
When the shareholders asked to have a meeting, it was obvious they were going in for the attack. I decided to have a party instead. A big get-together with as much booze as possible. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m showing up so late.
“On second thought, I think I should order some more cases of that beer,” I say.
Brian laughs with me. “IPA’s would get them drunker.”
These shareholder types don’t know culture. They don’t care about what’s good. They’re not critics. All they care about is profit. To them, a Coors party is fun. It’s the stuff college kids drink to feel buzzed on the cheap.
To be honest, it is fun. Up to a point.
Anxious, my stomach flutters. I don’t usually get nervous about meetings. These executive types are just pawns with dollar signs, as far as I’m concerned. But my plan to win them over is less than thought out.
I inch forward, pushing closer and closer to the freeway exit. “Do you think it’s a problem I don’t have a model lined up for the cover?”
Or a stylist, makeup artist, lighting tech. I don’t have anyone lined up for anything.
“Uh yeah, I think it’s more of a problem you don’t have an idea what the project is,” he says.
“Momma Bear,” I say.
“Momma Bear,” he repeats with a big sigh.
Momma Bear is a magazine for new mothers with a side of adventure. Billed as the anti-housewife magazine, it did well for a few years in the late nineties. That was the time Generation-X started packing up their bags and moving into homes. The 2000s took over, and Y2K shook the nation. Momma Bear didn’t stand a chance.
No one read Momma Bear to begin with, but I needed an
