“Mr.—” I stopped, unsure how to address him. I was 99 percent sure other journalists referred to him as Moon-Soo as was the Korean way of putting the first name last. Tentatively, I finished, “Sang.” He nodded, and I continued with more confidence. “I was hoping you might have some openings on your staff. I’d love to transition to Arts and Leisure if possible as a theater reporter.”
He rubbed his nose. “Theater reporter, eh? I don’t have enough staff down here to be able to hire on anyone for such a specific role.”
“Oh. Well, I could do other things, too, but I had an interview with Miriam Blackwell last week.”
He perked up. “Has it printed?”
“No. I’m currently working up in the entertainment department, and they aren’t interested in stories about theater actors.”
“Yeah. Well, shoot it to me. I can evaluate it and let you know.” He started to turn back to his monitor but glanced up over his glasses. “But I can tell you I can’t pay you whatever you’re making now. This department fights for space, and we’re usually the first to suffer cuts when the newspaper is losing revenue.”
“But would I keep my health insurance?”
“That you would keep.”
I thanked him and headed out toward the airport to collect entertainment news.Entertainment news. It was both an oxymoron and a lie. Nobody in my department cared about the creative entertainment provided by the people on the other end of the camera. It was all about their personal lives.
As the subway came above ground, my notifications buzzed, and I read the text from Micah.What are you doing today?
Working. You?
Also working.
I tried to picture Micah in a coat and tie, punching a clock.You got a nine-to-five job?
You could say that. We have a show in Asbury Park tonight. Packing up now. Wish you could come.
It’s okay. I’m on my way out of the city. Have a good show.
Have a good night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. okay?
Yes.
It was a simple exchange, but I hugged my phone to my chest. I might have been kicked out of the office for carrying on with Micah, but it was worth it. Or so I thought.
Then I remembered that he’d be surrounded after his show with groupies throwing themselves at him brazenly for all they were worth.
And I remembered Eden’s admonition that Micah couldn’t do a committed relationship.
I deep-breathed and told myself not to get ahead of myself. He liked me. I liked him. Nothing had really happened between us yet. And besides, if he did turn up with some other man-stealing whore, I’d be among the first to know.
Chapter 17
Exiled.
I hadn’t worked the airports since I first started on the paper. It’s a despicable job. The exhausted celebrity encumbered by carry-on luggage and sometimes children, too, must push through a sea of cameras and shouted questions. The beleaguered traveler exits the terminal too haggard to pose for a picture or compose a well-constructed response. Most just walk on by as though the paparazzi were invisible.
I wondered if Micah walked on by or if he stopped and chatted. He probably offered to take the reporters all out for a beer.
Celebrities who didn’t have their own plane had to use the same entrances and exits as everyone else. They stood out with all their elaborate camouflage. Anyone wearing a hatandsunglasses inside was suspect. Sometimes travel routes were predictable from telegraphed information dropped on Twitter or elsewhere. Whenever anyone flew into JFK or LaGuardia, there’d be a good chance they’d be ambushed. Keeping other paparazzi in my sights often clued me in to some action.
Wednesday had been a total bust, but by Thursday afternoon, I’d gotten lucky and shot some pictures of a young stage actor who hadn’t yet made it so big that he was above free publicity. He stopped and chatted with me about his current projects before some passersby saw him talking to a reporter, or maybe even recognized him, and crowded around for autographs.
Andy wouldn’t care about the interview, but it was better than nothing. I’d started to feel serious hunger pangs, so I went in search of a restaurant with plenty of seating. Bonus if they served healthy food. I passed a bakery, dying to go in and shove an entire chocolate croissant in my face. That was a bad sign. When my sugars dropped, I’d start craving any kind of sugary junk. It’s not that the pump couldn’t handle the sweets, but I’d found that giving in to temptation only made me want to fall into a vat of liquid chocolate. Like scratching a mosquito bite—it only made the itch that much stronger. I was always hungry, but I could usually manage to ignore my sweet tooth as long as I kept on top of my diet.
At last, I found a kiosk selling fruits and salads. I got some nuts and strawberries and splurged on some yogurt. Not a bad snack.
I had to settle for a seat in a high traffic area, but after standing out on the street waiting for hours, it was nice to have a place to rest. I couldn’t remember why I’d been so dead set against coming back to the airport. Seats, food, free WiFi, and no Andy. It was like a mini-vacation.
