“So my editor loved the piece I wrote for October and asked me what ideas I have for the November issue.”
“That’s great!” Giles exclaims. He’s a great friend to tell good news to, because he’s genuinely happy for you. T-Wizzle is the same way, which is exactly the reason why they are my two closest friends. That, and they pour drinks with a heavy hand. Both are excellent qualities to have in a friend.
“And she asked me if I wanted to write several short items for the November issue.” I tell him the figure she quoted. He is ecstatic.
“That is wonderful!” Giles is full of exclamations today. “You want to come over for dinner later? I have chicken we can stir-fry.”
I say yes, of course, because even with all these writing assignments I’ve been racking up over the last two months I still have a fridge full of condiments and not much else. Writing for a living is great; it’s the pay-on-publication part that sucks.
I suck down a couple gallons three glasses of water to tide me over until dinner at Giles’ place. He lives just a few blocks away so we hang out together often. I go back to finishing up the first part of what will be a five- to six-week-long writing project, which I landed thanks to a friend of a friend who recommended me. It also pays very well, and there’s potential for more assignments, so that pleases me.
At 6:35 I head over to Giles’ place. He lives in a fabulous building just off Capitol Park – great views, high ceilings, fireplaces. The place has had its share of famous residents. Giles is not famous, though he knows a lot of people in town. Being involved in the media will do that.
He lets me into the lobby and we take the elevator up to his apartment. Even though it wasn’t extremely hot outside today, it was warm enough that when I open the door to his place the cool air hits me right away. It feels so cool and lovely that I want to lie down right there in the foyer. But I refrain because I am sober.
Since he just got back from walking to a nearby market, he suggests sitting down for a while with some cocktails. Never one to turn down a cocktail, I agree.
“Wow, you’re like a Lifetime movie about that woman,” he says after a swig of beer.
“What?” This is a joke he picked up from Zach Galifianakis. We say it every time we are flipping through cable channels and we pass a particularly heinous movie title such as “Mother May I Sleep with Danger?” or “Too Young to Marry.”
“In those movies the woman is always a magazine writer and she lives in this huge apartment in New York. You’re Carrie Bradshaw!”
“My apartment isn’t big enough,” I remind him. “And how in the hell did she afford that huge apartment plus $300 shoes on a writer’s salary? She was only writing for the Post. Or was it the Star?”
Giles waves his hand at me. “It was a tab, all the same thing.”
“Still, I do fantasize about having a column someday,” I confess, looking down at my now-empty wineglass. How did that happen?
“Columns aren’t what they once were,” he says. “Used to be a lot of klout saying you were a sports columnist for the Chicago Tribune. Now with blogs that doesn’t really exist – you might be one of several people contributing content.”
“It would still be cool, but I’m no Carrie Bradshaw,” I say. “I would definitely have to move to a bigger place for that to happen.” I look down at my slightly chipped home pedicure of OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress and my $5 Target flip-flops which have already been repaired with Super Glue once. “And I would need better footwear.”