His image is held together by a few loyal pawns who are willing to do his dirty work. I saw right through it. I saw that R.J. had mastered the game of buying people and buying success. Maybe inside the man there is a boy whose curiosity earned him a great deal of adoration and money, but there is no trace of that exceptional wonder and gift in the man I met.
If R.J. had shown me a modicum of brilliance or even humanity, aside from rapping off the many charities he’s donated to, maybe I could write a nicer article about him, but the truth is this: he acted as though I wasn’t worth his time. He was misogynistic and degrading toward his staff. He was pompous and put out while answering a few questions. From afar, one might envy what R.J. has acquired. It’s no lie that the wine is fantastic and the winery itself is something of a shining gem among the hills of Napa Valley, but that doesn’t mean R.J. is not paying a price for all of that perfection. His shrewd cunning has condemned him to the confines of a cage. He may sit perched above all that beauty, but he’s in that cage alone.
The staff at the winery made a pathetic attempt at hospitality in the wake of my awful experience with R.J. Sadly, I found their strategies to be somewhat elaborate. So, my conclusion is that R. J. Lawson’s big ego was probably responsible for orchestrating all of the backpedaling and ridiculous behavior from the others at the helm. Although the facility seems unmatched in the region, you might be gambling with your happiness by taking a trip to R. J. Lawson. Before you do anything, you have to ask yourself about that bird, the one who is willing to sacrifice the freedom to fly for the material facade. However mesmerized you are by the glittering gold of that cage, the only question you need to ask is: Where does that bird shit?
My advice about R. J. Lawson would be this: drink the wine, but don’t drink the Kool-Aid.
Kate Corbin
Chicago Crier
• • •
On Monday morning, when I finally woke from a depressing slumber, I opened my computer to find a new e-mail from Jerry. He always gave it away in the subject line; maybe that’s why he made a better editor than writer. I appreciated it in that moment and was able to let out a huge sigh of relief when I realized that, at the very least, I still had my job.
To: Kate Corbin
From: Jerry Evens
Subject: You still have a job!
It’s brilliant, Kate. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, but it’s the most inspired work I’ve seen out of you and that’s all that matters. R.J. may have done his best to make getting the details nearly impossible, but you proved that as long as you can capture the essence of a situation, a story will be born from it.
I agree that it’s best you take a week off. Apparently you left your luggage at the airport. There was no name on the tag, just the address to the paper, so the airline delivered it here. I opened the suitcase when it arrived today and realized quickly that it was yours from all of your notes and belongings. I’ll lock it in the storage room until you get back, unless you need it right away. Just let me know.
I’m worried about you, Kate, but I know how strong you are, and I know we’ll get you back on track soon. Beth has some ideas.
Your Loyal Editor,
Jerry
There was nothing particularly heartfelt or touching about Jerry’s e-mail, but for some reason it made me cry. The truth was that I didn’t want anyone worrying about me or pitying me. I wanted to stop feeling like I was searching for something else or some answer to the meaning of it all. The expectation that life should be more than waking up alone, riding the train to work, and then going home to fall asleep alone had been weighing on me for so long, but I always found myself back at my apartment . . . alone. Everything in between was just heartache.
I shuffled down my short hallway to the kitchen, where I scanned the barren refrigerator. Staring at the same jar of jelly for ten minutes, I contemplated eating it with a spoon. There was little I was willing to do to keep myself alive at that point. I hadn’t showered in two days, and aside from a couple of stale crackers and an old skunky beer that had been in my fridge for a year, I had consumed nothing. The jelly seemed appropriate, until I finally allowed my most basic survival instinct to kick in. I threw on a pair of sweats and a jacket and headed to the market and produce stand on the corner. There was an older man at the counter making fresh homemade salsa, so after picking up a banana, some Fig Newton–like cookies, and a bag of pretzels, I figured: What would go better with all of that than salsa? Am I losing my mind?
“Excuse me?” I asked. He looked up through his dark lashes. His eyes were almost identical to mine. A hazel that looked spectacularly green in the light, but sort of a dull brown in the shadow.
“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”
“Are you my father?”
He chuckled but stopped immediately when he saw how serious I was. “Oh, hmm, no, dear. I’ve been married for almost forty years and we have three children. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well, shot in the dark, you know?” He nodded, but his eyes still held the same pitying expression he had on before. “Do you sell beer here?”
“No, but there’s a wineshop about half a block down.”
I shook my head frantically. “I’m detoxing, I can’t have wine.”
“Okay, well, there’s a liquor store about three blocks from here that sells beer.”
“Yeah, I know that one. Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.”
The liquor store was more like five blocks, but I skipped along, eating my banana and fig cookies. I felt extremely pissed at the universe when I saw Stephen and some chick about half a block down, walking in my direction. Hoping they didn’t see me, I slipped quickly into an alley. As I waited for them to pass, I scanned my attire. I was wearing the oldest pair of gray sweats that exist on this planet, a yellow T-shirt with the sunshine Care Bear on it, and my powder blue skiing jacket, although that wasn’t the worst of it. I had on two different socks, one black and one light purple, and an old pair of black Chucks with black laces. I was the twenty-six-year-old Punky Brewster. I quickly felt the top of my head. Phew. No pigtails, but it was topped off with a messy bun. Please do not let them see me.
“Kate?”
Fuck!
I shoved the last cookie into my mouth and mumbled, “Hey, Stephen.”
“This is Monique. I work with her.”
“Hi, Monique.” He never hung out with female colleagues outside of work. She was a tall, blond beauty wearing an extremely narrow pencil skirt and stilettos. There was a brief moment where I thought how perfect she and Stephen looked together, the epitome of working professionals in Chicago. My disheveled ass had taken sulking and letting myself go to a new level, and I could tell that Stephen had picked up on it.
He squinted. “Are you okay, Kate?”
“Yeah, I’m fucking dandy, Stephen. You?”
“Fine. Where are you off to?” he asked. I glanced over at Monique, who was scanning my clothes. I saw sadness and pity wash over her face.
“I’m going to get a forty.”
He pinched his eyebrows together. “What’s a forty?”
“A forty of beer.” He still looked dumbfounded. “It’s forty ounces of beer in a bottle. Not everyone can afford to indulge in expensive spirits.”
“I’ve never seen you drink beer.”
“Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Why would you care anyway? You never loved me, remember?”
Monique’s eyes shot open. Stephen’s jaw twitched. “I said I wasn’t sure. Plus, we were fighting when I said that. This is not the time or place to pick at old wounds.”