“If that were true, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long.”
“I don’t care about that, Scott. As long as you don’t…Just have faith in me, okay? I promise I won’t disappoint you. Ever.”
See, Gracie, I’m not made of ice. Notice, Maxina, how I open the gate and let another precious young woman into my give-a-shit zone. And take a good hard look, Harmony, as I lean forward and gently poke her in the shoulder. I didn’t know any sign language, so I had to make up my own phrases. With a smile and a jab, I told her I wouldn’t worry if she didn’t.
Madison got the message. She crunched up her tissue and slapped her thighs.
“Okay! This ends the dramatic portion of our afternoon.”
“Good,” I said, opening the laptop. “Because orientation’s over. It’s time to put you to work.”
________________
Yesterday, Madison had asked me what I’d do if I were Hunta’s publicist. It was a perfect opportunity to bring her into the fold (the outer fold, at least) but I had let that ship sail. Today, I confessed. Okay, I was Hunta’s publicist. But I was just one of many crisis managers involved, a mere cog in Maxina Howard’s machine.
Still, from Madison’s hanging gape, I might as well have been Batman. For all she expected, I was just another schmuck pushing Lysol on the nation’s vast subconscious. And she would have been happy with that. But now she just learned that I was playing a defensive role in the nation’s hottest hot-button topic. And she was helping! Holy hambone! She might as well have been Robin!
“Oh my God. This is amazing. So what kind of stuff are you working on?”
In response, I rattled off a list of Maxina’s action items instead of mine. First and foremost was the heat-and-serve “interview” with Hunta, which would be airing tonight on CBS. Then of course was the organized celebrity support effort. There would be a big tug of war between Washington and Hollywood over creative content issues. The more people pulling for our side, the better. Finally, we were prepared to get slappy with every “think of the children” activist who hit below the belt. They were already coming out of the woodwork. Maxina certainly had her hands full.
“Yeah, but what kind of stuff are you doing?”
I couldn’t tell her about my collusion with Harmony, not because I didn’t trust her but simply because that part of the job came with a moral burden. She was in eighth grade, damn it. She was too young to handle the uncut story, and I had too many karmic investments tied up in her. Forget it. She’d get the radio-safe version.
“There’s this woman…” I sighed. “Look, when a celebrity’s on the hot seat like Hunta is, it’s inevitable that a bunch of no-name ‘victims’ will pop up and cry foul. Usually you can swat them away because their accusations are tenuous and their evidence is weak. But now…let’s just say there’s a big one coming down the pike. She won’t be so easy to dismiss.”
“Oh my God. Are we talking about rape? Is she going to say she was raped by Hunta?”
“Pretty much.”
“Jesus. Who is this woman? What’s her name?”
I couldn’t say. At the time there was still a sizable chance her name would be Lisa Glassman.
“You’ll find out soon. Everyone will.”
“Wow. God. So it’s like your job to stop her?”
I laughed. “I can’t stop her. Nobody can. I just need to chart her damage, look for weak spots, and make recommendations accordingly.”
“Wow,” she echoed. “I’m sorry to be so…That’s just so cool. I mean I was never a fan of Hunta’s—”
“Neither was I.”
“—but I am so psyched to help. Just tell me what to do.”
I told her. Five hours later, I told her mother. If I didn’t, who would?
>What’s your job? What’s HER job?
My job is complex. I’ll try that one later. Madison’s job, however, is easy to explain. Using my computer, she’ll keep tabs on all the mainstream media websites for me. That may sound like a chore but she’s only tracking one developing story. Her goal isn’t to rehash what people are saying but to read between the lines and sniff out the bias. That I’m teaching her how to do.
So far she loves it. It actually works out great for both of us. I need to know which way the wind is blowing and your daughter’s the one with her finger in the air (no, not THAT finger).
You have a great kid, Jean. I really enjoy working with her. If you have any more offspring to lend me, please do. I could always use a collator.
Off to the races,
Scott
PS — Thanks for the great gift. IT’S WAY TOO MUCH! But thank you.
With all my Harmony- and Madison-related business, I had completely forgotten about Jean. I wanted to e-mail her and hose her down before she hit me with some immoderate present. Too late. It wasn’t until she pulled up in front of my building at six o’clock that the present hit me from behind.
“Oh shit!” said Madison, poring through her book bag. “I was supposed to give you something.”
Sandwiched between two textbooks was a pristine Uncanny X-Men comic, complete with Mylar sleeve and cardboard backing. From Madison’s disparaging look, she might as well have been holding the latest issue of Hustler.
“Scott, please tell me my mother’s wrong and you’re not into this stuff.”
I chuckled a little too defensively. “I wouldn’t say I’m into it. I mean it’s not like I dress up and go to… uh…” I got lost in the issue’s cover. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“It can’t be.” I took the comic out of her hands. “Holy crap. This is X-Men 137.”
Madison grimaced. “Oh God. You’re just like her.”
“You don’t understand. This issue’s a milestone. This is the one where Phoenix dies.”
“No, you don’t understand. You guys are adults.”
“Yeah, but I was your age when this came out. Jesus. This must be worth hundreds. Is it a gift or a loaner?”
“She said it’s a gift.”
“That’s insane. I can’t take this. It’s too much.”
“Her collection’s worth a gazillion dollars,” she replied, unfazed. “She lives for it. And she loves discussing it. Just wait. She’s going to spam you with geek talk until you hang yourself.”
Damn, this issue brought me back, all the way to the house I grew up in. My parents never understood what I saw in these “funny books,” either. Now, in this one, I saw them.
I walked Madison to the door. “I should really thank your mother.”
“No, Scott. Don’t. Please. You’re just going to trigger a long, boring conversation about comics and I’m going to have to translate. Can’t you just e-mail her? Please?”
I eyed her briefly. “All right. Fine. But you know, these aren’t so bad.”
“They’re stories for kids.”
“Whatever. Just tell her I’m very appreciative.”
“I will. I will.”
Madison threw her book bag over her shoulder. She stopped at the door and, after a moment’s debate, rushed back toward me. She stood on her tiptoes and put her mouth near my ear.
“You may be a nerd,” she whispered, “but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Before I could even fathom her words, she was back at the door. She turned around and threw me a grin that was alarmingly mature.
“Don’t worry. That’s the last time I’ll ever get sappy with you. From now on I’m all business.”