Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

“And we’re clear,” Hank yelled when the red light switched off.

The studio was one floor below the newsroom. As Jamie and I climbed the stairs, he said, “They’re not stuck up like that. Rebecca and Eliza, I mean. They could be, with the success they’ve had, but they aren’t.”

I was intensely curious about Eliza. She was the executive producer of Frontline, her office adjacent to Rebecca’s corner suite, her shelves lined with a collection of news & doc Emmys. I’d googled her, of course, but this was the difference between talent and producers: Rebecca’s every movement was plastered across the internet, while Eliza remained almost anonymous. Mostly I knew that Eliza Davis was an exception in a business still dominated by white men: a powerful black female EP.

“I’d think that helps,” I said. “Not being snobby. Right? It keeps you outside the bubble.”

Jamie looked over at me. “Where do you come from, anyway?”

When I started telling him where I’d gone to school, he shook his head. “No, I mean, where are you actually from . Your hometown.”

“Oh.” I responded as I always did: “You’ve never heard of it.”

Back in the newsroom, Jamie said, “A bunch of us are going for drinks across the street. A Friday tradition. Want to join?”

I hadn’t gotten a paycheck yet, and my bank account was nearly bare. But I could afford one beer. I’d eat rice and beans for the rest of the weekend. “Sure,” I said.

“Good,” Jamie said, smiling. “More time to figure out what your deal is.”

“Honestly, it’s a nowhere town.” Didn’t moving to New York mean I’d never have to talk about my past? Then again, Jamie’s job was to ask questions. “On the Florida Panhandle. Barely even a real place.”

“Everywhere is a real place.”

“I haven’t lived there in a long time.” There was a tightness in my chest, and I was feeling uncomfortably defensive. “It’s not home anymore.”

“Okay, okay. You’re pleading the Fifth, then?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

“We can talk about it some other time,” Jamie said. “But you know, I’m from nowheresville just like you. Small town in South Carolina, in my case. My momma would murder me if she thought I was disrespecting it. Here, look.” Jamie pulled out his phone, flicked through a stream of photos. “From the Fourth of July parade. See that lady dressed up like Martha Washington?”

“ That’s your mom?” I said. This woman was wearing a powdered wig and a hoop skirt.

“You don’t get to choose them,” he said, but his bashful smile showed real pride.

The week before I started at KCN, Stella’s mother asked me to meet her at the apartment to discuss the—as she put it—“arrangement.”

It was a gorgeous two-bedroom on a leafy block in the West Village. A chef’s kitchen, a wood-burning fireplace, a terrace, a doorman. Anne and Thomas Bradley had their waterfront mansion in Rye, but they were looking ahead to retirement, to eventually wanting a pied-à-terre in the city. At least, this was their excuse for buying Stella the apartment. Even the wealthy feel pressure to justify these kinds of decisions.

“Violet,” Anne said, kissing my cheek. The kitchen was empty except for her Birkin bag, resting on the white marble counter. “So nice to see you.”

Living with Stella was the only way I could afford to be in New York. After graduation, Stella planned to travel with friends for an indefinite stretch. She was in Cannes, then Lake Como, then wherever the wind took her. “But so what?” Stella had said. “Obviously you should move in right away. That’s what the apartment’s there for, isn’t it?”

Anne Bradley seemed to see things differently. From her bag she pulled a folder, and from the folder a stapled document. “We took the liberty of drawing up an agreement,” Anne said. “Just to formalize things.”

“Okay,” I said. There were several pages filled with dense clauses and subclauses. As I attempted to decipher the first paragraph, Anne slid a pen across the counter.

“Could I read the whole thing through?” I said. “Just to be sure.”

“Oh,” Anne said. Then she smiled. “Take all the time you need.”

From what I could tell, it looked like a standard tenant agreement. But on the last page, a number jumped out: fifteen hundred dollars per month in rent, to be paid no later than the first of the month, by check or wire transfer to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Bradley.

I swallowed. When her parents first came up with this idea and I’d asked Stella how much my rent would be, she’d shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Nothing, probably.” I should have known, by now, that Stella’s assurances were worthless. Her parents controlled the money, not her. Or maybe, to her, fifteen hundred was nothing. But still, the price came as a shock.

“Everything okay?” Anne said. The pen was in my hand but hadn’t yet touched paper.

I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Bradley, I’ll be honest. I can’t afford this. After taxes, I’m only bringing home about fourteen hundred a month with this internship.”

“Oh!” she said. “Oh, Violet, I didn’t realize. We’ll change it, of course.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate your understanding.”

“What would work for you? Let’s see. What if we halved it to seven hundred fifty?”

I ran through the mental calculation. Seven hundred fifty on rent, plus two hundred on student loans. That left four hundred and fifty to live on. Fifteen dollars a day. I’d walk to work; I’d eat cheap. Tight, but I could manage.

“That would be great,” I said.

“Oh, good,” Anne said. “Phew.”

“Should I just cross this out?” I said, pointing at the number. “And write in seven fifty?”

“Well.” Her smile slackened. “Actually, why don’t you give me that. I’ll have our lawyer type up a new version. It’s more official that way.”

But the process dragged out. Anne e-mailed me with updates. Just waiting for our lawyer to revise the agreement, she wrote. Then, I have the agreement! Thomas wants to look it over one more time.And then, I’m sorry for the bother, Violet, but could you please send us your employment letter from KCN?

Can you talk for a sec?I texted Stella. By this point I was staying at the apartment, in a sleeping bag on the floor, but Anne and Thomas probably only agreed to this because I had nowhere else to go. An employment letter? Did they think I was scamming them? I felt mildly panicked. If the Bradleys decided to pull the plug, I had no other plan.

Stella would reassure me. She would laugh and say that her parents were crazy, we just had to humor them. You know how rich people are, she’d say. Obsessed with every dollar. If she ever texted me back, that is—which she didn’t. She often forgot to check her phone, and while she was frolicking in Europe, who could blame her? But her silence stung a little.

In the end, it was fine. I signed the revised agreement and handed it to Anne. She nodded, her lips set in a tight line. “Thanks for your patience, Violet,” she said, tucking the papers into her bag. “You see, Thomas pointed out that it’s a… somewhat unusual arrangement.”

I wrinkled my brow, offered a vague smile of puzzlement.

“Stella isn’t living here, after all,” Anne said. “It’s a bit odd, don’t you see?”

“But she’ll be back soon,” I said.

“You’re practically like a second daughter, of course. But still. It’s a big expenditure. The maintenance alone! Well, you know what it’s like in New York.”

It’s official, I texted Stella that night. I am a tenant of Anne and Thomas Bradley.