Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

Earlier that fall, during one of our Friday nights at the bar, Jamie was quiet for a while, and then he said, “Fair warning. At some point, I’m probably going to have to yell at you.”

“Where did that come from?” I said. “Because I took the last mozzarella stick?”

“When it happens, I don’t want you to think it’s personal,” he said. “This is the weird part about becoming friends with your coworkers. The screwups.”

“Me, screw up?” I made a mock-offended face, but at the same time I felt a flush of gladness at that simple declaration, friends. “Maybe I’ll just be perfect.”

But then in mid-November, for a story about an American track runner who was charged with taking steroids, I had to find a photo of the coach who ran the doping program. A quick search produced the perfect image: the athlete and the coach, embracing after the last Olympics, gold medal around the athlete’s neck. The story ran at the bottom of the hour, in the D block. The picture—it really was perfect; the pride, the hubris!—sat above Rebecca’s shoulder for the better part of the two-minute story. I was pleased with my work.

Right after the broadcast, at 9:07 p.m., Jamie’s phone rang. As he listened, his face turned redder and redder. When he hung up, he took a deep breath, and turned to me. The transformation was rapid, almost Hulk-like. I’d never seen Jamie like this.

“What is it?” I said, alarmed.

“How did you not double-check it, Violet?” His anger was tightly coiled, barely contained by his words. “Are you kidding me? How did you let that happen?”

“Let what happen?” My stomach flip-flopped.

“The goddamn photo! ” he said. “That was the wrong person! That wasn’t the coach. That was another athlete. A retired athlete who happens to be incredibly famous.”

“Oh,” I whispered. “Oh my God.”

“ And, ” Jamie said. “ And. In addition to being incredibly famous, this other athlete has staked his entire reputation on never doping. Ever. He’s unimpeachable. He’s like Mother Teresa. How could you not check that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Jamie. I’m so sorry. I’m—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he snapped. “Apologize to him. We just smeared his reputation in front of a million people.”

“What do I do?” I said, panicked.

“Start working on a correction,” he said. “Rebecca will have to read it tomorrow.”

It was the worst day I’d ever had at KCN. Eliza, rolling her eyes as Jamie explained the situation. Rebecca’s visible exasperation as she read the correction during the next night’s broadcast. It had been my mistake, but Rebecca had to own it. The lawyers had to sign off on a precisely worded letter of apology to the retired athlete, which performed the delicate dance of expressing genuine remorse but also avoiding a lawsuit. After the horrible twenty-four hours were over, Jamie collapsed into his chair with a sigh. “So, are you okay?” he said, with a look of genuine concern.

I nodded. I would have burst into tears if I hadn’t cried so much already.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “But we have to get these things right. It’s a really, really big deal when we make a mistake like that.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“We’ve all been there. Everyone has at least one colossal fuckup in their first year.”

“It’s an awful feeling.” After a moment, I added, “Thank you for warning me, though.”

“About the yelling? It happens, but I don’t like it. Makes you feel like an asshole.” He shook his head wearily. “Sometimes this job can drive you crazy.”

I worked late on the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving. Around 11 p.m., Eliza passed my desk on her way to the elevator.

“Burning the midnight oil?” she said.

It was the first time Eliza had spoken to me. There were too many layers of hierarchy between us. But from afar, I had developed something of a crush on her. Where Rebecca was chatty and friendly, Eliza was intimidating and cool. My spine instinctively straightened as she stopped at my desk. She was a woman who forced you to be on your A game. No tolerance for meekness.

“Catching up on some things,” I said.

“Remind me of your name?”

“I don’t think I ever officially introduced myself.” I stood up. She seemed slightly amused as she shook my hand. “Violet Trapp.”

“How long have you been here, Violet?” Eliza said.

“I started as an intern in July, and became an assistant in September.”

“And you’re practically the last person in the office.”

“So are you.”

She smiled. “True, but we don’t pay you enough to justify you working this hard.”

“Maybe that’s a chicken-and-egg question,” I said. “Which comes first?”

“The hard work, or the payoff?” she said. “Good point.”

She had a camel hair coat draped over one arm. As she pulled the coat on, flipping her dark hair free from the collar, she said, “Have a good holiday, Violet. See you Monday.”

Jamie thought he was doing me a favor by arranging the schedule so that I had Thanksgiving and Friday off. “You work too hard,” he said. “Use your vacation days. Take a break.” I would have preferred to work all week, but to keep up appearances, I’d come up with a plan. I slept beneath my desk on Tuesday night, which was surprisingly cozy, duffel bag as pillow and coat as blanket. On Wednesday night, I caught the train to Long Island. Deep into the off-season in the Hamptons, hotel rooms were cut-rate. I’d been careful about budgeting, packing lunch and eating plenty of pasta, and I had a few hundred dollars saved up for emergencies. This counted, I suppose: maintaining my fiction for Anne Bradley. The area was familiar from tagging along with Stella in previous summers. If I was going to be alone, at least I could be somewhere scenic.

It was midnight by the time the train arrived in East Hampton. The taxi dropped me off at a motel on Montauk Highway. I didn’t realize how tired I was until the next morning, Thanksgiving morning, when I woke up and saw that I’d slept for eleven hours.

In town I found a coffee shop that had stayed open. I caught my reflection in the window. The red parka that Stella had given me years ago was still in good shape, buttons replaced and stains carefully scrubbed away. At the beach, it was a beautiful fall day, cold but made warmer by the sunshine, the ocean glittering and rippling in the wind. There were a handful of people running and walking their dogs. A middle-aged woman, with the radiant health and silver hair of a vitamin spokesperson, emerged from the water in a wetsuit. Far offshore, boats puttered in the waves.

My mind wandered back to Christmas, my freshman year of college. That first time I went home, the house was shabbier than usual. Dishes piled in the sink, rancid black mold in the shower, an intense air of neglect. My mother was wary and skeptical, like I was a body double sent to fool her. Only when she got sufficiently drunk did she let down her guard.

“Where’d you get that shirt, hmm?” she said, pinching the fabric between her fingers. It was a gray henley, a soft cashmere blend. “How’d you afford this nice little thing?”

“A friend lent it to me,” I said, which was true.

The next day, my mother was wearing the shirt. She’d taken it from my room while I was sleeping. “Your friend won’t mind, right?” she said, a cloying twist in her voice. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, stretching out the sleeves, using the hem to wipe spills, leaning close to the frying pan while she cooked, the grease speckling the fabric. “ Mom, ” I finally snapped, when she purposely sloshed red wine down her front.