Gloss. Jennifer Oko
close and personal. A tiny bit of plastic dripped down from the tips, approximating venom.
Then my phone rang.
It rang again.
I was going to let it ring through to voice mail, but Natasha grabbed the antenna, and pulled the phone out of my pocket.
“Annabelle Kapner’s office,” she said, winking at me, mouthing, “Maybe it’s him?”
And then she turned paler than she had been in the pit.
“They hung up,” she said, and handed me the phone. “Annabelle, what was that story you had on last week?”
“About the Fardish beauty parlors?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Why?”
“I think it might have pissed someone off.”
I looked at her blankly.
“Whoever that was just called you a few unspeakable terms, said something in some foreign language and then slammed down the phone.”
I tend to be a fairly nonconfrontational person, or at least I was before I landed in jail, and one of the things I liked about morning television was that we hardly ever did the sort of stories that pissed people off. We stayed positive and hopeful because negativity is hard to stomach in the morning. Of course, it did happen upon occasion that people felt misrepresented (as I mentioned, we did get irate calls periodically), but usually that was because they felt they did not get enough airtime to promote whatever it was they were promoting, not because they felt personally slighted. And if a story was somehow critical, we did our darnedest to balance it to within an inch of its life, even if it was an unbalanced story to begin with. Often after my segments aired the subjects involved sent me flattering e-mails and even flowers. Once I got a cashmere scarf, but I had to return it because the network’s news standards don’t allow us to accept gifts worth more than seventy-five dollars. Of course, you could argue that the wholesale value of the scarf was less than that, which is why I did keep the matching hat.
“Annie?”
I had fainted. I must have been out for a while because when I opened my eyes, we were in a makeshift infirmary. The rattling sounded distant, but I knew we were in the convention center because the table across from me was lined with rows and rows of bottles of antivenom.
“Annabelle? Are you okay?” Natasha was sitting on a metal folding chair next to the stretcher I was lying on, patting a cool, damp cloth across my forehead.
“Where’s the crew?”
“I sent them to shoot the snake hunt. Don’t worry about it. Are you okay?”
“I think I fainted.”
“You did.”
A medic came over to check me out. He had greasy hair and was missing a front tooth, and I really didn’t want him to touch me. I sat up.
“I’m okay. I must have overheated,” I said, which was a stupid thing to say, because if anything the place was overly air-conditioned.
Natasha and the medic shared a knowing glance.
“I’m okay,” I said again, and tried to stand. They both pushed me back down and told me to sit still for a while. The medic handed me a small paper cup filled with lukewarm water. I drank it down and handed it back to him. “It was probably the smell that knocked me out. Really, I’m okay.”
“Why don’t you relax for a few more minutes?”
“We need to keep shooting,” I said. Never come back from a shoot without a story, that’s the rule. Once, Natasha and I were doing a story about lobster fishing. Actually, it was about a lobsterman calendar. Anyway, it turned out that the Dramamine my cameraman had taken had expired two years earlier, and he spent the bulk of our boat ride tossing up over the side. But every few minutes he would wipe his mouth and take a few shots of Natasha helping the beefcake lobsterman bring in the traps, before he had to return to face the sea. The video wasn’t his usual standard, but at least we had something to put on the air.
My phone rang again. I was resigned, and also by now a bit curious, so this time I answered on the first ring.
“This is Annabelle,” I said tentatively.
“Hey. It’s Mark Thurber.”
I thought I might faint again, I was so relieved. And so nervous.
“Remember, we met on your show the other day?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “How are you doing?” As if his calling was the most normal thing in the world, as if we spoke every day, as if I hadn’t just fainted from the combined shock of receiving two really odd phone calls and the hideous smell of thousands of rattlesnakes.
“Um, I was wondering. Well, I am going to be in New York next week…” (He said “um”! He was nervous, too!) “…and I was wondering if you might be around. Maybe I could treat you to that coffee we talked about.”
What is that phrase, emotional whiplash? One second I am being harassed, the next I am being courted. I felt dizzy. Adrenaline was furiously racing through my body. I looked to Natasha for focus. She was making quizzical expressions, eyebrows up, forehead creased, desperate to know who I was talking to. “It’s Thurber,” I mouthed, and she did a little dance, which made me smile.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’m around. Let me just check my Palm.” I counted to ten and then we made plans to meet after work on Tuesday.
The nice thing about being in jail, if one has to say something positive, is that it gives you plenty of space and time to appreciate honesty. More than appreciate it—recognize it. Or rather, recognize the bullshit. I am realizing that this is a very important skill to have, bullshit recognizing, and that it’s one I sorely lacked before I got here.
Take my history with men. My last relationship, if I can call it that, had ended about six months before the phone calls in the rattlesnake pit. It had started online, and it pretty much ended there. The guy was nice enough, and apparently a number of other virtually sophisticated women agreed with me. We had been dating for a few months when we decided to take the next step; we took down our profiles from nicedate. com. But he was a lawyer, and a slippery one at that, so when a friend of mine discovered that he still had his profile up on ivyleaguedates.com, he defended himself by saying he had never agreed to take his profile off of that site. The ethical legacy of the Clinton era, I suppose. We lasted two more months. He was quite charming, and I was entering the age of the “why aren’t you married yet” question, so I desperately tried to make it work. But when another friend discovered my beloved’s profile on swing-date.com, well, let’s just say I logged off of men for a while.
And now here I was, surrounded by thousands and thousands of very phallic creatures, being pursued by Mr. Too Good To Be True.
“Are you okay?” Natasha asked again, after we had completed our mandatory round of “Oh my God! That was him! Oh my God!”
“I feel fine.”
“I mean about that other phone call. Before you fainted. What do you think that was?”
“I think,” I said, suddenly bolstered by Mark’s call and insanely energized, “I think I have no idea, but I’m ready to go find the crew now.” She said okay, because she also knew the rules, and we hitched a ride on the back of a farmer’s pickup truck, off to hunt some snakes.
To whom it may concern at New Day USA:
You had a story on this morning about a new facial yoga that helps to reduce wrinkles. Can you please tell me where I can find these classes?
Thank you,
Bonnie Eager
Fargo, ND
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday.
WE