Page 6 of Let's Kiss and Tell

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Marsh

It’s a miracle I’m still standing. I submitted four breaking news stories today, had a mere half of a stale bagel with no cream cheese for lunch, and am relying on this second beer to keep me going. Probably not a good idea. With all that considered, I’ll admit I’m not the best company at this moment in time.

While the Gold Line is an impressive bar—dimly lit with a red brick interior and Japanese funk music blasting from a DJ in the corner, I rarely find myself on the east side of Los Angeles. One of the most common things you’ll hear from anyone living in LA is that people tend to stick to their side of town. People who live in Venice don’t hang out in Pasadena and people who live in Glendale don’t go for dinners in Culver City. I am someone living in Mar Vista who is already dreading the forty-five-minute drive back home from Highland Park.

There are multiple unintelligible conversations happening within earshot, and it’s far too late for me to jump into any. Across the high table are two people talking about vaccine policies and another two discussing something about a new diner that opened in Larchmont. The only dialogue I can make out is a group ofwomen to my left who may or may not beJournalemployees, having a very strong reaction to something that happened onLove Island.

I should attempt to be social, but all I can think about are the two deadlines I need to turn around by Monday.

“Marsh, you good?” Jay pats my shoulder, snapping me back to the present.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah sorry.” I scratch the scruff on the side of my jaw. “Was just thinking.”

“About how much you’ll miss me?”

“That,” I say, “and all the work that I can’t wait to take on.”

“Oh, you love it. You’re getting off on these deadlines.”

I adjust my glasses. “You know I never turn down a challenge.”

The termworkaholicis something that often gets linked with my name. It mostly has a negative connotation, but my job is my passion. I’m really fucking good at what I do, and Ilikedoing it. That’s exactly why when Nadia Lewis reached out a few weeks ago about taking over Jay’s role atThe Journal,I jumped at the chance.

I used to work under Nadia years ago, before she became the managing editor atThe Journal.Before that, I studied journalism with Jay at USC. The opportunity felt almost kismet. After nearly ten years of freelance work for theLos Angeles Times,CNN,The New York Times,and everything in between, I felt that Nadia’s offer of a full-time role and a chance to build out the news department was the kind of opportunity people could only dream about.

“Monday’s going to feel weird,” Jay muses and grabs a handful of nuts from the communal bowl between us. “Not going into the office.”

“I’m really happy for you, Jay,” I say sincerely.

When Jay told me he was leaving the steady paycheck and the fast-paced lifestyle to take a year off and move to Portugal with hiswife, I was floored. I can’t even fathom the idea of giving up this life. I eat, sleep, and breathe news. I didn’t bust my ass in grad school, spend the last sixteen years pulling all-nighters to climb the corporate ladder, and lose everything in the process to just throw it all away.

“Thanks, Marsh.” He tips his glass to me. “I know you’re never going to listen to me, but you should try it.You work too hard.” Jay emphasizes each word so it gets through to me. It’s something I’m used to hearing him say every time we see each other.

“Telling me to ease up just as I’m taking over your job is not the best advice.”

“Fair,” Jay says. “But at least stop thinking about work for tonight, okay? It’sFriday night,you deserve to have a weekend before you officially start on Monday.”

“I’ll think about it.” I entertain him, but we both know I won’t.

“I’m sure you will,” Jay says with a laugh.

A new wave of people from the office enters the patio, cheering when they see Jay. “Look, I should probably head home,” I say. “Seriously, I’m so happy for you, and you deserve this.”

“Thanks, man,” he says. “We’re still doing dinner in a couple of weeks, right? Before I leave?”

“Yeah.” I take another sip of my beer that’s bordering on its last drop. “I have it on the cal.”

“All right.” Jay gives me a final hug and pats me on the back. “Get your ass home; it’s past your bedtime.”

I squeeze my way through the crowd that’s doubled in size on the patio in the past ten minutes. It’s pretty awesome to see the turnout for someone closing the chapter on their time atThe Journal.The publication is to its core a corporation, which means we’re all just numbers. I’ve worked at smaller publications where everything feels personal. There’s afamilymentality. Everyone is in it together because we’re all wearing ten different hats and justdoing all we can to go to print the next day.The Journalis a well-oiled machine with more than four thousand employees across six continents. So, while I’ll be cashing in a healthy paycheck at the end of every week, I know I’m expendable. Just like Jay, just like anyone else here tonight at this bar. That’s why I work so damn hard. So I can’t be expended.

As I make my way down a transitory hallway, a shallow room full of vinyls catches my eye. It’s surprisingly the least busy area of the bar. Much like a child passing a toy aisle, I pivot and scan the different records on display. Before he passed, my dad was a big record buff. From Louis Armstrong toMadama Butterflyto Metallica, growing up I was positive he owned every single one.

My eyes search for nothing in particular, but I’m enjoying the view. Pulling out a familiar 45 RPM, I notice a bright orange record inside the sleeve. This is a rare edition, and my rating of this place—a seven, which is already high—shoots up to a nine point five.

“Is that ‘The Girl Is Mine’?” a voice asks over the music.