Page 54 of Cuts like a Knife
“I didn’t ask him his name. Who cares about his name?”
“Shooting took ages though. You were sitting there with him for a really long time. He ate your dinner.”
“So?”
“So you didn’t talk? For all that time?”
“No, we talked. I just didn’t ask him his name. What’s the big deal? Why are you interrogating me about the name of some random old man?”
“You said he was a reporter for the Sentinel, not a random old man. And sorry. I definitely didn’t mean to interrogate you. We’re talking. I just …” Drew sits back against the seat, the look of puzzlement deepening to true confusion and taking over his whole face. “I mean, you’re a journalist. He’s a journalist. It just seemed like the sort of thing you would do. Ask. Find out who you’re talking to. Obviously, I wouldn’t know. It’s not my field, I just assumed180.”
I’m annoyed.
Drew’s job is kissing corporate a—. And his hobby is apparently learning about federal trade and the food industry in the Bahamas. He knows nothing about my job. He’s a civilian. But of course, he’d criticize me anyway. Even knowing absolutely nothing. That’s what people do.
“Well, it’s fine,” I say. “It wasn’t weird or anything. He didn’t ask my name either. He kept calling me kid actually. And it was really f—ing annoying and paternalistic, actually.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“You say f— a lot more than you used to,” he says suddenly181.
“Yeah, well, it’s a thing. Did you ever see that 90s movie, Bridget Jones’ Diary?”
“Shockingly, yes. With an ex-girlfriend. I don’t think it’s was a nineties movie, though. I think I remember when it came out. My mom went to see in in theatre.”
“Donna Fox, forever cringe. Regardless,” I say, deliberately dismissive. “One of Bridget’s friends is a journalist and they wrote it in. She’s a journalist and she likes to say f— a lot. I think they even say that. It’s a joke, but it’s also a real thing. That’s what we’re all like.
“Huh. I never knew that.” Maybe he doesn’t believe me. After all, I’m not a real journalist. Not like the old-as-the-hills fancy pants steak-thief from Sentinel.
This is how it is with Drew and I now. Everything inevitably turns into an argument. Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes it’s more than fun. Sometimes it’s even sexy, but right now it’s just irritating.
Like, why is he calling attention to the fact that I’m not a real journalist? Sure, fine, he’s not wrong, but still. Like he just admitted, it’s not his field. At best it’s adjacent to his field. And he hasn’t been working for that long, even if he is burnt out, so I don’t know why he fancies himself such an expert.
His business is advertising, the opposite of journalism.
For awhile, we ride in silence, but eventually he tries again.
“I guess it was nice for you to meet up with your old friends though,” he says. “Those people from Flash. Although, I have to admit, they didn’t give off the best vibe, did they? What about that? Was that normal too?”
This is the problem. This is exactly the problem with Drew and worlds colliding and why he and I are never going to work in our real, grown-up lives. This is all just too close for comfort.
“Journalists are shitty people,” I say. “We’re all mean and sarcastic and we say f— too much and we don’t give off good vibes and we don’t ask each other’s names. Look, I don’t want to talk about work. I’m clocked out for the night, okay? I’m just hungry. Will I be able to eat anything at this place you’ve got? Just like, a sandwich or something?”
“Unfortunately, that’s going to be a no on the sandwich. We’re on island time. Everything is closed and it’s just a little private house. I don’t have much in the fridge. Sorry. That’s why I said you should get something while we were still at the hotel, but you seemed like you were in a hurry all of a sudden—”
I don’t want him to realize I was avoiding anyone so I jump in before he can finish.
“I’m not that hungry. No worries182.”
“I have an idea,” Drew says, peering out his window into the night. The next thing I know, he is leaning up, between the front seats, and speaking quietly to the driver. A few moments later, we pull off into a darkened property on the beach side of the road, next to what looks like a fishing shack or a shed — a ramshackle plywood box with a corrugated metal roof. It’s some kind of food stall.
The driver hops out of the car and disappears around the side of the stall, to the tiny cottage just beyond. All around us, it’s dark — not quite pitch black, but close. The only light is coming from our car’s headlights, and a tiny square of orange in the window of the little house.
“Why are we here? It’s closed. This shack thing is closed,” I say. This is embarrassing.
“Don’t worry about it183.”
