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ONE
HENRI
The air conditionerin the office building must have been set to arctic. I shivered and held my leather moto jacket closed tight around my chest as I slipped into the one empty seat around the boardroom table.
“It looks like Christmas threw up in here,” I whispered to Janie. A fake tree covered in white lights blasted out thousands of lumens from the corner and plastic garlands hung over the doorway, loaded with candy cane lights. The whole thing was so hideous it had to be ironic. We were, after all, a biting, cynical news journal specializing in alternative views sprinkled with a little bit of farce.
Instead of riffing with me as our boss, Mike, droned on about numbers, Janie shot me a look that said shut up.
“Glad you could join us Henrietta,” Mike said. He flicked on the lights and the power point presentation dimmed behind him.
“The traffic…” I jutted my chin to the window and set my helmet on the table.
Mike sighed. “Henri, it’s Los Angeles, and you’ve lived here your whole life. You’d think you’d have learned to adjust your travel time accordingly.”
A quick glance at my watch told me I was only five minutes late. Mike must be in a mood. Our office was typically laid back and someone was always late to the meetings, today it just happened to be my turn.
“And, don’t you drive a motorcycle?” Marc with a c as he liked to correct anytime anyone spelled his name, muttered under his breath. Marc with a c was never late. “Can’t you just weave in and out of traffic?”
I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, stopping just short of an eye roll. “I’m not Tom Cruise.” Although, I had driven up the shoulder to sneak past the line of honking cars.
“Enough.” Mike sat in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Our advertising numbers are down and we’ve lost a major sponsor due to Janie’s article about the dangers of eating spinach.”
Janie shrugged and turned her palms up. “It was a joke…mostly.” She added with a smile. “Oxalates.”
“Well, the spinach burger company didn’t find it funny.” Mike crossed his arms. “For the next month, I’m calling the shots on your articles.”
A collective groan spread through the room of writers. One of the reasons I worked atThe Platypus was it gave me the freedom to write about whatever I wanted to write about.
Marc sat upright and pulled out a spiral bound notebook. “Keener,” Janie whispered under her breath.
I elbowed her. “It’s your fault,” I hissed.
“Don’t blame me, blame the oxalates.” She pumped her eyebrows, obviously not taking Mike’s news seriously. Janie could write about the health benefits of sprinkling carpet fibers into your smoothie and not bat an eye. On the other hand, I had to feel passionate about my subject matter. Or, at a bare minimum, interested. Passion was an emotion that had left my writing career the minute I walked through the doors of the Platypus office.
“Henrietta.” Mike cleared his throat as he scrolled through his laptop. “How about we start with you?” He looked at me over top of his horn-rimmed hipster glasses, “…since you were last to the party.”
“Fire away, boss.” I draped my arm over the back of my chair hoping that it wasn’t a sporting event. My bravado was a front, I was shaking in my motorcycle boots. I wasn’t sure if anyone else could feel it, but this assignment, it felt like a test.
Mike’s smile seemed slightly sinister and I knew that whatever gig he gave me wasn’t going to be a good one. “Since we all know how much you love Christmas…” everyone in the room murmured and there were some snickers. I was vocal about my hatred for the holiday. We were forced to do a secret Santa office gift exchange, and no one wanted me to pull their name, because, well, I exclusively gifted chunks of coal. I thought it was funny, I’m not sure last year’s recipient, Marc, agreed.
My breath caught in my throat. He was going to send me to cover a parade, or some kind of holiday five-mile run. “It’s growing on me.” I lied. Last year Janie had called me the Girl Grinch, and I’d liked it.
“Good.” Mike nodded. “I’m sending you to cover the filming of a movie.”
I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my knuckles. Hope coursed through me. I loved movies and the entire filming process. As though sensing my interest, Mike grinned. “A Christmas movie. Like the kind from a greeting card company.”
“Oh fuck no.” I clapped my hand over my mouth.
Mike raised his eyebrows.
“I mean…” I struggled to find words that weren’t of the four-letter variety. “Come on, Mike. This isn’t the kind of stuff that we cover.”
“Right.” Mike chewed on the end of his pen and then pointed the gross mangled mess at me. “That’s why we’re going to put a Platypus spin on it.”
“How so?” I furrowed my brow, unsure how covering one of those cheesy and predictable holiday films was going to be edgy.
“I want you to tell the real story about small town holidays – break open the narrative that these companies have been cramming down people’s throats. Show us the real side of a small town at Christmas time.”
