Not My Type (17 page)

Panicking over vague insinuations about my boss wouldn’t get me anywhere.

* * *

I’m not a morning person, but even so, there are definitely ways I prefer to start my day over others. Waking up to the smell of my mom making chocolate chip waffles is pretty good. Logging onto my e-mail and finding a profanity-laced diatribe about my musical tastes and parentage is not so great.

I had e-mailed my review of Empires of Solace in the wee hours of the morning, writing it up fairly quickly after mentally composing it on the drive home from Salt Lake. Ellie must have posted it as soon as she got it. The band bordered on terrible with unoriginal music and lyrics that tried too hard to be highbrow. I had written, “Every song is a soundalike to other, better bands. Empires of Solace is a post-punk derivative of Joy Division without a tenth of the talent.” It was true, but it sparked a minor firestorm in my inbox.

The message that greeted me was sent to the e-mail assigned to me by Ellie, a
Real Salt Lake
address she had given me. The sender, a guy named Liam Black, had objected to my review of Empires of Solace with the most original combination of curse words I had ever seen. I knew from my preshow research that the angry Liam was the band’s bassist and sometimes lyricist.

By the time my mom walked in, I was laughing.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“Listen to this e-mail. ‘You are a soulless cretin with no depth of musical heritage if you confuse simply paying tribute to our musical influences with being derivative.’” I scrolled down a bit farther, skipping the profanity. “My review of the band last night did not go over so well. He has a bunch of other beefs with my critique, not to mention my personal hygiene and my mental faculties.”

“And this makes you happy?” she asked.

“No, I’m laughing because it’s hard to take someone with these kind of rage issues seriously.”

She shook her head while I tapped out my response. “Dear Liam, if only you had shown this level of creativity in your lyrics, I could have written a much better review. Have a great afternoon!” It was petty, but if he wanted to start my day off with a string of obscenities and questions about my intelligence, a gentle poke back was the least he deserved.

I checked out the other local papers while I polished off my oatmeal. Neither the
Bee
nor the
Advocate
had sent anyone to cover the show. No problem. I could corner the market. Tanner had a story in the
Bee
about a health inspector accused of racketeering. He was charging restaurants an under-the-table fee to keep him from issuing citations, but the kicker was that there weren’t any violations; he threatened to make them up to score hush money. It was a tricky piece of writing because Tanner wasn’t tracking an ongoing official investigation. He actually broke the story and found one source willing to go on the record about the inspector’s antics.

If anything, an investigation would result
because
of his reporting. I read through it, fascinated by the threads Tanner had pulled together to weave the heart of the story, amazed by the sources he had found. One disgruntled woman, the mistress of the corrupt inspector, revealed how he would play his game at high-end restaurants and then tell them that he would turn in a satisfactory inspection report if they would comp his dinner that night. He’d take his mistress, and they’d dine on salmon, while the owner probably stewed in the kitchen, praying the inspector choked on a bone.

It was an extremely good piece with every allegation backed by corroborating statements. Tanner let the reader draw the conclusion about the inspector’s character. Even though he wrote it as an investigative news story, it gripped me like a great feature or human interest story would. On a whim, I added a comment at the end under my initials, P.S. “Props, T.G. I’m learning.” He may not have any idea who PS was or what I was learning, but it was the right thing to do. Tanner had been correct about my résumé, and the more of his work I read, the more I realized he had been fair to call me out on my inexperience. I followed two writers at the
Advocate
closely too, analyzing the way they presented their information and how they used their sources. I used them as models I wanted to emulate in my own writing. My sophomore critical theory professor would have called this “developing voice,” but I thought of it as simply finding out what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.

Tanner’s health inspector piece exemplified the kind of article I wanted to write. He had found the story inside the facts and the people inside the story. It showed insight and discernment, yet another set of layers to him I hadn’t expected.

I clicked around some more, looking for press releases and story ideas, trying to figure out where my next self-assigned freelance piece would come from. I would finish my profile on Kirbi Dawn and send it in after work tonight, but I already wanted a new project queued up and ready to go. I landed on the City Events calendar and perused upcoming activities. One in particular caught my eye, an announcement for a Latin Heritage Festival in Pioneer Park. I had Saturday morning free; I would drop in and see if I could sniff out any stories, maybe about the immigrant experience. In a celebration full of people with diverse ethnic backgrounds, I was bound to find a feature. But I wanted to do what Tanner did and find the person inside that story.

I was ready to take my writing to the next level. In fact, I was ready to take a lot of things to a new level. Like LDS Lookup. I needed to see if any of the three guys I’d pinged had returned my attention. Someone interesting on there eventually had to find me interesting too.

Right?

Dear Rhys,

Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. I just wanted to say I’m sorry again for the black eye. I don’t know what happened. I’m not a huge athlete or anything, but usually I have some coordination. I think maybe my body was temporarily inhabited by a fish out of water, what with the flopping and the waving about of extremities.

Thanks for being so nice about everything. And thanks for a great afternoon until The Incident. It was just bad luck that I was your first LDS Lookup experience. Don’t give up on the website. I have a feeling you’ll have no problem finding what you’re looking for—and soon.

Sincerely,

Pepper Spicer

Chapter 12

To my surprise, an e-mail from one of my three LDS Lookup smile recipients showed up an hour before the end of my shift at Handy’s. I love, love, love having the Internet on my phone. It’s one of the few luxuries, besides my ridiculous jewelry obsession, that I’ve allowed myself on my pay-off-the-wedding plan. Without access to the Internet at work, the dull moments would do me in. And not because I might lose it and try to cram my head in the toaster oven. No, I’d be in far more danger of suffering a psychotic break and plastering the dining wall with pepperoncini murals depicting the rise and fall of Jeep-driving adolescent tyrants.

Anyway, the e-mail was from RJby25, a really cute guy whose profile had caught my eye more than once. In his picture, he had dark hair and a great smile, but even more interesting were his listed hobbies and interests. We shared a lot of things in common, like a love of eating at hole-in-the-wall dives and watching Wes Anderson films. Like most of the guys on the site, he included an interest in sports, both watching and playing, which are take-it-or-leave-it activities to me. I like watching sports live, and if I’m going to play a sport, I do it just for fun. I’m not all cutthroat and life and death-y. His book list hooked me. The fact that his list was long said he read way more than ninety-nine percent of the guys on Lookup. But the titles told me even more about him. They ranged from travel accounts to literary mysteries.

There was only one customer, and Katie could handle him, so I stepped into my office and pulled up the e-mail. “Thanks for the smile,” it read. “I see we like a lot of the same stuff. I just barely joined this site, so please excuse me for being clueless. What do we do next? E-mail for a while?”

I smiled. A few weeks longer on the site than RJby25, and I already felt like a pro by comparison. I tapped out a reply. “Next is a matter of personality. We can trade e-mails for a while if you want.” I wrote a few more things about some of the bands he liked. The back-and-forth with someone I had an interest in versus the column fodder I usually dated made it more fun. If this RJ guy wanted to take things easy, I’d have to figure out a date with someone else by the weekend pretty quickly or come up with a new idea for my column. I still owed Josh, the fridge guy, a date. He’d called twice to invite me to something, but I had genuine conflicts with magazine duties each time. If worse came to worst, maybe I could set something up with him and use it to compare and contrast online and conventional dating.

That night before I collapsed into bed, I read through my Kirbi Dawn piece one last time, then offering a silent prayer, I hit send and hoped for the best. I knew it was the strongest piece of writing I’d done for Ellie so far, and I loved that it had a clear point of view without being an opinion piece.

Ellie’s e-mail the next morning confirmed it. “It’s good. We’ll run it.” An e-mail from RJby25 cheered me even more. He wanted to know if it was too forward to get together sometime that weekend for a low-key hang out.

His message made me laugh. On purpose—a welcome change from some of the guys I had dealt with on the site. “If I have my mom and/or my bishop write a note vouching for me that I’m a nice, stable guy, could we skip some of the e-mails?” he wrote. “At some point, I’m going to make a grammar mistake, and I can see from your info that you majored in English. It’s only a matter of time before I screw up and sound like I never made it past fifth-grade spelling.” He suggested meeting up to play Ultimate Frisbee if the weather was good on Saturday afternoon.

That coincided perfectly with my plans to drive into Salt Lake the same morning for the heritage festival. I’d already be there so it would be easy to swing over and meet him at the . . . Ultimate Frisbee grounds? I didn’t even know how the game was played, much less where. I sent him an e-mail accepting the invitation and asking for the note from his mom. I figured the Frisbee details would work themselves out.

I planned to spend my free time until Saturday morning researching the Hispanic population in Salt Lake. I needed an angle that would both inform and appeal to the hipster sensibilities of
Real Salt Lake
’s readers. Hipsters are defined by their ability to suss out and embrace a new trend before regular middle America has any idea it’s out there. I would prowl the festival to find something that fit the bill.

Friday morning, my Kirbi Dawn piece ran. My dad called me at work to congratulate me. “This is your best work so far,” he said. “I know I give you a lot of grief over the dating column, but it’s because I was hoping to see more of this, more using the power of your pen for good things. Great job, honey.” Even though I know I can always count on that kind of support from my dad, his praise warmed me. While I debated which of my five work T-shirts to wear, a text popped up from Courtney, congratulating me on the piece.
Read it, love it, you rock
, it said. My mom left a congratulatory voice mail during the lunch rush at Handy’s, and Mace stopped by to buy a sandwich and tell me he didn’t know much about writing articles but mine seemed pretty good. That might have been my favorite compliment out of the bunch.

Late afternoon fell, and when Brady, the target of my mayo-hurling, slinked in looking both sullen and nervous, I rolled my eyes and waved him up to the order sign. I could tolerate even him today. Katie giggled at his lame jokes while she made his sandwich, and I eyeballed the whole transaction to make sure she charged him for the extra pastrami he requested. When the end of my shift rolled around, I was feeling pretty good about life, the universe, and everything in it.

I grabbed my stuff out of the office and got halfway to the front door before Josh walked in. I stopped, the tiniest bit of guilt pricking me. I wasn’t avoiding him, but I didn’t know where to fit one more thing into my schedule. Truthfully, he was a nice enough guy, but it was hard to be motivated to make a date happen when I knew we weren’t a long-term reality.

He wore his service uniform and looked tired, but he mustered a smile. “Should I move out of the way so I can’t block the exit when you make a run for it?”

I laughed. “I’m not trying to get away from you. Sit. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

He picked a table, and I dropped my stuff in the seat opposite him then nipped behind the counter and rustled up a French dip sandwich. I didn’t have to ask what he wanted because he ordered the same thing every time. Most people do. When I brought it to him and took a seat, he smiled but didn’t say anything until he’d downed a couple of bites. Josh wasn’t much for small talk and even less for chatter.

When he set the sandwich down, he heaved a pleased sigh before he caught my eye. “I came to let you off the hook,” he said.

“What hook? I’m not on a hook.” But I knew what he meant.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t feel bad. I just don’t want you to think you can’t call the next time the Rust Bucket breaks down because you’re afraid I’ll bother you.”

My guilt blossomed into a full-blown prickly thistle. “I promise I haven’t been avoiding you. I work two jobs, and my schedule is crazy right now. It’s an issue of time, that’s all.”

He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed, his expression thoughtful. “You’re getting off work?”

“Yes.”

“Then how about we go do something right now?”

I glanced down at my clothes. “Because I’m wearing a mustard-stained shirt and I reek of onions.”

He shrugged. “I’ll stay in my uniform too, and we’ll go bowling. People are always dressing up in themes to go bowling. Maybe they’ll think we’re dressed for a blue collar theme.”

I wanted to protest, but I didn’t have any reason not to go. I found Josh easy to be around, and the alternative to his invitation was to sit at home and do some research before the festival in the morning. Since I already had a ton of information and I’d grown much less fond of my own company over the past few weeks, I grinned. “You’re on. Prepare to feel awesome when you beat me by a million.”

He shook his head, his face sad. “If only the score went that high.”

I laughed. “How high does it go?”

“Three hundred.”

“Then prepare to beat me by two-fifty.”

I followed him to his work truck and once I climbed in, he peeled the magnetic sign off my door that announced that he worked for “Nelson and Sons HVAC Repair.” After he did the same thing to his side, he tossed the signs in the back and climbed in.

“You get to drive this even when you’re not at work?” I asked. The interior of the truck was far nicer and cleaner than the utilitarian white exterior would have led me to expect. “That’s a pretty good perk.”

“It comes with being the owner’s son, I guess.”

I glanced at him in surprise. How had I not known he was the “and sons” part of that equation? Just more evidence of my total self-absorption over the previous months. “How many sons are there?”

“Me and my brother, but he’s on a mission right now,” he said. “And he doesn’t really want to go into the family business when he gets back. He’s more interested in architecture, I think.”

“What about you?” I asked, curious. “Do you like working for the family business?”

“It’s okay, but it’ll get better when I’m done with my MBA. It’s hard working part time and going to school, but I’m almost finished.”

Well, well, well. Mr. Josh was full of surprises, as the rest of the night proved. I was ashamed that I had assumed because he wore a repairman’s shirt that he was simple and uneducated. Josh was definitely simple but in the best sense of the word. He was straightforward and uncomplicated. He wanted to settle down and get married soon and looked forward to raising kids. His dad wanted him working out in the field as a wage slave to learn all aspects of the business, but when his schooling was done, Josh would start working his way up in the company’s main office. Nelson and Sons had one of the largest heating and cooling repair companies in the state.

I liked his gentle sense of humor, but even though he was fun to hang out with, I didn’t feel any chemistry. When he drove me back to my car after a sound spanking at bowling, I was glad to give him a hug. I felt as comfortable with him as I would Mace or Cory. I stepped out of his embrace but kept my hands on his upper arms and squeezed lightly.

“I had a great time, Josh. You’re easy to be around, and I’m sorry it took me so long to find the time to do it.”

He smiled. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way—” his smile slipped, “but I’m not really in the market for a relationship right now, and I don’t think we have that kind of connection, do you?”

He smiled again. “No, I guess we don’t.”

“What would you think about me setting you up with a friend of mine? You’d be perfect for each other.”

He leaned against my car to stare down at me, a bemused expression on his face. “It seems like I should be offended somehow that you’re trying to set me up with someone else at the end of our date. And yet I’m not.”

“Don’t be offended,” I said. “I wouldn’t set her up with just anybody. Do you remember that couple who was in the store the night you came in with the roses?”

I could see the tips of his ears redden in the parking lot lights, but he nodded.

“They’re brother and sister. The girl, Courtney, is a good friend of mine, and I think you should meet her.”

He hesitated. “This is weird.”

I grinned. “I know. But trust me; you guys are a good fit.”

He sighed. “All right. If she likes the idea, we might as well.” His smile peeked out again. “If I remember right, she was pretty cute.”

“You’re remembering right. I’ll call you soon with the details.”

An hour later, I curled up with my laptop once more to reread my Urban Grit piece. I hadn’t had a chance yet to check out the comments, and I was excited to see twelve waiting for me. Three were obviously from my family members, bless them. I read through the rest. Most of them said either, “Rad, I didn’t even know about this company,” which made me happy for Kirbi that she might get new customers, or “I love their stuff. Glad someone is writing about them.” Only one comment near the end of the trail referred to the reporting itself, and in three little words it sent a tickle through my system that I hadn’t felt in two hours with Josh. “You can write.” That’s all it said, but what got me was the initials on the comment: TG.

Tanner Graham.

* * *

Saturday, around lunchtime, I stood on the edge of a field at Warm Springs Park and wondered what to expect. The morning couldn’t have gone any better if it had been hand delivered on special order from my very own fairy godmother. I had a story burning a hole in my brain, dying to fly out of my fingertips and into my laptop. But I had another assignment to get through first—my date with RJby25, also known as Rhys Jensen, a twenty-four-year-old accountant at a major firm in Salt Lake. It was the first time I had kind of, sort of, looked forward to a Lookup date, and it made me far more nervous than I had been on any of my other outings. Even Ginger’s mockery that morning couldn’t deter me.

“You’re going out with a guy named Rice?” she demanded after accessing my account to look him up.

“It’s pronounced
Reese
,” I said, refusing to be baited while I sorted through my closet. She made up a little ditty about Pepper Rice while I debated what to wear and ignored her. Now, waiting for Rhys to show up, I couldn’t get the stupid tune out of my head.

I checked out my outfit again, hoping it would be okay. I had on plain black, cropped, knit yoga pants and a berry-colored hoodie. I wore my semi-decent Adidas instead of my trashed running shoes, but I wasn’t sure I had successfully struck the balance between sporty and cute. A minute later, I heard a hesitant “Pepper?” and looked up to find Rhys approaching with a gym bag in one hand. He was better looking than his picture, and I could only hope I wasn’t measurably worse than mine. His casual clothes made me feel better about my outfit.

After exchanging hellos, we stood staring at each other for an awkward moment, and my brain, panicking at the silence, shifted my mouth into overdrive. “So it’s nice to meet you. Are my clothes okay? I’ve never played Ultimate Frisbee before, so I wasn’t sure what to wear. And then I wasn’t sure what the weather would do either. It’s so uncooperative, right? I guess that’s spring for you though.”
Ack! Shut up, shut up!
But my mouth wouldn’t listen. “I wonder if spring is unpredictable everywhere or if that’s, like, a Utah thing. I have a cousin in Georgia who says half their year is like that, from October to May. She likes it though. I mean the living in Georgia part. I don’t know what she thinks about the weather. I haven’t really asked her. I’m not sure why not. I guess probably because conversations about the weather are kind of boring.”
And yet you’ve just spent approximately a full minute having a one-sided conversation about it. Well done!