There's something fun about the slow ramp up to when Sam and Lucy totally ruin this charity dinner. It took a lot of going back and forth here because, I'm worried this misunderstanding is in bad taste. Confusing two heterosexual males for gay and a man cheating on his wife as a stoner is relatively safe and funny. I don't think I like this one; because it makes Sam seem too passive. It had to be written from Lucy's perspective because, if it wasn't, I was worried the reader wouldn't realize the reason that Sam overhearing the last part is supposed to be funny, even though I don't think it is.
It's hard not to imagine Sam just storming in and dispensing some misunderstood justice; if I ever do an edit, I'll probably seriously reconsider rewriting this section to have him overhear something else instead, but I've really missed too many days on this story to rehaul everything. We could probably completely cut that last conversation about hitting her car without losing anything; Sam already still dislikes him because he thinks he's sleeping with Lucy, so did we really need to push it to 11? I don't know; I don't care. We can't take more time for Sullivan to blog.
Are you a regular reader? Do you agree with me that this is Not A Funny Misunderstanding?
Anyway, here are past issues, and the rest of the fiction is below the fold. I think my Google and Facebook ads are going to go crazy since I've now done Google searches for both women's fashion and California LGBT magazines. But, the point is: Sam doesn't realize who he is giving an interview for. That makes it funny. Even though in real life, any journalist/paper would tell you who they are, and you would Google them, this isn't real life. This is Sitcom.
The fear of unemployment hanging over my head was oddly liberating. I found it easier to embrace the chaos around me; it was Wednesday. The speech was coming along. When Heather arrives, I will tell the sweet old woman all the ways I will help her. I rehearsed that speech to myself a few times and called.
Then I learned that she was beyond help. Not just in the sense that I could not help her, but in the sense that she had died in her sleep. She died. Hating me. This was a new feeling; I wasn’t used to being hated. Well, not for things I hadn’t done. Well, not for things Christine hadn’t done.
I hung up the phone and sat in the office reflecting on things. If I had been here yesterday, her last day on earth might have been a happy one. I was contemplating this when the door to the office opened. The grungy, pony-tail mechanic came in. He looked a bit confused.
“Oh, I’m sorry miss, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Yes. We met yesterday. When you hit my car.”
“Oh, right. I thought you looked familiar,” He said. “The guy at the front sent me back here. I was looking for Fiona.”
“She’ll be here later,” I said. “I can take a message.”
“Oh, no. That’s alright,” He said. There was a knock on the door. “I’m sorry again for hitting you.”
“Well, it just better not happen again,” I said. “It might be a lot worse next time.”
“Right, right. Look, I made it better, alright? Forgive and forget?”
“Sure thing,” I said. He opened the door, and Sam pushed his way into the office. He gave the pony-tail guy (maybe it was a mullet? I haven’t seen mullets in forever. I need to watch MacGuyver again to see what a mullet is) a death glare. I’d never seen Sam so angry, but he composed himself as soon as the mechanic left. I can’t call him a pony-tail guy anymore, because it might be a mullet.
“Are you alright Lulu?”
“I’m fine,” I said. I wiped the nascent tears from my eyes, just in case. “It’s just, hard, you know? Being hated so much.”
“Well, you could always just leave.”
I thought about that. Then I shook my head. It was kind of pointless, I figured, since Heather was dead, she wasn’t going to come back to Olive Garden to hate me. Except maybe as a ghost. I needed to ask Christine about grudge ghosts. “No, I’m happy here. I’ll get along fine Sam.”
Sam kicked the Annette’s desk. Which was weird, but whatever. I asked him what was on his mind. “Oh, it’s nothing. There’s just some guy from Frontiers magazine here to interview me.”
“To interview you?”
“Yeah,” He said. “After last night, they were calling all morning wanting to get my story. Local hero saves kid, you know?”
“Saves kid?” I asked. He told me about his adventure at the bowling alley. “And this outdoors magazine wants to write about you?”
“Yeah,” He said. “I figure I’ll tell them I was a Boy Scout, you know, pull in that whole Mother Earth, outdoors feeling into the interview.”
“You weren’t a Boy Scout,” I said. I guessed this because he couldn’t tie his tie or his shoes.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Come on, I need you to tie my tie so I look good for the interview.” I stood up and took the tie he offered me and draped it around his neck. I had to admit, it was a pretty color.