Page 121 of Cut Off
“Yup. Corporate slid him into station manager on Tuesday morning. He showed up in a tie. Linda says he was crying a little. In a good way.”
“Jerry,” I say again, savoring it. “Jerry got the chair.”
“Jerry got the chair.”
I’m already reaching for my bag and standing.
“Zoe?”
The latte’s in my hand, and I’m already three feet from the door. “Jane. I love you. I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the station.”
She grins. Big, knowing, Jane grin. “Get it, girl.”
Here is what I do crossing the bridge to W2Beaver. I run the pitch in my head. I do it again. Then, one last time. I’m a producer, and this is what I do: structure a story under pressure.
The story is: Zoe Lane, prior producer of W2Beaver, newly minted executive producer at Seattle KISL with a glass-walled office, a succulent, and a new resume that W2Beaver couldn’t afford with a GoFundMe. The pitch is asponsorship. A partnership. A back-half of what the station, frankly, owes me.
It’s a great pitch and I’m proud of it. By the time I push through the glass doors with the cartoon beaver, I’m ninety percent sure I could sell it to a brick.
The lobby is exactly the same.
Priya, the receptionist, looks up. She’s been here almost as long as the building. “Zoe Lane.”
“Priya.”
“You here for Jerry?”
“I’m here for Jerry.”
“He’s expecting you.”
I freeze. “He’s what?”
She shrugs. “He saw you on the camera coming up the block. He said, and I quote, ‘Oh, thank God.’”
I stand there, processing.
“Go on back.” Priya waves at me. “He’s in Marcus’s old office. Don’t say Marcus’s old office. He’s sensitive about it.”
“Got it.”
I walk back, knowing every inch of this hallway. The carpet’s still patterned with stains. The bulletin board still has a flyer for a 2022 chili cook-off. The light over the kitchenette still flickers.
Marcus’s old office—Jerry’s office—has the door open. Jerry’s behind the desk in a tie. Jerry has worked at this station for thirty years, and I have never seen him in a tie. His hair’s combed. A coffee mug sits on the desk that says WORLD’S HIPPEST GRANDPA.
He stands up when I come in. “Zoe.”
“Jerry. Or, sorry—Mr. Manager.”
“Don’t.” He grins, sitting back down and gesturing at the chair. “Sit. Sit. Coffee?”
“Ihave coffee.” I hold up the latte. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“On the bloodbath?”
