Shameless Flirt (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 0.50)
1
Bring on the Zeppelin
Seven Years Ago
* * *
TJ
* * *
When my boss calls me into her office on Thursday afternoon, I anticipate nothing but the usual sort of assignment—cover a major staff shakeup at a TV network, or an imbroglio at some media giant. Copy due by five, of course.
I expect to be headed as far as Midtown, not across the Atlantic Ocean.
“How would you like to work in London for the next year?” asks the no-nonsense newswoman, offering an opportunity I’ve dreamed of since I was thirteen.
A chance to go back to England?
Yes, please. More than anything.
Before I can close my gaping mouth to say as much, Ms. Deadline, as we call her, makes my answer irrelevant. She shakes her head with a curt laugh. “Actually, it’s not really a question. We are sending you to London, TJ.”
There’s only one thing to say. “Can I leave today?”
I imagine exactly how it will go, picturing it like a movie montage.
The flight will entail the requisite number of unruly kids, all somehow seated in the row directly behind me. I will, of course, have to cram myself into a middle seat, which is no fun at six-three. While the future juvenile delinquents kick the back of my chair for eight hours, the friendly lady next to me will chatter on about the Jell-O molds she’s making for her Aunt Patty’s eighty-fifth birthday party.
There will, of course, be turbulence.
Cut to me staring forlornly at the barren Heathrow baggage carousel. As my fellow passengers grab their suitcases and get on with their vacations or their reunions, the airline informs me they’ve lost my luggage. I’ll spend my first night in the city with only the clothes I arrived in.
I’ll roll with it. Shit happens, bags get lost, and it’s my turn on the conveyor belt of bad fortune.
No biggie. At least I’ll be unencumbered as I head to the flat I rented, where the leasing agent meets me to say there’s been a wee bit of a mix-up concerning my living arrangements. Of course there has.
Instead of a sweet pad overlooking the river, my new residence is a dinky unfurnished studio, and one floor up is some crotchety old guy who plays bootleg Led Zeppelin records at all hours. The pipes will be creaky, the hot water finicky, and there won’t be a decent coffee shop for miles.
And I won’t care, no matter how much I dislike Led Zeppelin.
Because every dude in London will have an English accent.
Yes, please!
I pull myself back to the present and focus on my boss. “I can be on the next flight.” I’m super helpful that way, particularly with opportunities that involve a potential panoply of swoony Brits.
“Love that attitude,” Ms. Deadline says. “But let me give you the job details.”
It seems that, after covering the business of TV, media, and advertising for 24News in New York, I’ll now be reporting on the London financial markets. It’s a positive step in my journalism career, and the company will provide relocation services and a furnished flat. I don’t have to do a thing but pack my clothes.
Nice.
“This is a huge opportunity for someone so young, and we’re offering it to you because we’re truly impressed with your work.” She stands and reaches across her impeccably neat desk, free of the usual journalist’s mess, and shakes my hand. “You’ll start in two weeks.”
“Fantastic,” I say, hoping the next fourteen days fly by. “I’ll be ready.”
Packing up my life is easy. I’m a nomad—give me a laptop and a phone, and I’m good to go. Well, I can’t do without a couple of nice shirts and access to a gym. But other than that, I’m a guy with simple needs.
Everything complicated is in my head—like all my hopes and dreams—dreams I want to chase in London.
Well, when I’m not busy chasing men.
But I plan to make time for both.
2
Here I Come
TJ
* * *
On Friday two weeks later, I’m more than ready to hit the road. Even my bags look eager to jet, parked by the door.
“And I’m outta here,” I announce to my three roommates. For the last year, Trey, Nolan, Ashlee, and I have shared an extremely mediocre apartment in Queens, one that only the under twenty-five-and-dying-to-live-in-a-cool-city set consider inhabitable. Since that describes me and all my friends, there’s a long list of guys and dolls ready to jump on a spare room. A friend of Ashlee’s leaped first, and she’ll be taking my room tonight.
As I hoist my carry-on bag onto my shoulder, Ashlee keeps shooting zombies on the Xbox. Trey is knitting an argyle sweater vest for a cat. Nolan whips up a mushroom omelet at the stove.
“Try not to miss me while I’m gone,” I call out.
“Don’t worry. We won’t,” Ashlee says as she takes out a nest of the undead. “Not until we need someone to fix the sink.”