PixelVixen707

(Big round of applause for photog Vincent Diamante)

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Dad and I call to check in. And that’s our first mistake.

I run down my status, and he sounds unimpressed. “This source you’re talking with - I think he’s stringing you along,” says dad.

“He’s a kook, for sure. But I’ll bet he’s just lonely. And he knows where the game is.”

“The lonely ones will kill you on deadline,” answered dad, mentor to rookie. “I think he’s playing you, and you’re running out of time. Should I try to talk to him?”

“I can handle this, dad,” biting off the last word. There’s a pause. “We’re this close. I’m going to meet his terms.”

“Unless you do what he’s asking and he still can’t help. Did he tell you he knows where the game is, that it’s the same one, that it hasn’t moved again – ”

“I’ve got this one, dad.”

My dad fights aren’t like Zach’s. He and his pops go toe to toe. They’re like elks bashing antlers. My dad and I? We’re the quiet, fuming types. And maybe his frustration comes from a good place. But mine doesn’t.

I’ve already admitted, to you and to him, that I’ve made a few missteps along the way. I’m a crack researcher and fact-checker. But I rarely take the lead on working the sources, and my inexperience is showing. And noone has a better view than my dad.

Dad breaks the silence. “I just want you to know, I’m here to help. After all, we’re working on this together.”

Sigh. And now I’m a brat.

Funny, although we’ve been swapping notes and leads all month, I can’t see myself working “with” my dad. Never did. Because he is a real journalist. I remember him at the peak of his career, when he would catch a great story and put on his blinders. He’d go in a trance, and it would last through dinner, through bedtime stories, in the summer taking us for ice cream - even when he tried to relax and give us some time, he’d look uncomfortable until he was back at his desk, by the phone. I didn’t mind. That’s what made him great.

“Dad, to be honest? I wish you’d stop pretending I’m your partner.”

“What do you mean? Of course we’re partners. This is your beat.”

“It’s not a ‘beat,’ I just – I have this blog. Anyone can write a blog.”

“Okay, but not anyone could land an assignment at that site, the, um – “

Good god, the first pro writing gig I land and it’s a site I’d rather die than discuss with my dad. “Suicide Girls.”

“Ha, of course. How could I forget a name like that?” He was trying to kid around now, and I didn’t go for it.

“Look, dad. Seriously. Take the lead. You tell me what to do. Should we put the screws to this guy? Here’s his number.”

Flashback: my first journo gig, with the New York Journal-Ledger, the small, scrappy paper that won awards for covering the aftermath of 9/11. I was on a break from yet another dull semester, and I was just the intern – but they were strapped and I was eager, and they gave me all the responsibility I could handle. Turned out I could handle a lot.

But even at my best, I never forgot how I got that job: not because I had a stellar resume, or great clips from the college rag, or even clue one how to get around New York. I got it because my dad made a phone call, to his old friend, the publisher of the paper.

So after school, I moved to New York for good, and I landed at a coffee shop. I’m working there, stubbornly, until by dumb luck my editor - the supervisor who saw me through my internship, and who saw what I could do – walked in, took one look at me in my apron and blurted, “Rachael. What the fuck?”

So I took the job. Because that time, I earned it.

“Rach, I don’t know how to convince you I need you on this.”

And between my fingers, the pencil snaps.

“I’d love to be a team, but we’re not. I’m not even gal Friday. And we both know it, and it’s frustrating the hell out of me. Why does the one thing we try to do together have to make me so fucking small?”

The line simmered. And dad broke the silence.

“Can I give you one piece of advice?”

“Why not.”

“At your age, if it matters to you what I think? Then that’s your first problem.”

Ten minutes later, mom called.

“Honey, I don’t want to get in the middle of your disagreement,” said mom. “But there’s something you should know. Your father lost his job.”

“What? When?”

“Last month. They offered him a buy-out, and he took it.”

Ah.

Well, I guess he needs a teammate after all.

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