Chapter 2 Marsh
Marsh
It’s a miracle I’m still standing. I submitted four breaking news stories today, had a mere half of a stale bagel with no cream cheese for lunch, and am relying on this second beer to keep me going.
Probably not a good idea. With all that considered, I’ll admit I’m not the best company at this moment in time.
While the Gold Line is an impressive bar—dimly lit with a red brick interior and Japanese funk music blasting from a DJ in the corner, I rarely find myself on the east side of Los Angeles.
One of the most common things you’ll hear from anyone living in LA is that people tend to stick to their side of town.
People who live in Venice don’t hang out in Pasadena and people who live in Glendale don’t go for dinners in Culver City.
I am someone living in Mar Vista who is already dreading the forty-five-minute drive back home from Highland Park.
There are multiple unintelligible conversations happening within earshot, and it’s far too late for me to jump into any.
Across the high table are two people talking about vaccine policies and another two discussing something about a new diner that opened in Larchmont.
The only dialogue I can make out is a group of women to my left who may or may not be Journal employees, having a very strong reaction to something that happened on Love Island.
I should attempt to be social, but all I can think about are the two deadlines I need to turn around by Monday.
“Marsh, you good?” Jay pats my shoulder, snapping me back to the present.
“Hm? Yeah, yeah sorry.” I scratch the scruff on the side of my jaw. “Was just thinking.”
“About how much you’ll miss me?”
“That,” I say, “and all the work that I can’t wait to take on.”
“Oh, you love it. You’re getting off on these deadlines.”
I adjust my glasses. “You know I never turn down a challenge.”
The term workaholic is something that often gets linked with my name.
It mostly has a negative connotation, but my job is my passion.
I’m really fucking good at what I do, and I like doing it.
That’s exactly why when Nadia Lewis reached out a few weeks ago about taking over Jay’s role at The Journal, I jumped at the chance.
I used to work under Nadia years ago, before she became the managing editor at The Journal.
Before that, I studied journalism with Jay at USC.
The opportunity felt almost kismet. After nearly ten years of freelance work for the Los Angeles Times, CNN, The New York Times, and everything in between, I felt that Nadia’s offer of a full-time role and a chance to build out the news department was the kind of opportunity people could only dream about.
“Monday’s going to feel weird,” Jay muses and grabs a handful of nuts from the communal bowl between us. “Not going into the office.”
“I’m really happy for you, Jay,” I say sincerely.
When Jay told me he was leaving the steady paycheck and the fast-paced lifestyle to take a year off and move to Portugal with his wife, I was floored.
I can’t even fathom the idea of giving up this life.
I eat, sleep, and breathe news. I didn’t bust my ass in grad school, spend the last sixteen years pulling all-nighters to climb the corporate ladder, and lose everything in the process to just throw it all away.
“Thanks, Marsh.” He tips his glass to me. “I know you’re never going to listen to me, but you should try it. You work too hard.” Jay emphasizes each word so it gets through to me. It’s something I’m used to hearing him say every time we see each other.
“Telling me to ease up just as I’m taking over your job is not the best advice.”
“Fair,” Jay says. “But at least stop thinking about work for tonight, okay? It’s Friday night, you deserve to have a weekend before you officially start on Monday.”
“I’ll think about it.” I entertain him, but we both know I won’t.
“I’m sure you will,” Jay says with a laugh.
A new wave of people from the office enters the patio, cheering when they see Jay. “Look, I should probably head home,” I say. “Seriously, I’m so happy for you, and you deserve this.”
“Thanks, man,” he says. “We’re still doing dinner in a couple of weeks, right? Before I leave?”
“Yeah.” I take another sip of my beer that’s bordering on its last drop. “I have it on the cal.”
“All right.” Jay gives me a final hug and pats me on the back. “Get your ass home; it’s past your bedtime.”
I squeeze my way through the crowd that’s doubled in size on the patio in the past ten minutes.
It’s pretty awesome to see the turnout for someone closing the chapter on their time at The Journal.
The publication is to its core a corporation, which means we’re all just numbers.
I’ve worked at smaller publications where everything feels personal.
There’s a family mentality. Everyone is in it together because we’re all wearing ten different hats and just doing all we can to go to print the next day.
The Journal is a well-oiled machine with more than four thousand employees across six continents.
So, while I’ll be cashing in a healthy paycheck at the end of every week, I know I’m expendable.
Just like Jay, just like anyone else here tonight at this bar.
That’s why I work so damn hard. So I can’t be expended.
As I make my way down a transitory hallway, a shallow room full of vinyls catches my eye.
It’s surprisingly the least busy area of the bar.
Much like a child passing a toy aisle, I pivot and scan the different records on display.
Before he passed, my dad was a big record buff.
From Louis Armstrong to Madama Butterfly to Metallica, growing up I was positive he owned every single one.
My eyes search for nothing in particular, but I’m enjoying the view. Pulling out a familiar 45 RPM, I notice a bright orange record inside the sleeve. This is a rare edition, and my rating of this place—a seven, which is already high—shoots up to a nine point five.
“Is that ‘The Girl Is Mine’?” a voice asks over the music.
When I look up, there’s a woman smiling, her eyes almost sparkling with excitement.
She has a petite frame, thick dark hair reaching her elbows, and an olive skin tone.
She’s amazingly stunning, like the kind of stunning you can’t even look at for too long because it feels disrespectful.
When I realize that she’s talking to me for some reason, my brows immediately release.
“Oh, yeah it is.” I pass her the record.
“Whoa, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before.” She takes it, analyzing it from front to back. “This is so cool.”
“Are you a record buff?” I ask.
“More like a cool things buff?” She lets out a weak laugh that unexpectedly makes me smile.
“It’s a collector’s edition,” I add, wondering if that tidbit of knowledge was unnecessary. She takes out her phone and snaps a picture of the record.
“I was going to say, the orange is pretty awesome.” She holds the vinyl up to the warm light, studying it.
“McCartney or Jackson?” I hear myself ask, unsure why I’m entertaining this conversation.
She gasps. “That’s like Sophie’s choice.”
“I don’t make the rules,” I say, playing along.
“I mean, both musical geniuses…” she debates. “What do you think?”
“Yeah but…the Beatles.” I give her a look.
“The what?” She blinks. It takes me all of two seconds to realize she’s messing with me.
“Funny,” I tease with an unimpressed look.
My next move could go one of two ways. I could continue this conversation, ask her what she’s doing here and who she is, see how many more times I can make her smile, because the flash of a dimple on her left cheek is sexy as hell.
Or I can end this chat on a good note. One that doesn’t result in me lying in my bed tonight thinking about the beautiful woman who started a conversation but ended up not being interested at all.
So, I turn back to browsing the rest of the collection.
Just because I’m not looking her way doesn’t mean I don’t feel her eyes on the side of my head. I pull out a random reggae album and start reading the back, trying to make mental notes of the songs to distract me. She’s absolutely still staring, and I do everything in my power to ignore her.
“I’m Lucy,” she says, placing “The Girl Is Mine” back on the shelf among the others. Her fingers go to the next selection, pulling it out, and then she mindlessly gazes at the cover.
“Uh, Marsh.” My eyes follow her every move. “Nice to meet you.”
“Marsh,” she repeats, and shit, my name has never sounded so good. “I like that.”
“Marshall,” I amend. “But I think the last person who called me that was my sixth-grade teacher.”
“Where’d your parents get Marshall from?” Lucy asks, a curiosity to her voice.
“Well, I guess it’s my great-grandparents who came up with it,” I say. “Marshall was my grandpa.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Marsh.”
“Likewise, Lucy,” I say and we both continue looking at the records in front of us.
“Do you live around here?” she asks.
“Oh no,” I reply, although I wouldn’t mind living in this part of town.
“I live on the west side. Just here for…” I stop myself and remember what Jay said.
I need to stop thinking about work for two seconds and just be Marsh.
Not Marshall Oakley, senior news reporter.
“Was just having a drink with a friend. What about you?”
“I live in WeHo,” she says. “My friend just left so I was planning on heading out.”
“The, uh, door’s that way.” I tip my head in the direction she came from.
Lucy smiles like she knows she’s been caught. I’m noticing that she has at least two different smiles. I’m curious how many more are yet to be discovered. “Okay, fine, I wasn’t leaving,” she says. “I was doing some research.”
“Research?” My brows lift.