Fan club
Well. Not even a phone call? No meeting? No handshake and politely regretful smile, "we wish you the best of luck and will keep you in mind for future opportunities"?
A letter? Handed to me at the reception desk?
The New York Daily News can blow me, is all.
No idea what that Bancroft character wanted with me in the coffeeshop, but hey, I've got a fan! Yippee. I'm sure my landlord will take her nice words in lieu of actual money. Why not?
What the hell am I going to do now? Sold the TNR piece last week; it'll keep me going for a bit. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing. I'm working the old girls' network frantically. Working every contact I've ever had. Nothing, nothing, more nothing. So. Go crawling to a cable net to beg for an appearance? That producer from MSNBC who called after the Rolling Stone piece? Hell. Wallow on my belly, pretend to be a "reformed conservative," pay the bills . . .
Call Dr. Grey?
Hell.
And I can't go see Sabby when I'm like this. I just can't. Not that good an actor. Even if she's out of it on drugs, she'll know. She's not stupid. Can't bring my shit to her bedside. Get it together, Leah. Get it together. Not the end of the world. Not even close. One thing at a time.
If only I knew which "one thing" to start with.
9/15/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The White Room
A small, comfortable little place, this - a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea - the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and comfort, not desperate sophistication.
--
Early evening, before the close of business, finds one Leah Canto, freelance journalist extraordinaire, not so extraordinary: she's at a table in the back of the cafe with her elbows on the table, her fists against her temples, and her eyes on the single sheet of paper before her. A cup of coffee attends her, but she's otherwise alone, and even the tables around her are sparsely inhabited. Not that she's apparently noticing. The paper holds her, and she holds a faint but persistent scowl for it.
Lydia, on the other hand, is smiling quietly as she enters the cafe and procurs for herself a steaming cup of something both caffienated and chocolatey, topped with frothed foam. She spends a moment allowing her gaze to wander across the patrons of the White Room, and then moves purposefully toward the scowling Leah. "Excuse me," she offers politely.
Leah jerks in surprise and then glowers up without otherwise moving from her hunched, propped posture. "Yes?"
Lydia's smile remains, small and polite, with friendly eyes that glow above it. "I'm sorry to interrupt. You're Leah Canto, aren't you?"
"Unfortunately." Leah sits up; her forearms drop to bracket the paper, and a hand's fingers spread across part of it. She puffs out a breath, a half-hearted concession to manners or ill humor or both, and asks, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Not in the least," Lydia returns, cheery smile broadening and hand extending for a professional handshake. "Lydia Bancroft. I've seen your work. I try to keep track of the major names in the field, you see. Mutant politics, that is. I just wanted to say hello, if I had the name right. Am I interrupting you?"
That spreading hand crumples the paper. The other one reaches automatically to complete the clasp, which Leah doesn't extend beyond the polite and proper moment. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Bancroft. Mutant politics?" She tucks the crumple into her lap and considers the other woman with weary, pallid eyes. "No, you aren't interrupting. Can I do something for you?"
"You might say I have a bit of a fascination," Lydia allows, and pulls her own hand back to wrap around her drink. Sharp eyes note weariness and crumpled paper, but she does not remark on it. "It's what I do, myself. Not politics, exactly, but criminal behavior, which seems close enough now and then." Her smile turns smooth and quietly amused. "I suppose I simply figured that everyone likes to know they have a fan. You've published some insightful pieces."
Leah's mouth turns down, but she only shrugs and replies, "Well, thanks. Do you want to join me?" Politeness, politeness... She grabs her coffee, too, though not yet to drink. "Criminal behavior, huh? Like -- what, the mind of the mutant bad guy?" She tries a smile.
"The mind of the juvenile deliquent in general," Lydia answers with a quiet smile, and slides into her seat. "But that of the mutant juvenile in particular, yes. Something so profound... it can have an interesting effect on the adolescent pysche." A pause, and then Lydia's smile broads, self-depricating. "But I didn't say hello to chat about me. I'm interested in what you must be doing. Are you working on a piece? You're working free lance now, correct?" Lydia, it seems, really /does/ follow figures in mutant debates.
Interest stirs faintly in Leah's manner, straightening spine and shoulders under her pantsuit's brown jacket and paler blouse. She blinks a bit. "Juveniles? I wouldn't've thought there'd be enough of 'em to warrant full-blown study. Huh." Then she shakes her head and dips renewed bitterness into a drink of bitter coffee. "No, I'm not working on anything, and yes, I'm freelance. Sorry. You seem to have caught me on a fantastically bad day, Ms. Bancroft." She puts the cup down, places the crumpled paper on the table between them, and says a little hotly, a little sadly, and certainly recklessly because screw it, "Turned down by one of the dailies in the city. I apologize in advance for any, mmm, outbursts."
"Mutation typically manifests during adolescence," Lydia answers benignly. "Imagine what the sudden change can do, when you're already trying to deal with raging hormones and physical changes. For some children, it's devastating." There's no judgement in her tone; only even fact. At Leah's revelation, mild shock crosses Lydia's features. "Turned... but you write such interesting pieces!" There's a moment's blank thought, and then she queries, "Is that why you've been straying from your usual..." A pause, for a carefully chosen word. "Topics?"
Leah listens, head tipped, but whatever she might say to the discussion of juvie mutants gets buried under a bark of sardonic laughter. "Oh, hell, don't feel sorry for /me./ You don't even know me." Bringing her cup up for another swallow, she narrows her eyes. And says then, casually, "Nothing wrong with exploring new ideas, is there? Hate to be pigeonholed as a third-rate Ann Coulter or something like that."
Lydia lifts her brows mildly. "I'm sorry," she offers, and there's real regret in her voice. "It just seems surprising. New ideas are, of course, what makes the academic world go round." She speaks with some sort of private joke, an academic riffing on her own bubble, and lifts her mocha for a careful sip.
"Yeah?" Leah picks up politely after a strained moment. "So you're a researcher? I thought, maybe, a counselor or something..."
Lydia waves a hand over her drink. "Both, really. I'm fortunate enough that my day job ties very neatly into my area of interest, and I get a good deal of data out of it. I work at the juvenille correctional facility, just outside of the City," she shares. "And occasionally, I do some profiling work for the NYPD. Mutant Affairs."
"/Really./" Something in Leah's mien softens, relaxes, unwinds -- she sits more easily, anyway, and doesn't grip her cup in front of her quite as tightly. "Sounds like something out of a TV show, doesn't it? 'Lydia Bancroft: Mutant Profiler.'" And she grins a bit, gamine. "Not that that's probably your style. Ivory tower and data and all. Sorry."
Lydia smiles in quiet conspiracy, with amusement dancing in her eyes. "There is a reason I didn't choose to /teach/ with my PhD," she shares. "But it's not quite a television show, no. Though now I'm tempted to pitch it for the new fall line up and see what I can get from it."
Leah snorts. "Try Fox. Make it a reality show or something. Mutants are all the rage, aren't they? So exotic, so dangerous, so daring." Her voice chants sarcastically down the chained descriptors until it's simmering just above contralto heat, and her eyes roll. "Helluva culture we have in this country. People would watch a show like that and probably root for the muties."
Lydia's eyes light quietly, and watch Leah with sharp observation. "There is a fair portion of the population that is appropriately wary," she answers. "I think the fall out would be very interesting to watch."
Leah allows, "The filibuster attack probably hurt that, but -- hell, /you/ know. We're drawn to bad guys; we romanticize them, secretly want to be them or be /with/ them." Again, the small, keen grin. "Like swooning for Darth Vader."
Lydia's brows slide up. "I study mutants," she allows. "But I do not want to /be/ one. Or be married to one." Her expression settles back into curiosity. "That sentiment surprises me, from you. I've always thought that your writing seemed so... sensible. Or are you just speaking for the general public?"
"Oh, hell, the general public. Hoi polloi, y'know?" Shaking her head, Leah puts her coffee down, pushes it a little away with short, stiff fingers. "I got a couple mutant friends, but that's as far as it goes."
Lydia blinks slowly at Leah. "Do you?" she questions curiously. "How do you find that?"
Leah frowns. "What, mutants for friends? Hell, not their fault they were born like that, and they're good people. They try hard, you know? To be good people, to make something of themselves," she sounds out, slower and slower as she moves through the thought. "Just as long as they don't use their powers on /me./ I've had enough of /that,/ thanks."
Lydia falls silent for a long moment, which is filled with a careful sip of her drink, both hands wrapped firmly around the mug. "I sense a bad experience," she shares as she lowers it, with a quiet smile.
"You think?" Leah taunts a little, quiet. "It's no big deal. Nothing to talk about with a stranger, sorry. Forget I said it."
"Of course," Lydia allows, with a flick of her fingers, and then places her hand flat on the table with a shift to stand. "I'm sorry, I really have interrupted. It /was/ very nice speaking to you, though. I hope to see more of your work, soon."
Leah asks, "Do you?" with a return of sinking tiredness. "Wish I could tell you where you'd see it, then. I don't ... have fans. God. You might be my first one. Helluva thing."
Lydia remains standing, with one palm on the table. "Ms. Canto," she begins, smoothly. "I enjoy good writing when I see it. Sensible politics only make that more enjoyable. I trust that the pendelum will swing back in your direction." She raises her hand to her mug, and smiles. "I hope the remainder of your day is better. Thanks for letting me intrude."
"Well, thanks for talking to me," Leah replies, not a little awkward, but game, game to try and ease this meeting through to a good end. Her shoulders shift, twitch, below a self-deprecating smile. "Have a good day, Ms. Bancroft."
Lydia smiles once more, turns, and is gone.
[Log ends.]
A letter? Handed to me at the reception desk?
The New York Daily News can blow me, is all.
No idea what that Bancroft character wanted with me in the coffeeshop, but hey, I've got a fan! Yippee. I'm sure my landlord will take her nice words in lieu of actual money. Why not?
What the hell am I going to do now? Sold the TNR piece last week; it'll keep me going for a bit. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing. I'm working the old girls' network frantically. Working every contact I've ever had. Nothing, nothing, more nothing. So. Go crawling to a cable net to beg for an appearance? That producer from MSNBC who called after the Rolling Stone piece? Hell. Wallow on my belly, pretend to be a "reformed conservative," pay the bills . . .
Call Dr. Grey?
Hell.
And I can't go see Sabby when I'm like this. I just can't. Not that good an actor. Even if she's out of it on drugs, she'll know. She's not stupid. Can't bring my shit to her bedside. Get it together, Leah. Get it together. Not the end of the world. Not even close. One thing at a time.
If only I knew which "one thing" to start with.
9/15/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The White Room
A small, comfortable little place, this - a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea - the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and comfort, not desperate sophistication.
--
Early evening, before the close of business, finds one Leah Canto, freelance journalist extraordinaire, not so extraordinary: she's at a table in the back of the cafe with her elbows on the table, her fists against her temples, and her eyes on the single sheet of paper before her. A cup of coffee attends her, but she's otherwise alone, and even the tables around her are sparsely inhabited. Not that she's apparently noticing. The paper holds her, and she holds a faint but persistent scowl for it.
Lydia, on the other hand, is smiling quietly as she enters the cafe and procurs for herself a steaming cup of something both caffienated and chocolatey, topped with frothed foam. She spends a moment allowing her gaze to wander across the patrons of the White Room, and then moves purposefully toward the scowling Leah. "Excuse me," she offers politely.
Leah jerks in surprise and then glowers up without otherwise moving from her hunched, propped posture. "Yes?"
Lydia's smile remains, small and polite, with friendly eyes that glow above it. "I'm sorry to interrupt. You're Leah Canto, aren't you?"
"Unfortunately." Leah sits up; her forearms drop to bracket the paper, and a hand's fingers spread across part of it. She puffs out a breath, a half-hearted concession to manners or ill humor or both, and asks, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Not in the least," Lydia returns, cheery smile broadening and hand extending for a professional handshake. "Lydia Bancroft. I've seen your work. I try to keep track of the major names in the field, you see. Mutant politics, that is. I just wanted to say hello, if I had the name right. Am I interrupting you?"
That spreading hand crumples the paper. The other one reaches automatically to complete the clasp, which Leah doesn't extend beyond the polite and proper moment. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Bancroft. Mutant politics?" She tucks the crumple into her lap and considers the other woman with weary, pallid eyes. "No, you aren't interrupting. Can I do something for you?"
"You might say I have a bit of a fascination," Lydia allows, and pulls her own hand back to wrap around her drink. Sharp eyes note weariness and crumpled paper, but she does not remark on it. "It's what I do, myself. Not politics, exactly, but criminal behavior, which seems close enough now and then." Her smile turns smooth and quietly amused. "I suppose I simply figured that everyone likes to know they have a fan. You've published some insightful pieces."
Leah's mouth turns down, but she only shrugs and replies, "Well, thanks. Do you want to join me?" Politeness, politeness... She grabs her coffee, too, though not yet to drink. "Criminal behavior, huh? Like -- what, the mind of the mutant bad guy?" She tries a smile.
"The mind of the juvenile deliquent in general," Lydia answers with a quiet smile, and slides into her seat. "But that of the mutant juvenile in particular, yes. Something so profound... it can have an interesting effect on the adolescent pysche." A pause, and then Lydia's smile broads, self-depricating. "But I didn't say hello to chat about me. I'm interested in what you must be doing. Are you working on a piece? You're working free lance now, correct?" Lydia, it seems, really /does/ follow figures in mutant debates.
Interest stirs faintly in Leah's manner, straightening spine and shoulders under her pantsuit's brown jacket and paler blouse. She blinks a bit. "Juveniles? I wouldn't've thought there'd be enough of 'em to warrant full-blown study. Huh." Then she shakes her head and dips renewed bitterness into a drink of bitter coffee. "No, I'm not working on anything, and yes, I'm freelance. Sorry. You seem to have caught me on a fantastically bad day, Ms. Bancroft." She puts the cup down, places the crumpled paper on the table between them, and says a little hotly, a little sadly, and certainly recklessly because screw it, "Turned down by one of the dailies in the city. I apologize in advance for any, mmm, outbursts."
"Mutation typically manifests during adolescence," Lydia answers benignly. "Imagine what the sudden change can do, when you're already trying to deal with raging hormones and physical changes. For some children, it's devastating." There's no judgement in her tone; only even fact. At Leah's revelation, mild shock crosses Lydia's features. "Turned... but you write such interesting pieces!" There's a moment's blank thought, and then she queries, "Is that why you've been straying from your usual..." A pause, for a carefully chosen word. "Topics?"
Leah listens, head tipped, but whatever she might say to the discussion of juvie mutants gets buried under a bark of sardonic laughter. "Oh, hell, don't feel sorry for /me./ You don't even know me." Bringing her cup up for another swallow, she narrows her eyes. And says then, casually, "Nothing wrong with exploring new ideas, is there? Hate to be pigeonholed as a third-rate Ann Coulter or something like that."
Lydia lifts her brows mildly. "I'm sorry," she offers, and there's real regret in her voice. "It just seems surprising. New ideas are, of course, what makes the academic world go round." She speaks with some sort of private joke, an academic riffing on her own bubble, and lifts her mocha for a careful sip.
"Yeah?" Leah picks up politely after a strained moment. "So you're a researcher? I thought, maybe, a counselor or something..."
Lydia waves a hand over her drink. "Both, really. I'm fortunate enough that my day job ties very neatly into my area of interest, and I get a good deal of data out of it. I work at the juvenille correctional facility, just outside of the City," she shares. "And occasionally, I do some profiling work for the NYPD. Mutant Affairs."
"/Really./" Something in Leah's mien softens, relaxes, unwinds -- she sits more easily, anyway, and doesn't grip her cup in front of her quite as tightly. "Sounds like something out of a TV show, doesn't it? 'Lydia Bancroft: Mutant Profiler.'" And she grins a bit, gamine. "Not that that's probably your style. Ivory tower and data and all. Sorry."
Lydia smiles in quiet conspiracy, with amusement dancing in her eyes. "There is a reason I didn't choose to /teach/ with my PhD," she shares. "But it's not quite a television show, no. Though now I'm tempted to pitch it for the new fall line up and see what I can get from it."
Leah snorts. "Try Fox. Make it a reality show or something. Mutants are all the rage, aren't they? So exotic, so dangerous, so daring." Her voice chants sarcastically down the chained descriptors until it's simmering just above contralto heat, and her eyes roll. "Helluva culture we have in this country. People would watch a show like that and probably root for the muties."
Lydia's eyes light quietly, and watch Leah with sharp observation. "There is a fair portion of the population that is appropriately wary," she answers. "I think the fall out would be very interesting to watch."
Leah allows, "The filibuster attack probably hurt that, but -- hell, /you/ know. We're drawn to bad guys; we romanticize them, secretly want to be them or be /with/ them." Again, the small, keen grin. "Like swooning for Darth Vader."
Lydia's brows slide up. "I study mutants," she allows. "But I do not want to /be/ one. Or be married to one." Her expression settles back into curiosity. "That sentiment surprises me, from you. I've always thought that your writing seemed so... sensible. Or are you just speaking for the general public?"
"Oh, hell, the general public. Hoi polloi, y'know?" Shaking her head, Leah puts her coffee down, pushes it a little away with short, stiff fingers. "I got a couple mutant friends, but that's as far as it goes."
Lydia blinks slowly at Leah. "Do you?" she questions curiously. "How do you find that?"
Leah frowns. "What, mutants for friends? Hell, not their fault they were born like that, and they're good people. They try hard, you know? To be good people, to make something of themselves," she sounds out, slower and slower as she moves through the thought. "Just as long as they don't use their powers on /me./ I've had enough of /that,/ thanks."
Lydia falls silent for a long moment, which is filled with a careful sip of her drink, both hands wrapped firmly around the mug. "I sense a bad experience," she shares as she lowers it, with a quiet smile.
"You think?" Leah taunts a little, quiet. "It's no big deal. Nothing to talk about with a stranger, sorry. Forget I said it."
"Of course," Lydia allows, with a flick of her fingers, and then places her hand flat on the table with a shift to stand. "I'm sorry, I really have interrupted. It /was/ very nice speaking to you, though. I hope to see more of your work, soon."
Leah asks, "Do you?" with a return of sinking tiredness. "Wish I could tell you where you'd see it, then. I don't ... have fans. God. You might be my first one. Helluva thing."
Lydia remains standing, with one palm on the table. "Ms. Canto," she begins, smoothly. "I enjoy good writing when I see it. Sensible politics only make that more enjoyable. I trust that the pendelum will swing back in your direction." She raises her hand to her mug, and smiles. "I hope the remainder of your day is better. Thanks for letting me intrude."
"Well, thanks for talking to me," Leah replies, not a little awkward, but game, game to try and ease this meeting through to a good end. Her shoulders shift, twitch, below a self-deprecating smile. "Have a good day, Ms. Bancroft."
Lydia smiles once more, turns, and is gone.
[Log ends.]