Peter & Scarlett A Story by Jens and Suzye

I walked out the door, accidentally kicked the newspaper that was lying on the floor in front of my door, and stopped to pick it up. I reopened the door and through it back into the room.

I heard a muffled, “Oof… Thanks.” through the door and laughed to myself. I remembered when I first started getting the paper in the morning. Claire would poke fun at me and call me old fashioned; she would go on and on about how it was a dying medium. After a while, she got tired, mostly because I was good at ignoring it. I figured that I had gone to college and gotten a degree in Journalism and Design, so I might as well play my part in insuring that the industry that would be my primary source of income would stay alive.

As I left the building and walked to the bus stop, my mind wandered again to Scarlett. I kept hoping that I would run into her as Sean had. What a pity that he didn’t know what grocery store he had gone to; scenes played through my head of us running into each other again.

As I thought about her, I thought about what I would say, “Hey, I’m back for more abuse!” or “So, seen through anyone else lately?” I don’t know why I had become so obsessed with her, but I had, and it was troublesome.

I climbed onto the bus that would take me into Boston proper.

I tried to rid my mind of Scarlett and focus on the coming interview; I’m glad that I had gotten a call so quickly from Mr. Calvin, who I had never met. I had sent in a résumé to all the area newspapers in the hopes that they would take me on. I hoped that I would get a paid position, although I knew it was unlikely. Secretly I felt guilty on the fact that I was not paying full price for my apartment and that I was still relying on a little extra funding that my mom would send me now and again. I promised myself that I’d tell my mom to stop if I got the job.

I didn’t know where 5^th and Kennedy was, so I got off the bus at a gas station and asked the attendant if he knew where it was. As it would happen, 5^th and Kennedy was not a real place, or not in Boston. I was a little scared at the thought of being lost in Boston with an hour until a potentially crucial interview.

Frantically, I pulled out my phone and called Claire’s cell numerous times to no avail. Getting consistently more and more nervous, I called my own apartment in the hopes that she would pick that up.

“Hello?” Said a very hung over Connor “Who is’t?”

“Peter, is Claire there?” I said desperately.

“Whoa man, cool your jets. I’ll get her.”

I waited very impatiently and paced back and forth while the phone was handed over to Claire. I heard “I think it’s Peter.”

“Petey? What’s wrong?”

“There is no 5^th and Kennedy.”

“What? Let me check what I wrote down… Oh yeah sorry it’s near Kennedy Publishing on Tremont St.”

“Okay. And the 5^th?”

“Hmm oh, Mr. Calvin said he’d be in the fifth table in.”

I sighed heavily and thanked her profusely.

As I hung up, I walked back to the bus stop and waited for the next bus. Luckily, I had taken a popular bus route and another soon came. I got on and paid my fare. I sat in the back, and looked out the window across from me. I tried to straighten my hair in the reflection of the window and thought to myself that I would have to watch how much I would drink from now. As I thought about it, I realized that I was not used to the amount of drinking I had done and thought that maybe Sean and Connor were not the best influences on me. I thought that the amount of fun that I had the night before might be worth it though, because I had not loosened up like that in a long time.

The bus stopped downtown and I got off and asked a passerby if the knew where Tremont Street was. She pointed me in the right direction and I headed off.

I got to the café and checked my watch; it was 12:29, and I was safe. I walked into the café and looked for the fifth table. I t was empty, so I grabbed a copy of The Phoenix, the weekly paper for the subculture of Boston, and ordered some tea from a barista. She asked me my name and wrote Peter in neat cursive on an order sheet, which she handed to another barista who was working the drinks. She smiled and told me my tea would come to me. I moved back to the fifth table and took it. I read the paper, but thought about it little; I was too nervous. Shortly thereafter, the barista appeared and brought me my tea.

“Here you go Peter.” She said with a knowing smile, which I found a little odd considering that we had never met before.

I continued to read the paper halfheartedly, worrying about the coming interview. I checked my watch and looked out the window. Suddenly a tall, fashionable, and almost-pretty man walked into the café. I over heard him say, “Damn it, there is someone at my table.” He walked up to the counter and ordered a plain coffee, then to me. I noticed how well kept he was.

“Um, I don’t mean to bother you, but I was going to be meeting someone at this table and I was wondering if you could move.”

“Only if you don’t want to have your interview Mr. Calvin,” I replied with a little bit of a grin, “I’m Peter.”

He sat down and looked at me, “Oh, it’s a pleasure Peter… Though to be honest I’m rather surprised you’re here today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you had a rather impressive night at the “Flying Fish” last night.

I was shocked. I scanned my memory for any sign of this man, but I couldn’t find any. I stammered a little bit and then sat there in silence.

He laughed, breaking the silence with a smile. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I rather enjoyed your rendition of Hallelujah.”

Suddenly memories of Sean pulling me onto the stage and me singing flooded my mind. I blushed and thanked him. He laughed again and told me not to worry, “I’m not going to judge you on your exploits last night; everyone should be allowed to live a little.”

The waitress who had brought my tea brought his coffee and smiled at me again. He told me that I should call him Calvin and pulled out a small flask. He poured what I assumed to be some sort of liqueur into his coffee and then offered the flask to me. I was a little surprised and declined politely. He took a swift sip from the flask and then put it away.

He looked me over a couple of times and said, “So, you really want to get into journalism and design?”

I told him that I didn’t want to waste my education and he laughed at me. He explained that after college, all of our educations were wasted. We continued to chat for a while, and I found that we were very compatible conversationalists.

After almost, he looked at his watch and started.

“My goodness,” he said “I haven’t even told you who I work for.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, I can see that you already have some business with my business,” he said with a gesture toward The Phoenix. “I’m the editor.”

“Really? You’re so… young.” I stated with more than some disbelief.

“Yeah, I got promoted when I slept with the publisher; it’s how these things work.” He said with a shrug. “Anyway, so do you want to be our design editor?”

I was taken aback by the offer; he hadn’t asked to see my portfolio and was offering me an immensely important job. I told him I would be extremely happy with the job.

“Fantastic, now I can get rid of Sara, our current designer.” He looked around and in a half-whisper told me, “She’s a total bitch.”

He went on to explain that’s also the reason we met at the café and not at his office, he didn’t want to alert her to her impending firing. At any other point, I might have felt guilty, but the joy at being offered such a nice job was overwhelming. I thanked him again, and he told me it wasn’t a problem. He told me my résumé and advanced portfolio had convinced him.

“Anyway, I need to go meet my boyfriend now, but if was lovely meeting you. I’ll call you when I get rid of the b-Sara. And, if you’re going back to the “Flying Fish” I’ll probably see you around there. Tata, until next time.”

He got up and waved as he walked away. I sat back and took in everything that had just happened and smiled. Things were looking up.

I sat there and for the first time took a look at the café itself. I thought to myself, “This really is a lovely little café.”