Boomer's Bucket List Page 7

  Jennifer was furious. Where did he get off comparing her job to the sort of snide, immature, muckraking that he’d engaged in? She didn’t have to stand there and listen to this guy justifying his bad behavior. She yanked her door open and got into the driver’s seat, but before she could shut the door, Nathan stepped forward and kept it from closing.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said. “The fact is, it was nice seeing you again and I appreciate your returning my sunglasses. But it was my job to write those columns and I never went after people who were too weak or too poor to defend themselves—unlike your clients. You might think about that before you condemn me.”

  He stepped back then, and Jennifer slammed her door.

  Boomer’s nose was pressed against the glass, his eyes on Nathan as the truck took off. Nathan lifted his hand and waved good-bye, a cold lump of self-reproach settling in his stomach. He picked up Boomer’s stick and threw it as hard as he could, then walked back to the Mustang. As he got into the front seat, he could hear Rudy’s advice ringing in his ears.

  Keep your smart mouth shut.

  CHAPTER 10

  Stacy sat at her desk, eating lunch and reviewing Jennifer’s pictures on her computer, wondering how best to display them on the screen. If she was going to create a memorial page for Boomer, she told herself, it had to be really great. So far, though, the whole thing was turning out to be a lot harder than she’d expected.

  The idea had come to her after Jennifer sent the video of Boomer eating breakfast. Seeing a dog inhale gravy-laden pieces of steak from a clamshell box was so funny that Stacy had watched it over and over, laughing harder each time. The stuff that went viral on the Internet wasn’t nearly that good, she’d thought. Wouldn’t it be fun to create a private page dedicated to Boomer so that Jennifer could enjoy it once he was gone?

  Unfortunately, however, having an idea for a Web page and actually creating one were radically different things, with decisions to make every step of the way, and it hadn’t taken long before Stacy was stumped. What should she call it? What template should she use for the background? How should the pictures be arranged, and which graphics, if any, should she include? As she took another bite of her sandwich, she felt her spirits plummet. Once again, it seemed as if her plans had outstripped her talent.

  “Why the long face?”

  She looked up and saw Derek Compton walking toward her desk. Stacy blanched. Was lunchtime over already? The truth was, she didn’t know if using company property for something like this, even when she was on break, was okay. She set her sandwich aside and reached for the mouse, hoping to close the window before her boss could see what she was doing.

  “Oh, you know,” she said vaguely. “It’s just this … thing I was trying to do.”

  “What thing?” He walked around behind her and took a look at the screen. “Hey, is that Jennifer’s dog?”

  “Boomer, yeah.” Stacy gulped. “Jennifer promised to send me some pictures every day so I’d know where she was. You know, for safety’s sake. Here, I’ll just close this down—”

  “Hold on.” He leaned forward to get a better look. “These are good shots … great resolution. I wonder what kind of camera she used.”

  “Um, I think it was just her iPhone.”

  He nodded. “Mmm. What’s the dog’s name again?”

  “Boomer.”

  Now that she knew she wasn’t about to be chewed out, Stacy was happy to share her idea for the Web site. She pointed out a couple of her favorite pictures on the screen.

  “That’s him sitting in the limo on the way to the speedway and here he’s standing in front of the Gemini Giant. She just sent that one a couple of minutes ago.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Compton pointed. “And these over here, are they GIFs?”

  “Yeah,” she said eagerly. “Want to see one? They’re really funny.”

  The sight of Boomer slurping up his food made the boss laugh even harder than she had. Stacy beamed, gratified that her instincts had been correct.

  He stepped back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “So, what is it you’re trying to do with these?”

  She felt her face redden, embarrassed to admit how flummoxed the attempt at building a Web site had left her. Derek Compton’s media savvy was legendary. The man could probably create a prize-winning Web site in his sleep.

  “Well,” she said. “I thought it would be nice to make a Web page using all the pictures she’s sending me. Something Jennifer would have to remember Boomer by once he’s, you know, gone.”

  “A Web page, huh?” The man’s frown deepened. “How far have you gotten? Have you picked a host for it yet? Do you have a domain name?”

  Stacy shook her head. A domain name—argh! She felt like such an incompetent.

  The elevator doors opened, and a few of the social media team members stepped out. Compton looked up at them and waved.

  “Jason, you got a second? I want to ask you about something.” He turned back to Stacy. “Have you thought about doing a Facebook page?”

  She looked nervously from Compton to Jason and back again.

  “Um, no, not really. I mean, I could … I guess.” Her cheeks felt flushed. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t gotten that far.”

  Jason approached them, smiling broadly. He was a few years older than Stacy, but he was one of those people who had a really young face, and the way he talked sometimes made him seem a lot younger. They’d talked a few times in the break room, and she thought he was cute, but the only time he ever really flirted with her was when he needed a favor. Jennifer thought he spent too much time sucking up to the boss.

  “’Sup?” he said.

  Compton pointed to the computer screen. “Take a look at these pictures she’s got and tell me what you think.”

  Jason walked around behind the desk and leaned in for a better look.

  “Stacy, you know Jason, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” she said, feeling like a trapped animal.

  Compton grabbed the mouse and clicked on the GIF of Boomer eating his breakfast. As the steak and gravy flew, the two men guffawed.

  “That’s epic!” Jason squinted, examining the other photos on the screen. “Is that Jennifer Westbrook’s dog?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, she’s been sending pictures to Stacy while she’s on vacation.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jason took the mouse and clicked on one of the pictures to enlarge it.

  “The resolution on these photos is insane.” He looked up. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “A memorial page for Boomer. I’m thinking we do it as a Facebook page, manage it through the agency.”

  Stacy glanced at the remains of her sandwich, wishing the two of them would go away. The memorial page had been her idea, and they were talking as if she weren’t there.

  “I like it.” Jason grinned. “Add in the backstory about the dying dog and it could be really impactful.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Compton said. “Listen, why don’t you two put your heads together and see if we can’t get this thing rolled out in the next couple of days?”

  Stacy gasped. “That soon?”

  She’d been thinking the memorial page would be something to show Jennifer when she got back from her trip, not now. It felt as if she were standing in front of a runaway train.

  “Sure, why not?” Jason said. “This stuff is killer.”

  “But what about the rest of the pictures?” Stacy said. “If we do the Web page now, they won’t be included.”

  “We’ll add them as they come in. It’ll keep the page current.” He looked at the boss. “We need to jump on this. Once the dog kicks it, it’s just old news.”

  Derek Compton nodded thoughtfully.

  “I think Jason’s got a point there, Stace, but it’s your call. A private page is great, but getting Boomer’s story out there could really help a lot of people who are in the same spot as Jennifer. As bad as losing her dog wil
l be, it might make it easier if she could see how much he meant to other people.”

  Stacy bit her lip. She was starting to wish she’d never uploaded the photos in the first place. The point of doing a memorial page was to have it be private—a gift from her to Jennifer. Sure, the thought that Jennifer might love it and think it was worth publishing had been in the back of her mind, but that decision should be hers. And if Stacy agreed to let Jason help her with the memorial page, it wouldn’t be just from her anymore, either. What had started out as a private exchange between the two of them would become a team effort.

  “I don’t know …”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Compton said. “Why don’t you send Jason the pictures you’ve gotten so far and we’ll see what he and his team can do with them? If he comes back with something that knocks your socks off, great; we’ll put it out there. If you’re just not sure, you’ll still have something to show Jennifer when she gets back. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she said, still feeling a flicker of unease. “But I should probably ask Jennifer about it first.”

  “Are you sure?” He seemed dismayed. “I thought you wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Well, yeah. I did …”

  “Then let’s keep it that way,” he said. “Trust me, no matter when this thing goes public, once Jennifer sees what a great job you did with it, she’ll be thrilled.”

  Stacy nodded. What was she worrying about? The CEO of Compton/Sellwood had just offered to help her turn her idea into something a thousand times better than anything she could have done on her own. Before he walked over, she’d been ready to give up on the whole thing. How could she even think of turning down help from a professional? Besides, Jason wasn’t going to just go off and make it public on his own; Stacy and Jennifer would still have the final say-so.

  The more she thought about it, the more she was able to quiet the voice of caution in her head. This was exactly what she’d wanted. What could possibly go wrong?

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Excellent,” Compton said, checking his watch. “In the meantime, lunchtime’s over. Stacy, get those pictures to Jason so he can get started on it right away. And Jason, come by my office when you’ve made a first pass at it so we can talk about this idea some more.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The engineer who designed the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge started with a simple, if challenging, goal: to build a roadway across the Mississippi River, just north of St. Louis, where it divides Illinois from Missouri. The reason for that is clear; the names of those who decided it should span seventeen miles of rocky rapids is lost to history; and the result is one of the world’s most baffling structures. Where else can you find a mile-long span of steel and concrete with a twenty-two-degree bend in the middle?

  —“A Bridge Too Far,” by Nathan Koslow, staff reporter

  Dinner that night was beer and cheese fries eaten in a dark corner of the Whoop-de-Doo bar in Troy, Illinois. Nathan had been sharing them with a woman named Tiffany, whom he strongly suspected was only sitting at his table because she’d been impressed by Rudy’s car. While he sat there getting quietly drunk, she’d filled the air with inanities, apparently unconcerned that he’d barely uttered a word since the two of them walked in.

  There’d been an e-mail message from Julia in his in-box when he got to the motel; the Trib had decided not to run his story about the speedway. She said it was due to an ongoing turf war with the new Sports editor, but Nathan suspected it had more to do with his diminished stature at work. If Morty had written it as planned, would there still have been a problem? Julia had added that they might be still able to use the article as part of his Route 66 series if he could cut down on the racing sports information and punch up the wholesome family-entertainment angle, but it was probably just a sop to his bruised ego. Whatever.

  He picked up his empty glass, frowned, and lurched painfully to his feet. The drive was killing him. His ears rang, his hands were numb, and the muscles in his back felt like they’d been beaten with a stick. Whoever had tuned the Mustang’s suspension needed to have his head examined. If this kept up, Rudy would have to add physical therapy to the cost of having his car delivered.

  Tiffany paused in her monologue and stared at him.

  “Where you goin’, Hon?”

  “Getting another. You want somethin’?”

  “Why don’t you wait for the girl?” she said, looking around. “She’ll be back in a minute.”

  He shook his head. “I need the exercise.”

  “Well, don’t tire yourself out.” She gave him a sly wink. “The night is still young.”

  The bartender gave him a skeptical look as he approached, and Nathan gave the man what he hoped would be a disarming smile. Sure, he looked a little shaky, but that was the Mustang’s fault, and besides, his motel was only a couple of blocks away. Nathan could still drive with another drink in him. He just couldn’t listen to Tiffany any longer without one.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “The same.” He set the glass down.

  The man nodded, but made no move to pull another draft.

  “What about your lady friend?”

  Nathan glanced back at the table.

  “She’s not my lady friend.”

  Somewhere in the back, a timer dinged. The bartender held up his hand.

  “Hold on a second.”

  As the man disappeared, Nathan slumped against the bar. His breath was stale, and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with greasy, cheese-flavored cotton balls. Maybe he shouldn’t have that beer, he thought. If he did, he might just do something stupid, like take Tiffany back to his motel room.

  He glanced at the peroxide blonde sitting at his table and received a coquettish wave that made the cheese fries in his stomach congeal. He’d been enjoying watching her turn away the interested glances from other men in the bar in favor of sticking with him. Who cared if he was just basking in the unearned glow of his brother’s car? Nathan hadn’t gotten that much attention from a woman in a while.

  But after listening to Tiffany’s nonstop blather while she attacked his cheese fries with talon-like fingernails, his own interest had waned to the point where even getting lucky didn’t sound all that great. Unfortunately, though, getting rid of her wouldn’t be easy. The men who might have taken his place had found other interested parties, and if Nathan begged off, she was going to raise a stink. Great, he thought, that would make two women he’d pissed off that day.

  *

  Nathan opened his eyes and stared at the popcorn ceiling. He was lying on the bed in his motel room, a throbbing pain just behind his eyes. The place stank of mildew and stale cigarettes. He lifted himself onto one elbow and looked around. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on the night before, and Tiffany was nowhere in sight. Whatever had transpired after that last beer, he had no memory of it. Never again, he swore. He didn’t need that kind of trouble. He sat up and waited until the room stopped spinning, then staggered into the bathroom to take a shower. The time was ticking away, and he still had work to do.

  Hot water sluiced over his shoulders and down his back as Nathan waited for inspiration to strike. The agreement he’d made with Julia was starting to seem like a bad deal. He knew she was expecting him to entertain their readers with sightseeing tips and stories about the unending series of fascinating landmarks along Route 66, but it wasn’t a tourist destination. It was more like a neglected museum with moldering exhibits spread out over miles of poorly maintained roadway. It might have been great in its heyday, but there was a reason the Interstate had made the Mother Road obsolete.

  And there were other, more disturbing things about it, too. When the various segments that made up Route 66 were built, no thought had been given as to who or what was being destroyed in the process. That didn’t make the road unique, of course, but it felt wrong to simply gloss over the facts so that readers wouldn’t be disco
mfited. To give his editor the feelgood stories she wanted, Nathan would be ignoring some important questions that still echoed almost a century later. How do you separate the can-do spirit of the 1920s and ’30s from the injustices of that era? Or the charm of tepee-shaped motels from the decimation of the native population? Could destroying the environment ever be justified in the name of progress?

  Nathan turned off the water and grabbed a towel that was only slightly softer than a hair shirt. He knew what Julia would say. Railing about injustice and inequality was for the Op-Ed pages; people read the Life & Style section to get away from all that angst and hand wringing. His assignment was a series of travel articles, period. If the Trib had wanted his opinion, it wouldn’t have canceled his column.

  Now that he was finally clean, the smell inside the motel room was making him nauseated. Nathan packed up his things, checked out, and drove to a bakery at the end of the block; their Wi-Fi was faster, and he could write as well there as he could in his motel room. He got himself a coffee and a bagel, found a table, and opened his laptop. As he looked over the notes he’d written the day before, though, his mind kept wandering back to Jennifer Westbrook.

  Nathan still couldn’t believe how quickly things between them had gone off the rails; he hadn’t even had a chance to ask her about the seeing-eye-dog ruse at the speedway. One minute he was playing fetch with her dog, and the next minute she was slamming a truck door in his face. Even for him, that had to be some kind of record.

  His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe he’d just Google her, find out a little bit more about Jennifer Westbrook so he didn’t have to keep speculating. Besides, a part of him was curious to see which one of her clients he’d blown the whistle on. Just telling her they’d gotten what they deserved sounded petty. If he’d known whom she was talking about, he’d have been able to give her chapter and verse as to why he’d called them out. Would it really matter if his next article for Julia was a little late? Chances were good that she wouldn’t be using it anytime soon. He launched his browser and typed in Jennifer Westbrook.