Page 28 of Reptile Dysfunction
“Except in print, right?” she quips with an awkward laugh.
I can see she’s trying to push away the discomfort she’s obviously feeling, and the source of the spring in my step is well and truly clear now.
Despite the past hostility, I actually really enjoyed spending time with Charlotte yesterday. I was expecting snide remarks and unbreakable skepticism, but she was surprisingly professional. Even more than that — by the end of the day, she was almost friendly.
She is really a smart, interesting, beautiful woman. When we can get along as if we’re old friends, she’s remarkably pleasant company.
“Except in print,” I say back, trying my best to ease her discomfort. “We have a busy day ahead of us, so drink up.”
She nods, downing her coffee in a way that makes me think she’s grateful for the distraction. As I turn my back to her to pour my own cup, I can’t help but grin to myself, partly out of relief, partly out of happiness.
Yesterday was a great start to bridging the gap between me and this tenacious journalist, and allowing me to call her by her first name means Charlotte might have warmed up to me even more than I thought. I only hope we can continue to build that rapport over the course of our second day together.
Unlike yesterday’s tense and silent drive to the slime factory, this morning’s trip out to the Pickle Fest grounds is peppered with conversation.
“So were you the one that started Pickle Fest then?” Charlotte asks from the passenger's seat, pen poised over her notebook.
I grin. “It’s really something the whole council put together,” I tell her, not wanting to take all the credit. “But yes, the initial idea was mine. I wanted to start my term with something great. A gift to the town for entrusting Curiosity to me.”
Charlotte scribbles as I speak, and I find it somehow endearing.
“Kind of reminds me of Richard M. Daley,” she says absent-mindedly.
“Former mayor of Chicago,” I counter. “You’re talking about the Taste of Chicago festival, right? Oddly, he was one of my inspirations.”
“Seriously?” she asks, suddenly looking up. “I used to go to that festival every year when I was a kid. Is that what Pickle Fest will be like?”
“Something like that, yeah,” I reply. “Only with a lot more pickles.”
We arrive at the festival grounds, and I’m surprised by how knowledgeable she is not only on Taste of Chicago but on the running of a large-scale event like this.
“When I first got my gig at the Tribune, I begged to cover Taste of Chicago. It wasn’t my usual beat, but I really wanted it, and eventually, I managed to wear Derek – uh, the editor – down. I covered it every year after that, and I loved every second of it,” she says with a sort of wistful nostalgia.
Suddenly, something shifts, and I can see a hint of pain in her eyes. I realize she must be missing her hometown, and I wonder if there’s something I can do to help ease the pain.
“Well, why don’t you cover Pickle Fest?” I suggest. “I’m sure with your experience, Eddie would be happy to put you on the assignment. I know it’s no Taste of Chicago, but I promise it will be the best pickle-based festival you’ve ever attended.”
Charlotte manages a laugh at this, and I can tell the gesture is appreciated.
“Thanks,” she says genuinely. “I’m sure it will be.”
We spend the rest of the site visit engaged in friendly conversation, and that good energy seems to follow us throughout the day. At the opening of the new FroSno store, Charlotte arranges for the Herald’s photographer to come along and snap some photos of the ribbon-cutting ceremony. I watch her look over his shoulder approvingly throughout the event.
“The photos turned out great,” she tells me on the way to the next meeting. “But I have to ask – shouldn’t it be FroYo? Like frozen yogurt?”
“Oh, no, we don’t have that here,” I tell her, shaking my head. “That was a frozen snot store. The kids love it.”
Much to my surprise, Charlotte bursts out laughing. “I should have known,” she tells me when she recovers.
The more time we spend together, the more I get to see the real woman beneath the skeptical, hard-hitting journalist. Charlotte is intelligent and witty, good-natured, and fun. If we hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot, I believe we could have been friends long ago.
But I’m more than happy to be making up for it now, and in between each meeting, I feel the camaraderie between us is only strengthening. By the time we leave the slop kitchen at the end of the evening, I no longer feel that she’s a threat to my reputation.
“Can I ask you something?” she says as we walk through the darkening streets of the town.
“That’s your job. I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” I joke.
Charlotte chuckles a little before she speaks again.