Will we (1) Decline to reconsider the case, leaving a very sensible decision to grant Ms. Ledbetter actual and punitive damages intact? (2) Uphold the decision, giving it authority as Supreme Court precedent? (3) Throw out the punitive damages but leave Ms. Ledbetter with nineteen years of back pay? or (4)—”
“Or (4)”—Mia grins—“Make the improbable and ill-considered decision that Congress—which can’t agree to delete a comma without a month of deliberation and a compromise that makes no sense—meant to give Ms. Ledbetter the right to sue for discrimination but intended to limit her damages to six measly months of back pay so the good people at Goodyear will know discrimination is fine for as long as you can get away with it?!”
I do miss Mia. Most of the time.
In my best Mia rhythm and Chicago O I say, “So let me get this straight, Betts.” I add the ccccckkkkkcccc of an overseas line. “You’re calling me in Madagascar? Madagascar , Betts. That’s off the coast of Africa, you know that, right? To hold your hand while you answer a question there isn’t a shred of doubt you know the answer to?”
And we all laugh. Humor is a much more effective way to get your point across than rage. One of the many things Faith taught us all.
Mia lifts her glass of tequila. “You know what I was doing that day you called me in Madagascar, Betts? I traveled halfway around the world to drive forever in a bumpy jeep to hear the song of an endangered Indri lemur, a furry little animal that sings for maybe three minutes. This is my life ?”
Laney puts an arm around her. I’m not sure exactly why.
“Spill, Mia,” she says.
“It’s actually two Indri calling together, they sing together. They sing more during mating season, too. And they mate for life. I know all this because I’m a good journalist,” Mia says with a tiny crack in her voice. “Because I do my research before I go.”
I’m thinking I see where this is going. This is about the fact that Mia can’t seem to find anyone to take Andy’s place. To be honest this particular record has gotten a little old. Could she stop to think of Ginger for a moment? Could she stop to think about the direct hit I just took? Or the glancing blow Laney will take in her campaign?
“You could write such an amazing poem about the Indri, Ginge,” she says. “The name of the reserve—the Analamazoatra—is a poem all by itself.”
Leaving me embarrassed at my quiet indignation. She is thinking of Ginger.
“Spill, Mia,” Ginger says. “Spill.”
Mia protests: there isn’t anything to spill. She starts telling us somemyth about two Indri brothers who live together in the forest until one of them decides to leave and cultivate the land. He becomes the first human, while the other sends out this mourning cry for his brother who went astray.
“Don’t read my piece this weekend,” she says. “It’s too heavy-handed. As if the reader can’t figure out himself that the human brother from the myth is now destroying the rain forests the lemur brother lives in, destroying his kin. God, my writing sucks.”
We all just look at her.
She shrugs. “Who wants to be a journalist, anyway? I’d like to ask the audience, Meredith. Is the only way to keep your job: (1) to sleep with an editor who has the worst beer gut in the city; (2) to cover Hollywood gossip instead of women’s rights or the envir—”
“You didn’t tell us you were cut, Mi!” Even I can hear the irritation in my voice. As if her unwillingness to trust us is worse than losing her job. But isn’t it?
“Canned,” Mia says. “I preferred ‘canned’ to ‘cut.’ It sounds so much more … in the tin!”
“In the soup?” Ginger says.
“It sounds less bloody,” Mia says.
“Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,” Laney says. “For this is the chalice of my blood.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Mia says. “Just budget cuts.”
“You could start a blog,” Ginger suggests.
“Or (4)”—Mia grins—“Make the improbable and ill-considered decision that Congress—which can’t agree to delete a comma without a month of deliberation and a compromise that makes no sense—meant to give Ms. Ledbetter the right to sue for discrimination but intended to limit her damages to six measly months of back pay so the good people at Goodyear will know discrimination is fine for as long as you can get away with it?!”
I do miss Mia. Most of the time.
In my best Mia rhythm and Chicago O I say, “So let me get this straight, Betts.” I add the ccccckkkkkcccc of an overseas line. “You’re calling me in Madagascar? Madagascar , Betts. That’s off the coast of Africa, you know that, right? To hold your hand while you answer a question there isn’t a shred of doubt you know the answer to?”
And we all laugh. Humor is a much more effective way to get your point across than rage. One of the many things Faith taught us all.
Mia lifts her glass of tequila. “You know what I was doing that day you called me in Madagascar, Betts? I traveled halfway around the world to drive forever in a bumpy jeep to hear the song of an endangered Indri lemur, a furry little animal that sings for maybe three minutes. This is my life ?”
Laney puts an arm around her. I’m not sure exactly why.
“Spill, Mia,” she says.
“It’s actually two Indri calling together, they sing together. They sing more during mating season, too. And they mate for life. I know all this because I’m a good journalist,” Mia says with a tiny crack in her voice. “Because I do my research before I go.”
I’m thinking I see where this is going. This is about the fact that Mia can’t seem to find anyone to take Andy’s place. To be honest this particular record has gotten a little old. Could she stop to think of Ginger for a moment? Could she stop to think about the direct hit I just took? Or the glancing blow Laney will take in her campaign?
“You could write such an amazing poem about the Indri, Ginge,” she says. “The name of the reserve—the Analamazoatra—is a poem all by itself.”
Leaving me embarrassed at my quiet indignation. She is thinking of Ginger.
“Spill, Mia,” Ginger says. “Spill.”
Mia protests: there isn’t anything to spill. She starts telling us somemyth about two Indri brothers who live together in the forest until one of them decides to leave and cultivate the land. He becomes the first human, while the other sends out this mourning cry for his brother who went astray.
“Don’t read my piece this weekend,” she says. “It’s too heavy-handed. As if the reader can’t figure out himself that the human brother from the myth is now destroying the rain forests the lemur brother lives in, destroying his kin. God, my writing sucks.”
We all just look at her.
She shrugs. “Who wants to be a journalist, anyway? I’d like to ask the audience, Meredith. Is the only way to keep your job: (1) to sleep with an editor who has the worst beer gut in the city; (2) to cover Hollywood gossip instead of women’s rights or the envir—”
“You didn’t tell us you were cut, Mi!” Even I can hear the irritation in my voice. As if her unwillingness to trust us is worse than losing her job. But isn’t it?
“Canned,” Mia says. “I preferred ‘canned’ to ‘cut.’ It sounds so much more … in the tin!”
“In the soup?” Ginger says.
“It sounds less bloody,” Mia says.
“Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,” Laney says. “For this is the chalice of my blood.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Mia says. “Just budget cuts.”
“You could start a blog,” Ginger suggests.
Similar Books
