I don’t even want to talk to him. He’s shit faced, stupid, and wearing a shirt that even Rick Astley would find appalling. Of course, he has me cornered. I sip the warm, light beer out of the can and look away. I am actually embarassed for him.
“You and me! Journalism! Right? And you went to that college with Elan in Boston. You’re smart, I’m not smart because I didn’t study,” he makes air quotes, “for the SATs. Remember the SATs?”
I nod. Sure I remember the SATs.
“It’s cool you write for a magazine. Even thought I never heard of that one. Do you know Time? My sister used to be an intern there. I think. Maybe it was Newsweek. No, it was Time. I remember thinking they should have a clock on the cover, right. So you write reviews, yeah?”
“No, I’m the publicist.”
“Oh, so you, like, do PR?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Oh man I hate publicists. They always call me and ask me about stuff. It’s so annoying. They’re all so annoying. I hate them.”
I swallow some warm beer and roll my eyes. “Yeah, I hate publicists, too…”
“No, I hate them,” he says emphatically.
“Me too. I try to be the least publicist-like publicist. And, um, I don’t make unsolicited phone calls. I’m usually busy enough with the calls coming in.”
“You don’t make calls? What kind of publicist are you?” he scoffs.
“I don’t know. Well, I email–”
“You email!” he cries, swings his head back and laughs at me. This is the last straw.
I lose it. I snap. I can’t help it. I never wanted to talk to this guy, this asshole loser ugly stupid motherfucker, and he has the balls to talk down about my job?
“Listen,” I seethe, my eyebrows narrowing and my eyes slimming down into tight slits, “You want some advice? Next time you have the courage to chat up a pretty girl at a party, do yourself a favor and don’t talk shit about her job.”
He looks shocked, and gapes. “But…” he stammers, but I’m not finished.
“How dare you. How dare you march up to me and laugh in my face about what I do. I am over this. I am done talking to you. Get out of my face, get out of my way, and enjoy your fucking hangover, you shit head.”
I storm off, gather my bag, and leave the party with my friends at my side and my dignity in tact.
I’m a damn good publicist.