When Harry met Z

SHE, THE JOURNALIST

The band started playing some classic blues, jamming with average enthusiasm, with occasional highlights when the bass player and the drums added some funky rhythms, and then it went back again to the same old tunes. 

It wasn't a bad band. They were decent. I could be one of them if I wasn't "discovered" by Simon on that show, I thought to myself. A struggling musician that needed to play covers at bars to make ends meet. The bass player was quite good, he kind of stood apart and jammed some good melodies.

Barbara was sitting next to me, drinking a glass of wine. 

- I only drink wine, anything else knocks me down.

She said, looked at me and asked: "You are a tourist, so you must not know the city well, maybe you want to see other places?"

Gosh, was she hitting at me? 

She read my mind.

-Hey, I don't have an agenda here. I am just a bit bored, you know, I use to be a foreign correspondent. I use to cover North Korea, China, Afghanistan. I have been to all those places, and wrote a few books. We journalists think that once we do the route we can have a good established, well respected position back at headquarters. Today I had to do a story on Apple launching a new product. I am a f-ing human rights specialist...Sorry...I didn't catch your name? Am I boring you? Can I buy you a drink?

- Hey, don't mind me. Am all ears. Edwards, my name is Edwards.

We started talking about her job, how her editors were jealous of her. How other journalists tried to steal her scoops, how she was tired of doing shallow stories, or following celebrities for some lame news. She had met all the politicians, yet she was often assigned to cover miscellaneous stuff. "Journalism is the most ungrateful job", she sad, sipping on her glass of wine. "You become a specialist in everything, and you work with a bunch of narcissists and people with attention deficit disorder", she mumbled as she asked the bartender her third or fourth glass of vino.

-So what did you cover in China? (I remember we had played there)

- Mainly human rights. Can I buy you a drink? Thanks for listening to my rants. I am usually not this annoying. I swear to god.

- Sure. Want maybe whisky on the rocks? Hey, I have a question for you. Why you guys pretend to care, when you don't really care?

-What do you mean?

-I mean, you go to interview someone, you ask questions pretending that you care, but in reality the next day you have forgotten about the topic or the person, and you give a shit what you might have caused thanks to the news you published. You know what I mean? You guys f-k people over.

-This is exactly my problem with journalism. We don't have time, we don't have the means. We basically run around from one person to the other, from one topic to the other. And we can't develop a topic properly. There are only a handful of journalists who get to do their job well. And most of them had to fight with teeth and nails to grab every bit of advantage they can. It is very cutthroat. 

The live music show ended, the band had left the bar.  We had started drinking whisky, both of us. She told me stories when she worked as a foreign correspondent, and I inquired about the ethics of her job. I had been media trained, yet, I had still so many questions, I felt like a victim, in part due to how the media portrayed us, the fear Z and I had of going public. I know I shouldn't blame just the media, but they were a huge part of it. 

Her hair was long, I could be attracted to her, but there was no seduction between us. I liked that. She was smart and straightforward, I could feel she had been a front line journalist. She was tough, but mellow too, as if she had her guard down, in terms of a journalist, I mean. She told me all the gossip of her newsroom, to my dismay. We laughed, and toasted.

A few late-night barflies started to arrive, the bartender started playing some tunes.

Suddenly,  a familiar song echoed. It was Ariana Grande's "A Little Bit of your Heart". I wrote that song when I was 19, or 20, I don't remember. It was when Z had told me he wanted to get engaged with P, her girlfriend at the time. 

When I wrote that song I was devastated and angry. I hated Z. But, every time I saw him, I realised it was something I couldn't handle; I always gave in, and anger dissipated. He had told me getting engaged was his way of protecting us.. Maybe I was too naive to believe him? Maybe. But I did. He said it was better if we were both seen as "normal" dudes. Not because of our fans, but because in that way we would be left alone. No one would suspect anything.

Ariana had invited me to her studio. She was very sweet. Almost too sweet, and giggly, but behind that small figure there was a powerful voice and amazing talent.

So, naturally when she said we could write a song together, I said "YES". I wanted to tell Barbara, the journalist, now a bit tipsy, that I was the one who wrote that song playing at the bar.

-I wrote that...

I almost said "I wrote that song"...but stopped soon enough, and changed the topic.

-I wrote to my parents today...

-Where do the live?

-In London

-They are together?

-Divorced

-Same here. I am divorced. No children.

-Oh, sorry to hear that.

-No need to be sorry. If you are a woman, at least in my generation, you can't get a man to support you. It's all about the lads. You have to be there to support them, and follow them. I would have wanted to have kids, but both of us worked and he wanted me to give up my career. I have seen so many women to give up their careers only to see their husbands leave them later on. How about you? You here on business or tourism? Anyone waiting for you at home?

I wanted so bad to tell her everything. Ariana's song was playing on the background, we had too many drinks, and she felt so solid and safe. 

-Are you into pop music?

-Kinda. But I don't have time to keep up. I am a bit out of touch.

-Cool. Am here on business actually, am working on an album.

-Am sorry? Don't say, are you an aspiring musician.

-You can say that.

-Ha. Welcome to Los Angeles, the city where dreams become reality.

(To be continued...the usual disclaimers...)

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