The Fizz
It was 5:47 p.m. and the sun was peering into the window as it sank into the sky. The fading light shone through Mary Katherine’s seltzer glass and onto the table creating an oblong orange rectangle. She stared at the bubbles rocketing to the surface and took a sip. The liquid seemed to cackle on her tongue. A sick laughter. Even the seltzer was mocking her, although she knew deep down that was ridiculous. That, in fact, she was being ridiculous. She twirled the glass to clink the ice cubes against the sides. It was one pitch. One! It was one rejection. One! Rejection is inevitable. Seltzer goes flat.
Was this hormones, these feelings? The melancholy? She always wanted it to be chemical. She always wanted there to be a scientific explanation, because that meant there was a scientific solution. Seltzer is fizzy because of science. Seltzer goes flat because of science. Maybe it was the moon. She needed an explanation because bad feelings are too scary otherwise.
Back to that pitch. For Mary Katherine, work was a bit of a gamble, although not the steadiness of her actual job. She got by as everyone gets by. But she felt like her drive was more fluid than she’d like. She had good ideas, she supposed, but maybe that was the problem? She thought too much of her ability? This pitch was so good, so specific, so different, at least she perceived it to be. Yet, Simon, her editor, declined hers for Sidney’s. And this was for the cover! Why Sidney too?
Maybe they chuckled to each other about how silly Mary Katherine’s idea was. They probably had a great guffaw about it in his office, his left foot propped in his bottom desk drawer, and her perfect lip gloss shining in Simon’s fluorescent-lit office. Mary Katherine could almost smell the powdered creamer-saturated coffee (can a powder saturate a liquid?) in his permanently stained Mischief Managed mug. Sidney would’ve been drinking green tea, of course, in her perfect initial mug from that ridiculous vintage shop.
Mary Katherine was a bit alarmed at her growing vitriol but she continued to stew. If the truth had a moment to break free from the mire of Mary Katherine’s mind, if she paused to consider the context, if she’d waited until the next day even, she’d learn Simon had spoken to Sidney several months ago about a specific pitch related to Sidney’s proficiency in jazz saxophone. And, if Mary Katherine were honest in this moment, she’d be able to identify that her list of accepted pitches is long compared to her rejections, especially relevant to her personal interests as well—the general absence of lavender in luxury perfumes, for instance. And also, truth be told, if Mary Katherine were honest about Sidney, she might remember that Sidney championed Mary Katherine’s pitch about the disregard of aesthetic preferences when holding onto family heirlooms, or the story about the design of a closet and its connection to historical context. Not that this was transactional, of course, but these actions should’ve been indicative to Mary Katherine of the nature of these relationships.
Mary Katherine’s mind was on a fast track now though. She’ll probably never pitch again because why should she? Why would she or could she? Good ideas, an idea with both roots and wings is scarce, and if she can’t get a successful pitch now, what makes her think she ever will again? Simon most likely is writing a new job description because he might as well replace her, right? She has some savings. She could make it. She could get a restaurant job. She could pursue freelance, although who would hire her? She could still make it. Of course, she has to assume that she is and will be alone, but she can still make it. She will make it.
Mary Katherine picked up her phone. She pressed her fingertip to the phone screen on a particular app that would vomit an endless stream of photographs for her eyes to consume. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Interrupt. Strange how a runaway train of thought can be intercepted by a different kind of runaway train of the absence of thought. Plants, drinks, food, outfits, mountains, beaches, non-specifics. Not the sounds and mechanics of the jazz saxophone, or the history of family heirlooms and their transcendence of one’s personal stylistic tastes and the ache of family ties and legacy and all that entails.
An alternative to Mary Katherine picking up her phone could’ve been a pause, a breath. Her mind trapped in a dusty corridor buried deep in the rafters of a tower. But it breaks free and climbs down one passageway into the next, and then it is climbing up, up, up. Through stairwell after stairwell and up the vertical corridors. Then it is at the top and it is opening a window that looks not to the outside but into a concert hall, a grand wonder with its front and center situated by a gilt gold orchestra. All brass instruments. All melody. All majesty. The mind stays atop the tower and looks out below drinking from the sheen as if it will die otherwise. This is here, and this is now, and what is here that isn’t everywhere else? This is the wonder. You have the wonder. Who do you know that you are?
Mary Katherine tipped back her glass of seltzer, its carbonation since diluted. The liquid was done. She retrieved another can and cracked it open. It was alive. She is alive.