Page 1 of Well, Actually
Chapter 1
I always expected my career would revolve less around wieners than it does.
I assumed there would besomewieners, of course (more euphemistically, less the ingested type), but as I finish my fourth hot dog of the day, sliding it down my gullet along with any dignity and self-respect I may have had, say, a year ago, I’m reminded that assumptions don’t pay the bills and when your hard-hitting journalism career (read: clickbait-centric joke of a job) asks you to eat hot dogs with B- to D-list celebrities for social media videos, you don’t askWhy?justHow many?
“Do you have a favorite cheese?” I ask Harry O’Connell, an Irish keyboardist of an up-and-coming band called Tea Time Tantrum.
“I feel like it’s rather basic, but I’d have to say cheddar.” He flashes a cheeky smile, his eyes so blue they make me blush.Which also makes me feel old because he’s only twenty-one and I’m a haggard twenty-seven navigating life without health insurance or a clue.
“Would you also say you’re a Kraft Single ready to mingle?” I volley back in my deadpan, dead-soul voice that got me this job of “acting” miserable on the internet while talking to beautiful people.
Unfortunately, my stupid joke doesn’t land. Not even in a way that we can turn into a “Hot celeb stares in disbelief and confusion at Eva Kitt’s ridiculous question” that garners us shareable moments. Instead, Harry looks at me with an expression that’s equal measures pained, confused, and blank, and I’m left wondering if I should take up a religion that believes in confession and repentance just so I can be absolved of how fucking pathetic this all is.
After a reset and replaced hot dogs we have to eat half of for continuity purposes, I hit him with, “We’d be Gouda together, don’t you think?”
Prepared for the final joke, Harry doesn’t give a truly honest reaction, but he’s a good sport, shock and humor playing out in spades across his handsome face. It’s a performance convincing enough that when he looks me in the eyes and says, “Don’t toy with me if you aren’t serious. You might just break my heart if this is a joke,” I know viewers will eat it up and spread wildfire gossip about us.
“That’s a wrap,” Aida, my producer/guardian angel/best friend, calls after I take the last bite of my room-temperature weenie.
This is the extent of my love life: lukewarm hot dogs underglaring studio lights, some contrived flirty banter with a guy too young for me, and us hugging briefly at the end as we lie about how much fun we had chatting, then parting ways forever… Or until his career stagnates and he’s scheduled with me again to respark rumors around our flirtatious interview.
How shocking that I walk home alone.
Well, not fully alone. Aida keeps me company for the shared blocks of our commutes, her to Hell’s Kitchen, me to the Lower East Side.
“That went really well, I think,” she says, more to herself than me, as she furiously types an email on her phone, responds to a text, and somehow manages to post a flawless selfie to her story, finding the only slice of sunshine on this dreary October day, the rays highlighting her light-brown skin and the smattering of freckles across her nose so she looks like some sort of ethereal creature. The woman is the blueprint of the hustle, and that includes knowing her angles. “He was a great guest. We’ll push this one hard on socials. I think there were a lot of meme-able moments in there.”
“Yeah, some real disruptive journalistic investigation.” My voice is as dark as the questionable puddle I accidently splash through while crossing the street. “Can’t wait for my Pulitzer.”
Aida rolls her eyes. “Your dedication to groundbreaking news and truth telling was cute when you had student loans to live off, but maybe tone down the angst. We’re getting paid to create this fluff. Relatively decently, I might add.”
I scoff but let it go. My paycheck would be objectivelycomfortable in a small Midwestern town, but in New York, it makes splurging on silly little treats—which, granted, is a daily self-care measure in the form of Diet Cokes and lattes—come with a splash of financial panic. Just enough to keep things spicy.
We both chugged through college and grad school with the naive idealism afforded to students, but real life kicked us in the teeth as soon as we got a glimpse of our debt-repayment plans. She’s handled it with a much stiffer upper lip than I have.
My listlessness must be palpable to Aida, because she grabs me by the shoulders at her subway stop, giving me a little rattle before smooshing my cheeks between her palms and placing a rough kiss to my forehead.
“Everything’s okay,” she says, making me hold her gaze as she gives me another shake. “Satirically interviewing low-level celebrities over hot dogs wasn’t your dream career… so what? You’re at least in the field you want to work in, even if it’s a different beat.”
I go to argue, but she cuts me off.
“You don’t have to have it all settled and perfect. Life marches forward regardless of your plans, babe. Soundbites is a decent media outlet, one you could work your way up in to start covering topics you actually care about. Plus you have your column thingy. That’s growing, right?”
I nod, deciding to spare her the bleak reality of my latest creative endeavor. I started posting a recurring column on a platform called Babble after reading about some frenetic twenty-year-old whose writing career took off on the sitefrom her pieces about living with ADHD. The app basically gave blogging a Gen Z facelift, merging the best parts of Pinterest, Reddit, and Twitter (in its golden age). The content runs the gamut from aesthetic pics to current events, with plenty of shitposts in between.
I put out my column, “Unlikeable,” weekly with updates in digestible segments on women’s issues ranging from legislation to pop culture with a fair amount of international analysis too. While most news impacting women ranges from bleak to downright disgraceful of late, I try to end every piece with a touch of optimism—glimmers of humor and hope wherever I can.
It did well at first, gaining about four hundred subscribers in the first few weeks—admittedly modest by many standards, but I was shocked—and I stupidly started fantasizing about what it could become: maybe adding an audio component where I interview authors and activists. Have comedians write special guest posts until I top the engagement charts. Earn sponsorships and monetization deals while having my choice of freelance gigs for all my dream publications.
But it stagnated and is now on a downward trend. Any engagement I get, especially from screenshotted snippets I cross-post to other social media platforms, is filled with men familiar with my role onSausage Talktaking to the comments and asking me to deepthroat a myriad of phallic-shaped foods.
“Stop acting like all your dreams need to be manifested before you’ve even had a chance to strive for them,” Aida scolds.
“Stop being so reasonable, it’s killing my vibe.”
She smiles, giving my cheek a light smack. “Eva Kitt, you’re the next Anderson Cooper, I can feel it. You’re already halfway there with your hair.” She fluffs my platinum-bleached tresses.
I roll my eyes, face twisting into a sour grin. I’m delusional, but notthatdelusional. “Whatever you say.”
