May 17
Mood: Sleepy
Music: "This is How I Disappear" – My Chemical Romance
I didn't think I'd get a chance to write tonight! When Renee (she hates when I call her that) gets going, it's hard to shut her up! I'd make a lame joke about asking a Question, but I can't think of one just now. One'll come to me later, though, I just know it.
So, today was mostly exploration. I found the grocery store, the Laundromat and I rode the subway to work a couple of times, back and forth, just memorizing the line and stops I need to remember. No attacks by creepy super-pimps today, which was a plus. Oh, and it occurs to me that I should qualify my comments about Catwoman in case they're discussing the contents of this journal in the Jessie Montoya museum at some nebulous point in the dystopian future. Yes, I'm gay. See, the Republicans were right!* Gay parents lead to gay children, and eventually they'll take over the world! Oh, wait – I was only raised by one gay parent. Okay, I got it – the Republicans were right!* Single parents have gay children! Or something like that.
* Republicans are never right, yo. Unless G.W. has pulled a Star Wars by the time you read this and declared himself Emperor or something, in which case... Although, I'll hopefully be dead before that happens, so if I'm declared a "non-person" posthumously for slagging them, what does it matter? They can't waterboard a corpse. Or...well, they could, and they probably would, but I wouldn't care very much either way.
If there's one thing I'm comforted by, it's that tv in Gotham is just as bad or perhaps worse than tv in Keystone. The only thing on that's not a rerun is the news, and there's no way I'm watching that. I don't want to hear about the crime or the decay of society, or to see some fluff piece about mom. It'll be enough when I'm surrounded by the bad news all day long at work, I don't need to surround myself with it when I'm not there. Finally I gave up and watched Lost on DVD. I'm hoping the new season is as good as last one was. Then Renee phoned and we talked about what happened last night, followed by her catching me up on the latest Keystone news. Now, with the day's thoughts recorded, I shall retire.*
*That's fancy talk for "go to bed."
May 18
Mood: Annoyed yet Accomplished
Music: "Lying is the most fun..." – Panic! At the Disco
Tell me, journal, and don't hold out on me. You knew this was coming, didn't you? The universe has a sick sense of humour, and somehow the joke's always on me. You knew this would happen, didn't you? Traitor.
Okay, let's recap:
Alarm clock went off (the battery-powered one, I don't trust the electricity in this building), hit the shower, got dressed, rode the subway, and I got to work fifteen minutes early.
I get to the front desk and this woman looks at me like she's seen a ghost. "Can I help you?" she asks, half a heartbeat before I call out for help thinking she's suffered some sort of medical emergency.
"Jessie Montoya – the new intern? I'm supposed to report to Mr. Davies."
"Oh, right," she dials the phone with practiced ease. "Mr. Davies? There's a Miss Montoya here to see you. Right. I'll send her up, sir." She hangs up and gestures to the elevator. "Fourth floor, room 12. Turn right when you get out, and the room's at the end of the hall."
"Thanks!" I reply brightly. My heels clacking on the tile floor of the lobby (I like what I look like in heels, but they're so damn noisy!), I jostle and push with the staffers to get into the elevator, and push through them again to get off on the fourth floor. I find room 12, and knock on the open door.
"What? Oh, it's you," a gruff voice greets me. "Well, come in, girl – we don't stand on ceremony here. I hope you're ready to get started?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," he gets up from behind his desk – Mr. Davies is an intimidating sight. Six and a half feet, a couple hundred pounds – I heard later he used to be GCPD, but I don't know for sure. He towers over my slim five foot four inch frame and hands me a book that nearly pulls me over forward with its weight. "That's our policies and procedures," he explains. "Take the morning, give them a read. If anything seems unclear, just let me know. Otherwise, your next meeting is with Patricia – the society reporter. We've got kind of a treat for you this afternoon – a chance to go out with a reporter on your first day, see how we work."
"Really?" I ask, my excitement coming through in my voice – I never expected to get out in the field this quickly. "What's she covering?"
He smiles. "The opening of the Kane wing at Gotham General."
My stomach falls all the way to my feet. Knowing I can't let it show, though, I pin a big fake smile to my face. "Excellent."
"I'm glad you approve," he teases. "So, meet her about 12:30. Lunch is whenever you feel like taking it, at least for today."
"Okay...um, where can I read this?"
"Your cubicle. Fifth floor, east side by the window. It's got your name on it, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding it."
I don't. And I spend the morning flipping halfheartedly through the book while I wonder what the hell I'm going to do in the afternoon. I skip lunch, deciding my time would be better spent worrying. Before I know it, it's time to meet Patricia. I pin the fake smile back on and chat enthusiastically with her all the way to Gotham General, dropping a subtle hint that I'd prefer she not mention my last name to anyone. I don't remember how I worked that in, but I managed it somehow. The driver/photographer leads the way to the new wing, and the three of us nearly collide with someone late for the ceremony – someone who turns out to be mom, in the flesh. She smiles apologetically before darting off to join her family.
We hang around after the ribbon cutting so Patricia can interview her, as she spearheaded the new wing project, which means the four of us in a little conference room for privacy. She's cool and polite with Patricia, but she can't seem to pull her gaze away from me. I don't meet her eyes, looking at anything and everything but her. It turns out conference rooms in Gotham General have grey carpeting, did you know? And big conference phones that look like UFOs. And chairs that...well, you get the idea. I do, however, pay close attention to the conversation, so that when Patricia asks if I have any follow-up questions I think may be helpful, I'm able to press mom...Kate, dammit, let's just call her Kate...on a couple of points. Patricia smiles approvingly at me, and having to answer my questions means Kate can't stare at me quite so openly.
After twenty-five minutes or so, the door opens and a woman walks in. She's perfectly businesslike, professionally attired, and could easily be mistaken for Kate's assistant. But the feeling in my stomach, and the slightly too-bright smile Kate gives her, tells me she's more than just an assistant. It also tells me that mom's still in the closet. Kate slides a business card across the table to me. "Call me sometime, okay? I'd love to give the Tribune an exclusive, and if I could help you get started there I'd like that too. Call me, okay?" Without waiting for a reply, she rises gracefully and says goodbye to Patricia and the photog before leaving the room. Patricia gives me a weird look, and I know just what she's thinking – why would a billionaire want to give an exclusive interview to an intern?
I dodge that question all the way back to work, fill out my timesheet and duck out as quickly as possible after expressing my gratitude to Mr. Davies for being included on the interview. He says I've got a lot of promise (but I'm sure he says that to all the interns), and sends me on my way.
So now I'm here. Staring at this card mom gave me, pondering. Any opinion, future readers? No? Well, you're absolutely no use. I think I'll file this card, order some pizza, and think on it a while.
...
Okay, no decision's been reached, so I'm going to bed now. But for future reference, don't order from that pizza joint down the block. There aren't words for how awful that was.
May 21
Mood: Spazzy
Music: The iPod, she is dead. The power of electricity shall revive her in a few hours, if the appropriate sacrifices are observed.
Forgive me, Journal, I have sinned. It's been three days since my last confession. I'll say a dozen Hail Mary's, if that helps?
Okay, so what's new in the life o' Jessie?
Turns out Davies is an old colleague of Renee's. I waited curiously when he told me that for one of two things to happen. See, back in the day, she was outed at work. Some people rallied behind her, some of them (republicans, probably) decided she was satan's spawn. Fortunately Davies was one of the former, and he's regaled me with stories of the good old days at GCPD.
Work's going well. It's mostly grunt stuff, sorting files and moving boxes and the like, but that's the life of an intern, right? I just hope I do a good enough job with it that they keep me on. I met this year's other intern, too, a guy named Ben Moses. And yes, that is his real last name, and yes, I asked. He's a nice enough guy – we don't talk much, as we're usually on different floors, but when we do he's very polite. He's a native Gothamite, as it turns out, so he's suggested a few good places to eat so I can avoid a repeat performance of the other night's pizza debacle.
I still haven't called Kate. Patricia, the reporter from the other day (her last name is Simonds, if it's at all relevant), is on me constantly about it. What a great opportunity it is, and so on and so forth. I think I'd better make a move soon – I have this funny feeling that if I don't call her, Pat's going to go to Davies and tell him they're missing out on an exclusive interview. That would not do wonders for my career in journalism. I guess I really should quit putting this off, huh?
Fine, stop looking at me like that. I'll do it now.
...
Well, that was anticlimactic. I got to talk to the help, who informed me that Miss Kane could meet with me sometime tomorrow evening, and that I should just drop by whenever I'm free and Miss Kane will be here whenever her schedule permits. Somebody tell me – is it a constitutional requirement that all butlers be snooty and have British accents? Anybody?
Weirdest damn thing happened to my laptop this evening. I had it sitting on my desk charging, and suddenly it turns itself on. Goes through the boot sequence, but doesn't start windows. Instead it sits there with a black screen. I left it for a few minutes, but there was nothing else after that. Strange business, that. Oh, and for the future visitors to the Jessie Montoya museum, the reason I handwrite my journal when I've got a perfectly good laptop is Renee. She has an innate mistrust of keeping private files on a computer, and I've mostly followed her habit. I still have a few things on there, but my journals have always been handwritten.
Sadly, I think that's about all the exciting news I have to share. By tomorrow night, I should have a story to tell. Until then, I'm curling up with a bowl of microwave popcorn that may or may not have been irradiated by the microwave in this place and a cold beer. Goodnight, moon! Goodnight, room!
May 23
Mood: Subdued, Confused, Cautious
Music: "Diary of Jane" – Breaking Benjamin
Well.
Huh.
That didn't go quite like I'd thought it would.
Let's skip the work part of my tale of yesterday, ‘cause frankly it's rather dull. And I know what my readers at the JM museum will be waiting anxiously for – How I Met My Mother. (I crack myself up sometimes)
So, I get to the Kane mansion, or palace, or whatever one calls these things, about six. The butler lets me in, gets me some tea and...I think they were cookies, but for no reason I can fathom he called them biscuits. Then I sit in the library and wait. And wait. And wait some more. If the books on her shelves had looked like anything other than dry old volumes by dead white guys, I might have been bored into reading one. Instead I tried to calculate how much everything in the room was worth. I lost count at a million and change. Finally, after an hour and a half, she strolls in.
I had to smirk, because I knew exactly what she'd been doing. Her hair was mussed, she was hastily dressed, and she looked totally out of sorts. For most people that'd mean they were having sex, but with her it's a sign that she just came back from patrol and changed out of her costume. She doesn't see me grin, which is fortunate – I'd have to explain it then. She hugs me and does that stupid air-kiss thing that rich women do, and takes a seat opposite me.
"So," I begin, pulling out the digital recorder I borrowed from the Tribune. "What's it like, being the most famous woman in Gotham?"
She puts a hand up. "Stop. Turn that off, please. I'd like to get the obvious stuff out of the way first."
"Which obvious stuff is that?"
"You're Renee's daughter, right?"
My mouth goes dry, so I just nod.
She looks fondly at me. "You look just like her. You're aware that she and I were...involved?"
I nod again.
"Okay. Are you at all interested in telling me who your father was?" I have the misfortune to be taking a drink as she asks this, and I choke on it. Tea spatters the table between us, a table that's worth more than I'll make in a lifetime. She shrugs it off. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," I gasp. "And...no, I don't think I should answer that."
"That's fine. But your mom, she's still..."
"What? Gay? Yeah, why? Oh, wait – no, I wasn't conceived like that. Ew."
"Just making sure, that's all. Your mom and I haven't spoken in a long time. How is she? Where do the two of you live?"
"She's fine, I guess – we live in Keystone City."
"Ever seen the Flash?"
"Nope. Been flashed, never seen the Flash." It's the first bit of sarcasm out of my mouth, and it feels good – I'm getting my balance back a little. But then she throws another curve.
"I'd like to get you a proper apartment."
"Huh?" is my smooth reply.
"I know that roach motel you're staying in – I asked a secretary at the Tribune for your address, I'm sorry – and I'd like to get you a nicer place."
"I don't want anything from you – that's not why I came here," I insist.
"I know – if it was, you'd have asked by now, and you wouldn't have had that reporter only use your first name when she introduced you the other day. Please, let me do this – as you may know, I do own a few apartment complexes. I'll find a nice place for you. I'd just like to make up a little for the way Renee and I left things."
The look on her face, earnest and sincere, is unbearable. "Fine."
"And a car?"
"No! I draw the line there – I don't mind taking the subway."
"You sure? I've got nice cars," she says teasingly. "Drive the boys crazy..."
I snort. "Not really my area. Boys, I mean."
"Oh," she says quietly. She recovers quickly, though. "Well, then, drive the girls crazy!"
"I'll have to manage that without the car, I guess."
She pouts a little, and the look is incredibly endearing. I can see what Renee saw in her. "Okay. You have to promise me something, though."
"What's that?"
"Check in with me from time to time? And if you need anything – anything at all – let me know, okay?"
"Promise."
Satisfied, she sits back in her chair. "Okay, let's get this interview going!"
...
The interview was pretty standard stuff, but Davies will be glad to have an exclusive with her. I...I don't know what I feel. I guess I thought she'd know that she was my mom. And on one level I didn't want her to know, but on another more selfish level I guess I was sorta craving a mother-daughter hug. I got one (a verbal one, at least) afterward from Renee when I called her and let her know what had happened, but it still feels like I missed out on something...
Okay, this is foolish. I didn't need her in Keystone, and I certainly don't need her in Gotham. I'll do like she asks, and check in now and again, but it's not like we're going to be best friends or anything. She's still the woman who walked out on Renee. I just have to keep that in mind and I'll be fine. Right? Right.
Okay – I'm gonna stretch out for a bit, and hope this brain of mine will quiet down for a tick.
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