Nice Girls Finish Last by Sparkle Hayter Page B

put it, “take the short sword”—quit before they bounced me off the air.
    On the other hand, I didn’t want to make it any easier for them by quitting prematurely, not if there was a chance I could stay in television a while longer. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like television had been bery, bery good to me. But it certainly had its high points, like the vigilantism series, and it was kind of like a home to me. I’d been with ANN since the beginning, and if I made it to my next anniversary I’d get a silver-plated satellite pin and a signed certificate from Georgia Jack Jackson.
    â€œI’m flying down to Miami late tomorrow,” Bob said, putting on his coat. “I’m going to miss a few of the meetings.”
    Now I suddenly saw the whole picture. It could go any way for me, and McGravy wouldn’t be here to stand up for me in the executive meetings, so I had to be extra good and make an extra-swell impression on the higher-ups.
    Bad news indeed. The Stoly bottle behind the oak bar was glinting at me most invitingly. But before I could consider the temptation further, McGravy said, “Don’t do it, Robin, remember Max Guffy.”
    The door into Buddy’s opened and the resulting draft blew Bob’s comb-over up, so it stood almost on end, exposing his bald spot. He didn’t notice and was about to go when I pulled him back and gently pushed the hair back over his bald spot. “Look nice for your date,” I said.
    Bob smiled at me, kissed my cheek, and said again, “Remember Max Guffy.” Then he left me to finish my beer alone.
    Max Guffy was a good reason not to give in to the vodka goddess. It was such a good reason that I pulled out my reporter’s notebook and wrote it down, inspirational saying number 247: Remember Max Guffy.
    As if I could forget him. Getting avant-garde undertaker Max Guffy had been a real coup for me, as he’d never done a television interview before and he’d never allowed cameras into his operation. For months I’d schmoozed him, and finally he had agreed to talk to me, without cameras, in preparation for an on-air interview that would set the tone for my special report on death in modern America.
    The meeting began well and we established what I thought was an immediate rapport. Then Guffy showed me around the embalming, makeup, and hair facilities, where I had the dubious privilege of watching three dead people sitting side-by-side, strapped into chairs under hair dryers while a stylist coiffed a fourth corpse in front of a mirror. Afterward, we sat in Guffy’s eerily quiet office and I confessed I felt uncomfortable, knowing that most of the people in the building were dead, that we were outnumbered, so he poured us both shots of vodka from the full bar he kept in his office for the bereaved.
    Now, it wasn’t just vodka, it was Zubrowska, a beautiful, hard-to-find Polish vodka that goes down like water and leaves a light honey aftertaste in the mouth. As you can imagine, a swift shot of Zubrowska really loosened us up. Before long we were laughing together like old friends and exchanging mordant undertaker jokes. When he offered another shot, I was feeling rather warm and convivial, and took it. I hadn’t had vodka for a while but I thought, hey, I’m in a funeral home. How much trouble can I get into here?
    One slip of the tongue later, and an angry, red-faced Max Guffy was asking me to leave his office, saying he wouldn’t speak to ANN if his life depended on it.
    He called me “tabloidesque.”
    No more vodka, I resolved after that. As I said, that day with Guffy was the second-to-last time I had vodka, so clearly my resolve didn’t last long. The last time I had vodka (and rather a lot of it) was with comic Howard Gollis, on our fourth date, the night we almost had sex.
    Blessings in disguise, bright sides, silver linings … I wanted to believe in all that stuff,