Tonic by Staci Hart Page B

about how his parents had always encouraged his drawing and sketching, even his tattooing, which, he explained, most of his companions didn’t have growing up. They were a rag-tag band of misfits, finding home in their culture, in their jobs. They were their own family, especially once Joel and Shep lost their parents.
    I wrote the word Hairy at the top of the page, tracing it over and over again as we volleyed questions and answers back and forth to each other, digging deeper into his life. What started off fluffy had delved a little deeper than I suspected he was comfortable with, but part of my job was to push the boundaries. Make people cry like Barbara Walters or Oprah. Get them to open up. So I asked a question I shouldn’t have, only in part for my job.  
    “Tell me about your ex-wife, Liz.”
    I might have just imagined it, but I swear he flinched a millimeter when I said her name. “What do you want to know?”
    Everything. “Where did you two meet?”
    “A bar.”
    “What did you think of her the first time you saw her?”
    His eyes narrowed. “That she was somebody I’d like to know.”
    I nodded, annoyed that he wouldn’t answer me as I added more pubes to the balls. “Sure. I heard she’s beautiful. I saw some pictures from her wedding day when we were vetting Hal for the show.”
    Somehow, his eyes narrowed even more.  
    “She and Hal looked really happy. That was, what, a few months after your divorce was finalized?”
    He stood up and pulled off his monitor, refusing to look at me. “We’re done here.”
    My stomach fell into my shoes as I realized what I’d done, and I stood as he passed me, leaving my clipboard on the stool.   He stormed out the door, and I followed. The control room came to a silent stop, including Penny and Ramona, who were waiting for their turn.
    “Joel, I—”
    He whirled around, wounded and angry. “What the fuck was that, Annika?”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you—”
    “Like hell you didn’t.”
    I took a breath. “You’re right, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s easy to forget that you have feelings when you disregard mine.”
    His nostrils flared. “That’s all well and good, but you’re not the one being filmed.”
    My mouth opened to speak, but he headed me off.
    “Don’t bait me. Don’t push me. This show isn’t about Hal and Liz. This is about my shop, about our culture, about art and history and people . I’m not a fucking puff piece or a puppet for you to dick around with. I’m a human fucking being with baggage just like everybody, and I don’t appreciate that being exploited on national fucking television.”
    “I know,” I started, hoping he’d let me finish. “But people are going to want to know about you, about your past. The women are going to want to hear about why you’re single, imagine themselves with you.”
    He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, lips a thin line. “I don’t give a shit, Annika. This is my life, and there’s a time, a place, and a way to talk about it. But that—” he pointed toward the front of the shop where we’d been sitting, arching over me, “—is not the way. Have some fucking respect.”
    I blinked at him, my mouth open at his proximity, as close as he’d been earlier. But now he breathed hot anger and hurt instead of the heat of desire. My thoughts swam as he spun around and marched out the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the room with a dozen sets of eyes on me. So I did what any good producer would do.  
    I looked to Penny. “You’re up. This way, please,” I said with my voice cold, carrying a calm I didn’t feel.

    The interviews went on for a few hours, and we got through the first half of the staff. I couldn’t stop thinking about Joel, about the anger in his face, in his words. But I kept smiling, kept talking, kept going. It didn’t stop me from feeling like I’d done real damage. It didn’t stop me from feeling all