All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(22)
Next on our bar crawl was a dance party for Foursquare. With the exception of my dad, everyone was buzzed at this point. I wondered if it was starting to get boring for him. Stories were repeated ad nauseam. The dance music drowned that out so we busted a move.
In the wee hours of the morning, my dad decided to call it a night and suggested I do the same. If he was concerned about my drinking, he didn’t say so. I was one of many kids having a wild time at the festival. I had interviews to conduct the next day. I obliged but only because there was no more free gin. I made my way out to the front of the club, waved over a rickshaw, and gave the sturdy-looking driver my Airbnb address. The sky started to spit out water, coating me in a small mist. I searched my purse for my phone and took my badge off to put in said purse. The rickshaw hit a bump and my drunken hands lost their grip on the thousand-dollar badge. I watched as it sailed out onto the street behind me. I knew I should say something to my driver, but my drunken stupor rendered me silent. I faced forward and felt the rain on my face. Blackouts have a way of creating apathy.
Dancing like everyone’s watching at SXSW.
The next morning I woke up and realized first thing that my badge was missing. I immediately headed back to the expo center where I spotted the sign: WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST OR STOLEN BADGES. Curious how I missed that the day before. I wondered if my Irish charm could convince the lady in the booth to take pity on me. I steeled myself as I walked up to the woman, who in slow-motion shook her head. I continued to plead my case, to no avail. I was the idiot that lost her badge on the first night of the festival.
I had interviews set up back at the Airbnb so I raced back, golden-ticket-less. I attempted to get through a sit-down with Iranian activist and journalist Saman Arbabi, but I felt waves of nausea grip me as I asked him about the Internet and how it related to promoting dissent. My vision blurred and my stomach began to churn. I excused myself and vomited in the bathroom as quietly as possible, running the faucet to drown out the sound. I returned to our makeshift set and kept my eyes cast down until I started asking questions again. Was the camera even rolling? I felt like I was going to pass out.
I made it through the interview, but as soon as I closed the door behind my guest, someone I had been thrilled to speak to, I reviewed the interview tape. It was unusable. My questions were incoherent and the back-and-forth was a mess.
Waves of self-hatred began to wash over me. Why was everyone else able to drink and do their jobs? I was mystified and miserable about my inability to stop drinking past a certain point. My lack of control around alcohol was affecting my work life. It was undeniable at this point.
When I got back to New York my dad asked how the rest of the trip went. I cannot remember his tone, though I wonder now if it was a leading question that I was not ready to answer. I told him it was a smashing success. I couldn’t bear to share the truth. With him, or with myself.
13
Stories Are There for the Telling
“When it is scary outside and people are fearing for their futures, they like to gather in a dark room and stare at a screen, holding hands against the gloom.”
My dad knew how to tell a story, in all formats. Whether it was a bedtime story he told us girls, his husky voice in an NPR interview with Terry Gross, or in a written column eviscerating the Chicago Tribune’s new management, he knew instinctively how a story should come together. I could hear his voice clearly through each medium. I yearned to know these secrets, too.
We began a more official spate of mentoring during my time at VICE in New York. When I started there, I was super green, but I knew I didn’t want to just assist people mindlessly for the next five years, a role young women were often relegated to. My father knew that one of the key ingredients to success was repetition and familiarity. In the beginning he instructed me to watch all that I could and get a feel for what “hit” and what fell flat. My dad’s media consumption was massive, and he expected those around him to keep up. I would get countless emails about watching a new show on IFC or a viral video on YouTube or an important feature doc that had just been at Sundance. When I expressed derision or criticism, he would remark, “You aren’t watching to be a hater. Please turn off that side of your brain and just listen. There are many things for you to learn.”
When we discussed media, which was often, he’d give me his version of homework. These lessons often took place on the back porch of his house—his workroom, where he could be found smoking and wearing the headset that he would take off every so often and toss on the green metallic table with a clank. The family dog, Charlie, sat at his feet, not even bothering to get up when I would come into the makeshift office. She knew who to get up for. My dad would type away, all the while issuing commands from the corner of his mouth.
At one session he attempted to help me focus on which stories were worth covering, and through whose lens: “Okay, so we talked about what you are liking. Can you make a list of people whose careers you admire—four should work. Use the Google machine and trace back how and when they started their careers. Can you do that and report back?” He looked away from the keyboard and up at me to study my response. I eyed the cigarettes on the table and just for a second wanted one.
Instead I answered his question: “Yeah, I can do that. Might take a little while.”