“We had a fitting,” she said, eyes twinkling, taking a slow sip of steaming Cabernet.

I marveled that, by choice, my old neighbor and I were relaxing in the shadows of Penn Station, in a bar that all but specialized in hot alcoholic drinks—but only in the summer, mind you, forget those wintertime visions of hot wassal.

“And because things went so well, we took the plunge.”

“A fitting? Are we talking about your bridesmaid’s dress again?” Confusion and warm wine—tasting of jam, minus the childhood satisfaction—were my companions after a day of literary solitude in the apartment. PAGING: Algonquin round table. PAGING: New York intelligentsia. Where are you?

“Not a dress, a guy. I’m telling you about my new guy.”

“So what’s a ‘fitting’?”

“You know…” she said, peering into the great jammy depths of her cheap Australian import.

The wide eyes and pursed lips meant that she was either searching her liquid crystal ball for a modicum of restraint or about to start in on her favorite subject—sex.

(so what was my neighbor referring to? back after the weekend…)

And then my courtship with Richard ended—as abruptly and mysteriously as it began. The high school quarterback had asked me to the prom, seemingly forgetting my braces, ample backside and pock-marked face only to rescind the offer hours before the main event. How was I going to return the shantung balloon skirt and elaborate hairpiece? That’s how I felt, anyway…

But, it was cordial. It was more than decent. It was an email of polite proportions. “We are looking for someone with more tabloid experience,” he began. Hold the phone—Fox News Channel didn’t count as a tabloid? Damn.

Back to blogging and book deals…

My preferred state of rest in the Big Apple…

“Eeet iz like ‘Sex & theee Seety’—only LIVE!” the drunk Frenchman shouted into the humid midnight air, gesturing toward me and my girlfriends on the roof deck of “60 Thompson” with a slosh of his martini glass. His bug eyes coupled with the proverbial wild, Gallic hair made any number of comparisons possible—least of which was the good Doctor Victor in Mary Shelley’s, “Frankenstein.” The confluence of all metaphors, analogies and the like made me want to shout out, “I’m not the brain child of Michael Patrick King and Candace Bushnell—I’m Brooke Parkhurst!”

But, damn, was he right? While Steve Cuozzo chortled and rocked himself back into a semi-lucid “post-expense-account-“Smith & Wollensky’s”-steak lunch” state, I thought of that night on the roof, the crazed Jean-Francois and how I wanted to be known in the city. Was this my Carrie Bradshaw moment? No, it wouldn’t be like having my own “New York Observer” column (if only…) nor would I really have a voice, but…the “New York Post” still had some sort of cache, didn’t it?

“The newsroom was no cake walk,” I began, tapping into a great, never-before-touched reserve of diplomacy, “but at least it helped me figure out what I did and did not want to pursue as a journalist and writer.” Naturally, I was referring to the station’s crazed, right-wing politics but Steve and Richard could interpret at will. The poker faces persisted while I tried my best not to disparage the worst experience of my life. And, what about the book? Was I supposed to downplay or highlight the fact that I was in my mid-20’s and had a book deal? Shit.

As if reading my mind, Richard asked, “So tell us about this book. How did that come about?” For the first time, he looked mildly interested in what might come out of my mouth.

“Ummm, it’s about a small town Southern girl moving to big city and…uhhh…you know…hard knocks, good times, bad times. It’s a coming of age story.” Yes! Invoke J.D. Salinger—that’s innocuous enough. If no one had told them that my tome was a behind-the-scenes look at the mosh pit of the conservative Manhattan media whirl, I sure as hell wasn’t about to drop the bomb.

“And you’ve finished it?”

“‘Scribner’ bought it on partial so it’s due in the late summer, early fall. Actually, there was a piece on me and a few other bloggers with book deals in the ‘Pulse’ section of your paper about a month ago… maybe you read it?”

“I saw it—cute picture,” he said smiling.

Dick could smile and he had smiled at me! It took more than several beats for me to recover from all the emotion—Richard’s and mine. Steve, of course, remained sessile and expressionless to my left. “Now there’s talk of producers and studios clamoring for the next girl-about-Manhattan tome that could be turned into a movie so we’re trying to get the book out quickly.”

“Partial? That’s rare,” Steve muttered, with a raised brow.

“The blog helped,” I said, turning to him. “To tell you the truth, “Gawker” probably pushed my book—“”

“Oh, God, ‘Gawker’—what a headache,” Steve said with a moan. “What are their names again?”

“You mean Jesse and Jessica, sir?” the formality once again, kicking in.

“Pain in my a—” Steve began, mouth wide, implications and half-spoken words dangling in the air.

“They’ve certainly changed the industry,” Richard finished with a grimace and a glance at the certificates on his cheap plastered walls…

It’s not impressive. Forget Redford in “All the President’s Men,” Hunter in “Broadcast News,” Hatcher in “Lois and Clark.” Scrap all those visions of Hollywood newsrooms—print, broadcast and otherwise. The mosh pit of the “New York Post”—where gossip, high-crime, high jinx and politics collide— is institutional, antiseptic and full of pot-bellied, horny, myopic, middle-aged men. There’s a brainy female thrown in, here and there, but they’re few and far between.

And then, of course, there’s Richard Johnson. I still question why he didn’t beat a path to Hollywood instead of settling for the “Post.” He’s as tall, strong and silent as they come. Unfortunately, he’s not delivering the lines of Cary Grant, but, instead, asking me who my connections are, who I can scoop, how I can find out who is bedding whom. My God, was I supposed to have brought a list?

Uncomfortably seated in his glass cube of an office, cursing the narrow proportions of my black pencil skirt that seems to ride up my thighs with each awkward pause, I take in my surroundings: the plaques and certificates on the walls, the parade of clowns ambling past Richard’s open office door (is it possible to subtly leer?), the Midtown castles looming just outside the windows. More importantly, I try to avoid the disturbing gaze of Steve Cuozzo, the executive editor of the entire “New York Post,” seated to my left.

“I’m young and hungry—those are my qualifications,” I say with remarkable honesty, considering the circumstances. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, now can you?

“We’re a little worried about your prior obligations,” Cuozzo says, staring down at his yellow notebook. “You’re a blogger and you have a book deal, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” I say a bit too quickly, reverting back to a Southern formality that is completely lost on present company.

“What house are you with and what’s the book about?” Steve pauses and then thoughtfully turns to Richard, “You know, Paula wrote a book and she still—”

“—And, what about your past journalism qualifications?” Richard interjects as an afterthought, perusing his email Inbox.

“My first journalism job in the city was right here,” I say slowly, thoughtfully, “downstairs in the basement newsroom.”

With the heave of his chest and a good long snort, Steve finally adds, “That’s more like indentured servitude…”

April 26th and I’m almost feeling good. The Burberry jacket is a step up, I muse. And I certainly feel more at ease in the 6th Avenue milieu of hyper paper pushers, diamond dealers and town car smog this time around. But the building—that god-forsaken white monolith—still makes my tongue twitch and my throat constrict—like someone high on the 17th floor had force-fed me a spoonful of sodium from the non-existent News Corp cafeteria.

Hadn’t they done their research? Didn’t they know who they were interviewing? Didn’t everyone check into “Gawker” on their lunch hour? I am the enemy—the tell-all blogger “Belle” that slaved away at their affiliate news station—and yet my name persists in bold type in their Outlook.

BROOKE PARKHURST: 3PM INTERVIEW
POSITIION—“PAGE 6” STAFF REPORTER.

I’d be the “fourth chair,” replacing Jared Paul Stern, Fernando Gil, Lisa Marsh and Christopher Tennant. A few friends were excited by the prospect of my potential day job—elated, really, “Think of the perks! The drinks, the dinners, the PARTIES! We’ll have CARTE BLANCHE!” We? Then there were the few trusted advisors that simply asked, “Why check your baggage onto a sinking ship?”

But, it was PAGE 6.
It was the dapper Richard Johnson.
It was the rag that jumpstarted my mornings, giving me a Gatsby glimpse into how the other half lives.

I had declined Richard’s lunch invitation, instead favoring a trip to company headquarters. We’ll call this my Russian Roulette. I like taking chances. I like that nauseating, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. More than anything, I relish the thought of running into one of my old producers by the elevator bank. I see this scenario as saying that, in a few short years, I had moved from peon to personage… But, how the hell would I explain my presence back inside the computerized gates?

One limp handshake later and it was too late. The elevator sucked me and Richard up to the high floors, back into the world of Murdoch, madness and shady deals…

The streets soothe me.

Today, I’ve walked and I’ve paced and I’ve rounded the city blocks as many times as my heels will allow me…

A martini now and notes tomorrow… xox.