The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 1

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Hi, I'm Jonathan Goldstein, host of the HIT podcast, Heavyweight.

Our fourth season will begin on September 26th.

But worry not, I've prepared a delicious amuse bouche to amuse your bouche while you wait.

Over the next eight weeks, I'll present the Heavyweight Diaries, short, peabody-worthy pieces of hard-hitting journalism sprinkled, as all journalism is, with subtle, tastefully executed, barely noticeable instances of paid product placements.

Set your heavyweight timers for eight weeks and start polishing your silver-plated heavyweight dessert spoons because you're in for a treat.

Alex wants to see you in the studio, Harper says.

Alex is Gimlet Media CEO and founder, Alex Bloomberg.

Harper is his executive assistant.

And the studio is the special one with the shag carpeting and the silent grandfather clock that, rather than potentially interrupting a recording session with an ill-timed dong, emits at the stroke of each hour an expensive puff of Chanel number five.

Of course, I know why Bloomberg wants to see me.

I've been working on the new season of heavyweight for months now, without a single thing to show for it.

Where did the time go?

It's all a panicky blur.

In January, there was the week-long team-building event at the Dude Ranch where my producers and I learned to ride donkeys, learned to milk donkeys, and learned the importance of teamwork by doing trust falls off our donkeys.

And most of March was spent preparing for my big news media profile.

We want to understand your moves, the reporter told me, the way you embrace death with such calm resolve.

I thought the interview would be fog of warlike in its depth and Barbara Walters-like in its national prime time audienceness.

But instead, it ended up being a four-minute appearance on a mixed martial arts podcast that thought heavyweight was a boxing blog.

And now the day of reckoning is upon me.

Bloomberg wants to see me.

Oh, why, to day of all days, had I chosen to wear socks with holes?

Earlier in the day, putting them on made me feel capricious.

But now, that regretful choice is making my dog sweat something awful.

What if Bloomberg asks me to take off my shoes out of respect for the studio's shag carpeting, or to illustrate some point about resilient ad hocracy he'd picked up in management training.

Shoes in a pile, he might say, This pile represents growth.

I will nod my head, the shag tickling my bare sweaty dogs through the holes.

Please don't look down, Alex, I will think, a thought that will only make my dogs sweat harder than an ice-cold bottle of Miller Highlight glistening in the desert sun.

As Harper leads me to the studio, my perspirant dogs continue to moisten, outpacing the already compromised wicking capacity of my oversaturated socks and rendering the already unpresentable hosiery even more unpresentable.

Perhaps Harper would allow me to stop for a bathroom break along the way.

Once safely in a locked toilet stall, I could peel off my socks and tape them to the underbelly of a toilet lid for retrieval after work.

Oh why to-day of all days did I forget to pack Gaffer's tape in my fanny pack?

Does my caprice know any limits?

Maybe I could just squeeze the socks into my front pockets.

But what if Bloomberg asks me to empty my front pockets?

Contents of your front pockets in a pile, he might say.

This pile represents growth.

Upon seeing socks emerge from my pockets, Bloomberg might inquire as to why I keep socks in my pockets.

I was planning on tennis after work, I might say.

Then why aren't there pompoms on the ankles of your pocket socks?

he might ask.

Only a Neanderthal plays tennis without sock pom-poms.

Jonathan, are you a Neanderthal?

Canadian tennis prohibits pompomery of any sort, I might say.

Such a proud people, he might say.

Time to see just how proud.

Let's strip down to our jockeys and play some tennis right now.

I'll whoop you but good.

The thought of Bloomberg whipping me but good in my underdainties, what with the dearth of elasticity dangerously compromising my panty waist, was enough to get my dogs drooling.

And so I decide to do the mature thing.

Harper, I ask, will I be required to take my shoes off during the course of this business meeting?

When Harper fails to respond, or even acknowledge my having spoken words out loud, I realize that posing my question was a bad idea.

After a few minutes, I ask if he would mind not repeating this conversation to Bloomberg, but I'm not even sure if what we just had was a conversation.

He asked me not to say something, Harper might now say to Bloomberg, but I am saying something.

What are you saying?

Bloomberg might say.

Ask him, Harper might say, gesturing in my direction.

What aren't you saying?

Bloomberg might say.

Oh, I'd say, I just asked if Harper might not say anything about the surprise birthday party I'm planning for you.

My birthday isn't for another ten months, Bloomberg might say.

What I'd like most is a surprise tennis birthday party.

But instead of tennis rackets, we could use spanking paddles, the kind traditionally used on liars.

And instead of boring old champagne, I might say, we could drink the champagne of beers, Miller High Life.

By the time we reach the studio, my knees are rubbery, and my sweat-drenched socks are making squishing sounds in my shoes.

I walk into the studio and to my tremendous relief see that I'm alone.

Bloomberg isn't here yet, so it's just me and my socks.

I quickly take off my shoes with the idea of stashing my socks down my pants and wearing just my now wet shoes, a plan that should work as long as the subject of tennis does not arise, which it shouldn't as my socks will no longer be in my front pockets, but will rather be secured safely down the front of my pants, where they cannot be seen nor commented upon by the eagle-eyed journalist turned oligarch.

Fingers trembling, I remove my right sock and stash it.

With my left sock in mid-peel, I pause for a moment to savor my victory.

For once, Jonathan Goldstein will escape humiliation.

The sodden sock clears my last little toe with a flourish, sending a gentle arc of dog sweat across the studio.

At the exact moment that Alex Bloomberg walks in the door.

This has been chapter one of the heavyweight diaries.

With any luck, the new season of heavyweight will begin on September 26th, and you can chart our progress each week with a new diary update.

And remember, the best place to listen to Heavyweight is on Spotify.

The second best place to listen to heavyweight is in a beautiful villa in the Italian Alps.

Heavyweight is me, Jonathan Goldstein, along with Jorge Just, Stevie Lane, Khalila Holt, and B.A.

Parker.

This episode was mixed by Emma Munger.

Music by Bobby Lord.

Our ad music is Vivaldi's Spring, performed by the Wichita State University Chamber Players.

We'll have a new chapter of the Heavyweight Diaries next week.

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