I laughed when he asked me. Laughed because otherwise I'd have cried.

My editor called me into his office late in the afternoon on a warm, rainy Monday smack in the middle of May. Never a matter of "they called me in." Thomas Hartzler was a lifer at our esteemed publication, crusty but ageless, a gritty sort who on a certain level rejected the idea of representing any kind of "they," regardless of his job's demand for that role. In that way, and in his utter inability to give a shit unless it mattered, I thought he embodied Rolling Stone's general attitude toward the world.

"Michaels!" Thomas shouted across the 15 feet between his office and my desk.

A couple of other writers looked at me, half accusingly, as if it were my fault the boss had chosen to yell my name as he disturbed their peace. I was no more pleased than they were, effectively tethered to my desk. A phone cord was tangled around one arm, and the other hand was occupied with twirling a strand of curly hair around my pen as I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen halfway through a final draft of a story on social networking and illegal music downloading. My desk was a cluttered nightmare of piles of wrinkled notepads, press releases, a few framed pictures of family and a poorly printed photo of Hunter S. Thompson struggling to peek out from behind the mess, the occasional fast-food wrapper near the surface, and piles and piles of CDs. I looked around the mess, sighed, disentangled myself and trudged into Thomas' office with notepad in hand.

Thomas' lack of real urgency was confirmed by his failure to even look away from the computer screen when I walked in. His office was just as cluttered as my desk but was far more aesthetically pleasing, with old concert posters framed on the walls. A days-old cup from the pizza place downstairs sat on the corner of his desk, and his weary face needed a shave, but he was always Thomas - never Tom or Tommy - and he never went anywhere without a small stack of spotless business cards in his shirt pocket. It never failed to amaze me what shreds of formality he clung to.

"You've got a pen in your hair," he said absently, without looking at me. I still wondered how the hell he saw things like that. I reached up and yanked the pen free from my unruly curls, on which today's humidity had wreaked havoc. Global warming had not done my appearance any favors.

Thomas finally looked away from the computer and leaned back in his chair. He had that look on his face that told me he was about to give me a pep talk. Except this time he also looked as though he was trying to control a smirk.

"Michaels, you've built something of a reputation for yourself on these comeback stories," he began. "Could've made them into a series if they were closer together and were about bands that had anything to do with one another."

"Well, in fairness," I replied, crossing my legs and smirking myself, trying to crack a joke to put myself at ease, "the New Kids don't have much to do with anything, do they?"

Now Thomas smirked. "It's funny you should bring up New Kids. That piece you did on them and their last tour, that was something."

"Thanks?" I always had to wonder what exactly "something" was supposed to mean.

"No, it's a good thing," he reassured me, as reassuring as he ever sounded. "Matter of fact, we want you to do something more like it. Something a little bigger. maybe. This could be a big one, in fact - if you're up to it."

Bigger than a cover story about the New Kids? This was getting interesting. I leaned forward, projecting that careful blend of eagerness and nonchalance I had cultivated over the years, pen hovering over paper. "What did you have in mind?"

Thomas' smirk widened. "Seems the Backstreet Boys are going out on tour again. Remember those guys?" He chuckled. "My ex-wife's daughter was big into those guys, let me tell you. Ho-leeeee-shit." Another chuckle. "Anyway, ah, yeah, they're gonna tour again. I don't know who they think they are, Dave Matthews Band? Could've sworn they just finished a tour. Anyway, we're thinking of sending someone out on the tour with them, report from the road. We're thinking of you."

I stared at him. He raised an expectant eyebrow. "Well?"

I burst into laughter. I laughed hard. I laughed loud. I laughed long. It was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. He couldn't be serious. It was as if another Thomas from early 1999 had climbed into a time machine, traveled 12 years into the future, clocked my boss in the back of the head and begun to impersonate him in the moments before this conversation.

 "Wait. WAIT," I began, composing myself. "You want me to go on tour with the Backstreet Boys? Like, as in, the boy band?"

"Yes, like, as in, the boy band," Thomas echoed, mimicking my incredulous tone. "Is that so very hard to believe?"

"Well, I think it's a little soon to hype this up as a comeback, don't you think? I feel like these guys attempt a comeback every two or three years. I mean, aren't we just pandering to the hype they're creating for themselves?" I tried to sound like I was thinking critically, but I could feel all the color draining from my face.

It could have been literally any other band on Earth. Any other. I would have taken even Nickelback over this. Those guys weren't so bad. They were assholes, but knowing they were the most hated band in America gave me the confidence to write a decent story about them. What was I going to put in a story about the Backstreet Boys? A story big enough to justify the trouble of sending me out on tour with them?

More to the point, what had I done to piss off my boss sufficiently to get this assignment?

Thomas rolled his eyes. "You're starting to sound like a journalist. Not your style, Michaels."

"Neither is hanging around with a bunch of washed-up-" I bit off my angry retort as I realized that that was indeed what I'd built what he called my reputation on.

"Washed-up pop stars?" Thomas echoed my thought process. "Those washed-up pop stars are writing your paychecks, including those nice bonuses."

"Oh, right, bonuses." Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "We don't even rate Jelly of the Month Club around here."

Thomas waved his hand dismissively. "Hard times. Let's not get into this right now." It was his usual response to any complaint about the sorry state of the magazine, journalism or the world in general. "Look, we're only sending you out for a week, the first week of the tour, end of July, beginning of August."

"A week? Christ." I squeezed my eyes shut.

He ignored me. "And we wanna do this big. We're talking multiple storytelling opportunities here. Words, photos, videos, all that crap. Do it on that fancy iPhone of yours. You want that, right?"

"Well, yeah." I couldn't deny that. Anyone in his or her right mind wanted a crack at that stuff to stay employable in this flailing industry. "But...the Backstreet Boys?"

"You had no problem covering the New Kids."

"The New Kids were a cultural phenomenon!"

"So were the Backstreet Boys. Look, you're what, 30? Probably too old to have enjoyed them. My ex-stepdaughter's 23 - now SHE was rabid for those guys. Jesus." Another long-suffering chuckle. I got the sense he'd had to buy her a few concert tickets.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say I'm too old." A flash of nostalgia behind my eyes. I was lying on my bed, propped up on my elbows, writing in my diary about the waning days of summer with Backstreet Boys on the stereo. I was standing in line outside a record store in Columbia, wearing dark glasses and a scarf over my hair, surrounded by 12-year-olds and their moms. I was glancing nervously over my shoulder to make sure my roommate didn't figure out I was reading fanfiction.

"But the New Kids - they were something bigger," I continued. "Those guys took a break, and they still want to be pop stars. They're probably still getting tail after all these years, for that matter. The Backstreet Boys, they're a bunch of old married guys. All off doing their own thing, I would have thought."

"Well, guess solo life got the better of them. And off the record, not all of them are married, I hear. At least one of them lost their wives to this whole comeback effort. Betcha she couldn't handle the idea that these guys' fans might actually have grass on the playing field now." Thomas leered.

I grimaced. There was so much wrong with that statement, I didn't even know where to begin. "Jesus, Thomas."

"Sorry, I forgot about your delicate sensibilities." Thomas' voice dripped with sarcasm. He glanced at the computer screen without moving anything but his eyes. "I already talked to their PR rep. They want you there. They want someone to give a damn about this."

"Well, that should be your first clue," I said just as sarcastically.

"Look, you want this or not?" Thomas shot back. I suddenly had the sense that his patience was running out - a dangerous situation to be in. "I can totally find someone else. I just trust you slightly more not to screw it up."

I'd never gone on tour with a band before - at least, not for this long. It was a good opportunity, in theory. In practice, with this band, I wished I were dead. My old friends on the news side complained about having to write dozens of column inches about stuff like rotting sewer mains and vintage bowling alleys. This felt like the equivalent.

He'd better reward me by sending me into the studio with Bob Dylan or something.

I made a face. "Hunter Thompson is rolling in his grave."

Thomas made a face right back at me. "You never knew Thompson. Lest you forget, I did, and he got his jollies writing about 10 times the scum you deal with. Lest you forget, he had to ride with the boys on the bus, too. Maybe let him be your spirit guide here or whatever."

"He didn't have to live on the bus." A horrifying thought struck me. "Oh, mother of Jesus, you want me to live on the bus, don't you?"

Thomas grinned. "I want you with them 24 by 7 for the first week of that tour. Think of it like living a reality show."

I dropped my head into my hands. "Ugh. Of all the comparisons you could have made. My enthusiasm for this assignment just dropped another 10 points. Just fire me now."

"Now why would I do that when you've made it clear you believe I live to torment you?" The edge was back in his voice. "Meg..."

He never used my first name unless he was serious. I looked up, head resting in my hands, elbows on my knees, eyes level with a stack of papers anchored by a stained coffee mug with a red circle and cross over the word "bullshit." He needed new chairs in his office, ones that didn't sag halfway to the floor in the middle. For all its prestige, this magazine's offices needed new everything.

Thomas took a deep breath, preparing to expound. "I'm counting on you. And you should be counting on this. You might think it sounds like a real turd of an assignment, but this could be big for you. This could be the one, even. You specialize in comebacks, I believe that. This could be a spectacular comeback, the one that sticks for these guys. Or it could be a chance for you to wise up and realize not everyone gets a second chance."

I winced at the sharpness of his words. Thomas had a tendency to dole out these nuggets of wisdom whenever I was dragging my heels on an assignment, to needle at me when he thought I was being whiny. It worked, and he knew it.

"This could be a comeback for us, too, you know," Thomas continued. "Show ‘em we know how to use this social media shit. Show ‘em you can be. It could open some doors for you."

I sighed. "Gimme the publicist's email address."

Thomas beamed like a schoolboy and turned back to his computer. "Forwarding the email now." He hit enter. "Now get out of here. And close the door behind you. I need a nap."

I rose from my chair and turned to leave. "I hate you sometimes, Thomas."

"That's what I like to hear from my writers."

As I closed the door behind me, I leaned back against it. Dr. Thompson's hard, thoughtful face mocked me from my mess of a desk. I suddenly felt 14 again. I'd been older than 14 the last time I'd paid any attention to the Backstreet Boys, of course, but they had made me feel that way, reduced me to a screaming teenybopper, at least on some level. I had renounced that with the rest of my airheaded adolescent consciousness, tucked it away somewhere I didn't talk about at parties. Now it came roaring back. I slid slowly down the door, groaning softly.

On the other side of the door, I heard Thomas holler, "Do you mind, Michaels?"

**

Friday, 7/29: NYC

A howl of laughter on the other end of the line. "OK, I have to say it one more time: Really? The Backstreet Boys?"

I sighed, shoving a pile of clothes to one side as I plopped down on the couch with a cup of tea in one hand and my phone in the other. "And one more time, that was my initial reaction, too. And hey, will you cut it out? You've gotten two months of mileage out of this already."

"No dice," Alicia said dryly. "No sympathy. I'm in East Jesus, New Mexico, melting into a puddle shooting Route 66 novelty motels for I don't even remember which piece-of-shit quarterly anymore. You at least get to travel around to actual cities where you'll have phone service that doesn't require standing outside."

"Yeah, yeah. Your unique brand of non-compassion always saves the day." But I couldn't blame her this time. A freelance photographer who abandoned her hipster-y Brooklyn apartment for weeks at a time, Alicia was on a nine-month contract with AAA - "Alicia M. Hermoso for Brown Bird Media" had appeared as a byline under photos in a string of forgettable (insert region here) Traveler glossies - that, practically speaking, had meant being marooned in a string of extreme-weather destinations whenever Mother Nature was at her cruelest. I pictured her standing outside a teepee-themed motor inn, fitting right in with her dark Hispanic complexion and short-cropped black hair, feet planted on the ground to keep from toppling over in the hot desert wind, sweating in jeans because it was impractical to wear anything else on an assignment that required kneeling in sand, and I had to appreciate the sacrifice it took to call me and make sure I hadn't killed anyone over this assignment.

"Hey, you know, if I were straight, I'd jump at the chance to ride around on a bus full of attractive men." Alicia cackled at herself. "Maybe you'll finally get some meat."

"Very funny. By the end of this year, all but one of them will be or have been married. I can't decide if that's the good or the bad half. None of them look as interesting as they did 12 years ago." I finished and set down my cup of tea, picking up the sheaf of bio information the PR rep had sent me, topped with a stapled-on glossy PR photo of the band. It and a pile of other information and photos were sitting underneath it. I was trying desperately to familiarize myself with the guys before I had to fly out to meet them in Miami tomorrow. There had been a time when I'd been able to recite a lot of this stuff in my sleep, but that had been a long time ago, and I'd since forgotten most of it.

"I guess you'll find out," Alicia said. "I still don't know what you're bitching about. A bus full of attractive men that you used to lust after. It would be like me shooting ‘Womanizer'-era Britney Spears." She cackled again. "So, you all packed up and ready?"

I glanced around the apartment. "Uh..."

Poor little 25-C Montgomery was in a state of chaos, barren with neglect and destroyed by sudden attention. I had gone out on assignment for four days just two weeks earlier, and the back-to-back trips, combined with my apathy about this latest one, had worn me and the place down. I had nothing in my fridge, nothing in my cupboards but tea and peanut butter; I would go grocery shopping when I returned. A potted geranium I'd been vainly trying to grow indoors was wilting on my round little kitchen table, surrounded by a scattering of papers, the rest of my background information and a notepad full of ideas, to be stuffed into my trusty red messenger bag with my MacBook and several more blank notepads when I left in the morning. My bed was neatly made - I'd been sleeping on my faded brown couch the last few nights, trying to get used once again to not sleeping in my own bed. The area rug that broke up the expanse of lovingly waxed hardwood beneath my furniture desperately needed vacuuming. I'd counted stray threads and dust bunnies to fall asleep last night. Even the glass covering my framed photos on the wall needed to be dusted.

I had been throwing things into a purple wheeled suitcase on my floor as I thought of them. Lots of solid T-shirts, dressy capris, nice jeans, a couple pairs of flats, one of those three-piece mix-and-match-and-wash-and-wear black traveling ensembles catalogs sold to middle-aged women, a youthful red sundress I'd worn exactly twice, a few versatile accessories. Running shoes, on the off chance I might actually get to run. A part of me had, in fact, considered the idea that I would be riding a bus with four attractive men and had tried to pack accordingly. The result was an overstuffed mess of a bag, half of whose contents were still sitting on my couch, waiting to be sorted. A week's worth of freshly washed underwear sat on top, next to a Ziploc bag of soap and razor and tiny bottles of delicious-smelling shampoo and body wash, one of the few ways I was going to last a week on a bus full of boys! I felt a bit like June Carter all of a sudden.

The mess strewn across my couch meant I couldn't go to bed until I finished packing. I couldn't finish packing until I got my head out of my ass. I couldn't get my head out of my ass because I had no desire to embark on the journey for which I was packing. It was a miserable, vicious catch-22.

A lump filled my throat. I suddenly didn't want to be a journalist anymore. I just wanted to clean up my apartment. I wanted to get a nice 9-to-5 PR job. I wanted to find a boyfriend - now there was a novel concept after the last few years of dating mishaps - and get a dog and just live a normal little life in my cheap, homey, wonderful little flat four blocks from the Staten Island Ferry terminal.

"Lee, may I whine to you like a high-schooler for a moment? In all seriousness?" I managed, the lump in my throat making me sound ridiculously as if I were about to start crying. Which wasn't true, of course, as this was hardly worth crying over.

"Always," she said sincerely.

"This blows. I don't want to do this. This really is an asinine assignment. I feel like I'm going on a goddamn reality show. You know Thomas compared it to that?" Oh, I was taking full advantage of the permission to whine.

"I know, Peggy Jo," Alicia said, using the nickname she'd given me in college, all of a decade ago. She was the only person in the world who'd ever called me Peggy. "You don't want to go on assignment again so soon. You don't want this to be the first band you go on tour for this long with. You don't give a damn anymore about these guys. I know," she reassured me. "But I have to agree with your editor. It really is a good opportunity."

Her reassurance made my eyes well up. It was like talking to my mother, who had offered me similar reassurances a few days earlier. "I know," I said, wiping my eyes. "Everyone keeps saying that. And I know, realistically, it's a good challenge. It's just kind of obnoxious, the circumstances under which I'm getting it. Makes me tired just thinking about it."

"Yeah...but how many people are getting it at all?" She was quiet for a second. "You know I don't really go in for the whole God thing, but I do still think things happen for a reason. And right now, it just so happens this challenge is out here, and it's out here just for you. It's obviously gotta be you who this happens to. As hard as you've worked and as good as you are? Your boss is right. Nobody could make of this story what you can."

She had a point. I had made more of myself than had most of our old j-school classmates, and I wasn't afraid to admit it to myself or others. Rolling Stone was the Gray Lady of alt-weeklies, the Cadillac of jobs in this industry. I was extraordinarily lucky to be working there at all. I couldn't recall more than a couple of classmates who were working for national publications. These days, all I could think about was the sobering preponderance of classmates who were out of work. And here I was, bitching.

"It couldn't happen to a better person, frankly," Alicia added.

I yawned. "I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult."

"You sound really tired and beat-up. Go to bed." The moment of wisdom was over, and Alicia's mom-like voice was stern now. "You'll never survive tomorrow if you don't get some rest."

"I can sleep on the plane," I grumbled.

"You won't make your flight if you don't sleep now." The cheerfully admonishing tone remained firmly in place.

"Guh. Fair point." I made a face, even though she wouldn't see it.

"I'm always right. I'm right about your need to sleep, I'm right about this assignment, and I'm right when I tell you it's going to work out fine."

"Trouble is, that's probably true." I sighed. "Very well, then. Hugs."

"Hugs," Alicia echoed. It was our standard goodbye. "Give me a call when you're out there, huh?"

We hung up. I stared at my iPhone, a brand-new 4S bought with a chunk of my meager savings, my tether to the real world and to journalism, then plugged it into the charger and tossed it onto the end table.

I glanced around again. I wasn't actually tired enough to go to bed yet, despite Alicia's observation that I sounded like it. Might as well straighten the place up. Coming home to a messy apartment after a long trip was always a real morale killer. I finished packing the bag, rolling up my clothes into neat little bundles that fit in large quantities into the barely carry-on-sized suitcase. I picked up the armful of castoffs and returned them to their semi-rightful place on the floor of my bedroom closet. I shoved the papers on my kitchen table into my messenger bag.

Finally, I clicked off the lamp and stared at the pattern of the orange streetlight shining through my blinds. In the distance, a fire engine sounded. I reached for the end table again and grabbed for my old, beat-up iPod, shoving the headphones into my ears to block out the noise of a far-off emergency. As I burrowed into the couch, pulled a thin blanket up to my chin, and closed my eyes, the opening guitar strums of "As Long As You Love Me" filled my ears.

I'd dug up a couple of old Backstreet Boys CDs from the bottom of a box labeled "College" and reluctantly ripped them to my iPod. The hope was to familiarize myself anew with their old sound - I had, of course, been bombarded with their "new" sound in the course of preparing for this story. All I'd accomplished, however, was a hardcore trip down memory lane. I was 18 again, wondering if Brian Littrell really didn't care who I was as long as I loved him. If that didn't speak to multitudes of fans.

And yet, I could feel a tiny little seedling of excitement pushing through the cynicism. Try as I might to smother it, to relegate it to that cobwebby corner of my heart that I didn't talk about at parties, it battled through like a tulip against the frost.

OMG! the 18-year-old in me squealed. I'm going on tour with the Backstreet Boys! They're going to love me and marry me!

I ripped the headphones out of my ears, tossed the iPod to the floor and rolled over.