by Nora Ephron
McGuire’s Bar
Journalists laughing as McALARY enters.
McALARY: Hey, Drury, did you see the column? Did you see what I got? Did you see what I got? Did you see what I got?
BOB DRURY: (To the other reporters.) I told you. I told you he’d be proud of it. (To McALARY.) You got an exclusive interview with Donald Trump. On the occasion of his divorce. Way to go. You probably had to stake out the Trump Tower for hours.
McALARY: I had to drink a lot of espresso, waiting for the Donald to send that elevator down.
BOB DRURY: Is that what you do now? You write about Trump?
McALARY: Who’s everybody talking about? Donald Trump. You think I’m not going to write about Donald Trump? Of course I am.
BOB DRURY: You write for the Daily News. The voice of da people. You don’t flack for rich assholes who give you “exclusive interviews.” (DRURY reaches for a Daily News on the bar.) Note that it is open to the page. Because we were reading it out loud. We took a vote, and our favorite sentence was, “Trump continued talking in a soft voice, his manner surprisingly delicate.”
The reporters in the bar all laugh.
Here’s the deal. In the future—just give me your stuff, give me your stuff, I’ll write it. If you write it, it’s shit.
McALARY: —And yet I am the one with the column. How did that happen?—
BOB DRURY: That is one of the enduring mysteries, especially after reading crap like this.
McALARY: If I want to write about Donald Trump I can write about Donald Trump—
BOB DRURY: Because “I’m Mike McAlary and you’re not”?
McALARY: I am Mike McAlary and you’re not. How many columns a week do you write? Just out of curiosity, how many?
McALARY holds up his hand in a zero sign.
BOB DRURY: What the fuck happened to you? Where did you go? What happened to McAlary? Listen to this shit. “This is not as the song goes. ‘… the same old story, a fight for love and glory.’ Mostly it’s the story about not being thirty years old anymore.” No, mostly it’s the story of a two-bit hack who got Breslin’s slot, but not his talent.
McALARY: Fuck you.
BOB DRURY: Fuck you.
McALARY: Fuck you.
McALARY hits DRURY. DRURY hits him back. They end up on the floor and roll out of the bar.
Bellport Bedroom
ALICE in bed asleep as McALARY comes up into the bedroom.
ALICE wakes up.
He has the beginning of a black eye and a cut on his face.
McALARY: I was at McGuire’s. I didn’t want to wake you so I didn’t call. I got in a fight with Drury.
He goes into the bathroom.
(Offstage.) Some guy from the Post was there, and it’s going to be on Page Six. I called Eddie to see if he could kill it, and he said, why would I kill it, it’s good for us, it’s good for us, Page Six is good for us.
ALICE: You’re on Page Six of the New York Post and I’m off exit sixty-six on the Long Island Expressway.
He comes out of the bathroom in his T-shirt and boxers.
McALARY: What are you saying?
ALICE: I refuse to let you do this to me—
McALARY: What are we talking about?
ALICE: … Turn me into one of those women who sit around wondering when their man is gonna come home. Is that why we bought this house, Michael, so that you could stick me out here?
McALARY: Don’t you like it here? We were going crazy in that little apartment, remember? You wanted space.
ALICE: We have kids, Michael. You can’t put kids in a drawer—
McALARY: You wanted a house, you wanted a porch.
ALICE: I love my house, I love my porch, I love my children. I love my husband. What I don’t love is you being gone four, five days at a time.
McALARY: I’m at Hap’s. I’m on the couch at Hap’s. It’s a long drive. I’d fall asleep on the way back.
ALICE: We lead separate lives. We’re married but lead separate lives.
McALARY: When I’m here, I am here. Last Sunday, I was on the front lawn with Ryan, kicking the ball for three and a half hours.
ALICE: But when you’re not here, you’re not here. That may be okay for Cotter’s wife or, or, Daly’s wife, but it is not fine by me.
McALARY: I’m a columnist, I go to the bars, I meet cops, I stay up late—
ALICE: Bullshit, Michael. Bullshit.
McALARY: ALICE:
I pick stuff up, I’m always looking, I’m writing three, four times a week. It’s what I care about, the column. It’s my life.
This is not about that.
It’s about being a father and a—
McALARY: (Overlapping.) I have to be in the city. I can’t get my ideas here …
ALICE: Then I suggest you go back out there where no one’s gonna tell you how full of shit you are.
Down the hall, Carla, the baby, starts to cry.
I’m going to go feed the baby.
She leaves the bedroom. In a moment, the baby stops crying.
Daily News Newsroom
HAP HAIRSTON and JIM WILLSE at their desks. We hear the picketers outside cheering and shouting: “Don’t buy the Daily News, don’t buy the Daily News,” while videos of the protests are projected.
HAP HAIRSTON: (To audience.) The Daily News strike began in 1990 and lasted four months, and there are people who still don’t speak to each other because of it. The drivers struck and the Newspaper Guild refused to cross the picket lines. Before the strike, they made me go to Scab School in Fort Lauderdale. I made the mistake of telling McAlary about it.
A projection of McALARY’s rally:
McALARY: (Live on video.) They sent Hairston to Scab School!
The crowd “boos.”
(Live on video.) They gave him lessons in strike-breaking. They taught him how to cross a picket line.
The crowd cries “Scab!”
(Live on video.) Hap Hairston. Can you believe that?
McALARY enters and sees HAP watching the rally on TV. We continue to hear:
McALARY: (Recorded.) The right to organize is as basic as freedom of the press—We will hang tough and hang together. Don’t give up—Boycott the Daily News!
On the TV, we hear the crowd’s cheer: “Boycott the Daily News.”
HAP turns off the TV.
HAP HAIRSTON: You owe me an apology—
McALARY: Because I didn’t keep your secret?
HAP HAIRSTON: I told you because I was upset about it. I hated it—
McALARY: So why did you go?
HAP HAIRSTON: They told me to go. I’m management. What was I supposed to do?
McALARY: You can work anywhere—
HAP HAIRSTON: I like it here. I like the Daily News. I even like being your editor, you prick—
McALARY: You like telling people you invented me. You like telling people if it wasn’t for you, there would be no Mike McAlary—
HAP HAIRSTON: Yeah, well there are days when you turn in your column and I have no fucking idea what it’s about—
McALARY: You tell people you write my column—
HAP HAIRSTON: Some days I do—
McALARY: Bullshit. I write my column. Some days you fix my column. And I am so grateful to you, Mr. Hairston. But that is your job. News flash—if it wasn’t for you, I would still be—
HAP HAIRSTON: McALARY:
—Mike McAlary— —writing a column.
McALARY: Fuckin’ A. And some other guy would be editing it and it would be just as big—
HAP HAIRSTON: Tell me something, just out of curiosity, are you speaking to Willse?
McALARY: Why would I not speak to Willse? He didn’t go to Scab School—
HAP HAIRSTON: They don’t make the editor in chief go to Scab School—
McALARY: They didn’t make you go. You didn’t have to go. They can’t fire you, Hap. Don’t make me spell it out.
HAP HAIRSTON: You’re saying I didn’t have to go to Scab School because
I’m black?
McALARY: Am I saying that? Yes, I am saying that.
HAP HAIRSTON: Fuck you. I never got a break because of that. You have no idea how hard I had to work. How many white guys had to forget I was black for me to get where I am—
McALARY: My heart is bleeding—
HAP HAIRSTON: You’re an asshole, McAlary, you’re an asshole—
McALARY: I absolutely am. You know why? Because I confused you with me. That was my mistake. I never confused Willse. I confused you, because we close the bars. Because we once almost drove off the Brooklyn Bridge. Because last summer—
HAP HAIRSTON: So because we’re friends, you get to sell me out. Is that what you’re saying? I get to hang out with a bunch of fucking borderline psychotic racist Irish drunk pussies, and you get to sell me out when it’s convenient.
McALARY: I’m just speaking the truth—
HAP HAIRSTON: The truth is you don’t give a shit about anybody or anything but yourself. You’re just climbing the greasy pole, you fuck. Ready for your close-up. Soon you’ll be wearing makeup on the picket line.
McALARY puts an imaginary knife to his chest.
You said you wouldn’t tell anyone I went to Florida—
McALARY: I did. I promised.
HAP HAIRSTON: You promised.
McALARY: And then you know what? I changed my mind.
He walks away.
HAIRSTON stands there.
The crowd: “Don’t buy the Daily News.” “Solidarity forever.” “Scab.” Louder and louder.
McALARY walks into:
A Restaurant
He sits down with EDDIE HAYES. Starts stripping out of his coat, scarf, gloves, etc.
EDDIE HAYES: I have the solution. The New York Post wants to hire you. They’re hiring Cotter as city editor.
McALARY: I would kill to write for Cotter again.
EDDIE HAYES: So are we going to the Post?
McALARY: Absolutely not. We can’t do that.
EDDIE HAYES: Because …?
McALARY: Because we’re on strike.
He signals for a drink.
EDDIE HAYES: Do you want to hear what they’re offering you?
McALARY: There is no point. I mean, tell them thank you, but no. Thank you, but—(Shakes his head no.)
EDDIE HAYES: No.
McALARY: (It’s obvious.) No.
EDDIE HAYES: No, as in N-O.
McALARY: I can’t leave. Everybody’s out there on the picket line freezing their butts off, they’re looking to me. Solidarity—
EDDIE HAYES: —forever.
A beer arrives. McALARY takes a swig.
But the timing is good. For a move.
McALARY: Eddie Eddie Eddie.
EDDIE HAYES: Mac Mac Mac. What?
McALARY: I can’t leave the News. They gave me a column. I owe them. (On the other hand.) I love Cotter. I love the guy.
EDDIE HAYES: It was Cotter who suggested they hire you in the first place. As a columnist. In case it slipped your mind. So you owe him, too. Although as far as I’m concerned, you don’t owe anybody anything. I mean, follow the logic: If you really owed the News, would you be on the picket line? Or am I crazy?
McALARY: (Emphatic.) You don’t cross a picket line.
EDDIE HAYES: Okay, okay.
A beat.
You’d have fun.
McALARY: I know, I know.
EDDIE HAYES: You wouldn’t have Hap sitting on every fucking comma.
McALARY: I wouldn’t have Hap. Who is not speaking to me. Or else I’m not speaking to him.
EDDIE HAYES: Well, this would solve that problem. Which is not a reason to leave. There are a million reasons to leave.
McALARY looks at EDDIE.
Okay, I exaggerated. Eight hundred thousand reasons, give or take. Over three years.
McALARY: Can I get that thing?
EDDIE HAYES: What thing?
McALARY: A little place in town. I forget the word.
EDDIE HAYES: A pied-à-terre. It’s French.
Projection: A New York Post truck with a big sign: STARTING THIS WEEK: MIKE McALARY IN THE NEW YORK POST.
As he walks into:
New York Post Newsroom
The scruffiest newsroom of all. COTTER walks through, leans over a reporter at his computer, pats another on the back, salutes the editor, JERRY NACHMAN.
JERRY NACHMAN: (Introducing himself to audience.) Jerry Nachman.
ALL: Jerry!
JERRY NACHMAN: When I became editor of the New York Post, everybody said you’ve gotta meet this guy named John Cotter. You know about Cotter, right?
ENSEMBLE: JOHN COTTER:
They know. We’re rocking.
JERRY NACHMAN: I hired him as city editor and the first thing he does is hire McAlary and then they create an unsuccessful putsch to throw me out of my job. Anyway—
ALL: Anyway—
COTTER smiles, salutes, walks off.
Elaine’s
JERRY NACHMAN: Every night McAlary, Cotter, the whole pack, would travel up to Elaine’s, that’s where they were hanging out, Elaine’s, and they’d continue in their hopeless attempt to oust me and replace me with Cotter. I don’t think McAlary thought I was bad at my job—he just wanted Cotter to have it. It was crazy drunken Irish stuff. I’d see them sitting there plotting against me. I’d wave, they’d wave back—
NACHMAN waves. McALARY and his group wave back.
McALARY: ALL:
Jerry, baby— Hey!
JERRY NACHMAN: Tell the truth, you’re plotting against me, right?
Everyone denies it. No way, Jerry. Are you crazy? What are you talking about?
McALARY: JOHN COTTER:
Your name has not come up. Paranoid Nachman?
JERRY NACHMAN: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bullshit.
They go back to plotting.
(To audience.) The Post was always more fun to work at than anyplace else. See, Cotter was a great editor and McAlary was on a roll. Every time he scratched his nuts he was on page one. He knew who the gangsters were. Knew which cops would talk. He got the first interview with Joey Buttafuoco. And then he attacked Breslin.
JOHN COTTER: Breslin goes around telling everybody you stole beautiful from him?
JERRY NACHMAN: Cotter egged him into it one night at Elaine’s—
McALARY: He says that?
JOHN COTTER: He’s always talking about you. McAlary copies my style—c’mon, he says it to everyone.
McALARY: He says that?
JOHN COTTER: Says it to everyone, Mac.
McALARY: Where’s my pen, gimme a pen. Take this down. (Scribbling like mad.) “It’s good to hear people finally talking about Breslin again. Unfortunately it’s Breslin himself who’s doing most of the talking.”
Laughter.
JOHN COTTER: Good one. Pretty good.
McALARY, spurred on by COTTER, alternates between writing lines and shouting them out to the crowd.
McALARY: I hear Breslin runs around town saying I copy his style. We are both white and Irish but that’s about it. I do not write one life and live another. I do not cross a picket line to write about the workingman.
Laughter/cheering.
(On a roll/ragging.) Breslin has become the most despised creature in journalism; a bully-boy, out-of-control hypocrite!
Headline: THE TABLOID WAR HAS BEGUN: BULLY-BOY BRESLIN AN OUT-OF-CONTROL HYPOCRITE by Mike McAlary. Part One.
JERRY NACHMAN: It was fucking Oedipal. Attacking the guy he spent his entire life trying to become. Everybody came down on him. But then, being McAlary, he bounced right back—
McALARY: —with a huge story on the NYPD and turned the department upside down.
Projection: Post front-page headline: THE NEW SERPICO; COP UNCOVERED MASSIVE CORRUPTION—BUT NYPD WOULDN’T LISTEN—A MIKE McALARY EXCLUSIVE.
JERRY NACHMAN: (To audience.) They had to appoint a commission because of Mike McAlary—
McALARY: —and I even figured out who should run it
.
Projection: Post front-page headline: I CREATED THE MOLLEN COMMISSION by Mike McAlary.
McALARY AND NACHMAN: It was a great time to be in the tabloid business.
JERRY NACHMAN: When they write the history of journalism, they won’t include it, because the guys who write about the history of journalism don’t understand places like the New York Post in those days. And then, one day, to everybody’s shock—
McALARY and COTTER at a table.
McALARY: I don’t fucking believe this. I left the News to come to the Post because of you and now you’re leaving the Post to go to the News?
JOHN COTTER: I’ve got kids. They’re offering me a one-hundred-thousand-dollar signing bonus.
McALARY: You’re an editor. Who gives editors signing bonuses?
JOHN COTTER: I know.
They both laugh.
McALARY: I hope you’re going to use some of it to get your teeth fixed. Fuck. It’s the politburo over there, you’re going to hate it. (Beat while it sinks in.) Hey, it’s great. But fuck you.
JOHN COTTER: You’ll come back there, I’ll bring everyone we care about back there with me—
McALARY: I like the Post. I can’t go back to the News. Plus I have a contract … I can’t get out of my contract.
JOHN COTTER: Eddie can get you out of anything.
A beat.
McALARY: You know what I love about you?