by Randy Alcorn
He walked past the hallway leading to the main editorial offices, which provided the only real privacy on the floor. Most reporters were surrounded with people sitting less than six feet to their right and left, four feet directly across from them, and seven feet behind them, across the aisle. As he walked through the maze to his own desk, he passed Seth Harper, a columnist holed up in what was called a private cubicle. “Private” was relative. It wasn’t a separate office like some of the editors had, just a self-contained space enclosed on three sides, with partitions rising three feet above the desktop, rather than eighteen inches, and adjacent to but not buried in the main partition maze. People could see Harper’s back side, but he could pretend it was private, and it was easier to ignore the hum of the office. Jake smiled as he noted the green foam ear plugs hanging out Seth’s ears, reminiscent of the neck plugs in Frankenstein’s monster, a desperate tactic Jake rarely used. Deadline loomed, and Harper was trying to shut out the world. It was a pressure Jake knew well.
The Trib awarded Jake his own cubicle five years ago, but after six weeks he gave it up and asked to go back to the ordered chaos of the central newsroom. He found he played off the stimulation around him, drawing energy from it. He craved the action, the forward motion creating the wake that pulled him along when he needed it. Sitting out there in the center of breaking stories, Jake always knew what was hot, what was happening, what would be the lead stories in the evening Tribune and on the evening news. It gave him an edge over the more reclusive and elite columnists, including Harper, who could easily lose touch.
He paused a moment, bracing himself to make the left turn into the aisle leading to his desk. It was so familiar to him, perfectly etched in his mind’s eye. Facing him from the other side of the partition would be Jerry, the human thesaurus, who always knew just the right word Jake groped for. To Jake’s right would be Sandy, her terminal within arm’s reach, inviting him to fool with the adjustments on the back, just to freak her out and make her think she’d lost data. Sandy was a gem, a perpetual source of helpful information. One of his thickest files was labeled, “Column Ideas from Sandy.”
He stepped out around the corner. Jerry saw him first, his eyes immediately connecting with Sandy’s, whose back was to Jake. She turned around tentatively. Jake knew they’d been talking about him, waiting for him, and he hated it. He decided to set the tone before he lost control to a wave of sentimentality.
“Okay, reporters number 183 and 197, columnist number 3 is back, and there’ll be no more goofing off.” Jerry stood and leaned over the partition, which came to his waist, and reached out his hand to Jake.
Sandy rose, hesitated, then hugged him. “Welcome back, Jake. We really missed you.”
“Yeah, well it’s good to be back. I was afraid they were going to get desperate and ask Jerry to write my columns for me.”
“At least they’d be spelled right,” Jerry came back, relieved Jake was his old self, which is exactly what Jake wanted them to think. Sandy knew better, in the way women do.
“Guess I better dive in. Don’t let me distract you guys.” Jake looked at Sandy out of the corner of his eye and saw her teary eyes. He turned away.
Jake surveyed his desk. His in-box overflowed. He leafed through dozens of handwritten personal notes mixed in with the standard fare of memos and photocopies and smelly faxes. The rest of his desktop had been cleaned and organized. He’d left it an archaeological dig, with older artifacts buried deep and younger near the top layers. The order was Sandy’s work, he knew. She did this for him every once in a while, knowing to stay clear of the vital area closest to his terminal, where he knew just which note on what color and size paper buried ten inches down the pile was what he needed, unless someone ruined the arrangement by cleaning it up.
Jake gazed at the monitor, already turned on, the green cursor blinking at him, welcoming him home. He typed in his six-letter handle, JHWOOD, and immediately got the “Messages Pending:” notation, followed by a short delay and the number 64. Jake groaned. Usually he’d have six or seven of these E-mail interoffice memos that had become so popular between reporters and editors the last few years. And why not? They couldn’t be lost, copied incorrectly, or picked up by the wrong person, as paper messages left on a desk invariably were. Jake vividly recounted that infamous pre-E-mail message to call the governor’s office immediately if he wanted a hot story, a message he bumped into five days after someone had left it on his desk, somewhere down in the bronze age layer. E-mail had another benefit reporters loved—it was easier to send your editor a message without having to wait for him to get off the phone, or having to look him in the eye. Especially if you were asking for some time off.
Six desks over and one aisle across perched Hector, with his three radio scanners, eavesdropping for breaking news. His goal was to get a reporter to the scene of the crime before the police got there, and sometimes he succeeded. The scanners squawked incessantly, and to an outsider it seemed impossible that anyone within fifty feet of Hector could get anything done. But in the newsroom you learned to filter the noise and pick out the sounds that could help you. While reporters occasionally barked at Hector to turn down the volume, once or twice a day they’d crowd around him to hear a breaking story, and he always reminded them if he hadn’t been tuned in, the whole newsroom would be in the dark.
A row beyond Hector, still in Jake’s standard landscape, sat two of his favorite studies in contrast—Art, the classical music critic, and Kurt, the rock and pop music critic. Each had a music lover’s dream job, going to concerts for free and getting paid for it, meeting the artists back stage. Every day they unwrapped an assortment of the latest releases from studios, then plugged in their headphones and listened, sometimes for hours. Art sported one of the classiest suits in the newsroom, and still wore a tie every day without failure, as did a third of the reporters and most of the editors, even though as of five years ago the Trib dress code no longer required it. (Jake regarded that decree on the level of the Emancipation Proclamation and hadn’t worn a tie since except on big-name-in-their-office interview days.) Art’s workspace was neat and tidy and ordered, creatively enhanced, like a Beethoven concerto. Kurt, his long hair held together in a pony tail reaching half way down his back, wore worn Adidas, faded jeans, and T-shirts plugging old rock band tours. Jake smiled as he watched Art the connoisseur swaying melodically to his music, while Kurt drummed his hands on the desk, mouthing out words and gyrating to the beat.
“Woods!” The familiar voice boomed from the corner office fifty feet away. “Get in here!”
Winston. He’d seen him once in the hospital, but that didn’t count because it wasn’t Winston to be hanging about in a hospital. Some body-snatching alien posed as Winston, Jake told himself. This was Winston, perpetually gruff, bellowing, harried and hurried, a walking ulcer. In short, an editor. It felt good to be treated normally. I should have known I could count on Winston.
As he walked what they called the “gauntlet” between his desk and Winston’s office, he passed by a half dozen reporters on both sides, catching a number of nods, smiles, pensive looks, and a few tears. There were some “Good to see you’s” and “Welcome back, Jake’s.”
Good people. They mean well. He felt himself losing his edge of defensiveness.
Jake opened the door to see Winston holding a big box that originally contained ten reams of paper. “Woods, this is yours. I want it out of my office.”
Jake didn’t get it, even when Winston shoved the box at him.
“It’s your fan mail. Don’t let it go to your head. It’s not going to get you a raise either. And read it on your own time.”
“Thanks, Winston. Jealous because you don’t get any mail?”
Winston looked at him sternly, waving him off as if to say “I don’t have time for this. I’m an editor; I’ve got dozens of reporters whose messes I have to clean up.”
As Jake, box in hand, turned around to walk out Winston said, “Look, this
is just a catch up day for you. Don’t work too hard. Maybe you should just read your mail.”
“I know what you meant, Winston. And I was going to read my mail anyway.”
Winston moved his hand as if swatting a pesky fly. “Get out.”
Jake walked out to the sea of eyes. You were always on display when you emerged from Winston’s office. Several smiled, knowing what was in the box. Jake announced, “Look, if anybody sent cookies, I’ll share them, okay?” There was a ripple of laughter, too much laughter, Jake thought.
Back at his desk he opened the Fed-X and overnight mail and UPS shipments first, some of them now over a week old. Back when he was an investigative reporter, if he was out of the office more than a day his editor would open all these, because you never knew when something story-breaking could come in. But the columnist’s life was different. Some of the overnight mail was books, even though he didn’t do book reviews, and cassette tapes of radio programs or lectures or magazines. He could never understand why they were sending them in the first place, much less paying so much to get it to him a few days sooner.
Opening a large envelope, he shook his head in wonder as he surveyed someone’s college alumni newsletter with a “great little letter from the president” Jake should turn into a column, the note told him, and also enclosed was a school catalogue in case he wanted to know more about it, and an assurance they’d be glad to give him a memorable tour of the campus. Right.
About two dozen big manila envelopes contained special reports on something he’d written on, or should write on, from people who’d be glad to help him anyway they could. It was like panning for gold. There was little he could ever use, but you had to wade through the mud and rocks to find the nuggets. Some columnists dumped their “helpful” mail without reading it. Jake had learned to skim it and hang on to the five per cent he might use.
He arranged the rest of the mail into stacks, by a combination of size and postmark, tossing unopened everything that wasn’t first class. He opened those in business envelopes first. Most of the personal letters were responses to columns. As usual, he shook his head because the writers were talking on and on about his October 18 column, or his October 16 column, and he never remembered columns by dates, just by subjects. If they didn’t make some clear reference to the subject matter, and many didn’t, he had to play Sherlock Holmes to deduce which column they were raving or complaining about.
One letter from a college professor gushed, “You said just what I was thinking, but you said it so much better than I could. Thanks.” One of his favorite compliments, and he got it a lot.
People liked that personal touch with the columnist. Even when they didn’t always like what he said. In his early years, when criticism bothered him more, his old mentor Leonard reminded him, “I used to watch Monday Night Football just so I could take shots at Howard Cosell. They don’t have to like your column, as long as they read it.”
A brief note about Jake’s accident and his friends’ deaths had been put in place of his column last week, explaining why the great bulk of the mail was personal notes of sympathy and encouragement. Included were notes from the mayor, a few congressmen, several athletes, and other luminaries. The ones he appreciated most were from the people who had nothing to gain by his favor. People whose careers or reputations he couldn’t further or derail. These people could have only one motive for writing. They cared.
One note came from a boy whose dog had been run over. Another, a girl whose best friend died of cancer. He read letter after letter, oblivious to the newsroom other than an occasional raised voice, a burst of static from Hector’s command center, or a “Hi, Jake” from the aisle behind him or across the cubicle on Jerry’s side.
Suddenly his wristwatch alarm went off. Only ten minutes left on his meter. Had it really been almost three hours? The huge pile of opened letters and cards said it had. He decided to take an early lunch. He grabbed a bunch of unopened mail and crammed it in his briefcase. Often he ate lunch alone. Today his mail would keep him company.
Walking out the front door past Elaine and Joe, Jake headed to his favorite nearby hangout, the Main Street Deli, up the street and two blocks down. He smiled at Toni, who was talking to a vagrant right across the street. She was a year out of Columbia’s School of Journalism, a talented g.a.—general assignment reporter. She had the hungry, semi-desperate look of a journalist trolling for stories. Jake knew it well. Sometimes you could beat your head on your desk for a story, when all you had to do was take a walk and meet some people on the street, and the stories would materialize.
Jake came up with innumerable columns just taking the walk to feed the meter. The adventures of bicycle messengers; kids who should be in school but spend their days skateboarding in City Square; hotel doormen and the secrets they know; the daily life of a hot-dog and kraut vendor. Profiles, feature stories, columns, all these had come from walking within a few blocks of the Trib. Twenty years ago, when Jake was a g.a., he’d hustle around like Toni, reminding himself of Leonard’s five rules of a good story—conflict, impact, timeliness, novelty, and reader interest. Leonard hadn’t invented them, but he’d honed them to an art form.
Jake settled down at the deli, sipping his cappuccino, waiting for his turkey on whole wheat. He read letter after letter. One, whose handwriting and return address (“Vista Manor”) was most familiar, covered with embossed daisies, he opened slowly and laboriously, as if his hands were arthritic. It was from his mother, he knew. The handwriting had deteriorated, the notes were always brief now. She sent them to the Tribune, because his home address had changed several times in the last few years, and she knew the Trib was his real home anyway. Her hearing was so bad she didn’t call him anymore, because it frustrated both of them.
Dear Jake, I was so sorry to hear about your accident. Janet called me, and then I read about it. Everyone was talking about it here at Vista Manor. I was so worried. And I was sick about Finney and Greg. I wish I could have gone to Greg’s funeral. I hoped you would come and pick me up, but I guess you were in no condition to do that. Maybe you were still in the hospital? I get confused now, I can’t remember what Janet told me. I read that Finney’s service is on Sunday. Could you come over and pick me up? I’d like to be there, to see Finney’s family again and let them know I care. Please call me or come see me. I miss you. Love, Mother.
The handwriting degenerated as the letter went on, and only the M in Mother was legible. Jake felt the same thing he always felt at any contact from his mother—guilt. But instead of motivating him to action, the guilt paralyzed him. The more time that went by without contacting her, at that retirement home only eighteen miles away, the more uncomfortable when he finally saw her.
He hated such places, even the nice ones, where people’s lives faded to an inglorious end. He hated the wheelchairs and the walkers and the painfully slow shuffling steps of men whose lives were behind them, and fragile bluish gray-haired women looking for someone to talk to and latching on to each new face in hopes it was one that would finally stop to listen. To wait for death seemed so degrading and pathetic. Hospitals were bad enough, but at least lots of people got better and left. No one in those homes got better and left. An occasional call to his mother, once a month Jake thought (though in fact they were several months apart), assuaged the guilt just enough that it didn’t interfere with his life.
He put away the letter from his mother, thinking he needed to give her a call sometime soon, and assuring himself he would, as soon as his schedule allowed. He reminded himself that every month he wrote out a check to the Vista Manor, paying half her rent, supplementing her Social Security check. Feeling better, he dove into other letters, each putting a little more welcome distance from the one with the daisies on it.
Forty minutes later he felt the urge to get back to the office. He told himself he had time to read one more of the two dozen or so unopened letters. He scanned return addresses, looking for something promising. One stood out just beca
use it had no return address. It was a plain white envelope, typed by what appeared to be an old style typewriter, pica in all caps. Crank mail, Jake guessed. That’s usually what no return address meant.
He opened the envelope, and a canary yellow three-by-five card fell to the floor, face down. He gingerly made the awkward motion to pick up the card, reminding himself exactly where he still hurt from the accident. On the card was a single sentence, consisting of only four words, in that same all-caps pica type. A waitress wiped the table six feet from Jake, and happened to glance over just as the look of startled unbelief overtook his face. She watched his eyes widen and his hands shake, and wondered what could possibly be on that card to trigger such a reaction.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
Finney’s engorged senses kept putting him on overload. This place was incredibly beautiful, not just in general, but in specific detail after detail. He had to close his eyes and shut out the spectrum of marvelous sights to choose and isolate which one he would now contemplate and enjoy. Then he’d cover his ears, to focus on one particular sound, freshly recorded in his memory, without being distracted by a thousand others, equally wondrous.
Like a starving man offered an endless smorgasbord of delicious foods, Finney felt overwhelmed by heaven. It was a disorienting experience, but nonetheless joyous and exhilarating. The perspective here had dimensions unknown in the other world. Circles there were spheres here. Squares there were cubes here. Triangles there were pyramids here. And as much as his understanding had increased already, he sensed it was only the beginning; there were other dimensions yet to learn that would amplify the cube as much as the cube amplified the square.