“I'll be here when you arrive.”
She gave him the dates of her visit and her hotel information. She also gave him her cell number. She paused. He interrupted her thought, “Even if you can't talk about it on the phone, tell me this much. Are you okay?”
“We'll talk in person. I'll see you soon.”
He went to bed, but it was a long time before he fell asleep. For most of the last fifteen years, when he thought of Deb at all, he thought of her as the ambition-driven bitch who so unceremoniously dumped him when an offer came from a TV station in a bigger market. She had made him feel as though he had only been a “pass-time” for her until something better came along. On the rare occasions when he allowed himself to think of her, his thoughts focused on the spectacular crashed-and-burn ending.
He hardly ever allowed himself to think about the time before that. It was too painful to remember the smart, funny young woman with whom he had fallen in love almost from the first minute they met at a press club luncheon in the early 1980's.
She had been a cub reporter for a local TV station, right out of college. Even with no experience and no knowledge of the local scene, she made a splash in the very early days of her tenure in Sarasota because she had a disarming way of asking questions that sometimes elicited very revealing answers. Veteran reporters were amazed by her successes. News wonks appreciated the information she provided. Most everybody else loved her because she looked so damned good on TV. She was young, fresh-faced, earnest.... and she was built very, very well, thanks to several hours a day in the gym and many hours a week doing roadwork.
When she first arrived in Sarasota, Ray was already known as a weird old bachelor, in the Southern tradition of curmudgeonly old dudes who avoided women, and pretty much all other unavoidable social contacts. The local press community followed with interest the hilarious spectacle of the veteran newspaper reporter drooling all over the new “it” gal in town.
One day during the presidential campaign, the vice presidential candidate, George H. W. Bush, was in town. Both Ray and Deborah were assigned to cover his speech. Ray had heard that Bush was not a good speaker. He had heard a lot of bad political speeches before, but never one that dreadful. After the first five minutes of listening to the guy torture the language and trip over relatively simple English, it was all Ray could do not to break up. He glanced around trying to distract himself. He noticed Deborah standing next to her camera-man with her hands over her face, shaking. For a second, Ray thought she was crying, and his heart went out to her. Then, she opened her eyes and they happened to make eye contact. Then he realized she was in the throes of the giggle-fit he was trying to avoid. He immediately lost it.
In order to avoid creating a scene, which would cause both of them to catch hell back in their respective newsrooms (since having their employees breaking up into hilarity and disrupting speeches of would-be vice-presidents was not a particularly politically smart thing for news organizations), they quietly moved to the edge of the crowd and walked around the corner before they both allowed themselves to laugh out loud. After composing themselves (sort of) and wiping their eyes, they looked at each other and grinned. Ray blurted out, “Well, since we missed the end of the speech, want to go get some lunch and figure out what we can say to our readers-slash-viewers to educate them as to the electability of that individual?”
She shrugged, “Sure. Here's my story: Reagan's going to win by a landslide despite the idiot he tagged for a running mate.”
Ray took her arm and steered her toward a nearby restaurant, as they walked, he shook his head and said, “Don't be so sure about the latter. I agree that Reagan is going to become our next president, a thought that has me considering becoming a beach bum in Mexico or the Bahamas, but I don't think Bush is an idiot. Yeah, he looks like a geek and talks like retard, but he's not stupid. More importantly, he is very rich. Most importantly of all, he has the backing of a lot of really super-rich people. I truly fear for our country, and most particularly for our state.
“It's time for my disclaimer: You need to understand that I view everything through the lens of a native son of South Florida whose animating passion is the beauty of this place. I think the first book I ever read all the way through was Rachel Carson's River of Grass. I'm what the politicos snidely refer to as a tree-hugger, although in my case it's more likely to be a palmetto, the hugging of which would be exceedingly painful to anyone who might be stupid enough to try it. You need to filter all my political ranting through that lens.”
She smiled, “How interesting! A Cracker Liberal.”
He shook his head, “Not a liberal exactly. Perhaps more of a libertarian, or maybe an anarchist. I'm pretty much of a 'laissez-faire' kind of guy, economically, but I'm kind of liberal socially. I think Reagan's economic policies are a thinly veiled attempt for the rich to take a bigger slice of the pie, and the hell with everybody else. My guess is that the money-and-power people are going to have a ball over the next few years. At the same time, I'm thinking it's not going to be such a picnic for the manatees, 'gators and wetlands and for those of us humanoids who love such things.”
They ordered coffee. He started to light a cigarette. She took it out of his hand and broke it between her fingers, shaking her head and making a tsk-tsk noise. He never smoked another cigarette after that.
They ordered lunch. He ordered a burger and fries. She ordered a grilled fish sandwich, no tarter sauce, extra tomato. When the food came, he looked at her and raised his eyebrows, “This is the best burger in town. You do not have to approve, but I'll thank you to keep your yap shut.”
She chuckled, “Fine. I'll call 911 when you keel over with a heart attack.”
They talked for a long time over lunch. Eventually the waitress asked them to pay their bill because her shift was over. Both of them realized they were very, very close to missing their deadlines to file stories. He paid the bill and she sprinted for the door, waving at the air behind her. He followed, not quite as quickly.
They didn't see each other again for a while. One day, she called him in the newsroom. She said, “You may get a lot of mileage out of this, but I'm going to ask for your advice anyway. I know how superior, smug and condescending you old newspaper guys are about TV reporters, especially young blond ones with big boobs, but I'm going to go out on a limb here, and ask for your help.
“I just received a tip. If it's real, it could be a big story, but my gut tells me it's a hoax. I haven't been around here very long. I don't know who all the local crackpots are. If it's a real story, it would be big enough for both of us. If it's not a real story and I go with it, I could end my career before it ever gets started. Would you be willing to let me run the info by you?”
He chuckled, “Miss Richardson, I don't know whether to be flattered that you think my age, experience and wisdom are worth crossing the abyss between the newsroom and the TV anchor desk or to be offended that you would think I would even consider stooping to help a cub TV reporter avoid getting egg on her face – a situation that newspaper reporters positively live for, dontcha know. However, given that you seem to be a genuinely smart and potentially competent reporter if you were to choose to go into real journalism instead of TV, and, since your instincts are good enough to have picked me as opposed to some of the other Neanderthals in the newsroom, I guess I'll go with being flattered. I'll help you. What did you hear?”
She told him about a telephone tip she received. He listened without interrupting her. He tried not to let her know how impressed he was. He suspected she had been contacted by a very well-known local crackpot, who was very good at hoaxing newbie reporters. He had snookered virtually every new reporter who showed up in Sarasota from someplace else for more than 20 years. It was always a different story, always potentially explosive. Ray couldn't be absolutely sure without checking it out, but the whole thing had all the marks of the guy local reporters referred to as the Shitbag. The guy had torpedoed more than one journalistic career.
Ray was impressed Deborah had the instincts to be suspicious. He invited her to meet him for a drink after work, saying he wanted to check out a couple of things and then he'd tell her what he thought.
He told his editor he had a tip and needed to go out for a while. He drove around aimlessly for a little while, then made a decision. He actually knew who the Shitbag was. What was more, he was aware the guy knew Ray was onto him although they had never actually acknowledged that to one another. The Shitbag was a retired sportswriter from a Bradenton newspaper. He was an old Cracker who now lived at the edge of the swamp near Myakka State Park. Ray didn't know his phone number, but he knew where the guy lived. He decided to pay a friendly call.
Ray pulled into the yard and beeped the horn. He stayed in the car until the man, who was sitting on the porch repairing a fishing reel, waved at him. He'd learned the secret to not getting shot at by Crackers from a couple of old dudes down by Lake Okeechobee when he was a kid. It had come in handy lots of times, although it did not always guarantee the person on the porch (and there was ALWAYS a person sitting on the porch) wouldn't pull a gun. It just gave you a couple of minutes to explain your business before they blasted you.
Odom Boyd waved him out of the car and yelled, “Come set a spell.”
Ray laughed. He hadn't heard anybody use that expression since the old guy who was his favorite gator-hunting guide in the Everglades passed. Ray got out of the car and approached the porch slowly. No sudden moves. Things could change quickly. It might have been 1983 everyplace else, but this place was a throwback to a time generations past where the rules were different. He hesitated before stepping on the porch, which hung sort of off kilter, tilted to one side. There were a bunch of missing boards and some of the ones still there did not look too sturdy. He glanced at Boyd who didn't look up from his knotted fishing line, “Stay to the left and you'll be okay.”
They chatted about the weather and then about common acquaintances, most of whom were recently or soon-to-be dead. After the preliminaries petered out, Odom asked, “So, what brings you out here, boy?”
Ray laughed. It had been a couple of decades since anybody had called him 'boy', but since Boyd was probably in his late-80's, he figured the old feller could call him whatever he wanted. Ray said, “I came out here to ask you a question.”
“So ask.”
“Did you call that new little gal at the TV station this morning?”
Boyd paused for a few seconds longer than would have been appropriate if the answer to the question were “no”. He put down his reel and looked at Ray with a mixture of amusement and bemusement. “Waaall, sir,” he paused again, “I won't say I did and I won't say I didn't. I would like to know how come you're askin'.”
Ray decided to be honest, “You see, that gal may be pretty, blond, perky and she may work for a TV station, but I've got a feeling she's got a reporter's instincts.”
“Oh, yeah, what makes you think that? She looks to me to be just as stupid as all the other nitwits on the TV news.”
“What makes me say that is because after she got a call this morning from somebody purporting to give her a tip on a huge scandal story, she called me. She said she was too new around here to know who all the crackpots are, and she was afraid somebody was trying to snooker her. She offered to share the story if it was legit, but wanted to check it out before she ended up with egg on her face going to her boss with a bogus story.”
Boyd's laugh sounded something like the Wicked Witch of the West's cackle. “Well, I'll be jiggered. If that don't beat all! A TV reporter with a lick of sense. And even more, a TV reporter who actually understands the value of a mentor who's been around for a while. Maybe she isn't such a bimbo after all.”
Ray shook his head and said, “She's most definitely not a bimbo.”
Boyd looked at him through narrowed eyes, “Don't you think you're a little old for her?”
Ray started to argue, but then said, “Probably. But, I'll be honest with you and tell you that if she doesn't shoot me down, I'm not going to let that stop me.”
Boyd shook his head and spit over the railing, “She'll make a damned fool out of you.”
Ray chuckled, “Probably I'll do that all by myself.”
They chatted about fishing and hunting for a while. Ray could tell Boyd was lonely and enjoyed talking to him. Ray found the old guy fascinating and decided to make it a point to stop by periodically. [He did, too, at least once a month for as long as Boyd lived. Ray was the one who found the body when the old guy died. Ray's posthumous feature article on Boyd's life won several journalism prizes and got him a big raise.]
After a while, Ray realized he was going to have to hurry in order to be on time for that drink with Deborah. He rose to leave, shook Boyd's hand and said softly, “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Pick on another reporter.”
Boyd looked away and said, “What kind of Shitbag would call in bogus tips to cub reporters?”
Ray smiled and looked off in the other direction, “A Shitbag who takes journalism seriously and who wants to make sure the pups learn early on to develop good instincts.”
Boyd spat and made a derisive noise. They met many times after that, but they never discussed that subject again. Ray was aware that Boyd continued to test new reporters for as long as he lived. Unfortunately, most of them failed the test. Deborah was one of the few who passed.
Ray met Deborah at a beach bar on Siesta Key. They ordered beers and fish sandwiches and chatted for a while. Finally Ray said, “I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Your instincts were right on the money. The call you got today was from a very well known local crackpot. I'm sorry you're not going to get that big juicy story, but I've got to tell you I'm impressed as hell with your instincts. Even more, I'm amazed you would come to a print reporter for advice.”
She laughed, “First of all, thanks for clearing that up. I guess I should thank you for telling me the truth. I know more than a few newspaper reporters who would have joined in the fun of goofing on the newbie, especially her being a girl and a 'TV reporter', the latter of which is sort of an oxymoron I suppose.”
He laughed and tilted his head, “Don't tell me. Let me guess. Someone in your family is a newsman. My guess is that someone would be an older guy, like maybe your dad?”
“Very good, Mr. Reporter. Now, my dad's the editor of a local newspaper in a small town in North Carolina. For most of his career, he was a reporter at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. My mom is a free-lance magazine writer. I guess I've got writing in my blood. I always thought I'd end up working for a paper. I had my eye on the New York Times.”
“How did you end up doing TV work?”
She looked sheepish. “Well, when I got out of college, I had a lot of loans to repay. Running a local paper doesn't pay very well and my parents helped me as much as they could but they were not able to pay for all of my college. When I got out of school, I was offered a job with a paper in Raleigh. The pay was $6.00 an hour, which was actually pretty good for a cub reporter. Before I had a chance to accept it and trot off down the road to being a newspaper reporter, my advisor told me about a TV station in Spartanburg, South Carolina, that was looking for an on-air reporter. They were offering the astonishing salary of $25,000, plus benefits. I thought about it for about five seconds and then called the TV station.
“They invited me to come for an interview. I went without telling my parents where I was going or why. When my dad found out I had taken a job as a TV reporter, he blew his stack. He's still not over it. He now labors under the illusion that I will work a few years as a TV reporter to pay back my loans, then I'll get a real job writing for a paper.”
Ray nodded and swallowed a bite of his sandwich, “That sounds reasonable.”
“It isn't. For one thing, no newspaper I know of would hire a former TV 'personality'. For another, the money in TV is just so much better than in print news, I don't know how I could ever tak
e the pay cut.” She shrugged and took a swig of her beer, “I guess that makes me a bit of a whore, but I've got to be honest with you.”
He looked at her with an odd expression. “Why?”
She looked up at him, as surprised by her comment as he was, and answered, “I'm not exactly sure.”
Their courtship was a whirlwind that lasted only a few months, ending in marriage on the beach at Siesta Key. Things were wonderful for the first few years. She worked at the TV station, and relatively quickly moved up to substitute anchor. He continued to work for the paper. Sometimes they collaborated on stories.
For a little while early on, they were kind of the “it” couple in Sarasota. He always thought that was funny. That didn't last long because both of them were far too career-driven to be interested in the social scene. He adored her: she was young, vivacious and very smart. It seemed to Ray that she had been a fresh breeze that blew through his stuffy life for a few sweet, wonderful years.
Somewhere along the line, something changed. He never had been able to put his finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that she watched her parents outlive their savings, growing more and more frugal as their resources dwindled, but being too proud to accept help from their children. Maybe it was watching the women at the top of her profession crashing through the glass ceiling and making it into the “really, really big time” in TV news. Whatever the cause, Deborah's commitment to good journalism somehow became lost in her ambition to advance in the TV news/entertainment business. She obsessed over the need to get a better job in a bigger market. She desperately wanted an anchor position, even though it would mean less time out on the streets chasing down stories, at which she excelled.
Ray knew that Deborah assumed if she moved on, Ray would follow her. For his part, Ray had no intention of going anywhere. He had lived in Florida his entire life and had worked for the Sarasota paper since he was “hired” as an unpaid intern when he was a freshman at the University of South Florida. In his heart he knew a crash was coming in his marriage. He didn't know how to address the subject with Deborah, so he said nothing.
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