Cold Type

by Harvey Araton

  The strike news seemed dated because, after all, this was a story he was living. By the time Jamie’s dinner of lamb and potatoes arrived, he had downed his Coke and wasn’t much hungry. He picked at the meat and called for the check. He resumed his wandering of the streets and strolled onto the Promenade. There he could stare at the twilight majesty of downtown Manhattan. He could watch the boats drift by, framed against the backdrop of office buildings, dwarfed by the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

  Jamie loved the view though he always seemed to be admiring it in passing or when jogging or braving the potholes on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

  Darkness came. The bulb on a nearby lamppost flickered. A tugboat foghorn bellowed, momentarily drowning out the rumbling of the highway traffic below. Jamie felt no urgency to go home. He was content to stretch out his legs and to dwell on his predicament without having to do anything about it. An hour passed, then another. He closed his eyes, napped intermittently until distracted by high school boys in droopy sweats woofing on each other, bouncing basketballs that echoed in the evening chill.

  Jamie glanced at his watch: ten after eight.

  He trudged wearily up the exit ramp, past a young couple embracing against the fence of the toddler playground. Jamie swung around to Hicks Street, where he had taken refuge after his divorce from Karyn in a red brick, four-story building. All he could afford was a three-hundred-fifty square-foot studio, sublet to him by an unemployed attorney relocated to Philadelphia to live with a girlfriend. The rent was marked up from a subsidized $199 a month to $300, still a bargain and less than the cost per night at most Manhattan hotels unfrequented by cockroaches and crack heads.

  Jamie posed as the attorney’s cousin and endured the three-floor walkup and occasional act of sabotage on the part of the Israeli landlord. Once a month on cold winter nights, the jerk would sneak into the basement and cut the heat in an attempt to chase out the tenants. Then he could renovate the apartments and sell them as marked-up co-ops. Considering the portion of his earnings that were owed to his ex-wife and son in Westchester, Jamie invested in a space heater.

  He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, pushed his way into the cramped room and saw that there were two messages on his answering machine.

  Molly: “We’re having dinner tomorrow night. Your father wants you to come.”

  Sure he does. Jamie fast-forwarded to the next call.

  Karyn: “Call me,” she said. “Want to know what’s going on.”

  He dialed Karyn.

  “It’s me,” he said when she picked up.

  “Well,” she said, “what’s the latest?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how long before this strike is over?”

  “It just started.”

  “Do you at least have a choice of whether you work?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Not with anyone’s blessing in the union—and definitely not my father’s.”

  “I heard on the news they’re saying they’ll start replacing anyone who doesn’t report to work.”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  “What if they do?”

  “I don’t know, I really can’t say.”

  “Well, I actually have something to say…”

  “OK…”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this,” Karyn said. “And now with this strike, I may as well let you know I have a job offer.”

  “Great, congratulations,” Jamie said. He thought, Well, at least that’s good news.

  “It’s in publishing. Well, not exactly publishing. You remember the guy I knew from my two years at Princeton? Jeffrey? We ran into him one night in the city, coming out of the movie theater on Twenty-Third Street?”

  “The guy who dated your roommate, but you thought might have been more interested in you?”

  “Not the point,” Karyn said. “He’s got this business idea, and he remembered from our conversation that night that I was working with Harper. He called there looking for me, and they gave him my number up here. He’s got an idea for a startup company, selling books.”

  “Wasn’t he a Wall Street guy?” Jamie said.

  “Wall Street guys make money and invest it in other things,” Karyn said. “He’s apparently done pretty well and wants to go into the book-selling business, except he wants to sell them electronically.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “On this internet thing everyone in the business world is so excited about. They’re saying that a huge segment of goods and services are going to become available through the computer.”

  Jamie stifled a chuckle and rolled his eyes, but decided if he knew what was good for him he had better be positive.

  “So, that’s good,” he said. “Will it pay more than the real bookstore in Chappaqua?”

  “Yes, it will. Plus benefits. Plus…moving costs.”

  “Moving? To where?”

  “Seattle.”

  “You’re kidding,”

  “No, actually I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.”

  Silence convinced Jamie she wasn’t.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Just wait. Are you saying that you’re going to pick up Aaron and move him all the way across the country without talking to me about it?”

  “I am talking to you about it.”

  “Yes, I hear. I’m on strike from my job for one day and already you’re telling me you’re moving three thousand miles. And if this—pardon me—bookstore is supposed to be in a computer, why would you have to move to Seattle to work for it?”

  “Look, I told you. This guy…Jeffrey…we had lunch and he said he is launching the company out there and that there would be a good position for me if I was willing to make the move, take a chance. He called the next day and offered me the job. I told him I needed some time to think about it, given the circumstances.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jamie said. “Why would you even do the interview?”

  “Excuse me, aren’t you the critic who’s always complaining about how little I make? You’re the one who was so pissed when I quit Harper to have Aaron to begin with. Remember? How many times have you accused me of making fourteen cents an hour?”

  “I didn’t suggest you could make more money in fucking Seattle.”

  “Jamie, for one thing, fucking Seattle is a lot closer to Los Angeles, where my father lives, than New York. Aaron and I see him—what—once a year? And when I heard about the strike at the Trib this morning, it got me to thinking that you were right about how I can’t put off my career forever. I owe that to Aaron. I’ve been home all day with him pretty much for two years, working nights just to get out of the house and make a few bucks. What I make basically pays for sitters while I’m working. It was a long shot that I would move when I did the interview, but when I heard today you were on strike, it made me think, what if something really goes wrong with your job? Then what would I do? How would I pay for this house? His clothes? His future?”

  “Karyn, I’m on strike one day. That doesn’t mean I’m unemployed.”

  “Jamie, the real issue here is me, not you. You have nothing to do with this…”

  “Aaron is also my son, no?”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’ve got to resume my own career. And if that means I have to move, then I’ll have to move, and we’ll have to deal with it.”

  “You mean I’ll have to deal with it.”

  “I never said I didn’t want Aaron to have his father…you…in his life. But what about his future? What about college? It’s not like either of us is ever going to inherit any real money. You pay the mortgage, the bills, but you don’t have a cent in the bank, and neither do I.”

  “Karyn, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but the last time we went out it was over in a couple of days. Most of these things don’t last. Don’t take this job because of the strike.”

  “I told you, this is about me. I need to give Jeffrey an a
nswer by the end of the week.”

  Jamie paused, working hard to hold back his agitation. “Give it a few days, we’ll see what happens,” he said. “Maybe you could look for a job in New York.”

  “I’ve been looking for six months.”

  Jamie had no response for that. The inevitable suspicion of whether Karyn had developed a romantic interest in her old college friend—and vice versa—crossed his mind. He knew better than to broach that subject or she’d hang up on him and somehow manage to not be home for his next visit—her standard tactic when her custodial mood turned sour.

  “Just don’t do anything for a day or two,” he pleaded. “Seattle—how in the world would I ever see…?”

  “The other line’s beeping,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Jamie hung up, pulled the receiver up again and froze in mid-slam.

  He walked over to the bed, sat down and looked up at the inoperative ceiling fan. He realized that in the shock and confusion of Karyn’s thunderbolt, he hadn’t asked to speak with Aaron. He thought about calling back. But his mood, not exactly sunny to begin with, was as gray as the sky over Seattle—or so he had heard.

  Day Two: Tuesday, November 8, 1994

  Chapter Ten

  Not this one again. Oh, please, no, the voice providing the narrative to Jamie’s morning dream was pleading.

  Deadline was approaching. The phone on the night table kept ringing. Jamie knew it was a source with information he needed for a story. But when he reached out to answer, the cord was severed from the receiver. He tried frantically to reattach it, but Karyn materialized, brandishing a shopping list for Aaron’s birthday party. She chastised Jamie for forgetting plastic spoons.

  The exception being that Jamie’s subconscious had given her a makeover. She had Debbie Givens’ blonde hair and was demanding an apology with a microphone aimed at his chin.

  The ring came again—twice, a third time. Jamie’s recorded voice intervened and delivered a shot of psychological caffeine that awakened him to the cognitive realization that he was better off asleep.

  For the second morning in a row, it was Steven rousing him from the deep morning slumber that is so precious to an insomniac.

  “So where the hell did you disappear to yesterday?” he bristled.

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight-fifteen.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Better question,” Steven said. “Are you out with the rest of us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Steven said in his most provident tone, “you made yourself scarce after the meeting yesterday, and we need everybody we can get on the line today because they got the damned paper out…”

  Which Jamie received as promising news…

  “…and we’re hearing that the sportswriters may be ready to cross and maybe the photographers and…”

  This is really getting good, Jamie thought. He would soon have ample ammunition in a campaign to convince Karyn to cease and desist on her relocation strategy.

  He propped himself up on his right elbow, the phone now wedged between ear and neck.

  “…once that happens, the Alliance is finished, Brady can isolate the other unions as blue-collar thugs and there’s a good chance the asshole wins…”

  “Why are the sportswriters crossing?” Jamie asked casually.

  “Couple of guys at Jersey papers supposedly got calls, offered jobs,” Steven said. “I don’t know who in his right mind would leave a job, even at a smaller paper, to come to one on strike. But our guys panicked and went back in. Got to get back to ripping the baseball owners for forcing the players out and killing the World Series.”

  Steven left Jamie a window of silence to acknowledge his sports association and, better yet, his wit. Jamie respectfully declined. For the most part, Steven didn’t much know a foul ball from a football. He had managed, however, to sneak one summer column past Brady that condemned the owners for their attack on organized labor after the Fall Classic was taken off life support and interred in disgrace.

  “We’ve got calls out for everyone to show up early this afternoon for a rally with a few speakers,” Steven said. “A couple of guys from the national office—Robbins said they’re trying to get Mario Cuomo—if they can guarantee some television coverage.”

  “I’ll be there, I guess, if that’s what you woke me up for,” Jamie said, feeling blindly for the television remote in the tangle of blanket and sheet.

  “It’s at noon,” Steven said. “I’ll be speaking too.”

  “Hey, nice,” Jamie said coolly.

  “Not to change the subject,” Steven said, “but didn’t you once go out with Deb Givens?”

  “Deb? How informal we’ve gotten.”

  “OK, excuse me, Deborah.”

  “I wouldn’t call it going out,” Jamie said. “We had drinks after work a couple of times. Why?”

  “She’s doing a studio thing on the strike over at the station,” Steven said. “The producer called. I’m going on tonight.”

  “Nice person, a bit hyper, talking to the world while she’s talking to you, like everyone else on TV.”

  “You sleep with her?”

  “We had drinks, I said. I was married at the time, remember?”

  “Remember who you’re talking to.”

  “I’ll tell you what, if she starts asking tough questions, why don’t you change the subject and ask her if she’ll sleep with you? It’ll be better television than discussing that fat fuck, Brady.”

  On the screen of Jamie’s set, speaking of the Lord, Brady’s massive frame swallowed up the pretty morning anchor, making the NY1 set look out of balance, like a seesaw. Brady was smiling and holding up a copy of the morning’s Trib, its front-page welcoming itself back into circulation. The banner headline read, AS WE WERE SAYING, as if clearing its throat. There was a large color photo below of a scab Trib driver with a sheepish smile, unloading bundles of papers in front of a newsstand.

  Jamie could make out the actual lead to the story in the sub-head.

  Driver Beaten in Late-Night Attack.

  He turned up the sound just in time to hear Brady congratulate the city on the return of its God-fearing daily.

  “…assure our readers that there will under no circumstances be further interruptions of production or delivery of their favorite morning paper. Today’s edition is on the stands, with all the hard-hitting, insightful analysis that Trib readers have long been accustomed to and…”

  Jamie had a vision of Pat Blaine propped up on a midtown bar stool, hoping the strike would be finished by the time he sobered up and remembered his contract. Poor Pat, he thought.

  “Mr. Brady,” the anchor interrupted before Brady could continue. Her voice was calm yet challenging, her demeanor pleasant but firm. Her brown hair was clipped just below her ears, her makeup inconspicuous, as if done in defiance of the more flamboyant network brand.

  “Before we go live to Deborah Givens at the Trib’s downtown Manhattan plant, could you explain how the newspaper was able to publish this morning without its union work force?”

  “As you know, the untimely work stoppage by the drivers and the other unions has compelled us to employ a new staff of deliverers, as well as replacements to man the presses and numerous other positions. Some of these workers have come from our sister papers in Canada and others are new Trib employees. And I must compliment all of these men who have embraced a most difficult situation, in many cases leaving their homes and families, risking danger. But they recognize that the threat of violence is not enough to turn church-going men away from the opportunity to support their families.

  “Our new employees are determined to help us build a prosperous future for the Trib, as opposed to continuing along the disastrous road the unions have been forcing one of our city’s great institutions to travel with their intractable and militant negotiating practices. I want to personally thank and commend these men and promise them all
good jobs, good benefits. God bless.”

  “Are you willing to negotiate?” the anchor asked. “And if not, aren’t you engaging in union-busting tactics?”

  “Our employees have voluntarily vacated their positions and at this time we cannot make the presumption that they plan to return,” Brady said. “In the vernacular of the industry, the people we have hired are called permanent replacement workers. And permanent means permanent.”

  Jamie swallowed hard, then rested back on the pillow and pulled the blanket up to his chin as Deborah Givens appeared.

  “It was a long, demoralizing and ultimately violent night for the striking workers here at the New York Trib. Inside the plant behind me, the presses rolled shortly after midnight, manned by replacements. The bundles of papers were then loaded onto trucks, and with the escort of a Trib security force and a massive police contingent ordered to the scene by the Mayor, they moved past the strikers, who screamed obscenities at the replacement drivers. Otherwise, the strikers were kept peacefully behind barricades, unlike the first night, when the trucks were obstructed from leaving the plant.

  “Once the drivers were out onto the streets, it was another story. Roving bands of strikers tracked down trucks in various neighborhoods in the early morning hours, halted them in the middle of the street and pulled drivers out from behind the wheel. There were reported beatings, including one replacement driver who was hospitalized after being attacked in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn…”

  The shadowy video was rolling now. Across the night shadows on Jamie’s screen, a small gang in hooded sweatshirts was pummeling two men who were on the ground, screaming for mercy.

  “Fucking nigger scab!” one of the attackers yelled, with only the expletive deleted. More shouting ensued, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

  “…A NY1 crew followed this Trib truck to an ugly scene in St. Albans, Queens until the strikers turned on our camera crew…”