What Goes Up

by Allen Weiner

  Max decided to go gourmet for dinner after his obligatory calls, popping a Stouffer’s frozen lasagna into the toaster oven. A lettuce wedge was considered a salad, and a can of Del Monte green beans rounded out this luscious meal. The timing was perfect: just as the frozen lasagna finished, the puck dropped for the Flyers-Penguins game.

  The one-sided affair was all Flyers with a 4–0 shutout of their Pennsylvania rival. Left-wing Bill Barber was one goal short of a hat trick, and goalie Bernie Parent stopped all twenty-eight shots that came his way. After the post-game show, Max called it a night, anticipating a big day on Sunday.

  Since one of the perks the Chronicle offered was the free home delivery of the paper, Max hopped out of bed at 7:30 a.m., put on his robe, and bolted down the steps outside his apartment. There at the door was the Sunday paper. Max unfolded it and stared at the headline: The Invisible Enemy while the subhead read: Out of State Poison Brings Horror to Carbon County.

  Max’s hands shook as he stared at the byline: “Part one of five-part series by Max Rosen and Tom Monahan.” The two agreed to swap the order of the names each day the stories ran. As if walking in a dream state, Max slowly walked up the steps to his apartment. He sat down on his sofa—a used piece purloined from his parents’ basement. Max was used to suppressing his pride, especially when it came after he achieved great success. He sat, staring at the window, and drank in the great glory of his work.

  Engrossed in his achievement, Max initially ignored the fact his phone was ringing. He looked at the clock, and it was only eight fifteen, so Max wondered who was calling so early on a Sunday.

  “Hey Max, the Philadelphia Inquirer ran your piece today after the AP picked it up. That’s amazing work.” The voice was that of Norm Weiss. Since Max spoke to him the day before, he wondered what the call was about.

  Weiss took a deep sigh and began to speak. “Listen, I hate to ruin your big day, but I have some bad news. I just got a call from Dan Bigelow’s wife. He died, Max. I am so sorry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Max stood in the shower and wept, thinking of Dan Bigelow and his young family. The hot water cascading down did little to drown his tears and the sorrow he felt deep inside. He was too young to remember his grandfather’s funeral. Max’s memory of an uncle’s death was hazy other than the fact that in his waning days, Max sat with him most afternoons while his aunt went to work.

  While the accolades poured in from Chronicle colleagues and friends who read the series in their local papers, Max did little to accept the praise. He was deeply sad Dan Bigelow was not able to share in the success. He realized that he, Tom, Al, and Jack Devlin put in a lot of hard work, but Max did not overlook that he and Sue happened to be in the right place and the right time. Again, it all started with an overheard conversation in an elevator ride.

  Midafternoon, Max got a call from Tex, who was concerned about his young colleague’s wellbeing. Tex had been involved in a major story about a cut in funding to some school districts in Carbon County and had been out of touch for most of the past two weeks. Even with a heavy workload of his own, Tex closely followed the chemical dumping saga.

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay after hearing about Bigelow’s death,” Tex calmly said. “I know it’s a crazy cup-half-full thought, but without you, his family would be shit out of luck.”

  Max and Tex agreed to meet away from the office for a beer later in the week. Tex was anxious to hear all the details about Max’s recent work and share a few tidbits about Sue. It seems she was a big help in Tex’s school district reporting, during which time they became good friends.

  After taking a day off, Max returned to the office on Tuesday, hoping for a few low-key days. Al was on a well-earned vacation, taking his wife, Betty, to Gettysburg. Ervin manned the bureau editor’s desk, and, to Max’s shock and delight, he found a gift from the usually grumpy Ervin on his desk with a note of congratulations. There it was—wrapped in a copy of the Sunday paper—a Phillies scorebook made for the 1964 World Series with a card from Ervin and his wife, Mary. Given this piece of sports memorabilia was made for a series that never materialized, its value was priceless

  Anyone who knew Max knew that the 1964 Phillies was the team that stole and later broke his heart. It was a team that sat on top of the National League for seventy-three consecutive days, hit a ten-game losing streak, and finished second to the St. Louis Cardinals when all was said and done. During the ten-game disaster, Max would become sullen after the losses to the point where his mother forbade him from listening to the radio broadcasts.

  After two days of deep sorrow about the Bigelow family, Max felt a smile come to his face when he looked at the cover at his new treasure. On a flagpole, there were three pennants: the Stars and Stripes on the top, followed by a Phillies banner with a blank pennant at the bottom representing the team’s American League TBA opponent.

  Max walked up to Ervin’s desk to thank him, and the overweight editor said he wanted Max to know how much he admired and respected the hard work he put in. Max and Ervin were unlikely to become close friends, but the kind gesture from a man who previously cursed him under his breath was a huge step in the right direction.

  The Nesquehoning bureau was still without a full-time editor after Ray’s untimely departure. The job was a thankless one located in an undesirable location for anyone accustomed to an urban lifestyle. The Chronicle insisted that the bureau chief lives in the area, which significantly limited the potential pool of candidates. It was a lot to ask a junior editor from Allentown to move to the sticks, even if it meant a promotion and a bump in salary.

  Growing up in a densely populated part of Philadelphia, Max couldn’t imagine spending more than a few years in Carbon County. In his short career at the Chronicle, he understood the mentality and culture that goes with a more rural community. Max knew that when his apartment lease ran out, he would move to Allentown even if it meant commuting to the bureau office.

  Max spent Tuesday and Wednesday going through the mail and returning messages left during the time he was working in Allentown on the series. Ironically, one of the messages was from the Carbon County Chamber of Commerce with an invite for him to be the guest speaker at their next monthly meeting. Max was not big on speaking live in front of crowds, so he called the chamber’s office and politely passed.

  Another call was from the Philadelphia Bulletin with no message. Max did some freelance writing about music for the city’s afternoon paper before joining the Chronicle, but he imagined the call was about something else. Remembering some of his concert reviews and interviews made Max recall how much he enjoyed that work, especially interviewing John Edwards. The latter became the lead singer of the Spinners after Philippé Wynne left the group. After the story ran, Max was given two tickets to see the group live, but even with his prodigious memory, he was hard-pressed to remember who accompanied him. The Bulletin call was from the entertainment editor Max wrote for and was just another in a series of congratulations.

  Wednesday, Max was assigned to cover the Coaldale Borough council meeting. It was the last meeting before the Christmas holidays, so it would be quick and to the point. December was not a prime time for citizen participation in these civic affairs, so it likely would not last more than one hour. Max thought it might be nice to invite Sue since they hadn’t spoken for more than a few minutes while he was working on the chemical dumping stories. Sue did transcribe three of Max’s recorded interviews and went along on two other face-to-face sessions when the presence of a woman reporter made the in-person calls more relaxed.

  After work on Wednesday, Max met Tex for a beer in Jim Thorpe at the Union Publick House, which specialized in having a variety of Yuengling beers on tap. Yuengling, a 150-year-old brewery in Pottsville, experienced a resurgence that many beer lovers linked to the Bicentennial when it was proclaimed the nation’s oldest active brewery. Max was not big on beer, so he ordered a six-ounce glass of Yuengling’s lightest and sipped it while ta
lking with Tex. Tex talked about his work on the local school district’s funding and asked many questions about Max’s investigatory work. While downing his second glass of Yuengling dark, Tex reminded Max of their conversation weeks before when Max thought he was on thin ice due to his repeated blunders.

  “You’ve come a long way, baby.” Tex snorted, laughing at his joke. His line was lifted from a ten-year-old ad campaign for Virginia Slims cigarettes and, Tex thought, was the perfect compliment for the occasion.

  Max’s night out did him a world of good, even if the beer was not his beverage of choice. For the first time in weeks, he had a good night’s sleep and woke up Thursday with his sights set on a new challenge. What lay on the horizon, he thought, may or may not involve bugging another elevator. The FM transmitter that played a big part in resurrecting his Max’s career was resting comfortably in Barrett’s apartment, ready, if need be, for a new deployment.

  When Max came into the office around eleven, there was a note waiting for him stuck between his Selectric rollers. The message was from Jack Devlin, requesting a phone call as soon as possible. Max decided to call right away before he had the chance to get nervous or excited. He knew Devlin’s number by heart after many late-night conversations, during which the managing editor asked for progress reports on the chemical dumping stories.

  The Chronicle was not the sort of operation where executives had secretaries or admins. The Daniels family owned the paper—a clan that made its money in the department store business and had a reputation for being thrifty when it came to what it deemed extra personnel. After three rings, Jack Devlin answered the phone.

  “Hi, Jack. This is Max Rosen returning your call.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me so soon. I figured you might still be recovering from some hectic times. Listen, I have a few things I wanted to talk to you about.”

  The managing editor’s voice was noncommittal, so Max instinctively squeezed his hand into a fist like he was preparing for an injection. “Sure. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Okay. The first thing is to be kept between you and me. I am in the process of building a team of reporters and feature writers that will work on special projects throughout the year. I want you to be on that team. I am also asking Tom Monahan. I have a few others in mind, and once I decide on the other slots, we will have a meeting of what I want to call ‘The Sunday Squad.’

  “Just like the chemical dumping story, I envision these special reports starting on Sundays,” Devlin added. “It’s a great way to boost Sunday readership. I’d like to have people read the paper for more than the Sunday coupons and Parade magazine.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Max wasn’t speechless, but it took some time for Devlin’s words to sink in. “But, yes, I am excited and honored.”

  “Don’t be that honored yet, Max. You have no idea what sort of work is involved,” the managing editor said with a medium-sized guffaw. “There’s more, though. I doubt that you know this, but our restaurant critic Mimi Raynor is leaving to work for the Philadelphia Inquirer. I guess she thinks that’s the big time. Anyway, I am not sure where I heard it, but I seem to remember you have some knowledge of and passion for food. Would you be interested in filling in for her while we find a permanent replacement?”

  “Restaurant reviews? Well, I have read a lot of them, that’s for sure, but I’ve never written one.”

  “What I had in mind is for you to put together something about great lunch spots in Lehigh and Carbon County. It will take less time and effort and might be fun. We can call it ‘Out to Lunch.’ ”

  “You know, Jack, that could be fun. The guys in the office are always talking about these lunch spots that only the locals know about. Tex was telling me the other day about someplace in Tamaqua he loves. That would be a good place to start.”

  “Okay, so you’re in?”

  “Sure, when do you want me to start?”

  “Is next week too soon?”

  Max didn’t tell Devlin or anyone else he knew at the Chronicle that he owned a complete set of Gourmet magazines dating back to its first issue. In 1977, when he visited a friend from college in law school, Max purchased them from a soon-to-be-closed library in Charlottesville, Virginia. There were more than a hundred issues, and Max paid fifty dollars for the lot. He crammed them into the back of his mother’s new car and took them back to Pennsylvania, where the copies of the legendary food publication now lived. On second thought, he realized a Gourmet from 1963 with a recipe for coq au vin wasn’t going to be of any help with a bunch of earthy lunch reviews.

  Not knowing what was in store with this Sunday Squad deal, Max decided to give Barrett a call over the weekend to see what additional spycraft tools they might be able to dig up if needed. The FM transmitter might be useful but adding to their bag of clandestine tricks was worth a discussion. There were a lot of elevators in Allentown.

  As promised, Tex took Max to a small lunch place in the heart of Tamaqua called Texas Chili Dog. Max figured this wiener emporium was about fifteen hundred miles from Texas by his rough calculations, so there had to be some unseen linkage. Tex took control and ordered two specials: chili dogs with chopped onions and chili on buns that had seen better days. The hot dog was decent, but the chili lacked flavor and punch. What it did have were pinto beans, which, as Max knew, would not be considered real chili by any red-blooded Texan. Max enjoyed the lunchtime crowd that sat on barstools around a 1950s-era green Formica counter talking town gossip. Most of the locals knew Tex and enjoyed poking fun at his new goatee, which made him look more like a carnival barker than a newspaper reporter.

  On the ride back to the office after what would best be called an “interesting” lunch, Tex talked about his time working with Sue while Max was fully engaged with the chemical dumping investigation.

  “She’s a smart cookie,” Tex said, glancing over at Max to see his reaction. “I think she’s going places.”

  Max sat quietly, looking out the window at Panther Creek along Water Street, which ran from Tamaqua to Nesquehoning. He was listening intently but did his best not to bite on his colleague’s fishing expedition.

  Following a sixty second dramatic pause, Tex continued. “You know, she likes you. That said, she can’t figure out whether the feeling is mutual. She doesn’t know if you are shy, scared of women, or just plain socially awkward.”

  Max let Tex’s words sink in. “Maybe a bit of all three,” he said, barely above a whisper.

  And without another word between them, Tex pulled into the bureau’s parking lot. The two men exited Tex’s BMW and walked quietly to the office. While making his way along Catawissa Street, Max replayed the last few minutes of his conversation with Tex, wondering if his reply would be passed on to Sue.

  It had been a while since Max visited his parents in Philadelphia, and he was overdue. He left after work Friday and took the turnpike because it was lit much better than some of the backroads he often drove. He pulled into the driveway shortly after 11 p.m. after an hour and a half on the road. To his surprise and delight, Max’s mother was not peering out the window waiting for his safe arrival. Max smiled and thought the weekend was off to a good start.

  Max showered and climbed into bed after devouring a plate of home-cooked corned beef that his mother left out for him. Less than five minutes after hitting the pillow, he was asleep and was out like a light for eight solid hours. He woke to the sound of something sizzling on the stove, which he knew was a serving of home fried potatoes and a small scrambled egg. If anyone should be writing about food, Max thought, it should be my mother.

  Max spent the day doing his best imitation of a couch potato watching the Pittsburgh Steelers play the Denver Broncos with his father in a rare Saturday NFL game. The Steelers were on their way to a 14–2 Super Bowl season under future Hall of Fame quarterback Terry Bradshaw. The Broncos were headed for a decent 10–6 record but would be knocked out of the playoffs by these same Steelers a few weeks later
.

  Max and his father talked throughout the game, but it was mostly a recap of Max’s last month working on the chemical dumping series. Harold, Max’s father, told him how much his Uncle Marty would like to see him on one of his visits home. Marty and Harold loved to sit for hours and tell Max of their days seeing legendary baseball greats like Ruth, Gehrig, Jimmy Foxx, and Lefty Grove in the 1920s and ’30s.

  The weekend zoomed by, marked by good food and a lot of rest. Max hopped into his car Sunday after dinner to head back to his home in Nesquehoning. As he left, Max’s mother followed him out to the car. He rolled down the window as she approached.

  “Nancy tells me you met someone at work?”

  “She’s exaggerating, Mom. There’s a new woman who is an intern at the paper. We’ve become friends, and nothing more.”

  “Is she Jewish?”

  “I doubt it.”

  With that, Max pulled away.

  Max came into the office Monday hours before his scheduled 4:30 p.m. start time. He generally came in way before his prescribed hours, fueled by an eagerness to get started and the fact there was nothing else to do in this rural town.

  And like the week before, a piece of paper was stuck between the rollers of his Selectric. It was another note to call Jack Devlin but without the previous sense of urgency. Why keep the man waiting? Max thought as he dialed the number he now knew by heart.

  “Max, glad you called me back. Listen, I’ve made progress on the Sunday Squad I told you about. I arranged for a meeting on Wednesday for the four of you to meet. I’ve already spoken to Tom. We’ll get together at 10 a.m., so maybe you and Tom can ride together.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Devlin added. “I read the copy on your first lunch review. You sure know food and have a way with words—it’s hilarious. Sorry, but it may be your last; we hired someone who worked at Rodale as our new food critic.”