Cogar's Despair (Cogar Adventure Series)

by Nate Granzow

  I gingerly made my way down the concrete stairs into the lecture hall, avoiding loitering students and backpacks as I stepped toward the podium. I licked my lips and cleared my throat before leaning in to the microphone.

  "Hey guys. I'm Grant Cogar. I'm with the Chicago Herald downtown, and I've been invited to give you a lecture today. A little bit about me: I've worked for the last ten years as a war and international news correspondent—"

  "Why are you wearing sunglasses?" interrupted a student from the back row. A wave of giggling followed.

  "I see you're one of the few college students who doesn't readily recognize the signs of a hangover, so I'll explain. After a night of overindulging in strong spirits, one's head aches with great ferocity, and lights that are ordinarily of an appropriate intensity become really fucking bright, amplifying said headache," I said, holding my hand over my brow as the room erupted with laughter.

  The professor, standing by the exit door, looked as though he was witnessing a murder, but was anchored to the floor, unable to leave.

  "But if you'd like, I'll lose the shades. In return, I only ask that you hold your energetic applause and desperate desire for an autograph, or in the case of all the lovely ladies in the audience today, my phone number, until the end of the lecture."

  I slid the glasses from my head, folded them, and hooked them over the microphone.

  "Today, I'd like to chat with you guys about writing. More specifically, let's focus on how correct writing doesn't always make for good communication. I can already hear your minds beginning to explode," I said, grabbing a bottle of water from inside the lectern and twisting off the cap. "Now many of you may think, in order to be considered a good writer, you have to memorize the dictionary and get a doctorate in English grammar. You're wrong. Sure, you have to have some background in using the language, and if your grammar is really, really bad, no editor will work with you. But once you've gotten a decent grasp of the fundamentals of writing, the rest comes down to understanding your craft and recognizing your audience."

  The room was surprisingly quiet, and, oddly, I found the silence to be more distracting than calming. Taking the plastic bottle cap between my middle finger and thumb, I flicked it into the audience. Pointing to the young woman who had caught it in her lap, I said, "Bring that up here after we're done and I'll sign it for you."

  I took a drink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  "At its core, the written language is a means to communicate—to translate thoughts and emotions to another person. But words are just the vessel. I've known plenty of obnoxiously intelligent folks who speak and write using words that send me, a professional writer, to the dictionary. Now they can pack sentences full of large, impressive vocabulary. Does that make them talented writers? Fuck no."

  I leaned against the lectern, propped my elbow against it and cradled my chin in hand.

  "Consider the last time you opened a textbook. In the case of those of you half-asleep in the back of the class, just pretend you know what I'm talking about. You read the first sentence, which spans half a page and sounds like it was pulled from a thesaurus, and you have to reread it a dozen times before you get the slightest sense of what its author was trying to say. Now, that may be impressive use of the language, and it may be grammatically correct, but it's shitty communication."

  The professor, whose face had assumed the color of an open blister, finally overcame his chagrin and yelled out, "Mr. Cogar, if you cannot control your language, I'll be forced to ask you to leave."

  Without looking at him, I waved dismissively and continued to speak.

  "If you want to communicate your ideas, don't be afraid of simplicity. Look at Hemingway’s work. He was one of the most famous authors in history. Why? Because his work was simple and clear, just like a well-written piece of journalism. The guy was a journalist, so that shouldn’t be surprising. As a reader, you sympathize with his characters because they speak like real people, and he describes them just like a journalist should: clearly and accurately. And not once does he send you to the dictionary.

  "Now look at Faulkner. Fucking Faulkner. This guy worshipped the run-on sentence and bored his readers to tears with long, masturbatory prose describing settings and people that, by the time you sift through all his crap, don’t interest you at all."

  I paused, rubbing my hands together as I tried to formulate a conclusion.

  "I guess the lesson here is that clear communication should always be your primary focus. I mean, make sure you've gotten all your facts in order, too—that's pretty damn important—but always remember that the person reading your work doesn't give a shit about your self-perceived writing talent or how adept you are at Scrabble. They just want the news, or to feel good, or to be entertained. And the best way to do that is to give them a clear, simple, enjoyable read. The best writers are the ones that can grab a reader's attention, shake them to their core, and leave them looking for the scissors so they can cut the article out and post it on their refrigerator."

  The hall was quiet for several seconds as the students waited for me to continue. I slapped the base of the microphone and smiled as the entire class jumped.

  "You guys have been great. I've gotta run and catch a flight, but I'll leave a stack of business cards here for you if you need a recommendation or something."

  I looked at the professor, arms crossed and an exaggerated frown plastered to his face, as his class whistled and applauded loudly.

  "Well, actually, I'm probably not your guy."

  5

  World Traveler

  After calling a taxi to take me home, I remembered that my ticket for that evening's flight to Korea was still sitting on Kailas's desk. The thought that I'd be forced to go to the Herald's offices sapped my every ounce of energy and any positive feelings I’d developed after giving my speech instantly. In more ways than one, the environment in those offices was the reason I never took a desk job. Setting foot inside the building filled me with the same sense of dread I got when going to the dentist. There had never been a visit that went pleasantly, and I always left the place feeling like someone had punched me in the mouth.

  Stepping onto the sidewalk outside the offices, I looked up at the large, pigeon-shit-covered brass lettering on the building's portico, sighed, shoved my hands in my pockets, and entered.

  "Well hello, Cogar," Kailas's administrative assistant said in her most seductive voice. She was a young woman, early twenties, with black hair that had been clumsily streaked with pink and white highlights. A licentious soul given to making open sexual advances at every opportunity, she treated me as her favorite target. Unfortunately, she was also the first person Kailas sent me to when it came to paperwork or payment.

  "Britney, how've you been? Still going for that degree in…what was it again?"

  "Beauty. I'm going to be a beautician."

  "Right," I said, trailing off as I looked around for any sign of Kailas.

  "I'm taking a semester or two off for now. You wouldn't believe how expensive it is to take those classes," she said, moving a pudgy finger to her hair and twirling a lock of it in miniature figure eights.

  "I probably wouldn't."

  "So did you take a break from your world travels just to come see me?"

  "As much of a perk as that may be, I actually came to get my ticket for Seoul. Kailas said it'd be here. By the way, is he in today?"

  "He's in a shareholder’s meeting all morning. Would you like me to leave him a message?" she recited mechanically.

  "Sure. But I'd better write it down. I don't think you'll want to recite this to him."

  She offered me a pen, and as I grabbed it near the tip, she made an exaggerated stroking motion down its length with her pointer finger and thumb; then giggled loudly. The innuendo was hardly subtle. Ignoring her advances, I jotted a quick note on a piece of company letterhead:

  Kailas:

  Quit pretending you're actually working in there. The next time
I come by, I expect you to wake up long enough to say 'hello'. I'll see you first thing when I get back. Pigfucker.

  —Cogar

  She glanced at the paper before folding it and placing it in her mailbox.

  "You're the only one I've ever met who talks to him like that. Most guys are super scared of Mr. Raahi. That's kinda sexy."

  "Um, thanks. Yeah, we go way back. I was giving him a hard time long before he became the big boss," I said, scanning her desk for anything resembling my airline ticket.

  "You must be looking for this," she said, sliding an envelope from her lap.

  "That's the one, thanks."

  Pulling it back toward herself playfully, she whispered, "Not so fast. I'll need something before I'll let you have it. I'd settle for a kiss."

  I felt a tinge of irritation as I smiled curtly at the buxom, far-too-scantily-clad-for-her-body-type woman before me. She must think of herself as a Moneypenny sort of character, I thought to myself. Plain, yet somehow the object of playful flirtation by the likes of every James Bond to walk into the office. Leaning in, I ignored her fire engine red lips, pursed, and pecked her forehead as I yanked the envelope from between her fingers.

  She laughed and licked her lips.

  "You're a tease, Mr. Cogar."

  "I'm not trying to be," I said over my shoulder, "Really."

  Quickening my pace as I passed by the grid of writers’ cubicles, I'd almost made it to the door when a trio of under-stimulated and underpaid staff members stopped me.

  "Cogar! Haven't seen you around here much lately. Been too busy bussing tables?"

  Irritated, I cast the man a disdainful look. Justin was on the sports beat and fancied himself an extraordinary athlete. Never seen without a skin-tight shirt and a protein shake in hand, he rarely made eye contact with those he was speaking with—not because he was timid, but rather because he was too busy admiring his physique in any and every reflective surface nearby. The other two men, the Herald's politics and culture editors, respectively, were decent guys, but clearly wanted a front row seat to the inevitable meeting of minds: or in the case of myself and Justin, the meeting of one mind and one dim-witted peanut.

  "I can't imagine how long you spent coming up with that gem, Justin, or how long you've been sitting on it, waiting for me to come back here," I said quietly. "And though you don't deserve to know this, I've actually been hard at work. I've started a job as a counselor—a kind of psychiatric therapist."

  "Really."

  "Yep. And though this may be a breach of patient confidentiality, you'll be happy to know your mother is well on her way to making peace with that partial abortion she had back in…when were you hatched, again?"

  "A real man doesn't resort to jokes about mothers."

  "Maybe, but even so, you'll never be half the man your mother is."

  The two bystanders looked at one another, eyes wide as they tried to restrain a laugh.

  "I'm plenty of man, believe me, Cogar. Just ask any of the girls around here."

  "We both know what you are, Justin. Now we're just haggling over the price. Besides, you really think any of the women here would admit to something as embarrassing as sleeping with a venereal cesspool like you?" Darting a look back at Britney's desk, I thought, well, with one exception. "I mean, it seems to me that if you really had so many women lining up for a night with you, they would have installed a gumball or vending machine filled with antibiotics around here," I said thoughtfully. The editors were now laughing out loud, hollering and slapping Justin on the back consolingly.

  "You know what, Cogar?" he said, stepping closer and flexing his arms. "I'd break you in half…" He paused, flustered and clearly trying to recollect the rest of the insult. "…But then I'd have to put up with two of you."

  I guffawed. This guy had the intellect of roadkill.

  "Damn, you got me."

  "Are you being sarcastic?"

  "Not a bit." I reassured. "But next time, I'll be ready. You wait."

  Justin grinned and looked defiantly at his coworkers, who, fully aware that I was in a hurry to get away and had only conceded to shut him up, smiled and shook their heads, still chuckling quietly.

  "Well, it's been great chatting, at least as fun as a colonoscopy without sedation, but I've got places to be. Afternoon, gentlemen," I said, nodding at the other two men as I made my exit.

  6

  Bo Bo and a Lesson in Childcare

  Later, at O'Hare International Airport, I settled into a plastic stadium seat far away from the other passengers, a Styrofoam cup of overpriced black coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. The day had turned windy, the November cold hinting at snow, and I could feel the chill seeping through the windows behind me as I unfolded my paper—propping it open like a shield against the outside world.

  I began to consider my plan of attack.

  Over the years I've learned that success in the journalism industry hinges largely upon whom you know—and every now and again, I knew the right people to make my job much easier. Harold Chamberlain, my fun-loving, wildly immature roommate from college, lived in Seoul, and had promised to show me around during my stay. Though it would be great to see him again, it was his father, Mr. Richard Chamberlain, United States Ambassador to South Korea, who would be my ticket to an exclusive story. He was sure to have some inside news for me, or connections to someone who did. After all, his son wouldn't have graduated if I hadn't dragged him to class.

  I was interrupted from my thoughts when a rubber ball—thrown by a young boy running rampant and unguarded in the terminal—slapped against the seat next to me. Spilling my coffee, I looked over the top of the newsprint to see him smiling devilishly. Reminding myself that I would go to prison for a long time if I yielded to the violent rage I felt festering beneath my collar, I wiped away the coffee that ran down the edge of the cup and unwrinkled my paper.

  "Piss off, kid."

  As though he'd interpreted my suggestion as a challenge, the ball flew back toward me again. Thwack.

  My eye began to twitch as I watched the ball roll back to its owner again.

  Setting my coffee in my seat's cup holder, I deliberately folded the newspaper in half, then in half again. Seeing the growing effect of his annoying behavior, the little punk tried his luck again. With a swing that would have had caused a minor league talent scout to do a double take, I batted the ball over the seating area, across the walkway, and into the kitchen of a fast food vendor. Smiling, I shrugged my shoulders at my young adversary, picked up my bag, and stood in line to board the plane.

  But, as I've found in so many other instances, overcoming one aggravation only led me to another.

  Waiting for the passengers in the aisle to leisurely put their luggage away and find their seats reminded me of arriving at the end of a traffic jam. As frustrating as it may have been standing still, it doesn't compare with the rage one feels when they finally spot the reason for the slowdown—the lead car's driver gawking as they leisurely putter by the scene of an accident.

  I felt that same fury building as I watched a heavyset man try to shove a bag large enough to fit a body into his overhead bin. Twisting the luggage back and forth, working it halfway into the cavity before repeatedly slamming the plastic door against it, he had worked himself into a blind frenzy—unwilling to accept defeat and let the flight attendant check the colossal container. Eventually flattening the other bags in the compartment sufficiently for the latch (much like the button on the big man's pants) to secure a tenuous hold, the line began moving again.

  As I approached the scene, I discovered, with great dismay, that my ticket number matched the seat beside him.

  "Howdy, fella. This seat yours?" he said, his voice drowning in a muddy Alabama accent as he motioned to the cushion beside him. I nodded curtly.

  "Boe Harlowe Jr., but you can call me Bo Bo. It's a pleasure, mister…"

  "Cogar. Grant Cogar. Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his outstretched hand.
>
  I knew Bo Bo's type. As good-natured as they might be, and though their intentions are undoubtedly friendly, the Bo Bos of this world have a predisposition to talk. Not to communicate, but to talk. There is a distinction. And no situation lends itself to the advantage of a talkative person the way a fourteen-hour direct flight does.

  "So where you from, son?" he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

  "Chicago," I said, jostling my bag between my feet and trying to avoid contact with my seatmate, whose large frame seemed to spill over the armrest that separated us. A stewardess bustled past, and I touched her arm gently.

  "Ma'am, do you suppose I could get a few of those cute little bottles of vodka or bourbon, or something?" I moved a wad of cash from my pocket into her hand.

  She dumped the bills into my lap.

  "You'll have to wait until the beverage cart comes around. As soon as we're airborne, we'll get started, okay?"

  Before I could respond, she hurried to the back of the plane.

  "Like the sauce, hmm?" Bo Bo said, jamming an elbow into my ribs playfully.

  "You know, even our Lord n' Savior Jesus Christ had hisself a glass of wine every now n' again. I'll join ya for a dose. My Uncle Tevester had one of the most purest, most p'werfulest recipes fer moonshine in all a lower Bama back n' the day."

  "That's fascinating, Bo Bo. I'm sure he'd be disgusted with the availability of booze on this flight, too," I said, thumbing through a pamphlet from my seat pocket.

  "Shore enough. So what brings ya round to Koreya?"

  "Business."

  "Yur in business, too? Well whaddya know. What kinda business you do, Mr. Cogar?"

  "Paper. Newsprint, mostly."

  "Well I don't know anything ‘bout that. I'm in coal."

  "Looking to export to Korea?"

  "You know it. You're a bright feller," he whistled loudly. "You see, them boys over there have a few mines, but they diggin' up nothin' but low-grade lignite—not good for much more n' heating a stove. We're looking to shimmy in on the bituminous and anthracite market."