Madman's Thirst

by Lawrence de Maria

  Pearsall had their attention now. At their age they all thought they were immortal, and liked hearing it.

  “Your words, and the phrases they form, can be traced directly back to the first words ever written, in whatever language. Since nothing is ever really destroyed on Earth, merely recycled, some scientists argue that every breath that we take contains at least a few molecules that were breathed by Aristotle, Da Vinci, Lincoln – and by Adam and Eve. And Moses, and even Jesus Christ. And the molecules you are exhaling this very moment will be breathed in by someone 10,000 years from now.”

  “Hey, Kowalski, you’d better spring for some breath mints,” a linebacker named Phelps said, to laughter. They were having fun, which Pearsall relished.

  “Written words are like those molecules. Every word written today had its genesis in something written by an ancient. Cicero, the prophets, the apostles, Caesar etc. And every word written today – every word you will write – will influence future generations. Whether you believe that intelligent life is limited to our blue planet, or is common in the universe, man’s ability to write – on the printed page or electronically – is one of the marvels of creation. Imagine how many billions, trillions of words have been written or uttered since language was developed. Some say writing is an art. I would argue that it is the ONLY art, from which all else developed. And journalism, done right, is one of the noblest professions of mankind. We will all be journalists of one kind or another, and pass down our thoughts to the future, but those of you who may someday make a living as working journalists have a special responsibility to tell the truth, to show courage and to serve the greater good.

  “Those who criticize the media – rightly, in many instances – could not live without it. People needed to hear about Pearl Harbor, didn’t they? The attack on 9/11? The stock market crash? They want to know who is stealing from the city coffers, if a tornado or hurricane is heading their way. They might also like to know if someone is knocking over convenience stores, or if there is a murderer on the loose.”

  Pearsall’s voice thickened slightly and he cleared his throat. None of the kids appeared to notice. The moment passed. He walked over to his desk and sat down again, looked at the quarterback and smiled.

  “On a local level, they like to read about how their favorite teams do. They want to see their kid’s name in the paper, or on TV, when he hits a home run or scores a touchdown. Who is getting married. And let’s not forget obituaries. The last kind words we can say about family, friends and neighbors. Does anyone want to leave this vale of tears without being noticed by the communities we live in? Journalists make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Pearsall decided that he had done enough proselytizing. Any more and he might lose them.

  “By the end of this semester, I hope to give you some practical grounding in the ‘art’ of journalism – which at the very least will help you in whatever careers you carve out for yourselves in the future. After all, being aware of your surroundings and having the ability to put thoughts down succinctly, whether on a page or computer screen, is a powerful competitive asset. I also hope to impart some sense as to why journalism is in ‘crisis,’ and where it may be headed in the 21st Century. You will be asked to read examples of what I consider execrable journalism.”

  “What kind of journalism?”

  It was one of the lineman.

  “Shitty,” Pearsall said, and everyone laughed. “To earn your three credits you will also be required to write articles.” He saw several of the linemen roll their eyes. “Don’t worry, it will be a collaborative effort. I will break you up in teams, so that you can brainstorm, and combine your strengths. Some of you may be writers, others editors. You will soon find out the difference.”

  Pearsall went behind his desk and sat down. He picked up the class roster.

  “Now, let’s get to know one another. I suggest you take notes. You may be writing about each other by the end of the semester.”

  ***

  It was a 20-mile drive from the campus to Pearsall’s two-bedroom log cabin on Bracken Lake. It was isolated; the nearest neighbors a quarter of a mile away on either side, or across the lake. He had purchased it 12 years earlier and cherished the vacations he spent there with Ronnie and Elizabeth. They had walked the spectacular woods, fished and swam off the small dock. At night they read or played Trivial Pursuit or gin rummy. The nearest movie, supermarket and restaurant were 10 miles away.

  Pearsall was surprised to see a car parked in his driveway. It was empty. He walked to the rear of the cabin and saw a man standing on his deck looking out at the lake. The man turned at his approach and walked to meet him. .

  “Jake Scarne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everett called and said you might be coming by.”

  “I hope it’s no trouble.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “No trouble. But why didn’t you just call?”

  “I have something to tell you. Not the kind of thing I’d use a phone for. I hope you don’t mind me coming back here by the lake. It’s so beautiful.”

  “Not at all. The view belongs to everybody.”

  A fish swirled in the water next to the dock.

  “Bass?”

  “Pickerel,” Pearsall said. “You must be thirsty. How about I throw a few bottles of beer in a bucket.” He pointed to a pair of Adirondack chairs on the grass by the water’s edge. “We can sit and talk until it gets too cold.”

  ***

  By the time Scarne finished his tale, they had each consumed three bottles of Duck-Rabbit Amber Ale, an excellent local brew. Pearsall heard Scarne straight through, without comment. The only signs of distress were a few heavy sighs and a brief turning of his head while he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “I debated whether to tell you at all, Bob. It finally came down to one thing. If it was me, I’d want to know.”

  Scarne could see people on their lawns across the lake from them. A faint smoke smell and the scent of broiling meat drifted their way and competed with the bracing odor of pine and moss.

  “I owe you and Mack a debt I can never repay,” Pearsall said. “Why did you get involved? Dudley I understand. He was sweet on Ronnie. But we hardly knew one another. This has caused you a lot of trouble.”

  “I was at a point in my life when I needed to do something right. I had a bad experience on a case that made me feel sorry for myself. I was coasting, afraid to get involved in anything that might involve me emotionally. I was letting myself go physically, and mentally. Not anymore. So, you don’t owe me a damn thing.”

  ***

  The sun had set and the sky was clear and rife with stars. Neither man wanted to go in. So Pearsall brought out sweaters and set out a small wooden table, on which he placed a bottle of Jack Daniels, some glasses, ice and a platter of thick ham sandwiches. They were both soon slightly drunk.

  “You know, Jake, after Elizabeth was murdered, I considered the possibility there might be a connection to my job.”

  Scarne was startled and said so.

  “I don’t mean right away. At first, I went off the deep end. I guess you know that. Just had to get out of there. But after I came down here I had time to think. It was by no means a certainty. But I didn’t rule it out.” He was quiet for several moments. “We had a great life on Staten Island as kids. Like living in the Midwest, in the midst of the biggest city on Earth. Even later, when I got married, it was pretty decent. When you have kids, you reconnect with old friends because their kids are going to school with yours. Parties, barbecues where three, four generations knew each other. A lost world. Never happen again.” He was silent longer this time. “Those bastards are trying to turn the Island into a sewer. Barbarians. Greedy fucking barbarians.”

  EPILOGUE – ONE MONTH LATER

  Evelyn Warr walked into Scarne’s office folding back the Metro Section of The New York Times to one of its inside pages. She placed the paper on his desk and tapp
ed a story. Scarne stopped opening some mail he had collected from his apartment mailbox on the way to work. He picked up the paper and saw the small two-column headline that Evelyn had helpfully circled in red:

  Staten Island Editor

  Resumes Position

  By Robert Huber

  (New York) - The Richmond Register announced today that Robert Pearsall is returning as City Editor. Mr. Pearsall, a Pulitzer Prize winner, is currently an adjunct professor at Bracken College, a small liberal arts institution in North Carolina. He will finish the semester and take up his duties in January, according to a statement released by Beldon Popp, the Register’s Managing Editor.

  “We are delighted that Bob Pearsall has agreed to come back to the Register,” Popp said. “No one cares more about Staten Island, its people and its history than Bob. During his watch as city editor, the paper reached new heights of professionalism and relevance.”

  That was an apparent reference to a series of articles on nursing home abuses that were commissioned by Mr. Pearsall and reinforced by opinion pieces and editorials he wrote himself. The coverage, which started out as a local borough story, exploded nationally when Mr. Pearsall dispatched reporters who uncovered similar abuses in the nursing home’s operations in other states. Mr. Pearsall and the Register won a Pulitzer, the only one in the 108-year-old daily’s history.

  Mr. Pearsall left the Register shortly after the death of his only child, Elizabeth, a high school honors student who was murdered during a botched daytime burglary of their home. Mr. Pearsall, who had recently lost his wife to cancer, received news of his daughter’s death while at work.

  Prior to that, Mr. Pearsall spent his entire career at the Register, starting as a young reporter on the night staff. A graduate of Wagner College in the Grymes Hill section of Staten Island ….”

  Scarne put the paper down and Evelyn surprised him with a very undignified high-five. He went back to his mail as she went about tidying up his office, a task that he didn’t deem necessary and often found annoying. But he wasn’t going to let anything bother him today.

  There was a letter from his co-op board. What now? Good humor gone, he slit the letter open angrily and began to read. Suddenly he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He handed her the letter, which she read aloud:

  “Dear Mr. Scarne:

  The board would just like to thank you for your quick response to our previous missive regarding your portion of the assessment for the building reconstruction project. Your funds have been placed in an interest-bearing account. Please be assured that should the project come in under budget, any remaining principal, plus interest, of course, will be refunded to you.”

  She looked at him.

  “Dudley?”

  Scarne grinned.

  “How do you think Pearsall will do?”

  “There’s more Pulitzers out there,” Scarne replied. “The barbarians who run Staten Island will find it tougher sledding now.” He put his feet on his desk and clasped his hands behind his neck. “You know, I’ve got a sudden craving for a jelly donut. How about calling down to the coffee shop for a couple?”