I asked Gustav Hermann, the Post’s fount of information. His reply: “I assume you mean an editorial for this paper.”
No, I mean for Pravda.
“Yes.”
“The janitor can’t.”
What was it with Hermann and janitors? I had no time to think about that now, seeing as I carried the weight of an idea in my head. So I just stood there while he waited for me to double over. When I didn’t he gave up and fussed with the detritus on his desk, though toward what end I couldn’t say since the desk looked exactly the same after his fiddling.
Apparently out of ways to waste time, Hermann answered my question. “As you know, Hushley and the ME usually do the editorials, but if another staff member has something to say, and Hushley agrees with the gist of it, that staffer can write an editorial.”
“Then I’d like to write one.”
“About?”
“Aaron Skolnick’s speech.”
“What about it?”
“I liked it.”
I thought it impossible to frown and sneer at the same time, but Hermann proved me wrong.
“I’m sure Skolnick would be thrilled,” he said, “but your approval may not suffice for an editorial.”
“I’d relate it to the second vote on the ban.”
“We’ve already addressed that, and in case you’re interested, backed the university again.”
“But we should follow up.”
Hermann grabbed a copy pencil and rolled it between his paws. “The premise sounds weak to me but it’s Hushley’s call, so go ahead and present it to him. Don’t forget to duck though.”
He was becoming quite the comedian, but again I managed not to fall down laughing. Instead I proceeded to the editor-in-chief’s office. On my way I wondered what the hell I was doing. I not only had never caused trouble, I’d never written an editorial. What made me think I could perform either task now? Who planted that notion in my head? Aaron Skolnick and Frank Harris, that’s who.
Question the system. Rebel against it. Become troublemakers!
And let’s not forget, If you’re itching to share your insights, write an editorial.
Easy for them to say.
I could still back out; that would be the sensible thing to do. So naturally I barged ahead. As I approached Hushley’s office Rachel Solomon crossed my path and smiled, which, unbeknownst to her, provided some much-needed encouragement.
I knocked on the editor’s door.
“C’mon in, whoever you are.”
I went on in.
Fortunately, Hushley seemed in good spirits. “And what can I do you for on this fine spring day?” He motioned me to sit.
“I’d like to write an editorial.”
“You would, huh? What’s got you all fired up?”
“Aaron Skolnick’s speech.”
Hushley laced his hands across his midsection. “What about it? Short version.”
I’d learned the hard way that “I liked it” wouldn’t do, so I tried a different approach.
“He slammed capitalism, to no one’s surprise, but he also urged students to question the status quo. He said we shouldn’t act like, um, puppets.” I hesitated after the paraphrase before adding, “He told us to go out and cause trouble, and I agree. We should.”
I waited for Hushley to laugh in my face or throw me out on my ass. Instead he repeated “go out and cause trouble,” then added, “And you agree with that? And you want us to agree with that?”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s one thing for an old commie to suggest causing trouble, but for a university publication …” He left the rest to my imagination.
But I refused to back down like a risk-averse coward. “I believe he intended ‘making trouble’ as a metaphor, as a symbol for thinking independently, questioning those in power, troubling the smug and disturbing the righteous.”
Now how impressive was that?
Not at all to Hushley. “But what if you’re wrong. What if he didn’t mean it as some fancy metaphor? What if he was urging people to riot in the streets? Commies have been known to do that.”
“Taken in context, I don’t think he meant students should riot in the streets, or anywhere else for that matter. And since he didn’t specify what they should do to make trouble, we can use our own best judgment.”
Was I on a roll or what?
Hushley spun his chair around twice, making me dizzy. “Okay, give it a try,” he said after coming to a halt. Then he checked his watch. “You’ve got half an hour. That’ll give me enough time to write another if yours will get us arrested.”
I went from pleased to panicked in an instant. I had to think this thing through before I wrote it, and I thought slowly. Plus I wrote even more slowly. So for me a half-hour wasn’t nearly enough time to write a think piece.
“What length?” I asked. A sentence or two maybe?
“Charlie’s doing the long one, so you’ve got the quickie. About 150 words, which means get in and get out, like you were screwing a whore.”
He chuckled but I didn’t. Sex was still a sore spot with me. Then again, maybe he’d hit on a solution to my problem, namely a woman of the night. But I set that issue aside for the time being.
“Okay, a quickie it is.”
I left Hushley’s office in a sweat and returned to the reporter’s table. Ellen Drury was there now, sifting through her notes. She ignored me, for which I was grateful, but as a safety measure I sat as far away from her as possible.
I slid some carbon-backed paper into the Royal and started typing, trying not to think too hard. Ten minutes later I’d produced a thicket of words I could barely read for all the typos. But I scythed through them quickly, ex-ing out errors and typing in corrections. I counted a little over 200 words. I gritted my teeth and deleted a word here, a sentence there and, regretfully, an entire paragraph near the end. I retyped the piece and read it again.
This newspaper has praised the university for rescinding its prohibition against communist speakers on campus, since in our view exposure to a diversity of opinion is essential at an institution of higher learning. Now that Aaron Skolnick, editor and publisher of the communist newspaper Red Flag, has become the first so-called rotten commie to speak here in a decade, we’d like to reconfirm our approval.
We’re certain Mr. Skolnick converted no one to communism, as some feared might happen, though he did relish describing the alleged evils of capitalism. More important, in this paper’s opinion, the speaker encouraged students to think for themselves, to resist surrendering their minds to higher authority, to dissent from it when appropriate—to, as he put it, “make trouble.” At this university, as at any other, dissent is often helpful and appropriate. We wish to thank Mr. Skolnick for reminding us of that.
I glanced at the wall clock. This would have to do, even though I hadn’t acknowledged bending the speaker’s words a little to fit my purposes.
I marched back to Hushley’s office and handed him the copy. He pointed at the chair so I sat and mentally paced the room while he read.
After two or three “Hmms” he grabbed his copy pencil, made a few red marks, scribbled something at the bottom and slid the editorial back to me.
I knew it, even without seeing his remarks. He’d rejected the piece.
Using the pencil as a drumstick, Hushley tapped out his favorite ditty, then said, “Pretty good, especially for a first try at editorializing.”
I picked up the copy. He’d placed quote marks around “rotten commie” and changed “often” to “occasionally.” His initials appeared at the bottom.
I looked up.
“Concise and to the point,” Hushley said, “plus it won’t get us jailed. Give it to Charlie and tell him it’s for Monday’s edition.”
I left the editor’s office preening my feathers while knowing the editorial would ruffle Miss McCory’s. Well, that was the nature, and in some cases the purpose, of risk-taking.
Feather-ruffling.<
br />
Chapter 29
I needed a drink and I didn’t even drink. Not only had the Post received no responses to my editorial, which meant I’d stirred up nothing, including trouble, but I was getting second-rate assignments again. My latest was a boring feature on student apathy, specifically toward the school’s football team. I asked to be recused because I was also apathetic, if not antagonistic, toward the team. But Hermann insisted I do the piece.
“I don’t care what you think of the Tartars,” he said. “You’re a reporter. Set aside your opinions and do the story.”
Clearly he’d been talking to Frank Harris.
“In case you’re unaware of it,” Hermann droned on, “overcoming apathy is important … and I mean extremely important … to the university. Our alumni, particularly the moneybags who help support the school, love football and hate empty stadiums … if you get my drift. There’s not much the Post can do about student indifference toward the team, but we can help determine why it exists and let the university take it from there.”
“But—”
“So I suggest you do some man-in-the street interviews. Talk to people in the various schools … Law, Business, Engineering, Liberal Arts and so forth. Ask them if they attend Tartar home games, and if not, why not.”
Seriously? Ask them why they didn’t piss away part of their precious Saturdays watching inept teams play lousy football in a sorry-ass stadium badly in need of repairs? Most metropolitan college teams sucked because talented athletes didn’t exactly flock to them, not when they could get scholarships to prestigious institutions like the University of Michigan and Michigan State University. This left WSU with jocks more adept at scratching their balls than scoring touchdowns. But even if students, for reasons beyond comprehension, loved the Tartars, most of them had neither the time nor the energy to attend the team’s games, seeing as they came from lower- to middle-class families who expected their offspring to pay for their own college education, meaning they encouraged them to work part-time while carrying a full load of classes.
It took me several days to conduct the interviews, since I worked part-time and carried a full load of classes, but in the end they merely substantiated my theory, which is not bragging since Gracie Allen could have connected those dots.
I submitted the story on Friday afternoon and got a “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” from Hermann, along with a rewrite request. He approved the second draft with his usual effusive praise—“For someone who didn’t want to cover this story, you did a satisfactory job.”
Thus buoyed, I did several victory laps while looking forward to an evening with Catcher in the Rye, the lovely Miss Russell and my collection of forty-fives. I’d no sooner exited the office than two pairs of hands at my back urged me down the stairs and out the street-level door. It was only on the sidewalk that I discovered who the hands belonged to.
“Hey, social butterfly,” Bill Hollings said. “We’re going over to Sal’s and insist you join us for once.”
“You can’t fool your old buddies,” Dewey Clifford said. “You’re a sinner in disguise. But trust me, one little old drink won’t blow your cover.”
Though not, strictly speaking, buddies with either of these guys, I’d come to like them both. I appreciated Hollings’ affability and self-deprecating style, as well as his integrity, since as far as I knew he never bartered an article for an ad. And I admired Clifford’s skills, not only as an entertainer, but as a reporter who could also write—a rare combination, seeing as most reporters could do one or the other but not both. And don’t ask me to assess my own skills, though as I’ve said I may have become a pretty good reporter.
I’d been through this stop-being-a-snob routine with other staff members, who periodically invited me to have an après-deadline drink with them at Sal’s Bar & Grill, around the corner from the Post. But the prospect of becoming another Uncle Marvin still frightened me, so I’d declined their invitations. Thus far I’d cited my work schedule, but Friday was my day off. Rather than lie to Hollings and Clifford, I tried my old standby.
“I’m underage.”
Clifford snorted. “Bars around here serve toddlers.”
“Fetuses,” Hollings corrected.
“Besides,” Clifford said, “there’s no law says you gotta drink alcohol. Have a glass of water, or something equally disgusting.”
Hollings squeezed my shoulder. “The important thing is, we’d like your company.”
This pierced my armor, since I was vulnerable to any remark remotely suggesting that someone liked me. In this weakened state I recalled that night at The Cottonpicker when I’d confined myself to one or two Cokes. So I capitulated. “Okay I’ll go, but for only a short time.” As in for only one drink. Non-alcoholic.
With a cherry on top.
#
The tension I felt over visiting a bar eased somewhat as I entered Sal’s, whose buoyant atmosphere teemed with good cheer and friendly chatter. I felt even better, though a bit nervous, when Rachel Solomon joined us at the large round table we’d selected. She sat next to me and offered one of her radiant smiles, which I tried, but no doubt failed, to emulate.
I groped for something clever, or at least welcoming, to say but that was beyond my capacity, at least for the moment. Which is why I felt grateful when the waitress arrived to take our orders.
“Coke,” Rachel said.
“Me too. With a cherry on top.”
The rest of the gang ordered pitchers of beer.
“You don’t drink alcohol?” Rachel asked after the waitress departed. The prospect seemed to please her.
“I’m not twenty-one.”
She gestured toward the others. “Neither are they.”
I shrugged. “I guess I don’t want to.”
Rachel offered her second smile of the evening, this one even more glittering than the first. “Good man,” she said, and for a second I felt like one.
But then my eyes grew restless under her steady gaze and, with a mind of their own, strayed to the scooped neck of her rust-colored dress. With no little effort I redirected them, first to my lap, then to the empty booth to our right, both of which offered little of interest.
When our orders arrived, not nearly soon enough to suit me, Rachel raised her glass. “To us teetotalers.”
We clinked and resumed our silence.
This time Dewey Clifford rode to the rescue by launching into his act, which, perhaps fueled by booze, he performed with even more zeal than usual. After his finale—dead-on impressions of presidents Hillberger and Eisenhower—he basked in the applause arising not only from our table but from neighboring patrons as well.
“Dewey’s good, isn’t he?” Rachel said after the ovation faded.
“And funny. You can’t help but laugh even when he’s making fun of you.”
“Huh. I hope he never does me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think I could handle it.”
I started to assure her she could, without a speck of evidence to support such a claim, but then a striking Negro woman strode through the door and diverted my attention. At a distance she resembled Amanda, but as she approached I could see her skin was darker and her chest more modest. Still, her similarity to the real thing quickened my pulse.
Rachel placed her hand on my forearm. “Is something the matter?”
“No, everything’s fine.” I grinned like an idiot to prove it.
As the woman passed she waved at someone behind us and to our left. Craning my neck, I saw her grab a stool next to a muscular black guy at the bar. They exchanged a few words and she laughed, a full-throated Amanda laugh, so naturally I envied him.
Rachel shook my shoulder. “You sure everything’s all right? You look a little funny.” She followed my gaze. “Oh, I see. She’s very attractive, isn’t she?”
Yes, and of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into this one. I wondered what Rick Blaine would do. Probably get plowed.
“She’s all right,” I said.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous and you know it. You can say so … I won’t feel threatened.”
That’s because you’re pretty and smart and at ease with yourself, while I’m sitting here like a moron pining over—what? A lost love? As if I had one to lose.
Belatedly, I wondered what Rachel meant by “I won’t feel threatened?” A woman might say that to a husband or boyfriend, but my colleague was a long way from being my wife or girlfriend. Was she hinting at something? You never knew with women. Or maybe it was just me. Maybe I alone never knew.
Stop it, schmuck. You’re overthinking again. Assume she wants to be more than colleagues and do something about it.
But what if her comment meant nothing of the sort? What if I came on to her and she pushed me away? Could I survive being rejected again?
And therein lay the problem—fear of rejection. That’s why I hadn’t gone after Amanda. I was afraid she’d turn me down again. Yet the more I thought about it, the more certain I was she expected me to pursue her. Wonderman insisted that women said no when they meant yes because they wanted men to chase after them, which made them feel desirable (though that’s not quite how he put it).
I glanced around the table. None of these people seemed afraid of anything, including rejection. From all appearances, they were comfortable with themselves, each other and the entire universe. Even Charlie Swanson looked contented, and women probably rejected him on first sight, seeing as he weighed five hundred pounds after one of his diets. I wondered how Charlie and the others did it—achieved contentment.
I brooded over this enigma while the ME refilled everyone’s mugs. And then a strange thing happened. The pitcher in front of him spoke to me (and no, I’m not kidding).
“Hey, you, I see that look in your eyes. I’ve seen it enough times before. You want me, and if it will make it any easier, I want you too. So don’t just sit there with your tongue hanging out. Take me … right here, right now, in front of all these people.”
Charlie caught me staring and raised the pitcher, along with an eyebrow.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 13