Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  “Some in the service, but mainly I self-edited. The Navy isn’t exactly loaded with journalists.”

  “We’re not overstaffed here either. The publisher calls himself Editor-in-Chief but I’m really it. He’s seldom in his office, always off giving a speech to some organization or attending an out-of-town conference.”

  Did I detect a note of pique?

  “Anyway,” Doppler continued, “our reporters wear two hats, so we test applicants on both their writing and editing skills. That one test, if you ask me, is worth a thousand clippings.” He smiled, revealing two rows of even white teeth. “Still interested?”

  “What would I be covering?”

  I didn’t really care but wanted to sound inquisitive, as befitted the job. Plus I was stalling because I hated tests.

  “You’d be in charge of a new Dearborn Heights section we’re launching this month,” Doppler said. “It’ll cover politics mainly … city hall, city council, the school board and so on.”

  I knew next to nothing about the Heights, except it was a small suburb bordering Dearborn, and even less about politics, except I hated what I knew. But I wanted this job, so I assured him I was still interested.

  Doppler rose. “Then it’s time to take a test.”

  Right now? This minute?

  Have I mentioned lately how much I hate tests? In high school, college and the Navy, no matter how well-prepared I was, I got sick to my stomach before every exam. Prior to my last one, for Second Class Petty Officer (which I passed, by the way), I came this close to barfing. Now, unexpectedly, I had to take another test.

  Instantly I felt nauseous.

  Chapter 50

  Wonderman freshened my drink from a quart-bottle of Seagram’s. “So you bout to be a workin man again. Thass good. Fact, thass real good.”

  He was right except for the tense and mood. That would be good if Doppler ever called me.

  My friend and I were seated in the living room of his tiny apartment, located on Rivard Street in a neighborhood populated mostly by Negroes. He’d invited me with a note of challenge in his voice, and, of course, I’d accepted the dare. Not that I didn’t harbor misgivings. Call me biased, bigoted, prejudiced or racist—the latter being the trendy term for racial intolerance—but a black neighborhood seemed dangerous ground to me, which is why my heart beat faster walking from the Buick parked curbside to the main entrance of Wonderman’s apartment building, the Eastside Arms. I don’t know why the area scared me. Maybe because, in my mind at least, blacks were eager to avenge themselves on whites for the segregation and humiliation they’d suffered, and of course for the lynching and enslavement of their ancestors. And no, the fact that a black man was one of my few friends and a black woman still the object of my desire did not allay this fear. Nor did Wonderman’s neighbors help any by staring at me like I was a one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater. In fact, on the short walk to his apartment I gave myself an ass-chewing for not suggesting that we meet in neutral territory, or even at The Cottonpicker. What was I trying to prove by agreeing to visit him in his apartment, in this neighborhood? How brave I was? How fair-minded and honorable? Or maybe how stupid. Regardless of what I was or wasn’t trying to prove, my fears slowly dissolved inside Wonderman’s cozy, comfy living quarters. And yes, a little booze may have relaxed me too.

  After topping off my drink, Wonderman did the same with his and set the bottle on the scuffed table next to the couch on which I was sitting. He then returned to the threadbare chair opposite.

  “So when you gonna start that new job?” he asked.

  “I told you. I don’t have it yet.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I was interviewed, as well as tested.”

  “Well, when you gonna find out fo sure?”

  “The managing editor said he’d let me know one way or the other within a week.”

  “And you seen him last Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  Wonderman tilted his head back and gazed at the spidery crack in the ceiling. “This be Thursday,” he said, as if he’d consulted a calendar. “Cat bout to be overdue.”

  Of that I was well aware. I must have flunked the tests, the interview or both.

  “I guess I didn’t get the job,” I said.

  Saying that out loud was more painful than thinking it, so I took more of my anesthetic. Then more and more and still more after that, until by the time I left the apartment I was feeling no pain.

  Or at least not as much.

  #

  The phone rang the next morning while I was nursing a hangover. I picked it up anyway and muttered a greeting of sorts.

  “H’lo.”

  “Nate?”

  “Uh.”

  “Phil Doppler.”

  That sobered me up.

  “Sorry to take so long getting back to you,” he said. “It’s been a hell of a week. Our lead story fell through, a key advertiser pulled out, our press broke down, and the publisher was in Hawaii so I had some extra chores to perform. Again, sorry, but I think you can understand why I’m a little tardy.”

  I could, but how long does it take to deliver bad tidings? Five seconds?

  “Well, when can you start?”

  “I beg your pardon?” I must have heard wrong.

  “I said when can you start?”

  “You mean you’re hiring me?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. You beat out four other finalists.”

  I groped for words of gratitude and came up with, “Um, thank you. I mean, uh … thank you.”

  Good thing verbal dexterity wasn’t on the test.

  “No, thank you,” Doppler said. “You did extremely well on those tests. Highest score ever on each of them, in fact. We’re looking forward to having you.”

  So I’d gotten the job. With the highest scores ever. Maybe Doppler wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  Now if only I could skip the next order of business.

  I liked getting a salary, but hated haggling over it almost as much as searching for the job in the first place. To me, negotiating a salary was like walking a tightrope. If I asked for too much, I might kill the deal. If I asked for too little, I might shortchange myself.

  But I had to do this, so I started across the rope. “Um, we haven’t discussed, uh—”

  “Salary. We’ll talk about that when you come in. I think you’ll find we’re competitive with other weeklies. Can you start Monday?”

  What was I going to say? No?

  I chose “Yes” instead.

  “Good. Nine o’clock then?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Without knowing my salary. Was that normal?

  We hung up and I put the question aside to savor the moment. I had my first professional newspaper job. On a respected publication. Across the street from Jane Bartolo.

  I almost felt good.

  #

  I waited until dinner to tell my parents.

  “You got a job? On a newspaper? How wonderful!” Mom celebrated by taking a bite of lamb chop.

  “What’s it pay?” Dad managed through a mouthful of cooked corn.

  “What does it matter?” My mom asked. “It’s his first job as a journal. No, that’s not right. What do you call it?”

  “Journalist. But you can call me reporter.”

  “Porter, shmorter,” Dad said. “What’s it pay?”

  I shrugged.

  “What’s that mean?” He imitated the shrug. “You’re starting a job without knowing what it pays?”

  Before I could answer, Mom said, “Al, why not congratulate him instead of badgering him about money.”

  “I’m looking out for his interests. Somebody has to because he certainly won’t.”

  “Al—”

  “He lets people walk all over him.”

  I started to object, then realized he might have a point. I wasn’t the most aggressive person in the world, and sometimes I served as a doormat. So I dropped my o
bjection and started to explain.

  “The ME and I—”

  “Em-ee?” Dad’s brow knitted. “What the hell’s an em-ee?”

  “Managing editor. The managing editor and I—”

  “Then why didn’t you say that? I hate acronyms. Everything’s an acronym these days. Reminds me of the service. The acronym part I didn’t like.” He shoveled in some mashed potatoes.

  I tried again. “The managing editor and I will discuss pay when I start on Monday.”

  “I see. Well, don’t let him take advantage of you.”

  “Al, our son’s a grown man.”

  I took advantage of this observation. “Speaking of which, I intend to look for an apartment tomorrow.”

  I casually cut into my lamb chop.

  “You’re moving out?” Mom asked none too happily. “We knew it would happen sooner or later, but are you sure right now’s a good time, with you starting a new job and all? You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. You know that.”

  She put down her knife and fork, a clear distress signal. I offered her solace by explaining my decision.

  “The job is why I’m moving now instead of later. It’s too long a commute from here. And besides, at my age I should have a place of my own.”

  “All the more reason to get paid well,” Dad said.

  Mom picked up on the age reference. “What do you mean, ‘at my age’? You’d think you were an alter kocker, like us.”

  “Who’s an alter kocker?” Dad objected.

  She ignored him. “Do you need money? You’ve gone for months without a job and we’ve got a little saved up and—”

  “Me too,” I assured her. “I have some money in the bank, so don’t worry.”

  “King Midas,” my dad said. “Maybe you could lend us some money. We’d pay interest, of course—”

  “Al, why must you be such a sour grape? He’s leaving soon ”—her voice faltered a bit—“so be a little nice for once.”

  “For once? I’m nice all the time. In fact, I’m the nicest person I know. People are always saying to me, ‘What a nice guy you are. If only I could be that nice …’”

  “You’re hopeless, is what you are,” Mom said. “You’re such a … a …”

  They could go on like that all night, so instead of listening I contemplated sharing my news with someone who’d appreciate it.

  And you know who I’m talking about.

  Chapter 51

  I got up early the next morning and mapped out the day. Buy my first automobile. Rent my first apartment. And, come nightfall, celebrate my first newspaper job. At Mario’s, naturally.

  I expected the first two stops to go well because I knew what car I wanted—a used 1961 Falcon I’d spotted at a dealership on Livernois Avenue—and I knew where I wanted to live, namely Dearborn Heights, seeing as it was my beat, close to work and less expensive than Dearborn. Despite this last virtue, I couldn’t afford the rent and car payments unless Doppler came through, but I felt lucky after losing a ten spot to Sheldon, which I saw as a win because betting against myself helped get me the job.

  So I was sitting on the doorstep of Jack Sanford’s Used Cars when it opened that morning, and probably made the salesman’s day by buying the shiny black Falcon on payment, without a moment’s wrangling. My first stop in my new used car was Maisy’s Coffee Shop in Dearborn Heights, where I picked up a Gazette and went over the classifieds. A furnished one-bedroom apartment on Cherry Hill Road caught my eye, so I drove over there, found it to my liking and paid the first month’s rent.

  In case you haven’t guessed it, I hate shopping, so I try to get in and get out, like I was screwing a …

  Never mind.

  Anyway, after renting the apartment I headed for my parents’ house, collected my belongings, took a blood oath to visit them on Sundays for dinner, and returned to my new digs. Since all my possessions fit in the Falcon’s trunk, it took only a half-hour to stow them, after which I sat in the living room and smoked a Lucky while admiring my first bachelor pad, which came complete with shag carpeting, wicker furniture and freshly painted walls, from which hung exciting pastel prints of fruit bowls, cornfields and flower gardens. I also luxuriated in being on my own for the first time—the Navy didn’t count, since its officers were parental surrogates, despite what Shipley had to say about teachers and mommies and all that.

  Finished savoring my freedom, I moved on to the day’s final stop.

  #

  Jane Bartolo’s reaction to the news of my new job exceeded all my expectations. These had run pretty high to begin with because the woman responded with robust enthusiasm to almost everything, but especially to a triumph, either hers or someone else’s. And in a way my getting hired by the Gazette was a victory for both of us, since it was she who suggested, or rather insisted, I apply there.

  Following my announcement she clapped her hands, tousled my hair, hopped about behind the bar and exclaimed, loud enough for all the ships at sea to hear, “You got it! You got it! You got it!” At a slightly lower volume she asked, “Well, what’re we gonna do about it?”

  What’re we gonna do about it? Jane seemed to be hinting at something for which I dared not hope, although, as I’ve said, I clung to the possibility—however minute—that such a miracle might occur. So why not take advantage of this overture, if that’s what it was? But what if it wasn’t? What if Jane meant something else entirely? I had no idea what that might be, but then my ability to fathom the female mind was limited at best. If she did mean something other than what I hoped she meant, by acting otherwise I might screw things up between us, whatever those things were. Rather than chance a catastrophe by assuming too much, I requested clarification.

  “We? You mean you and I? Together?”

  “No, I mean you, me and Lady Bird. Maybe LBJ too if he’s got the time.”

  “I, uh, well …”

  Jane looked at me strangely, or maybe like I was strange. “Nate, are you that dense or are you putting me on? Or maybe you’re just chickenshit.”

  A little more information might be useful here. I was chickenshit about a lot of things, so exactly which thing did she have in mind? Maybe another whiskey would help clarify things.

  I held up my shot glass. “Make it a double.”

  With that Jane threw me further off-balance by caressing my cheek, however briefly. “I’m sorry, I was out of line. It’s just that … I mean … oh, never mind. I’ll get you your drink.”

  Jane sashayed off and I shifted on my stool to face the room, hoping to distract myself from that strange exchange. As usual on a Saturday night, Mario’s teemed with celebrants, and also as usual, its corpulent owner hopped from table to table, topping off drinks and assuring his customers their satisfaction was his only desire. They no doubt bought this line because Mario Banducci could sell falsies to Jayne Mansfield. As proof of how persuasive he was, he’d convinced local businessmen, now among his most avid customers, that his bar wasn’t just any bar featuring half-naked women jiggling their boobs and shaking their butts. His place had class. And I suppose in a way it did, seeing as Mario’s performers were young, energetic and, in some cases, reasonably intelligent, raising them several cuts above your average go-go dancer.

  One well-endowed example was the redhead currently on stage. Sweet Caroline and I sometimes chatted between her routines, and if you asked me she was smarter than most college professors. For instance, last week she proposed a law forbidding members of Congress from voting for war unless they’d fought in one. I wasn’t sure I agreed with this one-war-one-vote proposal, but at least it stimulated my thinking, which was more than I could say for those schmucks at Wayne State.

  After Caroline finished her performance I turned back to the bar, where Jane was setting down my drink.

  “You like?” Her gaze followed the receding ecdysiast.

  “Uh-huh,” I said with diplomatic restraint.

  “She’s a pretty good dancer too,” Jane conceded.r />
  I answered by disposing of my drink in one gulp. A couple shots later I called it a celebration and paid my tab, leaving, as was my habit, a sizable tip. Jane expressed her gratitude with a smile and a frown, a paradox that stayed with me as I left Mario’s but had vanished by the time I got home.

  And yet the next morning I did remember my dream of the night before, the one starring Jane Bartolo, go-go dancer.

  Chapter 52

  If I’d checked the Gazette staff box in advance I might have avoided a near-heart attack upon meeting my new colleagues on Monday morning. Make that two near heart attacks.

  The close calls followed the money summit with Doppler, which was far less stomach-churning than I expected, mainly because I refused to negotiate. He offered me one hundred dollars a week and I immediately accepted. My dad the salesman might have handled things differently, but I’d never made that much money in my life so I decided not to arm-wrestle.

  I was contemplating ways of spending this fortune when Doppler, sitting across from me at his super-tidy desk, suggested we meet the rest of the staff. He informed me the crew consisted of two other editors, city and religion. The Gazette’s sports editor had left for greener pastures last year and instead of hiring a replacement Doppler brought me on board for the Heights section. He and the other editors now covered the sports beat, which in Dearborn meant high school football, though baseball, basketball and wrestling received modest attention. Doppler intimated he might ask me to cover a game from time to time but I said, to myself anyway, if he ever did I’d commit hara-kiri.

  Just kidding.

  Probably.

  #

  On the way to our first stop I noticed how quiet the building was, how devoid of the commotion that marked the Daily Post. No clacking typewriters, no nagging editors, no yammering reporters. It seemed everyone here operated behind closed doors. As we marched down the hall, the only sound I heard was our footsteps.

  Upon arriving at a door marked City Editor, Doppler knocked and entered without invitation. I followed him in.

  Sitting at a modest-sized desk, bent over a lined notepad, was a woman. This in itself surprised me, as I’d never seen a female editor. I knew they existed, so the sight didn’t induce a heart attack. But when she raised her head I nearly had one.