White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  “Peter,” M called to a man a few desks over who was wearing a green eyeshade, “this is Jordan. She’s starting today on society news. Peter’s a crime reporter.”

  Peter adjusted his visor and said, “Excellent,” only his voice had a squeaky-door quality to it, so it came out sounding more like, “Ehhhx-cellent.”

  “And this is Randy,” said M, turning the other direction. “He’s one of the staff artists.”

  Randy was a good-looking fellow with a long face and one of those dimples at the tip of his chin. I stole a peek at the editorial cartoon he was working on as I said hello, but he didn’t bother to respond. He didn’t even open his mouth other than to sing along with a jingle playing over his radio: “Winston tastes good like a”—BANG-BANG—he tapped his pencil on the desk—“cigarette should. . . .”

  The floor began to shake and a rumbling came up from the bowels of the building. I watched the coffee in Randy’s cup ripple like a calm lake that someone had thrown a pebble into. The quaking seemed to coincide with Randy’s BANG-BANG but was completely unrelated. No one seemed concerned and that’s when I realized they were used to this. Of course. It was only the printing presses in the basement starting to roll.

  M continued with the introductions, walking me to some nearby desks. Walter Harris was a pipe-smoking, fast-talking political reporter with a jet-black flattop who grunted a hello. He sat opposite Henry Oberlin, who stopped typing long enough to stuff a handful of Frosted Flakes in his mouth while an unattended cigarette smoldered in his ashtray. He had a ring of pale blond hair around an otherwise balding head. He gazed at me and mumbled what I took to be a “hey” and went back to his story.

  With each introduction I felt a little smaller. It was clear that these new colleagues had no interest in who I was, where I came from or what I was there to do. They were also all men, and frankly, I was surprised that M had bothered taking me around in the first place.

  Although when she walked me over to the next desk, no introduction was needed. I recognized him right away. Marty Sinclair was a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist who had a weekly column and whose byline frequently appeared on page one. My father knew him, but I’d never met him before and I was rapt. To me Marty Sinclair was journalistic royalty. He was a brilliant reporter and an eloquent writer, and not all journalists could be both. I took a moment to observe the great master in action, how he kept his thick black glasses propped up on his forehead just above his eyebrows and gripped a pencil between his teeth as if it were an ear of corn. His necktie was tossed over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his hairless arms. He dropped his glasses to the bridge of his nose and looked at M for a second before his eyes landed on me.

  “Mr. Sinclair”—I reached out to shake his hand—“it’s an honor. I’m a huge fan.” My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I could hardly believe it. I’m meeting Marty Sinclair.

  He removed the pencil from his mouth and studied my face. I thought I detected the hint of a smile thawing on his lips, and it thrilled me.

  But before he could respond, Mr. Copeland, the city editor, shouted for him from the horseshoe. “Sinclair—over here!”

  “Jesus Christ. What now?” Marty shook his head.

  The spell between us was broken. He shoved himself away from his desk and went to the horseshoe to talk to Mr. Copeland and Mr. Ellsworth, the managing editor, who oversaw all the desks: the national, foreign, financial and city. I kept glancing back at the horseshoe. Marty’s arms were flailing. So were Mr. Ellsworth’s. Mr. Ellsworth was tall and lanky with a tidy beard and enough gray in his hair to suggest he’d paid his dues in the business. Marty Sinclair may have been the Tribune’s star reporter, but Mr. Ellsworth was the man behind the man. He controlled the center desk, and that was the heart and soul of the paper.

  Mr. Ellsworth had interviewed me two weeks before. I assumed he’d been expecting a man, because he glanced at my résumé and said, “Jordan, huh?” When he ignored my clips, I knew he wasn’t interested in bringing a girl onto the city desk, especially one straight out of school. Didn’t matter that I’d been the deputy editor of the Daily Northwestern or that I’d graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the Medill School of Journalism. Less than five minutes into our meeting, he’d sent me over to Mr. Pearson. A couple of girls in the features department had recently gotten married and quit, so Mr. Pearson had agreed to give me a break, writing for society news. During my interview I had told him that I’d like to work on some other types of stories, too.

  “I have some ideas for feature stories and—”

  Mr. Pearson had given me a look that stopped me mid-sentence. With his bristly brows knitted together, he said, “Society news. That’s the job, missy. Take it or leave it.”

  I took it, having already been shot down for the city desk job at the Daily News and the Chicago American. The City News Bureau and the Sun-Times never called me back for a second interview. I knew what Eliot would say if he were still alive: Just get your foot in the door. You’ll work your way onto the city desk. And that was exactly what I intended to do.

  Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland were still going at it with Marty. I was dying to know what they were arguing about because I was curious by nature. Always asking too many questions, sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. My father used to say, “Curiosity is the curse of a good journalist.” He also used to say, “Keep your ears open. People love to tell their secrets.”

  The last person M introduced me to was Benny, a young general assignment reporter, who was eighteen but looked about twelve. He had red hair and freckles and reminded me of Howdy Doody. Unlike the others, he was friendly, if not downright chatty. While I got situated at my desk and filled out the new-employee forms for Mrs. Angelo, Benny told me about his breakfast that morning.

  “I had a double-yolk egg.” The look on his face said, I still can’t believe it. “That ever happen to you?”

  “I don’t believe so. No.”

  “You crack open an egg and there’s two yolks. I mean what are the odds? Like finding a four-leaf clover.”

  “Aw, shut up over there with the yolks already,” said Walter.

  But Benny kept going. “I think that’s gotta mean something, don’t you? Like today’s my lucky day or something.”

  “It’ll be your lucky day if I don’t come over there and shut your trap. And yours, too,” Walter said to Randy, who was still singing the Winston jingle even though his radio was blasting Talent Scouts with Arthur Godfrey.

  A few minutes later Marty came back to his desk, muttering, “Subpoena me, my ass. . . .” He opened his top drawer and slammed it shut, knocking over the pencil cup on top. “I’m not going to jail over this, either. My word is my word.”

  “Hey, Marty,” said Walter. “You gonna burn your source or what?”

  “Fuck off.” Marty shoved his typewriter stand with such force it capsized and crashed to the floor. I gasped as papers, pens and everything else went flying. Marty didn’t flinch. He stepped over the carnage, grabbed his hat and stormed out of the city room.

  “Is he okay?” I asked, speaking through a splay of fingers.

  “Who, Marty?” Peter lifted his green eyeshade off his brow and rubbed his temples. “Oh, yeah, sure. Yeah, he’s fine. Just been under a lot of pressure lately is all.”

  “Give me a hand with this mess, will you?” M asked.

  I scampered around to the side and helped her put Marty’s desk back together. Funny, but not one of the men bothered to break from their work. It was assumed that we women would do the cleaning up. Not that I minded. After all, it was Marty Sinclair’s desk.

  I straightened up a fan of tricolored copy paper that recorded every word in triplicate. The top sheet was white—the original. The yellow page in the middle went to the editor, and the third sheet—the pink one—went to the copy editor.

  “What was that all about?” I asked M, who was still down on all fours, reaching for the pencil holder that had rolled
under Marty’s desk.

  “Mr. Copeland and Mr. Ellsworth want him to reveal his source for some story that ran the other day.”

  “Can they do that?” I’d always thought sources were protected, off-limits.

  “Well, it looks like he might be subpoenaed. Turns out that the identity of his source is becoming quite a news story all by itself.”

  I scooped up a handful of paper clips and stood up.

  “Five bucks says he caves.” Walter snorted as he gripped his pipe with his back teeth, struck a match and sucked the flame into the bowl.

  “I don’t know about that.” Randy tucked a pencil behind his ear. “You think he’ll give up his source?”

  “Be a goddamn stupid move on his part.” Walter shook out the match and dropped it in a paper coffee cup.

  “Nah,” said Peter. “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Marty’s a stand-up guy,” said Henry, reaching into the cereal box for another handful of Frosted Flakes. “He won’t burn his source.”

  “Five bucks,” said Walter, reaching into his wallet. “Who’s in?”

  I was watching the betting go down when Mrs. Angelo came back to my desk and handed me a list of names. “I’ll have you start by verifying these.”

  As I skimmed the list, my eyes landed on surnames like Preston and Vanderbilt, Crown and Rothschild.

  “It’s the Mortimer wedding,” Mrs. Angelo explained. “That’s the bridal party. I need you to check the spellings and confirm middle initials, titles—that sort of thing.”

  After Mrs. Angelo went back to her desk, M handed me the current copy of the Social Register.

  “Here,” she said. “You’ll need this.”

  I spent the next hour verifying fourteen-karat names. There were a few stragglers—normal-sounding people—that I had to look up in the telephone book and call to confirm. Before I knew it, it was almost noon.

  Mrs. Angelo came back and checked my progress, offering a nod of approval. “I’m going to lunch,” she said, giving her pocketbook a snap. “We can review the rest this afternoon.”

  M eyed Mrs. Angelo through her compact mirror while touching up her lipstick. As soon as Mrs. Angelo cleared the main hallway and disappeared into an elevator, M dropped her lipstick and compact into her desk drawer and closed it with a hip bump. “I’m famished. C’mon, let’s go eat before she gets back.”

  • • •

  We ended up at the Woolworth’s counter in the basement of State and Randolph with Gabby Jones, a young woman who, like me, was in her early twenties. She had mousy brown hair and a nondescript face. She was one of those people who blended into any crowd. She was a fellow sob sister, as I learned the men called us female reporters.

  “They think everything we write is sentimental and coated in sugar,” said M. She sat in between us and swiveled her red stool from side to side as she spoke.

  “But what about the women on the city desk?” I asked. “What do they call them?”

  Gabby laughed with a big toothy smile. “There are no women on the city desk.”

  “None?” I set my sandwich down. It felt like it was made of lead.

  “There was Rita Fitzpatrick,” said M with a shrug. “But she’s the only one I can think of.”

  I really wasn’t all that surprised. Others had warned me of this. Even my mother. “You’re a pretty girl,” she’d said. “They’ll take one look at you and think beauty and fashion. Not hard news.”

  I wondered if I’d have to change my style. Now that I was a career girl, I’d cut my long dark ponytail and fringe bangs and gone with the sophisticated Italian cut that Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren were wearing. And then there were my new clothes, which I’d spent a fortune on. The sheath dress I was wearing cost me seventeen dollars, and that didn’t include the cropped white bolero jacket. I glanced at my handbag, black and white patent leather. It matched my Mary Janes. It occurred to me that if I wanted to get a real assignment, perhaps I would have to tone myself down.

  I’d always known I’d have to prove myself. I wasn’t looking for a free ride. But I’d thought because I was Hank Walsh’s daughter, Eliot Walsh’s sister, they would have assumed I was a serious journalist. I supposed my first test would be showing them what I could do with charity balls and celebrity sightings. I wasn’t as confident that I’d be able to impress anyone with my recipes, which M just informed me I’d be expected to contribute for the food column.

  “But doesn’t Mary Meade do all the recipes?” I asked, recalling the byline I’d seen over and over again.

  “There is no ‘Mary Meade,’” said Gabby as the waitress slapped our checks on the counter. “Somebody made up the byline, and we all take turns being her.”

  “Oh, and don’t let Mrs. Angelo scare you,” said M as she draped her chiffon scarf over her hair. “She’s all bark and no bite.”

  When we got back to the city room, Mrs. Angelo reviewed the bridal party names I’d confirmed. “Nice work,” she said. “Did I mention the Carrington wedding?” She jotted a few notes in the margin of my copy. “It’s this Saturday—you’ll be covering it.” She glanced over at Gabby and sighed deeply, letting her shoulders rise and fall. “Poor thing’s drowning over there. Why don’t you help her finish up tomorrow’s WCG column and the write-up for the TWT column?”

  The WCG—White Collar Girl—column focused on stories for career-minded women, like secretaries and schoolteachers. And TWT—They Were There—was a daily column devoted to socialites and celebrity sightings about town. They both sounded a hell of a lot more exciting than spell-checking names and confirming hometowns.

  Gabby was trying to finish her White Collar Girl column on “Gifts for Your Boss on His Birthday” and she welcomed my help. I could tell Gabby was the nervous type, the kind that got easily flustered. I noticed that whenever Mrs. Angelo walked by, she would instantly act guilty of some wrongdoing. Earlier in the day I watched her hang up on a telephone call mid-sentence and start blindly typing away, slapping at her carriage return.

  She told me she was an identical twin and that when she wasn’t with her sister she felt like half a person. “People always referred to us as ‘the twins,’ never Abby and Gabby. Everyone always asks me how Nathan and the children are. I’m not even the married one. That’s Abby’s family. If you’re a twin, it’s like you’re invisible on your own. . . .”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hardly knew her and here she was opening up like that.

  Gradually Randy, Walter, Peter and the others began to trickle back in from lunch, and I could smell the martinis, the bourbons and beers. My father and brother had told me all about the newspaperman’s lunch. It sounded a lot more appealing than sitting at the Woolworth’s counter.

  • • •

  About an hour later Marty Sinclair came back to the city room, too. He chucked his hat and jacket on the coat stand in the corner and began churning out his afternoon story. I was still curious about his piece with the anonymous source but hadn’t had a chance to check his recent bylines. Instead I made excuses to walk by his desk, stealing glances over his shoulder. His workspace was littered with scraps of paper and napkins with scribbles on them. It looked like an overturned garbage can had landed on his desk.

  I went back to my seat and finished the They Were There column for Gabby. She had instructed me to do a three-line write-up on Zsa Zsa Gábor and Grace Kelly, who had made the traditional celebrity visit to the Pump Room during their stopover in Chicago on their way from New York to California. There was also a mention about Jerry Lewis, who was performing at Chez Paree. All the while Randy absentmindedly continued humming that Winston jingle, which was now embedded in my brain, too. I was verifying the time of Grace Kelly’s arrival at the Ambassador East when Mr. Ellsworth stood up at the horseshoe and shouted to Marty.

  “Sinclair—get over here! Now!”

  Marty swore as he stormed off in Mr. Ellsworth’s direction.

  With everyone back from lunch, the din of
the city room had revved up to full volume. Given the noise emanating from the typewriters, the wire machines and telephones, it was amazing that one man would have captured everyone’s attention and rendered the room practically silent, but that’s what happened.

  “Fuck you, Ellsworth. I won’t do it!” Marty tore back over to his desk, screaming, “Fuck you, you hear me? Did you hear that?”

  “Be reasonable, Marty,” said Mr. Ellsworth, trailing after him.

  “Fuck you all,” said Marty.

  “Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” said Mr. Copeland. “This goddamned newspaper’s looking at a libel suit, thanks to you.”

  I froze at my desk, watching the exchange. I couldn’t take my eyes off any of them.

  “I won’t burn my source.” Marty was sweating profusely. I could see his shiny scalp through his thinning dark hair. “I’ll quit before I give up my source. I swear I will. I’ll walk.”

  “That won’t get them off your back. Or mine,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Now, maybe you don’t mind serving jail time, but I do. And you’re not taking this paper down with you. For God’s sake, we’re trying to help you here.”

  “I don’t need your goddamn help.” He started banging things around on his desk.

  “Marty, just hand over your source,” said Mr. Copeland.

  “You know we’re going to find out who it is anyway,” said Mr. Ellsworth. “Christ, I’ll go through your goddamn notes myself if I have to.”

  “The hell you will,” said Marty. “I’m getting my things and I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  “Quick”—Mr. Copeland turned to Henry at the next desk—“his notes. Get his notes.”

  “No!” Marty let out a shout that traveled to my inner ear and made me drop my pen. I watched in disbelief as Marty Sinclair—Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist—grabbed a fistful of notes off his desk and shoved them into his mouth.