by Celia Hayes
“Tom, listen to me. If we want the exclusive on this we have to move immediately!” Margaret insists stubbornly.
“What’s it about?” asks Tom.
Dave dismisses the whole affair in a few words. “Just some guy who is organising a beauty pageant for chubby girls.”
“He’s not some guy!” shrieks Margaret, taking it as a personal insult.
Dave simply shrugs and goes back to his notes about the murder. I am guessing he’s not going to look up again until the ‘fashion and trends’ business is out of the way. “I don’t remember reading about him in the New York Times,” he mutters distractedly.
“That’s because you only ever read the front page!” Margaret replies sweetly, almost making Dave spit his coffee all over the desk. I’m not sure exactly what she’s referring to, but I have the impression that she just scored a point.
“Ok, Margaret,” cuts in Tom before they start arguing, which they have done quite frequently since Dave was promoted. The truth is that he could never stand Margaret but he didn’t have to deal with her artistic weirdness before: she used to stay in her department and that made it easier for him to manage his irritation. Now everything’s different, though, and she’s a constant pain in his butt, and consequently, whereas in the past he was willing to turn a blind eye to her, he now keeps both of his eyes wide open and constantly focused on his enemy. He’s always looking for a flaw, a chink in her armour, and his only mission is to destroy her.
“Let’s do this,” says the boss in a conciliatory tone. “Write me a memo about it and leave it in my office. I’ll take a look at it as soon as I can. In the meantime, what do we have ready?”
“The piece about the Shakespeare company,” says Margaret, giving up.
“Great, let’s run that. Be sure to edit it properly and send it to Curtis. And in the meantime, write me something about this… sorry, what’s his name again?” he asks her, snapping his fingers repeatedly in frustration.
“Adam. His name is Adam Graham,” she reminds him again, asking herself what she could have done to deserve ending up working with such a bunch of incompetents. Poor thing, her articles are always put at the bottom of the page – even the sport pieces get more visibility. Is there a worse destiny than having your articles published amongst pictures of denture glues and personal ads? It’s true what they say: art doesn’t make you rich.
“So, Margaret, will you take care of it?” Tom urges her.
“Well, actually at the moment I am working on the ‘death whistles’ story. It’s about those Aztec whistles shaped like skulls that Carrera studied. The musician Quijas Yxayotl has managed to identify the melody associated with the sacrificial rituals that were thought to accompany dead souls beyond the terrestrial dimension,” she says, babbling enthusiastically about pre-Columbian spiritual traditions. She’s so caught up in her explanation that she doesn’t even notice that Dave, at the other end of the table, is massaging his forehead with an incredulous and miserable expression on his face. “I imagine you can understand,” she says, as it gradually dawns on her that the others present don’t share her enthusiasm, “that given the importance of the discovery… Well, anyway it’s only a short article and…” her voice trails off and she abandons the subject she was so passionately fighting for only moments before.
It’s always the same with her. She’s always there when it’s about being praised or playing the martyr, sacrificing herself to try and make the common people more culturally literate. But when what’s needed is something practical, though, she just magically vanishes, disappearing into thin air and leaving behind her only a trail of mysterious quotations of questionable accuracy.
“Do you have someone who can take care of it?” Tom asks her at that point. He doesn’t want to give up at the first obstacle. Even though he knows less about the subject matter than Dave, if that’s possible, he can always smell a good bargain. Dave is a purist, but Tom is a businessman. He can’t have heard more than 10 per cent of what Margaret said at best, but there was one key phrase I know will have captured his attention: move copies. He’s trying to play for time for the moment, but if it’s proved to him that Margaret might actually be right, no councilman, law, crime or fraud will prevent him from devoting the whole of the front page of The Chronicle to the famous fashion stylist. The only things that might stop him would be the Apocalypse or the return of Elvis Presley from the moon.
I think.
And think.
What if this were a really good opportunity for me to… I mean, what if I could use this occasion to finally make them notice me? I’m sick to the back teeth of just being considered an assistant and I would like to see my name printed in the damn newspaper for once. I’ve been pushing for it for months already – for just a tiny, insignificant chance. Don’t I deserve it? I’ve been working over twelve hours a day for the last three years. And what am I asking for in return? It wouldn’t even be a real article, just a report. A few notes… They can’t really think that I’m so incompetent I can’t even do that, surely!
“Err…”
I don’t know quite how I manage it, but I finally find the courage to raise my hand. Nobody notices at first, but then Tom, raising an eyebrow, asks, “Yes, Sam, what is it?”
“Well, if nobody wants to write it… I mean, if it’s okay with you, I could…”
“Margaret, is that okay with you?” he asks her.
She stares at me in confusion for a moment – because she probably wasn’t expecting me to pull anything like that – but it seems she has nothing against my proposal. She just nods her head, meaning that she’s fine with any decision Tom makes.
“Hmm… ok. Do you think you can handle it?” This time he’s asking me directly and I… I just can’t believe it. I mean… it’s finally really happening.
The only advice I can give to myself is to remain calm. I don’t want to look like someone who’s so desperate they’ll snatch at any chance, so I decide to act indifferent, which is the most professional attitude I can think of. I am a journalist, after all, aren’t I? And this is going to be my first real assignment for The Chronicle.
“Of course. Sure I can! Absolutely. I… I don’t… of course. Why not?” I babble hysterically, smiling like a lunatic and swallowing hard. “It would… It would be great! I’d love to!”
Yep, that was exactly what I was going for: cold and emotionless.
“It’s okay with me,” says Tom with a smile. For some absurd reason, though, Dave doesn’t agree. He suddenly stops working on his notes and speaks up.
“Are we kidding? We’re all overloaded with work here. The agreement on the nuclear program in the Islamic Republic has just been cancelled, in Europe there are new revelations from Assange about collateral murder coming in all the time, Wall Street is on the brink of collapse again and we’re wasting time and resources on this… this… what the hell is his name?
“Adam! He’s called Adam!” exclaims Margaret furiously.
“But I can… I can easily… I mean I’m not completely overloaded with work, I can still…” I stammer, trying to explain.
“Sam, listen, if we are going to cover the contest, we will have to follow it very closely and in every detail. We will have to know every time the jury makes a decision, talk to fashion houses and representatives of the industry and so on… We will have to conduct polls among the contestants, get statements from the audience…” Dave warns me, clearly trying to scare me off. What I deduce from all this is that they really do think I’m so incompetent that I can’t even write about a beauty pageant. “It’s an incredibly complex job,” he continues, “for something that, let’s face it, has practically no importance at all. This type of story is more suited to teenagers’ magazines. And anyway, weren’t you supposed to take care of that interview? Weren’t you talking about it with Terry this morning?”
How the hell does he know about that?
“With Mr Murphy?”
“Yes, him,” he confir
ms. “Why don’t you carry on with the schedule you’ve already decided on?”
No, dammit, I don’t want to take care of the guy at the funeral home. “Of course,” I murmur, hugely embarrassed, and the issue is resolved. Dave goes back to his crime news, Tom moves on to the weather and everybody is free to forget about Curvy, my aspirations and… God, what was his name again?”
“Mag,” I whisper, “what’s the guy from Curvy called?”
Margaret turns round and glares at me.
“Err… it doesn’t matter,” I mutter, and those are the last words I dare say for the rest of the meeting.
It goes on for another ten or twenty minutes, but I’m not really paying much attention to the time. All I do is jot down a couple of important dates for appointments and deadlines in my notepad, but mainly I just scribble between the lines to release my stress, anger and hard-to-swallow disappointment. For a moment there I’d thought I had a pretty little flower in my hands, but now it’s turned out to be a creepy, prickly little bush instead.
I only notice that the meeting has ended thanks to Margaret. She sums up quickly what’s left to do and then goes off with Tom, who accompanies her along the corridor before locking himself up in his office.
Feeling very discouraged, I gather my stuff and am just putting my bag over my shoulder when Dave comes over.
“Are you okay?”
“What?”
“I asked if you’re okay,” he repeats, sounding slightly worried. “You looked a little… out of it before.”
“No, everything’s fine,” I lie. Nothing is fine, nothing at all, but now that he’s standing next to me it’s easier to fool myself into believing things are going well.
“Really?” he asks with a kind smile.
Okay, here we go again. Why did he do that? I hate it when he does that.
“Yeah, really,” I answer, lowering my eyes. His sudden interest makes me uncomfortable.
But our conversation doesn’t last very long, anyway. Unfortunately.
“Sorry, Dave,” says Tiffany as she enters the room carrying a white notebook and a sheet of paper. “This has just arrived from Tenderloin Police Station,” she says as she waves it about like she was swatting flies. “Should we take a look at it together?”
“Let me see…” Dave reaches out his hand to her for the fax and I turn invisible again. I’m not a target any more, I’m not an obstacle. The only thing for me to do is get out from under everybody’s feet.
“See you, Dave.”
“What?” He barely looks at me. “Oh, yeah… see you Sam,” he replies.
For the last three years, practically all the interaction between us has been like that: apathetic, cold and impersonal.
I’m just Sam. Sam Preston. Sam ‘would you mind?’ Preston. And he is just Dave. Dave Callaghan. Dave ‘I’ll see what I can do’ Callaghan.
Chapter 5
Bets You Can Never Win
“Fifteen to twenty-one. An incredible basket by Kobe Bryant when there’s only nine minutes to the end of the game. Two more points and the Lakers will have managed a draw!” exults Brian after a play that almost gives him a stroke.
“It’s not over yet,” says Dave, reaching round him from behind and knocking the ball out of his hands with a sneaky move. “Heads up!” he scolds him while dribbling his way to the basket. It’s past midnight and they are still playing, trying to recreate the 2010 NBA final. Every time they feel like playing, they choose one of the best matches ever and decide to re-enact it, possibly changing the results as well. Neither of them remembers how all this started, but it’s became almost a sort of ritual. It’s almost like going back to their youth, when they both dreamt of becoming professional players.
They used to spend five days out of seven slaving away over their textbooks, trying hard to get a scholarship that would allow them to attend college, and when they didn’t have to study, they would drink beer in Brian’s father’s basement, shoot hoops in the pitch at the church and make desperate attempts to hit on Trisha O’Neal, who was a waitress at the Sunset, the bar where Dave used to work at weekends to earn money for a car. She didn’t notice them because they were way too young for her, but that didn’t stop them from trying. They kept chipping away at her, hoping that she would eventually be so worn down that she would give in and accept. Once Brian asked her if she would let him touch her for fifty dollars, but she wasn’t interested and so after that they decided to go back to their usual methods – in part because they didn’t actually know where to get those fifty dollars anyway.
“Paul Pierce darts forward looking for an opening. The Lakers are really putting the Celtic’s defence to the test tonight!” continues Brian enthusiastically while relentlessly marking Dave. Dave turns his back to defend the ball and is forced to go backwards not to lose it, moving outside the three second area. “Give it up, man – you’re too old for this!” Dave teases him while attempting to score. They both stop to watch the flight of the ball, which bounces off the rim of the basket and goes flying off to end up somewhere in the long grass outside the field. The outcome is still there for the taking.
“Ah crap!”
“You were unlucky,” chuckles Brian, putting his hands on his thighs while he catches his breath. “You owe me two hundred dollars.”
“What are you talking about? You can barely stand up!” replies Dave without looking at him while he runs over to fetch the ball.
“Yes, that’s because I don’t have six hours a day to waste at a gym trying to pump up my biceps. I have a family to take care of, in case you’d forgotten,” says Brian, not quite managing to hide a touch of envy. After high school, they had taken different directions. Dave was the only one who had managed to get a scholarship and go to college, while Brian had ended up working as an accountant for a department store and in less than three years he was married and had put on a stone. Yeah, he’s happy – he loves his wife, Katy, and has never regretted even one of the days he’s spent with her – but sometimes, when he looks at Dave, he can’t help wondering what his life would have been like if he’d had the chance to attend college. “Hey, it went further away,” he shouts to Dave while indicating a group of trees.
“Where? Oh, here it is,” Dave mumbles. The ball had landed amongst the bushes and in a hole near the fence, that’s why he hadn’t spotted it straight away.
Brian nods slightly and while waiting for his friend to come back looks at the street on the other side of the wall. There are trees that nobody ever trims and dumpsters covered in graffiti.
“They should really clean up this place, it’s just a hangout for addicts nowadays. You should write an article about it, maybe they would listen to you.”
It’s all changed since they were teenagers, but not even the real estate bubble has managed to force the pushers out of the area.
“Why the hell should anyone care about a neglected basketball pitch in the Mission?” Dave replies as he returns with the ball under his arm. He puts it down near their bags and bends down to get some water from his backpack.
“Hey, give me some of that,” says Brian, deciding to take a break too. He trudges wearily over towards the bleachers, his old Nikes dragging on the ground, and lets himself collapse amongst their coats.
“When the hell are you going to remember to bring some water with you?” protests Dave, throwing his bottle over to him.
“I’m just trying to give some meaning to the two decades of our friendship,” Brian jokes and drinks down the rest of the water. He dries his sweaty forehead with his t-shirt. “Did Tom kick you out in the end, by the way?” he asks, changing subjects.
“No, he didn’t fire me,” answers Dave, looking off into the distance with a tense expression on his face. “I’m still The Chronicle’s deputy editor.”
“For how much longer? Two days? Come on, don’t tell me you’re actually going through with it… He basically grounded you for three whole months!”
“I didn’t have a cho
ice,” Dave confesses. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, but that discussion has been all he’s been able to think about since he left the newsroom that day. He can’t stomach the idea that someone is trying to use all his hard work to get themselves a handful of votes, and most of all he can’t stand the fact that they’ve made a fool of him in public without even giving him the chance to defend himself.
“Well, I must say that you could have picked an easier enemy,” ponders Brian after regaining some breath. “What the hell were you thinking of, taking on Hoffman? And all this just three months from the elections! You’re the deputy editor now, you should leave the dirty work to other people.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” says Dave defensively, “there are pictures, tapes and documents that speak for themselves.”
“But it’s cost you three months of sitting at home in the evenings,” Brian reminds him. “You need to be more careful from now on. You can’t be seen with any woman or you’ll end up out on your ass – you know that, right?”
“I have no intention of breaking the rules,” Dave points out. “I promised Tom that I would stay out of the game for three months, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Yeah, right, sure you are…”
“What, you don’t think I can do it?”
“It’s not that – I know for certain you can’t do it.”
Dave opens his eyes wide. “Are you kidding me?”
“Never been more serious.”
“Jesus, Brian, I’m not some horny teenager any more!” Dave yells. “I’m thirty-six years old, I think I can manage my hormones for a few weeks. But thank you very much for all your faith in me.” He kicks a stone and turns his back on his friend, feeling offended. Brian is unmoved by his reaction, though – he knows Dave too well and isn’t going to be fooled by him.
“You’ll have to prove to me that you can. So when are you going to start this new regime, then?”
“I already have.”
“When?”
“As a matter of fact, today. Immediately after Tom asked me to temporarily give up my social life.” He checks his watch. “I started this morning at exactly eight.”