this.”
Joe accepted the envelope as the elevator doors opened.
Dewey said, “Told her you hadn’t worked here ten months, and she wanted your phone number. Of course I said I couldn’t give it out. Or your address.”
Stepping into the elevator, Joe said, “Thanks, Dewey.”
“Told her I’d send it on or call you about it. Then I discovered you moved and got a new phone, unlisted, and we didn’t have it.”
“Can’t be important,” Joe assured him, indicating the envelope. After all, he was not actually returning to journalism.
As the elevator doors started to close, Dewey blocked them. Frowning, he said, “Wasn’t just personnel records not up to speed with you, Joe. Nobody here, none of your friends, knew how to reach you.”
“I know.”
Dewey hesitated before he said, “You’ve been way down, huh?”
“Pretty far,” Joe acknowledged. “But I’m climbing back up.”
“Friends can hold the ladder steady, make it easier.”
Touched, Joe nodded.
“Just remember,” Dewey said.
“Thanks.”
Dewey stepped back, and the doors closed.
The elevator rose, taking Joe with it.
The third floor was largely devoted to the newsroom, which had been subdivided into a maze of somewhat claustrophobic modular workstations, so that the entire space could not be seen at once. Every workstation had a computer, telephone, ergonomic chair, and other fundamentals of the trade.
This was very similar to the much larger newsroom at the
Times.
The only differences were that the furniture and the reconfigurable walls at the
Times
were newer and more stylish than those at the
Post,
the environment there was no doubt purged of the asbestos and formaldehyde that lent the air here its special astringent quality, and even on a Saturday afternoon the
Times
would be busier per square foot of floor space than the
Post
was now.
Twice over the years, Joe had been offered a job at the
Times,
but he had declined. Although the Gray Lady, as the competition was known in some circles, was a great newspaper, it was also the ad-fat voice of the status quo. He believed he’d be allowed and encouraged to do better and more aggressive reporting at the
Post,
which was like an asylum at times, but also heavy on ballsy attitude and gonzo style, with a reputation for never treating a politician’s handout as real news and for assuming that every public official was either corrupt or incompetent, sex crazed or power mad.
A few years ago, after the Northridge earthquake, seismologists had discovered unsuspected links between a fault that ran under the heart of L.A. and one that lay beneath a series of communities in the San Fernando Valley. A joke swept the newsroom regarding what losses the city would suffer if one temblor destroyed the
Times
downtown and the
Post
in Sun Valley. Without the
Post,
according to the joke, Angelenos wouldn’t know which politicians and other public servants were stealing them blind, accepting bribes from known drug dealers, and having sex with animals. The greater tragedy, however, would be the loss of the six-pound Sunday edition of the
Times,
without which no one would know what stores were conducting sales.
If the
Post
was as obstinate and relentless as a rat terrier crazed by the scent of rodents—which it was—it was redeemed, for Joe, by the nonpartisan nature of its fury. Furthermore, a high percentage of its targets were at least as corrupt as it wanted to believe they were.
Also, Michelle had been a featured columnist and editorial writer for the
Post.
He met her here, courted her here, and enjoyed their shared sense of being part of an underdog enterprise. She had carried their two babies in her belly through so many days of work in this place.
Now he found this building haunted by memories of her. In the unlikely event that he could eventually regain emotional stability and con himself into believing life had a purpose worth the struggle, the face of that one dear ghost would rock him
Joe accepted the envelope as the elevator doors opened.
Dewey said, “Told her you hadn’t worked here ten months, and she wanted your phone number. Of course I said I couldn’t give it out. Or your address.”
Stepping into the elevator, Joe said, “Thanks, Dewey.”
“Told her I’d send it on or call you about it. Then I discovered you moved and got a new phone, unlisted, and we didn’t have it.”
“Can’t be important,” Joe assured him, indicating the envelope. After all, he was not actually returning to journalism.
As the elevator doors started to close, Dewey blocked them. Frowning, he said, “Wasn’t just personnel records not up to speed with you, Joe. Nobody here, none of your friends, knew how to reach you.”
“I know.”
Dewey hesitated before he said, “You’ve been way down, huh?”
“Pretty far,” Joe acknowledged. “But I’m climbing back up.”
“Friends can hold the ladder steady, make it easier.”
Touched, Joe nodded.
“Just remember,” Dewey said.
“Thanks.”
Dewey stepped back, and the doors closed.
The elevator rose, taking Joe with it.
The third floor was largely devoted to the newsroom, which had been subdivided into a maze of somewhat claustrophobic modular workstations, so that the entire space could not be seen at once. Every workstation had a computer, telephone, ergonomic chair, and other fundamentals of the trade.
This was very similar to the much larger newsroom at the
Times.
The only differences were that the furniture and the reconfigurable walls at the
Times
were newer and more stylish than those at the
Post,
the environment there was no doubt purged of the asbestos and formaldehyde that lent the air here its special astringent quality, and even on a Saturday afternoon the
Times
would be busier per square foot of floor space than the
Post
was now.
Twice over the years, Joe had been offered a job at the
Times,
but he had declined. Although the Gray Lady, as the competition was known in some circles, was a great newspaper, it was also the ad-fat voice of the status quo. He believed he’d be allowed and encouraged to do better and more aggressive reporting at the
Post,
which was like an asylum at times, but also heavy on ballsy attitude and gonzo style, with a reputation for never treating a politician’s handout as real news and for assuming that every public official was either corrupt or incompetent, sex crazed or power mad.
A few years ago, after the Northridge earthquake, seismologists had discovered unsuspected links between a fault that ran under the heart of L.A. and one that lay beneath a series of communities in the San Fernando Valley. A joke swept the newsroom regarding what losses the city would suffer if one temblor destroyed the
Times
downtown and the
Post
in Sun Valley. Without the
Post,
according to the joke, Angelenos wouldn’t know which politicians and other public servants were stealing them blind, accepting bribes from known drug dealers, and having sex with animals. The greater tragedy, however, would be the loss of the six-pound Sunday edition of the
Times,
without which no one would know what stores were conducting sales.
If the
Post
was as obstinate and relentless as a rat terrier crazed by the scent of rodents—which it was—it was redeemed, for Joe, by the nonpartisan nature of its fury. Furthermore, a high percentage of its targets were at least as corrupt as it wanted to believe they were.
Also, Michelle had been a featured columnist and editorial writer for the
Post.
He met her here, courted her here, and enjoyed their shared sense of being part of an underdog enterprise. She had carried their two babies in her belly through so many days of work in this place.
Now he found this building haunted by memories of her. In the unlikely event that he could eventually regain emotional stability and con himself into believing life had a purpose worth the struggle, the face of that one dear ghost would rock him
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