Cold Type

by Harvey Araton

  Ryan realized his indulgence. No one had referred to the printers’ union that way in years. He gave himself a mock smack upside the head.

  “That’s the problem with getting old,” he said. “You start forgetting what damn year it is.”

  The others chuckled uneasily. Morris wondered if they suspected Ryan of having a senior moment. Like Willie Mays—another giant of New York when Ryan was a star—falling down in center field as he played out a glorious career with the Mets.

  “Anyway, let’s not waste more time. I know Mo is very anxious to speak with you.”

  No denying that. As Morris made his way forward, passing Ryan, he paused to grab a beer. Maybe the alcohol would relax him. At the very least the bottle would give him something to hold onto.

  He twisted off the cap, took a more sustained pull than he had intended. The cold beer was soothing. From the rear of the couch, the position Morris had just vacated, Ryan nodded in support.

  “Like Jackie said, I want to thank all of you for coming,” Morris began. “You know me. Well, most of you do. And you know I’ve never been one to make speeches.” He coughed twice and took another sip. “My nephew Steven is probably the best in the family at that.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Leahy of the pressmen said. He was only audible enough to only get Morris’ attention.

  “Mike?”

  “You mentioned your nephew. The word on the line last night was that he’s going to work for the Sun. That true?”

  Morris looked at Leahy with his head angled sideways in the manner of an uncomprehending dog.

  “I’m just saying that’s what a couple of my guys told me,” Leahy said. He turned to the others, providing them an opportunity to chime in that they had heard likewise. “I stopped by the line late last night, and they said some of the Alliance people were pretty ticked off.”

  “Mike, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morris said. “If that were true, my brother Louie, well, I’m sure I would have heard.”

  But they hadn’t spoken since early Thursday morning when Louie had called in a rage over the Trib’s front page. Had he found this out later? Was that why he hadn’t checked in?

  “Mo, I’m sorry you’re hearing it here, but your nephew did resign yesterday,” Sandy Robbins said. He rose from his seat on the short side of the sofa. “I heard it from Cal Willis, who, as you all know, is inside putting out the paper.”

  Morris blinked several times, involuntarily. He could feel the trickle of perspiration on his brow.

  “I can’t believe Louie didn’t tell me. I honestly don’t know what to say,” he said.

  “What is there?” Robbins said. “It happens. Maybe your brother is a little embarrassed. I will admit the Alliance was surprised because it was the guy who writes about labor, and he was working so hard for us. But it’s not the first time a star reporter or columnist has picked up in the middle of a strike and gone to the competition. That’s part of the business. And I don’t think that’s really why we’re here.”

  Did he have to remind them? Uneasy as Morris had been about the meeting, now he had to process this unsettling news. It was unfathomable to him that Steven would leave the Trib at all, much less during a strike. And how the hell was he supposed to convince these men to trust his instincts when he had no idea what was going on inside his own family?

  “I think we all know that this is a very different kind of situation for us, given that Brady has City Hall working with him and he’s getting the paper out,” Robbins said.

  He had made his way front and center, inviting himself to co-moderate. Morris wasn’t objecting. In fact, he wouldn’t have minded falling through a trap door, where, upon landing, he would hope to locate a telephone to call his brother to find out what the hell was going on.

  “One way or another, we can’t allow this to continue much longer,” Robbins said.

  “Nobody wants it to, Sandy, but what’s your point?” Leahy said.

  Even in a loose-fitting flannel shirt, Leahy’s muscular torso was striking, almost menacing. His self-appointment as group spokesman was more the result of a membership that was larger than any Trib union with the exception of the drivers and Robbins’s Alliance of white-collar professionals.

  “Why don’t we just let Mo make his?” Robbins said.

  Leahy sat back, momentarily chastened. Robbins had at least managed to give Morris the chance to regain his equilibrium. He appreciated that. Just the same, he wanted to speak his piece and get the hell out.

  “I have reason to suspect that the drivers may be about to cut their own deal to get back in the building,” Morris said. “I can’t give you exact information. All I can tell you is that I ran into Colangelo in the bar the other day and when I asked him—just us talking—if anything was happening, he didn’t so much as give me an answer. Just looked at me for a few seconds, finished his drink and walked out.”

  “Which proves what?” Parlinski said.

  “Nothing, I know,” Morris said. “But it was the way he reacted to the question, like I had no business asking. To be honest with you, it was uncalled for, under the circumstances. It pissed me off and made me suspicious. I have a right to know what’s going on. We all do when we’re out supporting his line.”

  “As far as I know, you guys are the only ones out who do have a contract,” Leahy said. “Is it possible that you’re reading more into what happened because of the risk?”

  Before Morris could respond, Robbins stepped in front of him, glowering at Leahy, who was twice his size. Morris had to admit the little man had balls.

  “I don’t think Mo was reading anything into it and I believe he’s right—Colangelo is up to something,” he said.

  “And why is that?” Leahy said.

  “Because we have reporters, people who make it their business to find out information like this, and they are telling us the same thing,” Robbins said. “We’re hearing that Gerry is under tremendous pressure to make a deal. My guess is because scabs are doing their jobs, which isn’t the case for the rest of us. We know they’re going to need us when this is over but if the scab drivers get the routes down, well, you do the math and figure out how much Brady can save if he keeps them on and they work for the shit pay he’s giving them now.”

  “They’ll never keep scabs,” Leahy said.

  “Really? And how much do you know about Lord Brady, Mike? How much have you looked into what he’s done with his union shops overseas the last half-dozen years? And while we’re on the subject, let me ask you this: if Brady cuts a deal with the drivers, and it doesn’t give him the savings he wants, where do you think he goes looking for it next? Does he say, okay, I know you’re all still out there and even though I can publish the paper and have my regular drivers back to deliver it to every newsstand, I really want to be fair with the rest of you? Can we just sit around and wait for that to happen?”

  Robbins had control of the room, as if Morris had disappeared. It was an intervention so thorough and timely that Morris suspected it had all been rehearsed. Had he and Jackie anticipated Leahy’s hostility and calculated on there being an opening for Robbins to step in? Was he even telling the truth about what the reporters had heard?

  So many unanswered questions for Morris to ponder as he tried to listen, maintain his focus. But the voices grew indistinguishable and distant. He was steps away, but they might as well have been in the apartment next door. He became lost in his own internal debate, absorbed in an effort to separate speculation from fact and fact from fiction.

  He had initially felt a surge of that old-time electricity when Ryan had called. He believed he would be emboldened by his old mentor’s unexpected involvement, energized by the opportunity to ride shotgun again. But the issues were suddenly more complex, bewildering even. They were so upside down and inside out that Morris began to wonder if they ever were really as straightforward as he had always remembered them.

  Never had he questioned the time consumed by
his union calling, the sacrifices made. In a self-congratulatory manner, Morris had never much dwelt on money, on material consumption. Predictability suited him fine. More than a few times over the years he had told Molly, “All I care about is being able to pay the mortgage, put food on the table for all of us, have a little left over for a ballgame or a movie or one of the Broadway musicals you like to see. All I ask for me and the guys is some security for when we get old. Don’t we deserve that for the years we put in?”

  He’d always had an unshakeable faith in union efficacy against the management position that anyone, with the introduction of the latest technological triumph, was expendable and only employable due to a dollop of corporate mercy. But now the Trib was publishing without him while the union brotherhood and his own family were fraying.

  Louie obviously couldn’t bring himself to break the news about Steven, and how the hell was he supposed to deal with Jamie, if only to square things with Molly? And who the hell knows where this meeting is going and what Jackie and Robbins are up to?

  He still didn’t quite have an answer when it mercifully ended without a clear consensus. Leahy stormed out of the apartment. Parlinski shook his finger at Robbins and told him he’d better be careful. The others trailed, albeit with less vehemence. That left Morris, Robbins and Ryan, who pounded Morris’ back and gushed, “You did great, just great.”

  Robbins nodded enthusiastically, almost obediently. Morris’ opinion of his own performance was quite the contrary—though, surprisingly enough, without great regret.

  “You said what you had to about Colangelo, laid it right out there with no bullshit,” Ryan said.

  Robbins finished chugging a beer. His face was flush with excitement. He held a palm up for Ryan, who had to reach down to give him his high five.

  “Leahy fucking couldn’t believe it when I told him the Alliance is going back in tonight with or without them,” Robbins said. “But my guess is that no matter how much of a noncommittal asshole he was, he’ll swallow his pride and take his people back. He’ll follow us this time, not Colangelo. The last thing he wants is to be left outside and to tempt Brady to start hiring scabs to replace them too.”

  “But what if he and the rest of them won’t go in?” Morris said.

  Robbins and Ryan exchanged cat-canary glances, confirming what Morris had guessed earlier. They were partners in this dog-and-pony show. Maybe now they would let him in on their deal.

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Robbins said. “It would be nice if they—we—all went back together for the sake of unity. But to be perfectly honest, if they don’t, they don’t. The important thing is for you to go back and to put out the paper tonight. And we’ll be in there with you because we don’t want you to have to cross by yourself.”

  Still baffled, Morris turned to Ryan, who motioned for Robbins to continue.

  Instead, Robbins grabbed his arm and took a step toward the door.

  “Let’s get a cab downtown,” he said. “You’ll see what I’m saying.”

  Morris allowed Robbins to lead him out of the apartment. Ryan followed but stopped at the door. He patted Morris on the back one last time and watched them walk to the elevator. Morris looked back to see him shut the door with a contented smile.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Jamie drove to Pleasantville for Aaron’s party rather than take the train. It was pragmatic planning, the possibility of having to make a hasty getaway.

  Yes, he was pleased—thrilled even—that Karyn had changed her mind and asked him to come. But he didn’t know any of her suburban friends. He anticipated being the only man and didn’t know how long he could stand it.

  He arrived fifteen minutes late and steadied himself for the grand entrance he had hoped to avoid—all eyes upon the notorious ex. The front door to the glass-enclosed porch was open, as was the inside door to the living room. Aaron was the first to spot him. He toddled more steadily, or so it seemed to Jamie, than he had just days before. He wore snapped blue jeans and a sweatshirt of his favorite color—ellow—and already had an ellow cone-shaped birthday hat strapped under his chin.

  “Dah-dee, dah-dee,” Aaron squealed. The greeting was so spontaneous, so genuine, that Jamie wondered if a two-year-old was capable of sensing his father’s apprehension. Bless him, he thought, in any event.

  The room was crowded with shrieking children and mothers chatting in clusters of two and three. They made no pretense of sizing Jamie up as Aaron led him into the dining room to the lavishly prepared party table.

  “Dah-dee sit hee-uh,” Aaron said. He pointed to one of the metal folding chairs. On a paper plate sat one of Aaron’s letter blocks, the green one with the letter D.

  As it turned out, this was right next to the setting with the ellow block with the A facing up. Aaron held up his arms for Jamie to lift him. Airborne, he put his hands around Jamie’s neck and laid his head on his father’s shoulder.

  “Happy birthday, sweetie,” Jamie said, hugging Aaron back, tight as he could squeeze a two-year-old without bruising a vertebra.

  Jamie turned away from the rapt audience in the living room. Only Karyn, who appeared through the open entry from the kitchen, could see that Jamie’s eyes were shut tight.

  “He’s been waiting for you,” she said, tousling strands of Aaron’s hair that flowed from under the birthday cap, irresistibly curling down the back of his neck.

  Where else could the mothers of Pleasantville break the monotony of another day in suburbia by encountering such family poignancy? What a sight we must be, Jamie thought.

  But who cared? Not Jamie, not at this moment, with Aaron in his arms. His ivory soft skin was chocolate-scented by the Hershey’s kiss that was part in his mouth, part on his fingers and in the process of being transferred to the shoulder of Jamie’s light brown corduroy jacket.

  All in all, Jamie felt more socially empowered than he would have imagined. He even enjoyed the conversation with the assembled moms. He smiled and shook hands as they announced themselves as the mother of Alex or Emily, Julie or Charlie; shared precise dates of their arrival in town; explained why they had left the Upper West Side or Park Slope or a spacious co-op in Yonkers convenient to Bronxville village shopping and restaurants; how life in P-Ville, as they called it, had been a difficult adjustment but, once made, was simpler, healthier.

  “Like living in the 1950s,” said Missy, mother of Mason, a lanky woman with a graying Princess Di hairstyle.

  Jamie lit the candles for Aaron and helped blow them out. He cut and served—at the request of the mothers, especially the adult portions—very thin slices of vanilla ice cream cake. He tried to memorize the names of the children and volunteered to be the blindfolded scary monster in the backyard twilight chase. All the while he managed to resist the temptation to worry that these magnificent hours were not merely Karyn’s parting gift to him on the way to removing Aaron from his life.

  As dinnertime approached, the mothers began checking their watches, casually remarking how they had meals to prepare, dogs to feed, husbands to be home for. Their kids were overstimulated, getting cranky. They had missed their afternoon naps.

  “Can you stay and help clean up?” Karyn asked Jamie, matter-of-factly. “This place is a mess. I’m getting ill just looking at it.”

  This is rich, Jamie thought. For all the time I was living with this woman, she drove me crazy with her compulsive need to clean up. Now we’re divorced, and I’m delighted she asked.

  Karyn’s first task was to clear the table of cups and plates containing liquids or cake and roll the paper tablecloth with all of its gooey contents into one disposable mass. Jamie lugged the big garbage bag outside and deposited it into a trashcan.

  Next he emptied the cardboard boxes of the few uneaten pizza slices, wrapped them in tin foil for refrigeration. He folded the boxes so they too could fit into the garbage bins. He gathered all the wrapping paper and ribbons strewn about the living room from the gift-opening ceremony (Aaron had absolutel
y cleaned up in the puzzle and book department) and stuffed them into two shopping bags. He stacked everything into piles and carried them up to Aaron’s room.

  All the while Karyn tidied up the dining room and kitchen. Aaron pretended to help, organizing and reorganizing the toys. But when the vacuum cleaner came out, his face turned ashen and he took off in the direction of the stairs.

  “He hates it, can’t stand the noise,” Karyn said. “Maybe you can take him upstairs.”

  Flashing back to the misery of his childhood visits to the Trib composing room, Jamie felt a surge of kinship. Morris had made him feel like a weirdo or a wimp for hating that place. But he was just a kid, a few years older than Aaron, for chrissakes. Jamie could at least understand how a little boy could be frightened of noise.

  “I think I know where he gets that from,” he said.

  Karyn cupped one hand around a side of her mouth and whispered, “Check his diaper.”

  He reached Aaron after he had climbed and crawled his way to the third step of the carpeted stairs, lifted him from behind.

  “How about you and I go up and read a book while Mommy finishes down here?” Jamie said.

  Jamie tickled Aaron under the armpits as he carried him up to the second-floor landing. He pressed his nose into his backside to confirm Karyn’s suspicion. He laid Aaron down on the blue bedroom carpet he remembered as immaculate when inherited from the previous owner. Now it was stained beyond hope after two years of regurgitated milk and unrestrained urination.

  The rug grossed Karyn out so much that she regularly asked Jamie for the money for a new one. He resisted, insisting it would be ruined within weeks. “At least wait until he’s potty trained. And even then maybe a while until you know he won’t have accidents.”

  She backed down, for once, and strategically fastened room fresheners to the walls to reduce the smell.

  Jamie pulled a diaper from the changing table that Aaron had plainly outgrown. He reached into the plastic container for a handful of wipes.