The Ghost of Greenwich Village
Page 10
Luckily, the Gaslight Café, which had showcased Beat poets before becoming a folk club and a haven for a new generation of artists in the sixties, lay just a couple of blocks north on MacDougal. But it too turned out to be a thing of the past, replaced by a chain burrito bar. A man bumped into Eve roughly as she stared in disappointment at the large plastic letters spelling out Taco Bueno.
At least Chumley’s remained. Thanks to the Village streets having minds of their own, including some that went north–south until they felt like going east–west, it took some time to find it again, and Eve’s feet ached as she sank onto a bar stool. As she rubbed them she realized she was neglecting to affect a welcoming posture, signaling to the assembled that she was open to approach. Somebody might remember her from her first night here, and she wanted to encourage any impulse they might feel to strike up a conversation.
She ordered a sidecar, tossed her hair, and straightened her back. The group on her left was talking about the stock market; the one on the right, the Mets. Neither was her favorite topic, but she did her best to catch the eyes of those on the edges. Their eyes proved uncatchable. She cleared her throat. Nothing. She joined in when the stock marketers laughed loudly, but no one noticed. Finally, she “accidentally” bumped the elbow of the young man next to her.
“ ’Scuse me,” he said, without even turning to look her way.
Maybe the Village wasn’t what it used to be.
• • •
At work, Eve tried to learn the names of her dozens of new co-workers, from Giles Oberoy, the executive producer, to Franka Lemon, the show’s line producer, to Jerry Chisolm, the new intern. All in all, the editorial staff—producers, associate producers, bookers, and writers—proved a formidable group. Repartee at meetings sped by so quickly and was so topical it was breathtaking. Perhaps the San Remo spirit lived on, uptown. Eve’s colleagues spoke with authority on every subject—and in any language, too. Just the other day an office-wide email had gone out asking if anyone spoke Mandarin; within minutes four people had responded asking which was preferable: Southwestern or Northeastern?
Then came the technical staff, an army of directors, cameramen, tape editors, sound engineers, production assistants, satellite coordinators, and others whose titles she couldn’t keep straight.
Eve intended to impress them all, but especially the writers. She knew that privately they questioned her hiring. But if she could earn their respect at work, she thought, the pool of good feeling might spill over into life outside the office. Perhaps, she mused, as she sat squashed between a paint-splattered construction worker and an overperfumed dowager on the subway one day, she had inadvertently stumbled upon a ready-made clique, the kind her mother had run with, the kind Klieg had belonged to in Paris.
The key to all this was pleasing Mark. Much to Eve’s relief, Orla Knock did indeed go to L.A. after the management retreat. It was rumored she was in meetings with network brass about something big. Mark continued to coach Eve, often staying late to do so. After the last writer had left for the evening, he would say something like “Want to hang out and go over graphics requests again?” Eve always did. Both because she liked the way he explained things in a commanding yet gentle way and because she was determined to let him know how much she appreciated his faith in her.
And this meant doing every bit of the assigned homework. Eve devoured the morning papers, along with piles of magazines and shelves of books. Periodicals and tomes multiplied around the apartment, taking up every available surface, including much of the floor.
But it wasn’t just preparation that was proving to make Eve a good interviewer. She genuinely found other people interesting and enjoyed listening to them. This likely had its roots in the long afternoons during her mother’s illness, when they’d talked, really talked, for the first time. The newfound intimacy made Eve feel special and every drop of information she extracted felt like a revelation about life itself.
It was also true that, given the choice, Eve preferred to ask questions rather than answer them. She didn’t think of herself as very interesting. Plus, when you revealed yourself, you left yourself open to judgment. If you let someone in, there was always the chance they wouldn’t like what they saw.
At first, Donald expressed approval about her new lifestyle; she was expanding her mind. But by week three, he began to carp. The Dallas Morning News was all very well, but not if it meant delaying work on “The Numbered Story.” Week four brought the complaint that all the new information stored in her memory was leaving him less and less room to deposit his own. This protest was followed by Donald’s retaliation: monologues that went on and on just when Eve most needed to concentrate.
Eve suspected that there was something else that upset Donald far more than her new workload. Her other offense, she guessed, was her obsession with two new men. First, Alex. Eve was spending way too much time looking at the phone, willing him to call, frustrated and confused by his silence. Though she couldn’t say she was unfamiliar with the inconstant and perplexing ways of young men. Certainly they didn’t always do what they said they’d do. But at home, the incestuousness of the golfing community meant it was virtually impossible to hide from those you’d wronged. If a boy who said he’d call didn’t (and it was always the boys who called the girls, never the other way around) and you mentioned it to your father, he would no doubt say something pointed to the father of the young man at the next club dinner.
Her other fixation was Hap. These days, when she woke in the morning and when she went to sleep at night, it was Hap McCutcheon she saw: the green eyes fringed with thick lashes, the strong chin with its deep dimple like her father’s, and that calm, reassuring voice. Donald accused her of harboring a crush, but that wasn’t it. Hap was her job and her job was her crush. It was a real, grown-up, New York job. True to what Mark had said, she was given only Hap segments to write, and usually the ones in the back half of the show, but she found no humiliation in it. Hap was not the obtuse ex-jock she had first supposed. As an interviewer, he was quick and sure, with terrific instincts. Which one would expect of a major leaguer, according to Steve.
The whole department preferred Hap, if they were honest about it. They were writers without a byline, invisible to the outside world. They could feed only on the rare praise of the terse Orla Knock, and on the response of the anchors, who registered their approval by the extent to which they used the writers’ material. Hap made some changes to his intros, but usually it was in favor of a word that was easier for him to say. And he sometimes added a question or two of his own to an interview, but only when it was a story that he personally knew something about. Each of the writers had gotten numerous “100 percent”s from Hap—meaning he hadn’t changed a word.
Bliss’s approach to the writers’ work was rather like that of a lawnmower to grass. Mark, who often took the company line on things, said Bliss was a perfectionist, plain and simple. Others insisted she was simply vicious. Either way, Archie, the most respected and senior member of the department, had scored only six “100 percent”s from Bliss—six in the eight years he’d been at the show.
But Eve didn’t have time to worry about Bliss. She only had eyes for Hap, and what he liked from a writer was a preponderance of basic information. So she drafted plain, muscular notes, beefy with facts. And when there was a particularly difficult concept to convey, Eve found that sports metaphors could be employed to make things clearer, so she’d taken to quizzing Steve about football, baseball, and basketball on a regular basis.
All the writers, except for Cassandra, took turns helping to acclimatize her. In this respect Quirine proved the most generous. She summoned Eve into her office one day in May and presented her with a cup of coffee and a cinnamon twist pastry to celebrate her becoming staff and getting into the Writers Guild.
“You’re safe now. You can’t be put out into the street because they decide they don’t like your hair. You really have to mess up before they can fire you.”
“So finish what you started telling me the other day about Bliss and Hap. Something about lists?”
“This you’re going to enjoy,” said Quirine, running her hands through her boyishly cut raven hair. “Every month or two, the anchors put out lists for the writers of their likes and dislikes.”
“You mean in terms of food? Pets?” asked Eve, which produced in Quirine an explosive snort.
“Words,” she said, flinging her hands in the air dramatically. “Let’s see, what’s an example? Okay, you probably heard that Hap hates puns?”
“Yes.”
“Puh-lease,” spat someone behind her. It was Cassandra, poking her head in the door. “That’s what he says now. A year ago, he loved puns. Hey, I missed the meeting. What story did I get?”
“Celeb roundup with the folks at People magazine,” said Quirine.
“Well, that should keep people in their seats,” Cassandra said with a good bit of sarcasm. “Mind if I borrow this?” She picked up a thesaurus from the shelf by the door.
“So why does Hap suddenly hate puns?” asked Eve, enjoying this collegial moment.
“Um, because Bliss put out a list saying she likes them,” said Cassandra, as if this should have been perfectly obvious.
Quirine nodded. “As long as they’re ‘elegant, tasteful, and fresh,’ of course.” She sighed. “Their lists completely contradict themselves. They’re mostly there to one-up each other. Of course, we get caught in the middle, trying to keep them straight.”
“And no one in our department has the balls to complain,” said Cassandra, turning and leaving.
Eve looked down at her hands, wondering how she’d ever keep up with the lists and everything else. But something else nagged at her, too. “Can I ask you a non-writing question?”
“Of course,” said Quirine.
“Am I imagining things or does Cassandra not like me?”
Quirine put her elbows on the desk and cradled her chin in her hands. “She does not like you.” Eve’s eyes widened. She’d asked the question expecting reassurance, not candor. Quirine laughed. “I’m sorry. I always forget that Americans like some sugar with the medicine. The issue is that Cassandra was mad about Kevin.”
“Kevin?”
“The one who was fired the day you came in for your interview.”
“They were a couple?”
“He hadn’t asked her out yet, but I think she hoped that by seeing him every day, she’d work her magic eventually. Obviously, she never got the chance.”
“What does it have to do with me?”
“She thinks if you hadn’t come in that day, ready to ‘steal’ Kevin’s job, he’d still be here. And of course they’d be together now, planning a romantic summer vacation.”
“Oh.” Eve looked down at her lap. Even though Kevin had already been fired before she’d arrived for her interview, she couldn’t help feel bad for the doomed couple. “Poor Cassandra. And poor Kevin.”
“Don’t feel bad for Kevin. He was arrogant and careless.”
“How do you mean?”
“Not long before he was let go, he finally got a big news story. And how did he show his appreciation? By including a typo in his script, one that resulted in an on-screen graphic that labeled General Carnegie ‘Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Stuff.’ ”
“Oops.”
“Cassandra’s affections were misplaced. But aside from that, it didn’t help that your Klieg segment resulted in you getting your picture in the paper. Cassandra’s incredibly ambitious and, between you and me, the only reason she covers entertainment is because she spent years at casting calls with no takers. What she really wanted was to be an actress.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. Look, don’t take it personally. She gets in these little snits. Probably because she’s insecure.”
“About what?”
“Well, even though we all have our areas of expertise, it’s a point of pride that any of us can jump in and do whatever segment needs doing.” Quirine pushed back from her desk and stretched her legs. “Like if Archie is out, in theory, any of us should be able to handle an interview with the vice president. For Bliss. I mean, the next time this country of yours starts a war or something, everyone will have to do hard news, yes? At this point, we’ve all had to do at least a couple of big stories for her. And she makes changes, but that’s just her. Mark and Orla Knock know we’re up to the job.” Quirine laced her fingers together and stretched her arms overhead. “I’m sorry, what did you ask me?”
“About Cassandra.”
“Oh, right. Well, she’s the only one who’s never been allowed to write for Bliss. Russell overheard Orla tell Mark she wasn’t good enough. And she doesn’t help herself by being constantly late and hungover at least once a week.”
Later that evening, Eve stopped outside Cassandra’s closed door. She didn’t want to have an enemy. She knocked.
“Come in,” said Cassandra. She looked up, her face expressionless. A beat passed, then she picked up the thesaurus and held it out to Eve.
“That’s not what I’m here for.”
Cassandra put the book down. “Then what can I do for you?”
Eve took a couple of steps into the room. “I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your segment this morning.”
Cassandra leaned back. “Really? Why?”
Who reacted to compliments this way? A simple “thank you” was customary. And now Eve was cornered. She didn’t even remember which story Cassandra had done. It was probably an actor, promoting a film. But which one? “Your intro. So colorful,” she said. Cassandra looked at the ceiling. “The way you wove in the movie clip was perfect, too.…” Eve didn’t know what else she could say that was vague enough to work. “And I really liked—”
“Please.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Be honest,” said Cassandra, leaning forward ever so slightly. “You didn’t really like my segment, did you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember it as well as I’d like but—”
“Don’t. Don’t stoop,” said Cassandra. “I’d have more respect for you if you just got on with it and stopped sucking up to everybody all the time.”
Eve’s face flamed and she withdrew, doing her best to close the door with a click and not a slam.
• • •
“I thought of you when I saw these,” said Mrs. Chin, who worked the Jefferson Market Library’s front desk. Eve never forgot her name because she did, in fact, have a soft double chin. But her eyes were kind and her manner most eager, especially for regulars. “They came to us from a deceased local benefactor. Apparently he was quite an avid scholar of life in the mid-century Village. Right up your alley. And I hear there’s more where these came from, too. I guess he left quite an estate. But none of these are processed yet, so I can’t check them out. You can look at them here, though.”
“Thanks,” said Eve, lifting several onto the crook of her arm. She took them to her favorite table, in the back by the window. Far from being processed, the books didn’t seem to have been cleaned. Eve used her hanky to wipe the fine white dust from the edges of the pages. As she leafed through the tables of contents, she saw that these books were quirkier than what she’d come across before, more color commentary than play-by-play. In moments, she had slipped into the Village of Penelope’s time, a kaleidoscope of guitars played on stoops, jazz at coffee bars, and poetry readings given by undiscovered writers at basement cocktail parties. She knew it was a long shot but she still hoped that her mother might be mentioned. Aunt Fern, who had lived in Australia but visited quite often until she died a few years ago, had once said Penelope had possessed real talent as a writer. Over a “gir
ly lunch” at the Vernon Manor Hotel when Eve was twenty, Fern said she wasn’t the least surprised that Eve had won the college essay contest; she said Eve was clearly the beneficiary of her mother’s gift.
“In fact,” she said, her freckled face wide and knowing, “your writing is a lot like hers.”
“How so?” asked Eve, putting down her fork.
“Your mother wrote differently than she spoke. With more clarity and confidence. When she lived in New York, she wrote reports on manuscripts for a literary agent, as you know. They pulsed with authority and pizzazz. She always had wonderful suggestions for how to improve books, too; she would have made a wonderful editor, if she’d gotten that far. The agent, unfortunately, was in way over his head and knew it. He never gave Penelope any credit, and often passed off her ideas as his own.
“She wrote other things, too, just for herself. She wouldn’t show people, but I used to snoop a bit when I was in the city.” She shook her head and tried to look stern. “I don’t recommend that behavior, of course. Prying is not right. But with your mother, sometimes it was the only way.” Fern opened her pocketbook to fish out a cigarette. “Anyway, eventually I turned up poems, stories, all kinds of things. I take it you never saw any.”
“No,” said Eve quietly. This was all news to her. She would have given anything—anything—to read something her mother had written.
“I suppose she threw them out when she married your father. A lot of women did that back then, put away their fantasies and got on with the business of being a wife. She let most of her friendships from those days slide, too. And I don’t think she ever told your father anything about New York. I think he preferred not to know, frankly. And she really did love him, so she tried to forget about it all. I suppose that’s a good thing. Awfully hard to have your past competing with your present.”
This was the moment that Eve had first wondered: If her mother had loved New York so much, why then had she left?
Eve bent back over the pages, feeling her nose twitch from the dust, on the lookout for any mention of Penelope. Or Donald, of course.