by Rick Goeld
“Money?” Sterling looked thoughtful. “Good point. We have a scale for free-lancers: a base rate plus expenses, as I recall. I’ll get you a copy of the policy.”
Eddie took a good look around the conference room, and then focused his attention back on Bernard Sterling. He may be a bit eccentric … but I think I can trust him. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Sterling.” He stood and extended his hand. Sterling, caught unaware, stood awkwardly, took Eddie’s hand, and shook it.
“Good show!” Sterling said, disengaging and sitting back down.
Eddie returned to his seat. “When would I start?”
“Immediately. I’ll have Sheila set up a meeting with our working editors.” Sterling glanced at the door again. “Where the dickens is that girl?” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, but before he could call, Sheila opened the door and popped her head in. She was grinning as she mouthed the words: “They’re here.”
Sterling looked relieved, and then immensely satisfied. “Let’s wander into my office,” he said as he pushed himself out of his chair. “There are a couple of fellows I’d like you to meet.”
Epilogue
Tuesday, December 8, 2000, from the Newark Star-Ledger:
Friedman – Anitone
Alison Friedman of Somerset was married Sunday, December 6, to Jerome (Jerry) Anitone of New Brunswick. Alison is an account executive at Jacobs Advertising Agency. Jerry is the manager of Brunswick Books. The couple plans to honeymoon in Miami Beach.
*****
Date: January 2, 2001
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Happy New Year!
Greetings from Atlantis, on the sunny shores of Paradise Island! This hotel is, well, it’s everything they say. Fantastic! Wish you were here!
Seriously, bro, next time, the four of us should do a vacation together. Yeah, I know you had to work on your articles (that’s how many now? A dozen?), and Lois couldn’t get enough time off, but think about it.
Marcie and I have had some serious talks about our future, and we’ve decided NOT to fuck it up by getting married, at least for the time being (according to her, living together in sin is just fine). So far she has made good on her promise to forget about “The Law” for one solid month. I’m guessing that she’ll start studying for the bar exam at 12:01 AM on January 17th.
Guess what, bro? I’m a sailor! I sail! Yesterday I learned how, in a dinghy about the size of my bathtub. Tomorrow, Marcie wants to try water skiing again (the first time was a disaster!).
I called Mom yesterday to wish her a Happy New Year, and she said she was doing fine. She has more real estate deals going than ever, she says. She told me she had lunch with you and Lois a few days ago. She didn’t want me to tell you, but she said she really likes Lois … high praise, indeed, coming from Ma!
Marcie says hi to you and Lois. She said to tell you she’s been soaking up the vertical rays.
Seriously, bro, think about next summer. We could all go to Hawaii!
…Mark
*****
Date: January 2, 2001
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: re: Happy New Year!
Mark, glad you and Marcie are “living it up” in the Bahamas. Lois and I (and millions of others) are freezing our asses off here in the city. We try to keep each other warm at night (and generally succeed)! Say hi to Marcie.
…EZ
PS: I’ve told you a hundred times to stop calling me “bro.” It is NOT COOL!!!
*****
February 21, 2001: Steely Dan wins three Grammys, including Album of the Year for Two Against Nature.
*****
Wednesday, March 5, 2001, from the Northern New Jersey Real Estate News:
Elaine Zittner is Agent of the Year!
At last night’s annual dinner, Elaine Zittner was named Agent of the Year for 2000. Ellie, as she is known in NNJ real estate circles, looked absolutely stunned when her name was announced, but she quickly recovered her composure and made her way to the podium, accompanied by her sons Edward and Mark (who were told in advance that she had won the award).
It was a tearful moment at the podium, following a very difficult year for Ellie. As many of you know, last April she lost her beloved husband, Harry. But she’s a trooper, and a true professional in every sense of the word. She’s had a remarkable career in real estate—a top producer for almost twenty years! May the next twenty be as productive as the last twenty! Congratulations, Ellie! We wish you luck and God-speed. (photos on page 3)
*****
Wednesday, March 14, 2001: Steely Dan is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
*****
Date: Friday, April 11, 2001
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
Eddie, I guess you heard by now that Alison and I have split up. She’s become a real social climber. She’s trying to keep it quiet, but everyone at the agency knows she’s running around with her boss. I guess I should have known.
Brunswick Books is finally going under. We’re having an “Everything Must Go” sale. I’m looking for another job.
Not much else I can say, Eddie, except that I’m sorry for the way things worked out.
….Jerry
*****
Sunday, May 12, 2001, from the New York Post:
Wedding of the Week
Smith, 28, and Zittner, 30
May 5 – It’s always special when one of your own gets hitched! Even more special is how they met! Lois Lane Smith, Feature Writer from our own City Desk, married free-lance writer Edward (Eddie) Zittner at Temple Emanuel in Queens.
Last year, Eddie was marching the sidewalks of Manhattan, on a personal crusade to get the autographs of a couple of reclusive rock stars. Lois spotted him and wrote an article about his quest (“Searching for Steely Dan,” March 12, 2000). “It wasn’t anything close to love at first sight,” Lois said. “As a matter of fact, I thought he was a flake.” Eddie laughed when he heard this. “She’s right,” he said, “back then I was a little crazy.”
A week later, Eddie was arrested while demonstrating, and Lois again covered the story (“Behind Steely Bars,” March 19, 2000; note: the NYPD dropped the charges and released Eddie the same day.) Eddie was then featured in a third article, also written by Lois (“Steely Dan, Where Are You?” March 29, 2000).
“I guess I wore her down with my charm,” Eddie said. “Something like that,” Lois added. Eddie is now a staff writer at Rolling Stone magazine. The couple, currently living in the West Village, will honeymoon in Hawaii.
Essentials:
Her Dress: “Silver and White,” by Oleg Cassini
Best Edible: Ron Ben-Israel red wedding cake with Grand Marnier filling.
Wedding Song: Tony Bennett’s “For Once in My Life”
*****
Friday, July 9, 2001, from the Maple Heights, New Jersey Town Crier:
Famous Writers On The Way!
It’s not often that we have celebrities move into our quiet neighborhood, but it’s happening next month!
Edward Zittner and his brand-new wife, Lois Lane Smith-Zittner, will be moving into a cozy two-bedroom just down the block from the community center. “The Mister,” known for his “Where Are They Now?” series, is a staff writer at Rolling Stone magazine. “The Missus” is a featured writer for the New York Post.
And that second bedroom will come in handy! A third Zittner is expected just after the first of the year. How much do you want to bet that Baby Zittner will be writing before he (or she!) learns how to walk!
*****
*****
I hope you enjoyed Searching for Steely Dan. Here are the first four chapters
of my latest book, Sex, Lies, and Soybeans
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2010 GGFC Properties LLC
(ISBN: 978-
0-9829453-0-8, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9829453-1-5)
Sex, Lies, and Soybeans
Food animals had not fared well. New strains of bird flu, mad cow disease, swine syndrome, and red tide had pretty much decimated anything that flew, bellowed, grunted, or swam.
The world came to depend on grains, legumes, and vegetables. Some regions focused on rice, others on wheat, still others on potatoes, but corn and soy, both nutritious and easy to grow, became the world’s “go to” crops.
That is, until the corn chiggers came.
Soy became the world’s primary source of protein.
Soy became king of the food world.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, NOON
Chapter 1: William “Blackie” Blackburn
William Blackburn had never eaten mix before. “How do you order?” he asked.
The man behind the counter stared right through him. “The menu is right behind me. Can’t you read?”
An image of Burgess Meredith, the cranky old man in Rocky, flashed through Blackburn’s mind. “Yeah, I can read.” Blackburn had heard about mix, but never had the urge to try it. When the Retro Mix had opened, just a week ago, there had been a lot of buzz around the University of Texas campus. Word was the place was a throwback to the last century: comfortable chairs, magazines (real paper magazines!), board games (Yahtzee! Monopoly! Checkers!) and old time rock-and-roll.
Blackburn looked over the man’s shoulder. The menu was written in swirling letters; multi-colored chalk on an old style slate blackboard.
“What’s a thirty-thirty-thirty?” Blackburn asked.
“Thirty percent protein, thirty percent carbs, and thirty percent fat.”
“Sounds like a lot of fat.”
“To each his own.”
Shuffling noises came from an antique jukebox standing in the corner, and seconds later, the first few notes of “Beginnings” reverberated across the room. Chicago. A classic. “Okay … and what else is in it?”
“That’s it. Just what I told you.” The old man looked perplexed.
“Thirty-thirty-thirty. That’s only ninety percent.”
“Oh.” The old man thought for a few seconds. “The rest is fiber.”
“Fiber.” Blackburn chewed on the word as he scanned the room. The Retro was just a few blocks south of the UT campus, so it attracted lots of students—mostly Grunges— but it was also close enough to downtown Austin to attract the young Professionals who worked there. Blackburn figured even if he didn’t like mix, maybe he could pick up a girl.
“So,” the old man said, catching Blackburn’s eye, “what’s it gonna be?”
“Uh, okay, give me a forty-thirty-twenty.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Bingo,” the old man said, writing the order on a pad of paper—with a real pencil! “Now, what additives do you want?”
“Additives … what are my choices?”
The old man gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.
“Uh, okay.” Blackburn looked over the list of additives written on the board. Most of the names were Greek to him.
“Hey, come on,” the old man growled. “I ain’t got all day. Why don’t I just give you the “booster” mix? That’s what guys like you normally go for.”
Guys like me? Blackburn’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in it?”
“It’s a bunch of vitamins, minerals, and other stuff. You know, guaranteed to make you smarter and stronger.”
“Uh, okay.”
The old man muttered “Bingo” again, scribbled something on the pad, and then asked: “What flavor?”
“Let me guess: they’re on the menu board, right?”
“See, you’re getting smarter already.”
Blackburn scanned the flavors: Chicken Enchilada, Iron Forge Barbecue (named after a once-famous restaurant in downtown Austin), Mama’s Meatloaf, and Hong Kong. And three specials, today only: Monkey, Fintastic, and Pecan Praline.
“What’s Hong Kong?” he asked.
“Think about it. What would Hong Kong taste like?”
A man standing behind him leaned forward. “It’s good, Cantonese style. Throw in some jalapenos, and it’s almost like Kung Pau.”
Blackburn turned and looked at the man. Ponytail, well-trimmed beard, white shirt, tie, jeans, boots … a techie, for sure.
“Hey,” the old man said, regaining Blackburn’s attention. “Don’t listen to him. We don’t have jalapenos today. That’s only on Friday.”
“What’s Monkey?” Blackburn asked.
“Monkey is jungle fruit. Berries, stuff like that.”
More shuffling noises from the antique jukebox, and, seconds later, Blackburn’s ears were treated to the slick, funky sound of the first few bars of Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “September.” As he listened, he realized it was, indeed, the 21st of September—just like in the song! He looked around again, noting that there were no news screens, no sports screens, no showbiz screens, no game screens—no electronic entertainment of any kind. No obvious sign of anything “high-tech.”
“Hey! Space cadet!”
Blackburn turned back to the old man. “Sorry. What’s Fintastic?”
“Fish. You won’t like it.”
I won’t like it. “Okay … I’ll have the barbecue.” He’d heard good things about the Iron Forge, which had shut down years ago, but apparently still licensed its “secret blend” of spices.
“Excellent choice.” The old man scribbled on the pad, and then asked, “Hot or cold?”
“Uh … I don’t know.”
“You want hot. Barbecue is better if it’s hot.
“Okay …”
“And what about texture?”
“What do you mean, texture?”
“You can have it cereal style, or whipped, you know, like mousse.”
“I don’t … what do you mean by cereal style?”
“Let me make this real simple: smooth or lumpy?”
“Uh, smooth.”
“Bingo.” The old man scribbled on his pad and then punched a small display, initiating a wireless transaction with Blackburn’s money account, wherever it happened to be. Micro-seconds later, the flip-phone attached to Blackburn’s hip-clip beeped, signaling a completed transaction.
What a world we live in, Blackburn thought. Since the “Hot Money” crisis—Islamic terrorists had circulated radioactive coins and paper money in scores of cities around the world—no hard currency was accepted at this restaurant, or, for that matter, any other retail establishment in the developed world. You either carried a transaction-capable wireless device, or a properly encrypted smart card, or … you were out of luck.
Blackburn watched the old man measure ingredients: a gooey, molasses-like substance, then some white grainy material, then some brown pellets that looked like rabbit shit, and finally a number of finely-ground powders: yellow, dark green, and iridescent purple. He measured each ingredient precisely before dumping them into the mixing bowl, closing the lid, and touching the display. A rumbling sound, like an ancient garbage disposal grinding bones, morphed into the high-pitched whine of a jet engine. After perhaps thirty seconds, the machine stopped, the display blinked, the lid opened, and the old man scooped the mix into a serving bowl. He placed the bowl on a tray and slid it toward Blackburn. The entire process had taken less than two minutes.
The old man mumbled “Next,” and the techie moved forward, ready to place his order.
The first few notes of “Honky Tonk Woman” blasted from the jukebox.
The Strollin’ Bones. Blackburn walked over to the drink bar, wondering if Mick Jagger was still alive. He helped himself to an iced tea—soft drinks were included in the price—and scanned the restaurant, looking for a place to sit, preferably near an attractive co-ed eating alone. But the place was jammed. He spotted a few empty seats at a large community table on the patio. He strolled through the Spanish-style archway—under an ornate “Keep Austin Weird” sign—and
offered a friendly “Hey” as he placed his tray on the table. He got a couple of grunts and nods, and took them as signs of acceptance. He sat down and started to eat. Not bad … kind of a barbecued beef pudding. After a few spoonfuls, he looked up and spotted the UT Tower in the distance. He tried to recall the name of the guy who had climbed up there, one bright sunny morning a few decades ago … with a rifle.
A man slid into the seat opposite him. Blackburn looked up and recognized the techie who had been in line behind him. On his tray was a bowl overflowing with a chunky concoction that was deep purple. Monkey?
“My name’s Smith,” the techie said.
Blackburn nodded. “Nice to meet you. Bill Blackburn. Call me Blackie.”
“Blackie.” Smith swallowed a mouthful of mix, smiled and nodded. “You go to UT?”
“Yeah, I’m a senior,” he lied. He had enough credits to call himself a junior, but he was taking two senior level courses. Who keeps track of what class you’re in, anyway? “What about you?”
“I work in a software lab.” Smith swallowed more mix, then took a long pull from a Lone Star Soy. “You know, the one down in Oak Hill? By the big shopping center?”
“Yeah, I’ve been by there a couple of times.” Another lie, he’d never been to Oak Hill. “What kind of software do you write?”
