I let out a sigh of resignation. “This whole thing is academic anyway.”
“Speak English, man. What that mean?”
“It means she doesn’t want to see me again.”
Wonderman gave me one of his grins. “That sister, she one smart gal.” He rose and stretched. “Well, I gots me three more deliveries so I best be goin.” He started to leave, but pivoted back and clapped me on the shoulder. “I ain’t as ignorant as you might think, my man … I knows it pains you. But you’ll get over it, cuz we mens always do.”
After Wonderman left I closed my eyes and tried not to feel the pain. That worked about as well as my attempt to blow smoke rings.
Chapter 18
I entered the two-story building on Warren Avenue and gazed at the long flight of stairs leading to yet another door that, I trusted, led to the offices of the Daily Post, Wayne State University’s student newspaper. Maybe the mountain seemed so high because I was out of shape. I seldom exercised, or did anything resembling it, but this past summer I’d achieved a personal best for inactivity. On most mid-year breaks, I at least strolled around the neighborhood occasionally, or swam at the Rouge Park pool to cool off. Not these past three months. I hadn’t even danced at my senior prom, probably because I’d skipped it. Why hadn’t I gone to one of the most important high school events, second only to graduation? Because there was no one I wanted to invite. Most of the girls I’d dated held no interest for me, or I for them, incredible as that may seem. I suppose I could have asked someone I hadn’t dated, but if I didn’t asked a girl out it was because I found her unappealing, or so appealing I figured she’d decline my invitation.
Does that make sense?
Finished gazing at the stairs, I began the arduous climb while bracing for whatever lurked beyond that door. For sure people would be there, as well as unfamiliar terrain, two of my oldest bugaboos. I told myself if I could survive the endless lines, confusing signs and so-called student assistants at registration last week, I could handle anything. I also reminded myself that a job on the student newspaper would launch my writing career, or at least give it a push.
I loved the sound of those words. Writing career. In fact, I loved the sound of words, as well as the mere sight of them, which is why as far back as I could remember reading had been my obsession, writing my passion. I was one of the few people in high school who liked writing essays, book reports, theme papers and such. And, incidentally, I received A’s on most of them. Midway through my junior year I decided to pursue a writing career, not just because of the flattering grades but because writing felt right, whereas nothing else in my life came even close.
So I’d write for a living.
But what? Novels maybe. Harold Robbins, Mickey Spillane and John D. McDonald seemed to make a living at it, as did Olympus-dwellers like Faulkner, Steinbeck and Hemingway. No way did I aspire to write a titty novel like My Gun Is Quick, but something between that and A Farewell to Arms would do. Maybe I could write the Good American Novel. That would come later, though. First I had to hone my writing skills while earning a living.
But how? The answer occurred to me one morning after breakfast as I watched my dad browse the Free Press. A reporter—that’s what I’d be. At least for a while. Granted, I knew nothing about reporting, but I’d learn. I mean, how hard could it be to write about fire, famine, murder and mayhem? Plus, after checking out Wayne State’s curriculum, I discovered the school offered journalism classes—a journalism major, in fact—and a student newspaper on which to practice. Last week I’d enrolled in Introduction to Journalism and Reporting 101 and was about to apply for a spot on the school newspaper.
After reaching the stairs’ pinnacle, I paused at the door bearing the paper’s name in large stenciled letters, then opened it and entered warily, as if the threshold might be booby-trapped. Several students stood about chatting, while the rest were immersed in their respective chores. Four pounded on typewriters at a long, rectangular table, three scribbled on scraps of paper at a horseshoe-shaped cross between a desk and a table, and a solemn, bespectacled gentleman hunched over a desk between the two tables, writing furiously on a sheet of paper. None of these people seemed to notice me. But I noticed one of the two women at the rectangular table, an attractive pixie with chestnut hair and a creased brow. I was admiring the sight as well as her powers of concentration when someone else captured my attention. Emerging from one of the glass-paneled offices on the room’s perimeter was the pixie’s opposite, a tall, overfed woman wearing a scowl and drab sack dress. When she spotted me observing her she plodded over looking none too pleased.
“Whaduhyuh want?” Her thin voice contrasted with the rest of her.
“Um, to see the editor.”
“Could you be more specific? We’ve got more than one here, unfortunately.”
“Uh, the person in charge.”
“That would be the editor-in-chief.”
“Okay.”
“You got an appointment?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You want a job?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Reporter?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Just what we needed. Son of Gary Cooper.”
And if they needed a successor to Eve Arden this woman would do—if she were the least bit amusing.
“What’s your name?” Dragon Lady snapped.
“Nate Rubin.”
Rather than offering her own name, she pointed at the corner office. “And don’t go barging in there. Knock first.”
She stomped off and I immediately missed her.
At the editor’s office, I did as instructed and in return got, “C’mon in.” Thankfully the tone was affable.
I went on in and a redheaded stick figure rose from behind a large, nearly barren desk. “And you would be?”
“Nate Rubin.”
The editor loosened his tie and followed up with a handshake. “Sam Hushley. What can I do you for?”
“I … I mean … I’d like to join the staff.”
“What a coincidence, I’d like to quit.” He chuckled. “Just kidding, though there are days …” He pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit.”
I sat and Hushley did likewise.
I glanced around the office, the décor of which made simple seem elaborate. The light-brown, windowless walls were devoid of the usual plaques and paintings, their sole adornment being a framed photograph of President Eisenhower on the wall behind the editor. On his desk lay a lined legal pad, ballpoint pen and plastic letter opener. Next to the desk a Royal typewriter sat on a rollaway table.
“I take it you wanna be a reporter,” Hushley said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Great. A curveball on the second pitch.
I wanted to be a writer, and I wanted to be a reporter in order to write. Seemed logical to me but I doubted he’d go for this rationale, so I bunted. “I like to write, and I like to ask questions.”
“I see.”
“Reporters write and ask questions.”
“Hopefully not in that order.” Hushley brushed a roving lock from his forehead, “You a freshman?”
“Yessir.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Jesus, what now?
“I don’t understand.”
“You ‘sir’ me again and you’re fired.”
“Sorry, Mr. Hushley.”
He groaned. I’d done it again, but what?
“Sam, for chrissake. Call me Sam.”
“Yes, uh—”
“It may take practice.” The editor stretched, then yawned. “You enrolled in any ‘J’ classes?”
J classes?
“Journalism,” he said. “God, you’re greener than bluegrass.”
I ignored the insult wrapped in a quasi-oxymoron. “Two classes. Introduction to Journalism and Reporting 101.”
“Good. Who you got?”
“You mean who’s teaching?”
I
waited for a caustic reply but received a nod instead. Relieved, I said, “Frank Harris for both.”
Hushley blessed me with a thumbs-up. “Good man, the best in fact. And he happens to be our faculty adviser.” He grabbed the dagger-shaped opener and tapped out Shave and a haircut, two bits on his desktop. “Tell you what, we’ll give you a try. When’re you available?”
I probably looked stunned, because I was.
“You change your mind?” the editor asked, slapping his palm with the opener.
“No. It’s just that, I mean …”
What the hell did I mean?
“That fluency will serve you well here.” Hushley laid the dagger to rest. “C’mon, man, say what’s on your mind.”
“I’m hired? Just like that?” Sometimes—okay, often—I couldn’t control my tongue.
“Ah. Too easy?” Hushley said.
“Well, um, yes.”
“You want the truth?”
I said I did.
In return he smiled. “You’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind for us not to hire you. And even then you might stand a chance. This isn’t The New York Times, or even the Paducah Picayune. It’s a college newspaper with a staff composed of students, who, I regret to say, are not always reliable. For example, they often don’t show up when they’re supposed to. So we hire as many grunts as possible for safety’s sake. We also file a lot of evergreens. We’re reluctant to fire anyone, but be forewarned, if you shoot an editor you’re outta here.”
I told him I’d keep that in mind.
Hushley said he’d introduce me to the staff on my first day, which, according to the schedule we worked out, would be Monday.
So I had the weekend ahead to fret over taking on a task for which I was totally unqualified. Yes, I’d learn eventually, but how long did I have? Nothing came easily to me, except maybe landing a surefire position on a college newspaper. But I’d almost certainly be fired for a lesser sin than shooting an editor, like doing a piss-poor job of reporting.
Well, we’d see. Unless I shot an editor first.
Chapter 19
Mom set a platter of whole roast chicken on the table and sat while Dad remained standing and carved. That the entrée would taste drier than sand was a given, since my mom overcooked everything, especially poultry, in the interest of murdering germs.
She sipped her Faygo grape, then looked at me and announced, “We have something to tell you.”
Shit.
Foul news to go with the parched fowl.
When my parents had something to tell me, it was usually something I’d rather not hear—for instance, that one of my relatives was about to visit (most of them were from Chicago, and lived up to the first part of the city’s nickname). Last year, the “something” was news that my grandfather Moishe had died of lung cancer, which hit me hard because he was the only family member who enjoyed someone else’s voice as much as his own.
“We’re moving,” my mom said.
That awful possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “Where?”
It really didn’t matter. The prospect of moving anywhere gave me heartburn without benefit of Mom’s cooking.
My dad answered while dismembering the chicken. “Huntington Road, in the Eight Mile Road area.”
Eight Mile separated Detroit proper from Oak Park, a growing suburb populated mainly by Jews fleeing the so-called “shvartz invasion.” The area was characterized by clean streets, trim lawns and picket fences, plus an antenna on every rooftop. The prospect of relocating from a boring but familiar neighborhood to a boring but unfamiliar one was distasteful enough, but if the past were any indication, something even more disagreeable lay ahead—the mere process of moving. I recalled with little fondness our previous relocation five years ago, shortly after my bar mitzvah. I’d barely survived the ritual of becoming a man—that is, of singsonging my way through Torah passages in public—when we moved from our apartment building on Euclid Avenue to our current home on Sturtevant. Throughout this trauma my parents conducted a second civil war, clashing repeatedly over what to keep and what to discard, what to pack first and what to pack last, and, in our new home, what to unpack first and what to unpack last, plus where to put things once they’d unpacked them. They also fought over how to arrange the furniture, the one battle Mom always won (with some kind of threat, I think, issued in a code I couldn’t decipher). Now I was about to suffer this torment again.
“Why are we moving?” As if I didn’t know.
Dad kept his head bent over the chicken. “We’re buying a home. It’s in a nice neighborhood. It’ll be a good investment. That’s why.”
“Think of it, a bigger house, with three bedrooms yet!” Mom effused.
“Why not here?” was my follow-up question.
This prompted my dad to finally look up. “What’s that mean, ‘Why not here?’”
“Why not buy a house in this neighborhood? It’s where all my friends are.”
My parents exchanged glances.
“This neighborhood is going to hell,” Dad said. “Muggings, break-ins, litter everywhere. Eight Mile Road is a nicer area, clean and safe. You’ll like it there.”
I doubted that. Even if our new location wasn’t boring, which it would be, I’d be leaving behind the few friends I had, and making new ones was never easy for me. Plus, Eight Mile Road was farther from campus than Sturtevant, so I’d have a longer bus ride to school.
My dad set aside his carving knife, placed the platter at mid-table and pointed. “Ess.”
Setting a good example, he helped himself to a breast and leg. My mom forked two thighs. They both took peas and mashed potatoes. I placed a wing on my plate and disregarded it.
Mom sampled the chicken, potatoes and vegetables before turning to my untouched plate. “You’re not hungry?”
“No.”
Dad leaned toward me. “Don’t sulk. I hate it when you sulk.”
My mom gave him a look.
In response to which he said, “What? You like it when he sulks?”
“Have some sympathy,“ she suggested. “He’s moving away from his friends.”
“So? He’ll make new ones, and from time to time he’ll visit his friends here. He’s eighteen and going to college, for chrissake. It’s time he grew up.”
Technically, my dad was correct. But I had enough troubles without confronting my immaturity, so I stewed and picked at the chicken wing.
“Have some potatoes,” Mom urged.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Please, try some.”
I placed a spoonful on my plate.
“Nu? Taste.”
With no alternative in sight, I ate a small portion.
Paste.
“Look at that punem,” Dad said. “Only a mother could love it.”
“Al.”
“Okay, I give up.”
My dad stopped selling me on growing up as he and my mom focused on their food. After cleaning their plates they cleared the table and piled the dishes in the sink.
Dad opened the freezer. “Who wants ice cream? There’s chocolate and butter pecan.”
“I’ll have some of each,” Mom said.
I declined dessert, and not because mixing dairy and flaishik wasn’t kosher. I didn’t give a damn about that, any more than my parents did. I was simply in a rotten mood, in case you hadn’t noticed.
My dad managed to glower at me while scooping ice cream into two large bowls. “Fine, fast if you like. But we’re moving and that’s that.”
I’d intended to tell them my news, that I’d become a newspaper reporter, but decided to save that morsel for another, less-disturbing, day.
Assuming one came along.
Chapter 20
Sunday.
After tossing and turning for God knows how long I checked the Mickey Mouse clock on my bedside table.
2:40 a.m.
I thought: You dirty rat.
The rodent must have read my mind, because he squeaked
, “Hey, I’m just the messenger.”
Or maybe I was hearing things.
Either way, it wasn’t his fault I’d spent a near-sleepless night. It was mine and mine alone. More specifically, it was my habit of worrying over every little thing (all right, every big thing too). As a warm-up, I’d agonized over being a reporter at the Post. Could I handle the job? From what I’d put together, it involved finding sources, conducting interviews, taking notes and writing stories. Could I do all that and meet deadline? Hell, could I do all that and attend classes, go to work, do my homework and study?
Tired from fretting over that subject, I switched to another—Amanda Fontaine, the woman I wanted but could never have. Why was I so relaxed around her? Yes, my heart beat faster in her presence, but I didn’t feel tense or anxious, like I usually did around attractive women. I could think of only one reason. Unconsciously, I’d been guilty of the same attitude toward Negroes that I found objectionable in others. I considered them inferior, so I was comfortable around them, including around Amanda.
But after a few more tosses and several more turns I wondered if I was being too hard on myself. Sure, my liabilities were limitless, but they did not include prejudice. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I considered Amanda superior to me in several respects. For one thing, she was far braver than I, which she proved by entering a white store in a white neighborhood and talking to a white person regardless of what other people thought or did about it.
So the question remained, why was I at ease around her? Maybe because she was easy to be around despite her beauty. Or maybe because she liked me, which was not true of everyone I met (I know, hard to believe). Or maybe just because.
Anyway, the point was moot since I’d never see her again. Which triggered another, no less troubling, thought. I’d muffed it with Amanda. When she showed up at Harry’s she was testing me to see how determined I was. Why else would she visit the store after insisting we couldn’t be together? Amanda may have wanted a more fitting farewell, but in retrospect that explanation seemed iffy at best. More likely she wanted me to show some persistence despite her resistance. Sure, she had reservations about us going out, but she also believed that if I had enough resolve, we could pull off being together. In other words, Amanda’s appearance at Harry’s was a test, which I’d flunked. I’d let her walk out of my life without lifting a finger to prevent it, or at least without trying harder to persuade her to stay. Hell, if I had any gumption, I’d have pursued her after she left.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 8
