Naturally I tried talking myself out of these notions by telling myself Amanda meant it when she said we were doomed from the start, so going after her would have been pointless, or worse, made her life more difficult. But these rationalizations failed and my mind remained restive, while a good night’s sleep eluded me.
#
Still Sunday.
I woke up exhausted, so I spent most of the day napping on the couch or dozing in front of the TV.
As a result, I was so wide-awake at bedtime I slept fitfully again.
#
Monday morning.
Once more I felt fatigued, so I napped in my morning class.
Well, did I have a choice?
Chapter 21
“Well, this is it, for better or worse.”
I decided worse.
Sam Hushley and I had just exited his office after a preliminary chat and were looking out at the newsroom, whose dark side I hadn’t noticed on Friday, probably because I’d been distracted by a pixie and a harpy. Now I observed the scuffed floor, dingy walls and cracked ceiling. Maybe I’d get used to these surroundings, like the rest of the staff, who were either ignoring them or keeping too busy to notice. For example, at the reporters’ table two staffers studied their notes, two more tapped out stories and a fifth yapped on the phone adjacent to his typewriter.
Following my gaze, Hushley explained that while reporters occasionally left the building to cover a story, they conducted most of their interviews at the office, either over the phone or face-to-face with sources who’d agreed to visit them. “As you might imagine, time is precious on a daily, so we try to save it wherever we can.”
At the horseshoe, which Hushley referred to as the “copy desk,” three staffers with pencils in hand bent over copy. He noted that the older staff member sitting inside the curve, or “slot,” was the copy chief, while the two seated on the outer rim were assistant copy editors. The pair checked stories for spelling, grammar, punctuation and such, while the chief laid out pages and “spec’d” headlines, which all three of them wrote.
“Those people keep us literate,” Hushley said. “Our reporters report just fine, but most of them can’t spell worth a damn and couldn’t tell a subject from a predicate if their lives depended on it.” He looked toward the corridor to the left of the entrance. “On the other hand, those folks are … well, editorial tries not to think about advertising. Except let’s face it, we cannot live on subsidies alone.”
Hushley motioned for me to follow him, and we headed toward the Devil. With moderate enthusiasm, the editor introduced me to the department’s director, Bill Hollings, who stood about ten feet tall and, judging by his brawny appearance and vice-like grip, visited the school’s weight room on a regular basis. He undoubtedly won men over with his firm handshake and hearty manner, and women with his blue eyes and chiseled features.
“Hey, welcome aboard.” Hollings’ voice was sturdy, like the rest of him.
Hushley clapped his back. “As you might expect, Bill here intimidates people into buying ads, though he likes to think he’s a great salesman.”
The jab sounded only half playful, but Hollings chose self-effacement over counterpunching. “With the great paper Sam puts out, even a dummy could sell its ad space.”
I’d call the fight a draw.
Back in the newsroom, Hushley introduced me to the reporters on hand, beginning with Ellen Drury, the she-wolf I’d encountered on my first visit. She howled, I swear, upon introduction, and when Hushley declared her “the world’s greatest reporter” she eyed me as if expecting disagreement. When I failed to offer it, she scowled and clomped off.
Next up was Rachel Solomon, the pixie with the slim figure and short, almost mannish hair. “Hi, glad to have you aboard,” she said as if she meant it. But her direct gaze made me even more nervous than usual around women.
Hushley and I moved on, though I couldn’t resist a glance back at Miss Solomon. I should have fought the temptation because her fingers were flying over the keyboard, reminding me, an incurable hunt-and-pecker, that mine moved in slow motion.
I was dwelling on this deficiency when Hushley introduced me to a third reporter, Dewey Clifford, a wiry, crew-cutted imp whose breath smelled of alcohol at ten o’clock in the morning.
“Hey, man, welcome to our den of iniquity.” He started to chuckle but a rasping cough cut him short.
“When Dewey’s not mimicking an asthmatic, he’s imitating other people,” Hushley said. “To a tee, I might add.”
Clifford took this as his cue to offer impressions of Bogart, Fonda and the James boys, Stewart and Cagney. After a slight pause he did Betty Davis and Joan Crawford, then closed with a perfect Sam Hushley.
A crowd had gathered and, encouraged by their applause, Clifford grabbed a blank sheet of paper from the table and waved it about. “You giff me ziss doo-doo, ziss cockah, ziss shit, mit holes I can drive mein Folksvagen zroo, and you eggspect me to read it? Dummkopf! Here’s vaht I tink of your shitty-cockah-doo-doo.” Clifford threw the “copy” on the floor, ground it underfoot and stomped on it, obviously relishing this unhinged display of anger. He finished by clicking his heels together, sig-heiling his audience and goose-stepping away.
The spectators clapped again, this time sneaking glances at the gentleman hunched over his desk a short distance away. He ignored their furtive looks, as he had Clifford’s performance.
Gustav Hermann, the Post’s news editor and the object of the imp’s final impersonation, happened to be next on our rounds. He wore a wrinkle-free suit, white shirt, precisely knotted tie and, unsurprisingly, a perfectly coiffed head. What did surprise me was his desk, which, in contrast to his orderly visage, was an unholy mess. Up close, it seemed a dumping ground for newspapers, copy paper, notebooks and correspondence, interspersed among which were pens, pencils, scissors, Scotch tape, stapler, glue pot, coffee cup and telephone.
“Good to have you on staff,” Hermann said with little conviction.
Clifford had exaggerated the man’s accent, which carried only a hint of the fatherland, but not his grim demeanor, which promised fun days ahead. His parting words, “I look forward to working with you,” sounded as sincere as his greeting.
Then again, maybe I’d caught him on a bad day.
#
Hushley and I returned to his office and he invited me to sit while he did the same.
“Well, whatchuh think?” he asked.
“About what?”
With a trace of impatience he spread his arms. “About us, this place, the whole enchilada.”
“They seem like good people. The place is okay.”
“Needs a little paint-up, fix-up, huh?”
“A little.”
He swept an errant lock from his forehead. “That’s where more lucre would come in handy.”
“No doubt.”
Hushley glanced at his watch, seemed shocked by what he saw and jumped up.
“Christ, I’m sorry, man. Gotta run. Giving a boring speech to a bunch of high schoolers. Wish them luck.” Before I could, he added, “You may as well split too. Report to Gustav tomorrow.”
Oh joy.
We left the office together and headed for the exit. On the way I conducted an internal debate and by the time we reached the door I’d made up my mind to tell him. “There’s something you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t type very well.” I held up my four typing fingers.”
He smiled and raised two forefingers. “You’ve got me there.”
I felt somewhat relieved.
Chapter 22
My family’s relocation to northwest Detroit lived up to my expectations. Or down to them, depending on your perspective. It was hell, plain and simple, not only the move itself but the usually peaceful period during which my parents waited for escrow to close and prepared for their upcoming battle. Or at least I prepared for it, mainly by bracing myself. During this particular “quiet
” time, my dad the real estate agent insisted that our new home’s current owners repair a leaky roof, repaint the master bedroom and caulk all the windows. In addition, a county inspector decided the home’s electrical system needed rewiring. As a result of all this hubbub, we relocated to the Eight Mile Road area about a month and a half later than planned, but just in time for Thanksgiving.
If only we had something to give thanks for. The move itself was worse than our last one, which I didn’t think possible. Not only did my parents threaten divorce at least twice apiece during the proceedings, together they contemplated suing the Zephyr Transport & Moving Company, whose schlemiels, they claimed, scratched the coffee table, broke a floor lamp and misplaced several cartons in our cheery new home.
I wish I could say that at least the new neighborhood was an improvement over the old one, but I’d be lying if I did. Granted, the homes and properties on Huntington Road weren’t in disrepair like those on Sturtevant. Indeed they were in perfectly good repair. They were just mind-numbingly boring, and by that I mean they were so standardized, so homogenized, so similar to one another in practically every detail that you could easily mistake one domicile for another. In fact, you could walk into the wrong house without even knowing it and scare the crap out of everyone present, which my dad did the day after we moved. He strolled into the house next door—while they were gathered round the dinner table, no less—and gave them all indigestion. By his account he barely escaped with his life, but that no doubt was exaggerated. More likely he suffered a broken eardrum, since Jews, who constituted a majority of our neighbors, preferred shouting to shooting.
To say that I thought of committing suicide amid all this tumult would also be hyperbole. But even if I had considered such an avenue of escape, in the end I wouldn’t have gone through with it, seeing as I had too much to live for.
Like my own parent-free apartment.
Chapter 23
1959-1960
The good news was that thanks to Frank Harris and Gustav Hermann I became a fairly decent reporter. The bad news was that the two of them were shitheads. Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh. Assholes then. Yes, they were definitely assholes. Still too much? All right, they were schmucks. But brutal schmucks. And that’s my final assessment. They were brutal fucking schmucks.
Take Frank Harris, the “good man” to whom Hushley had given a thumbs up. Good man my ass. Rotten bastard maybe; I could go with that. A former Detroit Times editor, Harris didn’t look cruel, let alone heartless. Hell, with that snowy top and those kindly eyes he could pass for Grandpa Moishe (RIP). But our instructor’s benevolent appearance was a front, behind which lurked a descendant of the Marquis de Sade. The sadist flayed our egos in class and raised even more welts with his written comments on our homework assignments, typically faux news stories based on data provided by Harris himself. On one of my submissions he wrote the following terms of endearment: “If this is the best you can do, I doubt you’ll succeed as a journalist. Your story makes no sense.” As for his edits on these assignments, let’s just say they were ruthless, as in ex-ing out half the story, including individual words (which he assessed as “redundant,” “superfluous,” “repetitious” or “useless”), whole sentences (“Don’t over-explain things, goddamnit”), and even entire paragraphs (“meaningless gibberish”).
Most of us endured this abuse because we trusted, or at least hoped, that if we survived it we’d be better writers and reporters, which, as it turned out, we were. I’ll give Harris this too: when he wasn’t lashing out at us he could be entertaining, in his own peculiar way. Take his recent instruction vis-à-vis asking hard questions.
“Ask them,” he said, “even if they discomfit people. If someone is evasive, repeat the question until they answer it. If you think someone is lying, call them on it. Most people, especially those in power, have difficulty telling the truth.” Here he paused dramatically (a stratagem learned in the theater, if rumors of his youthful pursuits were true). Then he stage-whispered, “Powerful … people … lie.”
Harris also occasionally, and I mean very occasionally, displayed a bit of wit. Earlier this week, for instance, after urging us to write clearly and get to the point quickly, he said, “Readers’ time is limited and newspaper space is finite. If you’ve got logorrhea, take something for it.”
Though I appreciated these rare displays of humor, I wasn’t always sure Harris meant to be funny. Take the time he suggested reporters keep their opinions to themselves in a news story: “No one’s interested in your personal views. People want the facts so they can draw their own conclusions. If you’re itching to share your insights, write an editorial or op-ed piece. Otherwise, readers should never know your politics, religion or sexual habits.” This drew some chuckles. but whether Harris intended to elicit them I couldn’t tell. Well, even his dubious humor was preferable to his verbal floggings.
And then there was Gustav Hermann, who provided little humor, dubious or otherwise, but plenty of snide remarks. His one saving grace was that he offered some valuable advice as well. For instance, he advised us to structure our stories around the five W’s—who, what, why, when, where—and how. In addition, he urged us to keep our leads interesting but factual and not to bury them mid-story. And he suggested that we convey the facts in descending order of importance, which would allow cutting from the bottom should space require it, which it often did. Naturally Hermann gave our copy a thorough going-over, and his comments, also naturally, could be lacerating. The nastier barbs usually accompanied a first draft, but thankfully grew fewer and milder with each iteration.
Judging by how intensely the putz scrutinized our stories, you’d think they all trumpeted a momentous event, like the Second Coming, a Tartars victory, or my getting laid. But you’d think wrong. Among the earthshaking happenings I covered were fundraising campaigns, remodeling projects and alumni activities, all of which were—let me see, how can I put this—a fucking drag.
I thought about complaining and even managed to get up the nerve. But then Hermann offered me a story with some weight to it, the kind I’d been waiting for.
#
It was mid-January and I’d just wrapped up a feature on Mad Anthony Wayne, the university’s namesake, when the editor called me over to his rubble-strewn desk. “How’d you like an assignment with a little heft?”
Of course I would.
Maybe.
Yes, I wanted heftier stories, but I wasn’t sure I could handle them. What if this assignment required skills I didn’t have. I’d become a passably good reporter, true, but I was by no means a superior one, let lone “the world’s greatest.” If I flopped on an important story they might fire me before I even shot an editor.
Hermann checked the wall clock behind his desk, then tsked. “This is a daily, you know.”
The last thing I needed was his snotty remarks, so I made a quick decision (quick by my standards, anyway). I’d accept the assignment, because living with self-doubt was preferable to the guilt I’d feel if I declined it.
“Of course,” I said.
Hermann smiled weakly and muttered “Good, good,” then outlined the assignment using notes exhumed from his desk.
At its fall meeting last year the university’s Board of Trustees lifted a decade-long ban against communist speakers on campus. The following month it invited Aaron Skolnick, a member of the Communist Party USA, to give the first talk in its Alternative Viewpoints series set to begin this coming May.
Mr. Skolnick was publisher of Red Flag, a free tabloid distributed to select colleges throughout the Midwest. Five years ago WSU had joined the chosen few without a peep of dissent on or off campus. But upon repeal of the ban a deaf person could hear the howls of protest, at least from some quarters (the Post heard a few itself after publishing an editorial supporting the university).
The campus population, students and faculty combined, were about evenly divided. Half cheered the trustees as heroes while half jeered them as villain
s. When several “generous” alumni kvetched about the ban’s repeal, the trustees voted in December to reconsider their decision the following March.
The repeal also stirred up several off-campus groups, one of which, Americans for a Free Society, was now campaigning to get the ban reinstated. Leading its charge were Tim Byersmith and Ann McCory, who’d mounted soapboxes all over campus and were now circulating a petition challenging the repeal.
Hermann removed his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue, then related his experience with one of the crusaders. “Ann McCory called last week and volunteered to write a news story on the pro-ban movement, but I told her we’d already covered it. Then she offered to write an article about her and her partner-in-crime, and their efforts to revive the ban. I told her only staff members could write stories for us. In that case, she said, ‘why not have one of them write an article about us.’ I was about to hang up on the pest, but then realized she had a point. McCory and Byersmith have become a major presence on campus, so we’d be remiss if we didn’t do a story on them and their activities.” Hermann set aside his notes. “Don’t confine the piece to just those two, though. We were on deadline when the last story broke so we quoted only President Hillberger, who as you know sits on the board. This is a chance to talk to a few other trustees, plus anyone else you can think of. Not the janitor, though.”
Even forced humor from Hermann was a rarity, so I celebrated the occasion by chuckling.
“FYI,” he said, ignoring my response, “Ellen Drury wrote the first two articles, on the vote to rescind and then to reconsider, which means normally I’d have given her this follow-up. But she went home early today with a cold and Rachel Solomon has an exam this afternoon and the rest of the reporters are busy with other assignments. So tag, you’re it.”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 9
