I suppose I might have rebelled against this bigotry by shunning the city, and therefore Mario’s, thus engaging in that fashionable form of protest known as the boycott. But I decided that spurning Dearborn would constitute a futile act of bravado, meaning it would change nothing. Besides, by circumventing the city, and therefore Mario’s, I would relinquish the sight, and to some degree the company, of Jane Bartolo, next to whom all other Janes seemed plain, Miss Russell being a possible exception.
What can I say about Mario’s bartendress that won’t sound overblown? Nothing, so I won’t even try. I’ll just say that her locks were spun gold, her eyes ocean blue and her lips rose-petal red and leave it at that. Oh, and her face was that of a goddess. Or is that too much? Okay, then I won’t mention her voluptuous, goddess-like figure.
Well, no matter how you described her, Jane Bartolo was out of my league. So far out, that the sight of her was all I could hope for.
Other guys, mostly chiseled jock-strappy types, had higher aspirations and managed to fulfill them, particularly on weekends. Almost every Saturday, one of them arrived shortly before last call, waited until Jane finished checking the register, and left with her on their arm and a smile on their face. I tried not to pass judgment on these shitheads, or on Jane for her shallow taste in men. I understood women gravitated toward guys who matched their level of attractiveness, even if those guys were retards. Nor could I complain that Jane paid no attention to me, since she always greeted me warmly and chatted with me at length during slow periods, which is how I discovered that her assets included more than just her looks. Jane Bartolo was savvy, intelligent and, in many ways, wise.
Surprisingly, she showed some interest in my life outside of Mario’s, and as a result I told her last week that I planned to work for a newspaper.
“No shit” was her reaction, reminding me that in addition to her other qualities Jane boasted a colorful vocabulary.
Tonight, wearing a half-buttoned blouse and shorter-than-short shorts, she picked up on our last conversation as she wiped down the bar. “So what paper you gonna work for?”
“I don’t know. Yet, I mean.”
I tried easing my discomfort with a swallow of Johnny Walker, but Jane prolonged it by asking, “Why not yet?”
I took another swallow. “Like I said, I got out of the Navy a couple months ago, so I’m kind of biding my time.”
“Until what?”
“Until … I don’t know. Do you plan every little detail of your life?” I hoped I didn’t sound testy.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do from one minute to the next,” Jane admitted. “But sometimes I find out when friends ask me questions.”
I thought her candor unfair, so I resorted to evasion. “All right, let me ask you a question. May I have another Scotch?”
Jane looked slightly wounded, so when she returned with my drink I apologized by gulping it down.
“I’m only trying to be helpful,” she said.
“I know. I just—”
“You needn’t be so defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive.”
“Yes you are.”
“I am not being defensive.”
“You’re being defensive right now.”
“No I’m n—”
Jane’s laughter brought me up short, which was a good thing or I’d have continued to prove her point. Instead, I switched subjects. “How old are you anyway?”
Now there are ways of changing subjects, and there are ways of changing subjects, but asking a woman her age is probably not the best way. So clearly I was out to sabotage what little chance I had of making it with Jane Bartolo, and yes, despite what I said, I harbored a sliver of hope.
Sure enough, her glare gave me third-degree burns. “Are you trying to piss me off?” she asked.
I stopped being tactless and turned to jelly instead. “No, honest, I would never do that. Never. Not on purpose, anyway. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not even thirty. So there.”
Twenty-nine was my guess, but I kept that to myself.
Jane placed her hands on the bar and leaned forward, giving me the full scenic view. “Why’d you ask?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that you’re so smart.” I meant it, but I was also trying for a comeback.
“You’re right, I am. Too bad men aren’t.”
To what, exactly, was she referring? Men in general, or me in particular? If the latter, I couldn’t agree more. Oh well, no use dwelling on riddles. I held up my glass. Jane shook her head, then left to fetch a refill.
“Before I lose you,” she said upon returning, “may I suggest you apply there.”
She tilted her head to the right, so I assumed she meant the Dearborn Gazette, located across the street from Mario’s. I’d thought of applying there and at a few other weeklies, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet, so busy was I biding my time.
I sipped my drink, though tempted to gulp it.
“Why the Gazette?” I asked. “There are plenty of other papers around.”
“Because it’s near here.” She paused, as if to let that sink in, then added, “I heard from someone who knows someone on staff that they have an opening for a reporter.”
I stalled while absorbing this information. “What kind of reporter?”
“What difference does it make? If you’re serious about being a journalist, or whatever you call it, get your ass over there before it’s too late.”
Another customer waved at Jane, so she stopped counseling me and resumed her other job. Since I was eager to get back in her good graces, I resolved to visit the Gazette.
Soon.
Chapter 48
I stared at the new sign over the ice cream bins at Dandy Randy’s Ice Cream and Candy, formerly known as Randy’s Ice Cream and Candy.
“So whaduhyuh think?” asked Sheldon Feinberg, the establishment’s new proprietor. He stood behind the counter wearing a white apron marred by only two stains, both chocolate syrup, I think.
“The name’s fine.”
I wasn’t lying exactly. The change struck me as harmless enough but unnecessary, despite Sheldon’s insistence that although a little rhyming went a long way in commerce, a little more went a lot further. He claimed the product didn’t matter. Sweets, sweaters, candles, condoms—all could benefit from a little ersatz poetry.
He must have picked this theory up at Wayne State University, from whose business school he’d receive an MBA this summer. He managed Dandy Randy’s for a year after earning his BA, and assumed ownership last year when his mother died of breast cancer and his father moved to Miami.
I swiveled around in my seat at the counter and surveyed the place. Its name wasn’t the only thing Sheldon had modified. He’d also replaced its linoleum-covered floor with hardwood, installed a mini-juke in every booth and decorated the walls with posters from classic movies featuring famous leading couples. Among the films were three of my favorites—Gone with the Wind (Gable and Leigh), Casablanca (Bogart and Bergman) and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Flynn and DeHavilland). I gave the posters an A, the floors and booths B-pluses.
I swung back to the counter and Sheldon thrust a menu at me. “Pretty cool, huh?”
I assumed he referred to the menu’s content and not its form, which remained much the same, a two-sided sheet encased in clear plastic. I scanned the selections. They were also unchanged, except for their monikers and three new items. In keeping with the décor, Sheldon had renamed the sundaes after classic movies, including On the Town, Citizen Kane, The Wizard of Oz, Sunset Boulevard, Double Indemnity and Philadelphia Story. The trio of additional offerings were High Noon, Twelve O’clock High and Cheaper by the Dozen, each featuring a dozen scoops of ice cream plus God knows how many toppings, which themselves were crowned with gobs of whipped cream. These concoctions differed from each other mainly in their “extras.” High Noon came with M&M’s sprinkled on top, Twelve O’Clock High with embedded sugar wafers, and Cheape
r by the Dozen with a side of Oreo cookies. If you survived one of these treats you received another for free.
Since I read everything my eyes happened to light on, including billboards and food labels, I read the detailed descriptions on this menu, then fought to keep my breakfast down. Meanwhile, Sheldon grew impatient.
“Well?”
“It’s, uh, different.”
Apparently this reply was insufficient, because he bore down. “You like?”
Well, the rest of the menu didn’t nauseate me, so I said, “Sure, what’s not to like?”
“Want a twelve-scooper?”
“Maybe some other time. Right now I’ll settle for a hot-fudge sundae.”
Looking somewhat disappointed, Sheldon left to fill my order.
Meanwhile, I thought about the other bombshell he’d dropped when I finally called him earlier this week. After apologizing for not writing and telling me the news, Sheldon revealed he was now a married man. And a daddy.
He’d married Sally Grayson, the woman he said he was serious about. Since she was Protestant, they’d wed in neutral territory, Las Vegas, and now they were renting an apartment in the Detroit suburb of Madison Heights, where they lived with their three-year-old daughter Debbie. All three Feinbergs were content, in his case unexpectedly so, Sheldon said.
The road to contentment, however, had not been smooth. Sheldon’s parents were furious when he impregnated a shikseh (out of wedlock yet), disowned him when he married her (in a goyishe ceremony yet), then owned him again so they could enjoy their granddaughter. When Sheldon’s mom passed away, his dad gave him the ice cream parlor as a belated wedding gift.
The proprietor set my order down. “Try that.”
He’d given me two scoops of ice cream instead of one, maybe as a belated homecoming gift. The sundae tasted neither better nor worse than usual, which meant it tasted very good indeed.
I told Sheldon so and his cheeks puffed out. Maybe. It was hard to tell because he’d gained considerable weight since the last time I saw him, no mean feat considering how much he weighed back then. If I had to guess, I’d say he’d been sampling his merchandise.
“Think I’ll make me a split and join you,” Sheldon said, corroborating my theory.
I sampled more sundae, then swiveled around again. The store was empty except for the owner and I, which wasn’t surprising at midafternoon on a school day. Certainly Sheldon had done all he could to attract customers. He may have been a slob, but his parlor was pristine. Everything—mirrors, countertops, coffee urns, even the hardwood floors—gleamed. And yet the place was cozy, inviting patrons to linger awhile.
My friend was doing well, and I might have been happy for him if his success didn’t underscore my lack of it. At anything.
Finished building his banana split, he set it down, came around the counter and perched next to me. “So what’s going on, man. Find a job yet?” He dug into his confection.
“Ask me day after tomorrow.”
Sheldon raised his head and blinked.
“I’m interviewing at the Dearborn Gazette.”
“Groovy,” he said, then returned to his banana split.
“I turned in an application last week, and they called yesterday and invited me in for an interview.”
“Excellent,” he said with a mouthful.
Whether he referred to my impending interview, his banana split or both I couldn’t tell. He offered me a clue by setting his spoon down and turning his hand palm up.
“Gimme five.”
I did, then confessed, “I’m a little nervous.”
At this Sheldon rolled his eyes. “Here we go again. You got the jitters before every test at Central High, and for no good reason. You aced them all.”
“Things didn’t go that way at Wayne State.”
Now he tsked. “They didn’t go that way at Wayne State because you skipped all your exams. You show up at the Gazette and you’ll get the job.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but how can you be so sure?”
“Bet?”
I removed a dollar from my billfold and laid it on the counter. “Bet.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“Change your mind?”
“About a sure thing? C’mon, you can do better than that. Make it a sawbuck.”
“Five,” I haggled.
“Hey, show some balls, Nate. Ten.”
I feigned reluctance by waiting a moment.
“Done,” I said.
Shrewd, if I had to say so myself. I’d never won a wager in my life, so by betting against myself I was improving my chances of getting the job.
Now all I had to do was ace the interview.
Chapter 49
Phil Doppler was the kind of guy I despised, or at least disliked a lot. Like me, he was thin, but unlike me, he was tall, graceful, polished and self-assured, the sort who didn’t need a Cadillac to weaken a girl’s knees but probably owned one for good measure.
As we headed from the Gazette lobby to his second-floor office, I guessed his height at six-foot-something, which meant he’d captained the college basketball team and seduced the best-looking coeds on campus. No doubt he’d belonged to Gamma Kappa Screw You, since he fairly reeked of Greek, and as Gazette managing editor he doubtless kissed the publisher’s ass and censored anything offensive to advertisers. And don’t tell me I’m conclusion-jumping, because you know I’m right.
His office, I must say, was modest, boasting only an oak desk, two armless chairs, a small leather couch and one metal filing cabinet. The lone decoration hung on the wall to the right of his desk, a cheap-looking painting of a boring wheat field.
Doppler motioned me to one of the chairs and seated himself behind his glass-topped desk, in the nearest corner of which stood a framed photograph angled so the ME and his visitors could both enjoy the sight of a pretty blonde in a prim white dress. Keeping the photo company were a ballpoint pen, lined yellow pad and navy-blue coffee cup. This made Doppler the second neat-freak editor I’d encountered, but other than a sparsely populated desk he had as much in common with Sam Hushley as I had with Brenda Starr.
Rather than mar the desk’s landscape, the ME held my resume in front of him as he leaned back in his chair. Playing it safe, I kept my clippings in my lap.
“I see you attended Wayne State University,” Doppler said. “Kind of radical over there, no?”
This gave me pause. Some people used the adjective as a compliment, others as an insult. I decided vague agreement would go well with either use.
“I guess you could say that.”
The ME gave me an equally ambiguous “Hmm” in return, then revealed he’d graduated from the University of Michigan. “The college was pretty conservative back then, but unfortunately it’s commie central these days. The head commissar, Tom Hayden, is editor of the school paper. You’re acquainted with him, I’m sure.”
I neither confirmed nor denied this, but in truth I had no idea who Tom Hayden was. What did I know about U of M, except that it was located in Ann Arbor and cost a fortune to attend? I knew even less about the Michigan Daily, except it looked like the Old Gray Lady, sometimes referred to as the New York Times.
“Says here you attended college for two years,” Doppler said. “Why’d you quit?”
Quit? I’d call it escape, but decided not to correct him.
“I wanted to see the world,” I said, “or at least another part of it.”
“You could have done that after graduating.”
Suddenly my head hurt, and not from a hangover.
“I completed most of my journalism credits,” I said, “and figured gaining some real-life experience was more important than graduating.” Which was partially true.
Doppler set the résumé on his desk finally, provoking snarls of disapproval. “Well, “ he said, “at least you served your country, which is more than I can say for those hippie-dippys burning their draft cards and running off to Canada. Unlike
them, you’re a true patriot.”
I was?
That was a good thing, right? The word certainly sounded virtuous. But truthfully, its meaning was no clearer to me than that of radical.
Doppler drummed his fingers on the desk. “Barely missed Nam, I guess.”
Was that a bad thing? I went with “Uh-huh.”
“War would’ve been a valuable experience too. Oh well, not your fault you missed out.”
Glad to hear it, since the last thing I needed was another fault. And yet I wondered what Doppler knew about war. He obviously wasn’t fighting in Vietnam, and I doubted he’d seen duty in Korea. I couldn’t picture him in khakis, let alone dungarees.
He gave me what might have been a grin. “One thing for sure, we’ll kick gook ass over there. That you can bet on.”
Tempting, but one wager at a time for me and I already had ten bucks riding on this interview.
Doppler returned to my résumé. “You were a reporter at the Daily Post, which means you worked under pressure. But don’t think there’s none of that here. Deadlines pop up before you know it, and we pack a lot into each issue.”
True enough, based on the back issues I’d read. But along with local news much of what the Gazette packed into each issue was photos of Richard Tubbin cutting ribbons, bestowing awards and delivering speeches. Moreover, the paper tended to neglect hizzoner’s crusade for tolerance. I did not point this out, however.
“Why do you want to work here?” Doppler asked.
Because I’ve got to start someplace, and the goddess across the street, for whose approval I’d walk barefoot on glass shards, urged me to apply here.
That was one possible answer.
Instead I chose, “Because you’ve got an opening for a reporter and that’s what I am. Plus I think I can do a good job for you.”
I pushed the folder toward Doppler and in return he pushed it back.
“I don’t place much store in clippings,” he said. “A good editor can turn dross into gold. Speaking of which, have you done any editing yourself?”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 24
