To escape the racket I closed my eyes and drifted off myself.
Quietly, I hoped.
#
Someone or something shook me awake. I looked up to see something that could pass for someone if you gave it enough latitude. Its face—or his, if you insist—was unshaved and rodent-like, his hair a tangled mass of straw.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“You first,” I suggested.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said.
The face disappeared before I could decline.
Left alone with my thoughts, I reviewed the previous night’s events, prompting me to explore my pockets, wrists and fingers on the offhand chance my memory had lied. Regrettably, it hadn’t.
This led me to wonder, not for the first time, whether I was crazy. After all, I’d gotten drunk over a woman I’d lost by getting drunk. That, to quote the woman herself, was fucking insane.
Could this be an asylum?
I got up to find out. A gentleman standing against the wall to my left seemed knowledgeable, despite his sallow skin and skinny torso.
“Where are we exactly?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
Several responses came to mind, none of them respectful, so I settled for, “Uh-uh.”
He shook his head, probably at my ignorance. “You’re in a drunk tank, buddy.”
Uh-oh.
Or as Mom would say, Oi vai.
I knew enough about drunk tanks to realize I was in jail. Did that make me a jailbird? Just what I needed on top of everything else.
“Your first time?” my neighbor asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be outta here soon.” His voice sounded surprisingly sympathetic. “They only keep you overnight.”
I felt relieved for a second or two, then realized my car was sitting in a parking lot some distance away and I had no cab fare. I could call a friend or family member to pick me up, but that would require their coming here, adding yet another humiliation to an overlong list. Then again, what choice did I have?
Maybe I’d call my parents, or at least a parent. Dad would kill me without saying kaddish if he knew what I’d done, and what I’d let others do to me, let alone where I’d ended up. But Mom, thanks to her maternal instincts, might let me live.
So after a fat-assed cop dropped by to announce we could leave, I borrowed a house phone and dialed my parents’ number, though I hesitated when I got to the last digit. The way things were going, Dad would answer. What day was today anyway? Tuesday. Mom got up early to iron yesterday’s wash. The call would still be a gamble but the odds were with me for once. I finished dialing and held my breath.
“Hello.”
I resumed breathing and told my mom where I was, what I needed and, to some degree, why. She expressed maternal concern, maybe a little alarm, but agreed not to reveal the exact nature of her mission to my dad. She added that this wouldn’t be the first time she’d spared him an unsavory truth.
Though eager to know what else she’d withheld, I figured this was not a good time to ask.
#
Mom didn’t say much on the way to the crime scene, maybe because she was focused on the road, still slick with snow and ice. What she did say was not unexpected, things like “Why do you drink so much, Nate?” and “Where did your father and I go wrong?” and “He’ll have a fit if he finds out about this.”
She also asked whether I’d reported getting robbed to the police. That would have made sense, since I’d spent the night in a police station. But reciting the robbery’s circumstances would have been too painful. In contrast to my mom, who seemed satisfied with a sanitized version of events, the cops would demand every sordid detail.
I told her I was too distraught to tell the police, which wasn’t entirely untrue.
We finally arrived at the parking lot and, with no prompting from me, Mom suggested this episode remain our little secret. She also assured me that despite my problem and the disgrace it had brought upon the family, she still loved me.
I considered this my cue to remind her I had no money and, true to form, she forced me to take a twenty-dollar bill, just in case. I thanked her, then exited the car and slammed the door. But before I could make a clean getaway Mom rolled down the window.
“Nate?”
“Huh.”
“Please get some help, bubeleh. Maybe go to that group. What’s it called? Anonymous Alcoholics or something.”
Without correcting her I promised I’d think about it, which I couldn’t possibly avoid since everyone kept bringing it up.
After she drove off I entered the bar and got some change, then headed for the pay phones near the restrooms and called Doppler to inform him I’d be late. He didn’t ask why, he didn’t verbally castrate me, he didn’t say I’d never work in this town again. He merely asked me to drop by his office when I got in.
Uh-oh.
Or oi vai.
Take your pick.
Chapter 75
That I wouldn’t get away with my latest escapade, being rolled, arrested and thrown in the clink, was a foregone conclusion. In fact, I began paying the price while driving north on the Couzens with a head that threatened to split open and spill its contents on the floor. No doubt Doppler would punish me even further when I arrived by delivering one of his lectures, itself a form of torture, and tossing me out on my ass.
I decided I might feel more comfortable on my final day at the Gazette if I spruced up a bit before heading over there, even though doing so would further delay my arrival. So I drove to the apartment, shaved, showered and changed clothes as quickly as possible given my current condition, and rode to the office in a tumbrel.
At least that’s how it felt.
#
Doppler pointed at the hot seat. “Sit.”
I sat.
As usual the ME was dressed like a fashion plate in a blue herringbone suit, creamy white shirt and pale-orange tie. And yet he looked even more immaculate than usual—hair trimmed, nails manicured, eyebrows plucked. I’m guessing some luckless service club would get the benefit of his wisdom later in the day.
Before sharing anything with me he began clicking his Bic, which did little to settle my nerves. Nor did his opening salvo help much.
“Perhaps you’re aware of it,” he said, “but in case you’re not, your performance hasn’t improved much since the last time we talked about it. There’s been some progress, but not enough. Obviously you’re still coming in late, and”—task, tsk—“way too many typos are getting into the section. Why that’s happening I’ll never know. You used to be an excellent proof reader.”
True, being an obsessive I’d caught most typographical errors while we were still in the proof stage, and like Doppler, I’ll probably never know what happened to change that, unless it was my obsessing over Jane Bartolo, and even over Amanda Fontaine, who, believe it or not, I couldn’t get out of my head after all this time. Maybe electric shock would do the trick, but right now I had to think about something else, namely where to get another job after Doppler mercifully ended this session.
“I was ready to give you the old heave-ho,” Doppler continued, “but when I mentioned it to Rachel she begged me to let you stay. And I mean begged. Practically got down on her knees.” He stopped clicking and put down the pen, much to my relief. “I don’t know what kind of hold you have on her. Maybe she sees in you what I saw when you first got here. Enormous potential. Too bad you’re not reaching it.” He picked up the pen again and I braced for more clicking, but he put it down while continuing his put-down. “I’ve known people like you. Extremely talented but missing something. I’m not sure what, only that it’s a darn shame.” He stressed how great a shame by shaking his head.
My question was, why the long preamble? Why not get this over with? And why’d he say, “I was ready?” Was he going to give me the old heave-ho or not? I assumed he was, but if so he had a funny way of going about it.
>
And here’s another question, perhaps more puzzling than the first. Why had Rachel pleaded with Doppler on my behalf, especially considering our last conversation? Maybe beneath her anger were genuine concern and, dared I hope, affection. No matter. I made a mental note to offer her my gratitude, no matter what the outcome of this discussion.
“All that aside,” Doppler said, “Rachel is the best city editor this paper’s ever had, so when she petitions me on someone’s behalf, I have to respect her judgment even if I don’t agree with it. Reluctantly, I told her I’d give you yet another month. But that’s it. No more reprieves after that.”
Well, would wonders never cease? Yes, they would, but I was grateful for this one and started to say so when the ME stopped me with an upraised hand.
“Wait till you hear the rest of it before you say anything.” He resumed clicking and I resumed grinding my teeth. “I’ve been promising Rachel a reporter, and now you’re it. So you’ll be reporting directly to her instead of me. We’re suspending the section but you’ll continue to cover the Heights, as well as Dearborn.” He continued clicking but stopped talking and I wondered what next. What else, in addition to this obvious downgrade, would I be subjected to in exchange for keeping my job? I found out as soon as he started talking again. “We’re cutting your salary from one hundred bucks a week to seventy-five, and we’re relocating you to Rachel’s office, which means you’re losing yours. This is a demotion, obviously, so if you want to move on you’re more than wel—”
“No!”
I practically shouted this, so I guess remaining at the Gazette was even more important to me than I thought. In sum, as degrading as the status and salary reductions were, I preferred them to losing my job altogether. Plus the change in status and transfer offered a couple of benefits: working normal hours, and seeing Rachel Solomon more often. Every day, in fact.
“No, I’ll stay,” I said in a fairly normal voice.
Doppler put down his pen and I wondered if this on-again-off-again routine was meant as punishment for my sins. “Very well,” he said. “The change starts immediately, so gather your things and move them over to Rachel’s office. She’s got a desk waiting for you.”
He signaled an end to the discussion, if it could be called that, by turning to his paperwork.
I was halfway to the door when Doppler added a postscript. “By the way, if I ever smell alcohol on your breath again, even divine intervention won’t save your butt. ”
There was no time to dwell on that pronouncement as I had other things to do, like clear out my office.
Eventually, perhaps, I’d even clean up my life.
#
I emptied my desk into a single box and added my one wall decoration, a knockoff of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” I schlepped the carton over to Rachel’s office and stopped at her desk, intending to thank her for saving my ass. She was editing copy and did not look up, which I ascribed to her superb powers of concentration. Unwilling to disrupt her, I headed for my new workspace in a far corner facing the wall. The metal desk was small and cheap, but I decided not to complain. Instead I set the box down and began emptying it.
“Nate.”
I glanced back.
“Let’s talk.”
Had she known I was here after all? No matter. Her tone said our talk would not necessarily be pleasant.
I parked myself in the visitor’s chair while Rachel sat up straight and stern in hers.
“Before we start this new arrangement,” she said, “I want you to know the ground rules.”
Despite the severe manner, Rachel looked her usual attractive self in a maroon dress that complemented her flushed cheeks.
“Before we get to that,” I said, “I want to thank you for—”
“Hold on. You may want to hear what I have to say first.”
To be honest I didn’t, especially since what she had to say concerned rules. But I listened anyway.
“I don’t know why I saved you from getting canned,” Rachel began inauspiciously. “My mother says I have a habit of rescuing lost souls, and my Aunt Sadie claims I’m always defending lost causes. Maybe they’re both right.”
So now I was a lost soul and a lost cause. Christ, job-retention aside, could this day get any worse?
“Regardless,” Rachel continued, “I want you to know I’m no longer your friend and colleague. I’m your supervisor. Do you get that?”
I got the big-cheese part, but I didn’t see why we couldn’t remain friends. Instead of protesting, though, I said I understood.
“Good” She gave me one of those penetrating looks I could never match, then went on. “So here’s the deal. You arrive hung over, and you’re out of here. You come in late, just once, and you’re out of here. You mess up a story, even a minor one, and you’re out of here. Farshtaist?”
“Yes, but—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Those are the conditions. Take ’em or leave ’em. Which is it?”
“I accept them but—”
“Actually, I should have said those are the minimum conditions.”
Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to hear the maximum.
“You will not complain, ever, about the assignments you receive,” Rachel said. “These will include the piddling stuff, such as tasks I don’t have time for but that need doing, like the service club schedule, entertainment listings and community calendar. You’ll also attend at least one service club meeting a week, so you may get to hear Phil address the Rotarians.” Was that a smirk on her face? I couldn’t be sure but it looked like one to me. “You’ll also rewrite press releases and cover the softer news. If another car dealership opens, if a school band acquires new uniforms, if a cow crosses Michigan Avenue … the story is yours. Get the picture?”
Got it. I was now her lackey.
Part of me wanted to bolt, and part of me wanted to sit there and take it, mainly because I had it coming. I mean, what kind of guy lets three little words from a woman, one Jane Bartolo, knock him on his duff and endanger his job?
“I said, ‘Get the picture?’” Rachel reminded me.
“Yes, I get it.”
I did. I was washed up, a has-been, maybe a never-was, at age twenty-six. Then again, who knew? Maybe I’d receive the Rewrite of the Year Award from the Michigan Press Association.
“All right,” Rachel said, “as long as we’re clear, finish unpacking and break for lunch. We’ll talk again later.”
This prospect would have appealed to me once upon a time, like five minutes ago.
After emptying the carton I went down to the car and napped in the back seat. I’d lost my appetite, as well as my bearings.
#
That night I couldn’t sit still, and therefore couldn’t eat, read or watch TV. So I smoked and paced, paced and smoked, then smoked and paced some more. Occasionally I stood in the middle of the living room staring into space, like I had a case of early onset senility. Finally a coherent thought occurred to me: my life was a mess. And another: my drinking might have something to do with it. And still another: I should stop drinking, or at least drink less. But moderation had proved beyond my ability, and abstinence would undoubtedly do the same. So where could I turn? Who, or what, could help me with my drinking problem? The nags kept pushing AA at me, but even thinking about one of those meetings made me queasy. All that God crap, all those drunks. Then again, who was I to talk? Wasn’t I a drunk? What was a drunk anyway? My dad thought he knew. He kept calling Uncle Marvin one, and he accused me of being a shikker that time I stayed out all night. On the other hand, I doubted my father qualified as an expert on the subject. Maybe I should talk to someone besides myself about this, someone who could offer an unbiased opinion. Jane once said she gained perspective by consulting with friends, but who could I call on among the limited number I had?
Mid-evening I chose one.
#
“Yeah, whosis?” Sheldon answered, sounding in no mood to talk to anyone about anything.
And from the background noise I could understand why.
“I don’t wanna go to bed.”
“Well, you’re gonna go to bed.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“Woof woof woof.”
Sheldon had a dog? Since when?
Adding to the dissonance, a TV shill insisted that Winston tasted good like a cigarette should.
“It’s me,” I said, hoping to be heard above the din. “Look, if this is a bad time I can—”
“No no no. This is a good time. A great time. I mean, it gives me an excuse to get the hell out of here.”
Sheldon’s voice had gone from frosty to frantic in record time. Evidently he could take only so much domesticity. I heard him thumping across the floor, an object crashing and shattering, an aggrieved “Aaarf aaarf aaarf” and the shrill strains of the continuing fracas.
“Daddy lets me stay up.”
“I don’t care. Daddy lets you get away with murder.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s okay. I love you. Now go to your room and get in bed.”
“But it’s too early.”
“Hold on,” Sheldon said in a near-whisper. “I’m going out in the hallway. Thank God we have this long-ass cord.”
A door slammed and the fracas abruptly stopped. A few moments passed before I heard, “Jesus, what a madhouse.” Then, “So, how yuh doin’, man?”
I told him I was doing badly.
“Ha!” he said. “Try being married, raising a kid and running a business, then tell me how you’re doing.”
I suspected I’d be doing a helluva lot better than I was doing after being robbed, jailed, scolded, degraded and downgraded in less than twenty-four hours. But the last thing I needed was to get in a pissing contest with him.
“Hey, really,” I said. “I can see this is not a good time, so let’s—”
“No, I mean it. This is a perfect time. Please don’t make me go back in there. I’ll shut up and listen, I promise.”
More thumping, then, “There, I’m sitting on the stairs down the hall from our apartment, comfy as can be. I gotta keep it low or the fucking neighbors will complain, but you can talk as loud as you want.”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 38
