Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  ... I found my wife’s cell phone in her car and it has a password lock on it. Do you think she’s cheating on me, or hiding something?

  Dear Eleanor.

  Dear Eleanor.

  Hey, Eleanor. What do you think?

  They all wanted answers. Everyone wanted answers for their problems. Everyone, that is, except for a handful of people who had life exactly where they wanted it. Who flowed with its tide, and seemingly possessed not a care in the world – people who didn’t recognize their problems in a world that was never free of them.

  People like Marianne.

  Chapter Two

  “Twenty years is a long time to be a force in media. But we at TriCom Publishing feel we have been just that: an undeniable voice in print media and journalism since the beginning.”

  TriCom’s president Gerald Monteigo stood before the glass podium and microphone which held a full view of the press gathered in the Fairmont’s event room. Behind him stood Eleanor and a handful of “stars” from the company’s employee base.

  This time, the stage was real – a grandstanding press conference for the company’s twentieth birthday bash announcement which had been on the books for months.

  The birthday bash was a shared announcement, however; which was why only half of the platform contained TriCom representatives. The other half was decidedly bigger, decidedly better dressed, and decidedly more exciting to the eye of the journalists and media outlets gathered below.

  “As our milestone moment approaches, we are in the process of making big plans for our future. Plans which will alter the face of our company and usher us into the digital age with the force that is modern media.”

  There was applause for these remarks.

  “Beyond the plans to celebrate our accomplishments in the coming months are plans to transform TriCom. Something we can’t do alone. This is the reason why I’m proud to announce our merger with the foremost name in global media. The giant in journalism and digital innovation – Haldon Media!”

  A storm of applause followed this announcement, one which the stage’s occupants had been aware of for weeks, as had anyone in the public who heard the rumors regarding this major move. The promise of big things and the general salvaging of a former giant in a shrinking field, that of newspapers and print media.

  When the applause died down, the man of the moment took the microphone. Not Gerald Monteigo, but Mark Fuller, the CEO of Haldon, the “giant” of his former rival’s remarks, who now inched aside the previous speaker to slide into his rightful place.

  "Innovation is destiny, the fuel of global connections,” he said. “The thread that binds industry and entertainment and media into one glorious...harmonious...whole. It is the reason we at Haldon Media are proud to merge with one of the original movers and shakers in publication...." His persona exuded confidence and laid-back braggadocio with each word or gesture. A decidedly more stylish appearance than his former rival.

  Above them, the barest edge of the Haldon Media’s brand name and logo worked in steely letters, surrounded by the mini logos of its subsidiaries, now including TriCom. Monteigo resumed speaking, now introducing the people on the platform behind him.

  To Eleanor’s left, a woman with harsh red hair and a drab business suit, a food columnist for TriCom’s Weekend America journal. Next to her, Arthur Gotlieb, the editor of Pittsburgh Herald, and an award-winning journalist from TriCom’s online news site Newszone.

  On the other side of the stage behind Fueller were four people whom Eleanor recognized, but not by personal connection. A prominently-placed news host from one of Haldon’s cable networks; a woman whose website was now a best-selling fashion app. And so on in a veritable who’s who of Haldon’s celebrity-status media ranks.

  “... and long-time syndicated columnist Eleanor Darbish of “Ask Eleanor.” Third most-popular columnist in the U.S., whose latest book is currently in the works with Gillion Books.”

  There was applause for this, less enthusiastic than in Eleanor’s in-flight dream, but still genuine. In response, Eleanor smiled. A genuine smile, if not the one of confident ease from her dream state self.

  “All of these individuals and others will also be part of TriCom’s birthday bash in honor of twenty great years of media service. Made all the more important by the bold new horizons before us with this merger and the future successes guaranteed by our new partnership with Haldon.”

  Someone shouted a question. The press conference part of this program had begun.

  “Will there be noticeable changes in the near future for readers?”

  “The new face of our relationship will be evident in the coming months,” answered Fueller. Who manned the microphone once again, now that opportunity presented itself. “These will be changes that will excite the brand – redefine the image of “newspaper” and “print” to their maximum ability...”

  “What about changes to the publications themselves? Will Haldon be influencing the content and layout of individual journals and papers?” asked a female reporter.

  Fueller’s smile didn’t change. “I think future readers and subscribers will be pleased by the montage of voices emerging from this relationship. Exposure to new writers and a bolder perspective from the ones they already love. There will be changes, but nothing which won’t match the demands of a growing and diverse audience.”

  “So we won‘t be seeing major changes in TriCom’s subsidiaries?” persisted another.

  “Trust me, everyone will be happy with the face that emerges from this partnership,” he answered. “The firm foundation of TriCom’s family will remain the same. Staples like “Ask Eleanor” won’t be going anywhere. Not anytime soon.” He cast a smile in Eleanor’s direction, although there was no real recognition of her in his eyes, given that they had never met before. And hadn’t, in truth, met now.

  Both Fueller and Magneito were smiling. Reassuring smiles of ease and confidence as they fielded the questions, but it was Fueller’s voice dominating the glowing picture of the future which included Eleanor and everyone around her. The members of the press were excited, including the writers whose work was caught up in this moment of glory, even Eleanor herself.

  More photos snapped, more questions were asked. A few candid shots as the stage’s lineup of proud representatives began to dissolve, prompting Eleanor to later worry over the awkward expression on her face which appeared on a newspaper the next morning: a cringing, crimp-eyed smile as she shook hands with one of Haldon’s news anchors.

  Briefly, her hand was captured by Fueller himself in a gradual forward mesh, an exchange of pleasantries between the newly-joined forces. She could see the sweat beaded upon his forehead beneath the glaring media room lights and see the enigmatic smile given to the press’s cameras up close.

  “Ms. Darbish ... Mark Fueller. Nice ...” His voice was drowned out by the sound of the crowd. He was looking forward to working with her, although the general babble caused it to sound like “snorking with you” to her ear. A brief flash of smile and technology’s superstar had released her and gone on to another of his newly-acquired members of TriCom’s talent.

  *****

  His smile and the flash of lights were a lingering thought by the next morning when Eleanor entered TriCom Media’s Norlend Towers. Her suede leather pumps were a steady clack against the polished marble tiles in the main lobby. Across the silver support beams of the upper stories, workers on ladders were suspending a congratulatory banner for the merger.

  Already, the Haldon Media logo was affixed to the lobby sign.

  The tenth floor of TriCom Media’s Norlend Towers was home of the Pittsburgh Herald’s main offices. Walls of glass overlooking Pittsburgh’s business district. Historic architecture in white stone and steel frames, the slow chaos of streets and traffic far below.

  The smooth bronze-colored doors of the elevator opened to this orderly square of office space cordoned off by white cubicle walls or pockets of offices leading to the edito
r’s suite. The mail cart was making its round between busy desks of writers: journalists on phones, editors on tablets or desktop computers, digital designers on a deadline. A cue at the water cooler, where no doubt the discussion was abuzz with the same underlying subject as the rest of the room, the presence of Haldon Media as employer and driving force.

  “Saw you onstage for the big moment, Eleanor.” This, from Jeanine, a garish figure with frizzy chestnut hair whose occupation for the Herald was that of society weddings and engagement announcements. Her hand was on Eleanor’s arm, catching it in the act of passing towards the elevators and, indirectly, the route to the news floor above. “What was it like? Was Fueller every bit the slimy ba–”

  “Watch it, ladies.” A trilled falsetto warning in undertones from Marguerite, whose eye was on the busy elevator as she stood behind her desk. “Keep it nice – we don’t want anybody getting fired in advance, do we?”

  The party exiting the elevator was nothing more than two maintenance workers armed with a new Haldon Media logo, identical to the one downstairs, now to be affixed in a place of honor above the elevator doors.

  “Advance of what?” asked Eleanor, innocently. “I haven’t heard the Herald is locking its doors anytime soon.”

  “The rumors – you know, moving and shaking. You don’t think Haldon’s going to leave all of TriCom’s publications untouched, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” she answered. That there were rumors, she was more than aware, since her inbox had been packed with email messages: forwarded news articles on big changes supposedly secretly proposed by Haldon for long-term changes. They had begun appearing almost the moment the press conference unveiling had taken place, continuing up to now.

  “I think Larry de Hague will definitely get the axe before the year’s out. His weekend edition rant dropped from four papers in the past six months because – let’s face it – who wants to read about solstice weather patterns?” continued Jeanine

  “Wiccans?” suggested Eleanor. She could see that she had stumbled into a nest of speculation here – the curious listening nature of Marguerite’s closest deskmates and the exchange of glances proved that much was true.

  “Larry, definitely. But not you, Marguerite, unless somebody comes up with a subject that sells better than sex.” Marguerite’s sometimes-controversial pieces for the Pittsburgh Herald were rumored to be a possible syndication by fall among journals with a mature audience base – in uncensored form, that is.

  “Did you know what Fueller said to Boston Banner? He said – and I quote – ‘ A caveman would have a better ...” The sound of Marguerite’s voice was lost to Eleanor’s ears as she continued on to her office.

  Eleanor could work from home or a private office in the fashion of most columnists, but she had never done so. It seemed more ... professional, in her estimation, to be in an office environment. When she had first come to the Herald as a staff columnist, she had worked from here; and, seven years later, she still entered her office from ten to three and read countless emails and letters, typed replies and sent them to the section editor and proofreader from her desktop computer.

  “The return of the prodigal columnist,” proclaimed a gruff male voice as she passed an open door. Brandon’s office was its usual scene of clutter. “How was the otherwise delightful city of Montpelier? Minus the usual scourge and crime of urban dwellings, that is.”

  His voice was dry and gravely, its grumbling qualities enhanced by the evidence of a cold in the form of tissues and herbal tea in a paper cup. Piles upon the desk of an office which was tidy if disorganized in its appearance, with books shoved into every available shelf or cranny, a couple of obscure award plaques now gathering a film of dust upon the walnut paneling forming the walls around his desk.

  “It was good to see it again, if that’s what you mean,” she answered. Instead of moving on, she had paused upon the threshold of this doorway. “But it’s nice to be back, yes.”

  “Good,” he answered. “We wouldn’t want to lose you prematurely. Not until after Fueller dismisses the old dogs like myself.” He closed a clothbound volume open on his desk, shoving it aside into an untidy stack of paperwork.

  The “old dog” reference was one of which Brandon was fond. Closing in on fifty-five, with grey beginning to thread his short brown hair and softness beginning to challenge his once-trained muscular military physique, it was a form of self-deprecation in Eleanor’s estimate. Not that Brandon was always generous to others with regards to glossing over their faults.

  She refrained from rolling her eyes – it was not a habit which she generally indulged – in response to this remark. “Is that one of the rumors circulating after yesterday’s announcement? Your release, among others?”

  He snorted. “Not yet, of course. But eventually, yes. We’ll all be rumored to be fired – then rumored to be rehired – than cut off mercilessly at the knees. Those of us who aren’t deemed worthy of this global vision or whatever claptrap phraseology Haldon favors, I mean.”

  “They sound like the Wicked Witch of the West come to terrorize the Munchkin villagers,” ventured Eleanor. She was used to dire presentments from Brandon’s less-than-optimistic spirit. A grim-faced perspective on fate, a hat tipped low against the dire winds of life – for a moment, the waxing eloquence of her mother sprang to life in her thoughts like a Jack-in-the-box seeking surprise.

  “Nothing happens in this business without dire consequences, Eleanor. You know that; don’t pretend you don’t.” Brandon slid his chair to the nearest shelf and removed another book from it – this one, a battered yellow paperback bearing a black-and-white photograph of a ‘60’s-era football player.

  “Did you feel the clamminess of Fueller’s grip? I’ve always heard he has a hand like a wet fish.” In his eye was a faint gleam, a flicker of begrudging playfulness with this remark, which altered his features ever so faintly as he lifted the receiver of the phone ringing at his elbow. Eleanor’s lips twisted into a smile as she continued past his door.

  William Brandon, or W.M. Brandon as his byline read, was a syndicated sports columnist. Modestly syndicated in comparison to Eleanor’s work – Brandon’s earlier career had been a greater success, the war journalism from the Gulf conflict and Kosovo crisis. Twenty years later, he had declared that fifty-something was too old for chasing international incidents and that a college sports career was good for something after all. Although his column tended to read like a literary-esque diatribe on the glory days of sports in comparison to snappier modern columns of statistics.

  His office was one which Eleanor had visited frequently during her tenure at the Herald, for Brandon was one of the remaining old guard, one of the first to acknowledge her presence when she was still unknown, his remarks always swinging between criticism of her work and backhanded compliments for its success.

  Others would come and go from the staff – but not Eleanor. She was steadfastly loyal against offers from other flagship publications after “Ask Eleanor’s” success began to grow. She was cemented in place, a fixture in the foundation of the Herald until life elsewhere seemed pointless and unfathomable.

  Her office was one of perfect order, her sanctuary of writing. Pushing open the door with her name emblazoned on the front in small gold letters – Eleanor Darbish, “Ask Eleanor” – she entered and pressed the flashing button on her office phone to replay the messages. One from her agent. Two from staff members of the paper, reminding everyone that the office memo service was down and that the copier in the newsroom was scheduled for maintenance on Friday. And one from Marianne.

  “I’m just reminding you that you promised to help me move those boxes on Friday. Don’t forget. Oh, and I left a key for you under the welcome mat in case I’m late...”

  The message cut off suddenly, as if Marianne had disconnected by accident. No greeting, no farewell, just a breezy conversation which ended as abruptly as it began. A worthy representative of Marianne herself.

  Ele
anor slid her office chair away from its parked position before her desk. A polished glass table encased in a small glassed-in chamber whose solid wall was removed only by two spaces from the editor in chief’s space. A tidy zone of token potted plants and single first editions of her books and very little that was personal beyond a few tasteful glass or porcelain ornaments. Those, and a framed copy of her first article.

  It was not the one for the Pittsburgh Herald but for the Montpelier journal where she had first written a piece on her own. A small piece, a stand-alone “filler” for the Lifestyles section, which had been inspired by the student letter column she had written for the University of Vermont’s college paper, “What Do I Do About...?” That experience, and editing her college’s student-run psych journal, earned her the job with the Montpelier paper as a proofreader.

  She wasn’t worried about Haldon’s takeover. Not when she was seated behind her own desk again, a comforting stack of emails and physical letters awaiting her attention with various people’s problems. Here lay her consolation and quiet haven for reflection; the one place where sensible, practical, levelheaded Eleanor never worried that she possessed too much of any of these qualities.

  She slipped off her tan business jacket and opened one of the letters with the smooth and efficient blade of an ivory letter opener.

  Chapter Three

  At home in her apartment, seated on her sofa, Eleanor perused more letters. Cross-legged in loose kaki pajama capris, her hair pinned in a high knot from which small wisps and ends gradually escaped, she put the finishing touches on her latest replies.

  Dear Unhappy: I know it doesn’t seem a consolation or a reassurance to know that everyone understands your feelings, but it is true. While social media outlets tend to feature everyone’s perfect moments, they don’t reflect the basic troubles of life that we all have – broken friendships, bills, disappointments, rude encounters, etc....