“Just who are you?” I asked with a little laugh. “Do you work for the paper too?”
I’d hit a nerve. The man drew himself up and gave me a glacial stare. “I’m Bob Meredith.”
Ah, I should have recognized him from the grainy photo in the newspaper that accompanied his column that ran every Saturday: The Weekly BM. That photo had obviously been taken around the same time the newsroom had been furnished since Bob had aged considerably since he’d posed for it. “Oh, of course. My son reads you all the time.”
He looked slightly less annoyed with me. “Everyone reads me all the time,” he said grandly. “I’m a three-time winner for Best Column in a Newspaper with a Circulation of Less than 50,000 in our state.”
“First place?” I politely asked even though I have never personally been a fan of his column. Bob Meredith tended to write about things that my son Tyler found hilarious when he was in junior high, things like boobies and bathrooms and people embarrassing themselves in all kinds of different ways. His column was sort of an America’s Funniest Home Videos in newspaper form.
“No,” he snapped. Bob Meredith stood up and slapped his copy of Cosmo shut. “Damn contests are rigged. Everybody knows that. You have to be married to someone or sleep with someone on the judging committee to win first prize. I got three honorable mentions.”
“That’s too bad,” I sympathized although I privately thought that he’d been lucky to get those.
“I’ll live. So let’s get back to you. How much are they paying you?”
Small wonder this man became a reporter since it obviously didn’t bother him in the least to ask all kinds of personal questions. I was going to have to learn how to do that which might be an issue since I’ve never been too good at asking personal questions. “Not that much,” I assured him, “and I’m only part time.”
Bob seemed to like hearing that. “All right then. I guess you won’t be able to be too much of a drain on the newspaper’s finances if you’re part time.”
“I don’t plan on being any kind of a drain,” I said somewhat stuffily.
Bob didn’t appear to notice that I was offended. “So what are you doing in here?”
“I’m going to make some coffee. I’m also a Girl Friday in addition to being a reporter.”
The smirk on Bob’s face grew bigger. “Well, then when you’re done with the coffee, would you vacuum my cube? I spilled popcorn a few weeks ago and it’s still crunching under my feet.”
“If I have the time,” I said deftly. Something about Bob Meredith told me that doing one thing for him would lead to another and another and another. I didn’t want to become more Girl Friday than Girl Reporter if I could help it.
“You do that,” he said. He glanced at the watch on his hairy wrist. “Time for this wordsmith to go. I’m interviewing the mayor this afternoon.”
The mayor! I could hardly wait until I got an assignment like that. “That sounds exciting.”
Bob Meredith rolled bloodshot eyes. “Nothing is exciting anymore, young lady. Give yourself a few months and those pretty stars will be out of your eyes too.”
“It was nice meeting you,” I told him, forgiving him a little for his interrogation since he’d called me ‘young’ lady. I haven’t been a young lady for quite some time.
“You too—what’s your name again?”
“DeeDee Pearson.”
“Welcome to the jungle, DeeDee Pearson. Since you seem like a nice person I’ll give you a heads up and warn you to make sure your first check is good before you cash it. The paper’s been known to have cash flow problems over the years.”
That was not what I wanted to hear. “Oh, I hope that doesn’t happen!” I already had plans for my first paycheck. After I bought a new office chair the rest was going directly into a new savings account I had opened and was calling RETIREMENT.
“We all do, my dear, but it has in the past and will again in the future I’m sure. Welcome aboard and I wish you all the luck in the world.”
He didn’t say it like he meant it. Bob Meredith said it like I was a sucker and we both knew it. Snapping his rolled up magazine against one heavy thigh, he marched out of the break room.
Once Bob left, taking his black cloud with him, I walked over to the coffee pot and sniffed its contents. I instantly recoiled. Whew! The coffee in it smelled like motor oil and had about the same consistency. Not wanting to, but knowing that I had to, I lifted the lid of the coffee maker and peeked at the insides. Big mistake. Small clumps of fuzzy mold dotted the underside of the lid, and the coffee filter had obviously been used and reused several times.
Oh, my gosh! They drink this swill?
I carried the coffee pot—at arm’s length—to the sink located on the opposite wall. Hot water, detergent followed by a healthy splash of bleach would have to improve things. Then I’d scrub out the coffee maker. Honestly, how could anyone make coffee in something that was so downright disgusting?
I turned on the hot water tap and waited for the water to get warm. And waited. And waited but it never seemed to get past tepid. Sticking an impatient finger under the stream of water, I wondered if the entire building was in such crummy shape. The working conditions at the Kemper Times were probably breaking at least a thousand OSHA rules and were probably worthy of a news story on its own. Finally, after about five minutes, the water got a little warmer. I filled the pot to the brim, added a squirt of detergent and began to scrub away at the thick coffee build up on the sides of the pot. One thing was for sure: I was never going to drink coffee at work. I’d bring my own Thermos from home along with my own cup. If the coffee pot was so disgusting, what were the bathrooms like at the newspaper? A voice behind me interrupted my grim thoughts.
“And just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Turning, I saw a tall blonde woman standing in the doorway of the break room, hands on slim hips and eyes narrowed. She looked extremely annoyed. With me.
Startled, I told her, “I’m cleaning the coffee pot,” holding it up so she could see it. “It was filthy.”
The blonde looked disgusted. “Any moron could see that you’re cleaning the coffee pot and I know from bitter experience that it was filthy. What I want to know is why you’re doing that?”
“Because I was told to?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
She reminded me of my junior high gym teacher, a sadist in a jogging suit who used to mock us over our weak upper body strength when no one in the class could climb the rope past the halfway mark. This gal looked to be around thirty, however. An age that was far too young for the Nazi stance she was taking with me over cleaning the coffee pot. Drawing myself up to my total five feet five inches, I reminded myself that I was old enough to be Miss Snip’s mother and answered her in a far more forceful tone than I had used before, a tone that was reminiscent of the one I used with my kids when I wanted them to change the kitty litter, I said, “I’m telling you. Do you have a problem with that?”
She narrowed her eyes and looked me up and down for several long moments much in the same way that Bob had a few minutes earlier. “I don’t know yet. Who are you?”
“DeeDee Pearson.” Professional journalist I silently told myself as a reminder that I didn’t need to quake or quiver in front of anyone.
“Do you work here, DeeDee Pearson?”
“Yes, I do. I just started today.”
“And what, pray tell, is your job title?”
Even though I knew that I didn’t have to answer her, my innate good manners forced me to. Well, either my innate good manners or my innate doormat self, I wasn’t sure. “I’m the newspaper’s new general reporter.”
The blonde started to laugh. “You?” she asked between giggles.
This little lady was starting to annoy me. “Yes, me,” I said somewhat huffily. “Is that funny?”
The blonde got a slight grip on herself. “No, not really but you look like you should be sitting at a PTA me
eting or off protesting for some boring green cause outside the state capital building,” she said in a tone that implied that the people who did those things had some seriously loose screws. “Are you really a reporter?”
“Would I have been hired if I wasn’t a reporter?” When in doubt, always answer a question with a question.
“Are you kidding me? This dump would hire a monkey if it could tap out a decent sentence on a keyboard and if they could get away with paying it in bananas instead of real cash.” The hurt I was feeling must have showed on my face because she stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I’m being unspeakably rude.”
I had to agree with her on that one but since she’d stopped giggling, I forgave her. I tend to forgive people immediately if they apologize and if they seem sincere. “That’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. There’s no excuse for rudeness but there’s something about this place that seems to bring it out in all of us. If you don’t lose half of your manners coming in the door, believe me, you will in a month or so. It’s a matter of self defense. I’m Caroline Osborn, by the way. Also a general reporter.”
So this was Caroline Osborn. She was much prettier and a lot younger than I expected. “It’s nice to meet you. I think you’re the best writer on the entire paper.”
Caroline looked pleased. “Well, that’s very kind of you to say. Of course, at the Kemper Times I don’t exactly have a lot of competition for that title. There’s Frankie Two-Face, the sports writer; Bob Meredith, the resident pervert; our photographer, Sam Weaver—don’t get me started on him—Ren Peterson and of course our dear boss Jeff.” Caroline looked more than a little disgusted as she listed her coworkers. “Oh, and Kate, the editor and resident shrew. Did I leave anyone out?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Frankie Two-Face?” I questioned. “I never read the sports section but surely that isn’t his real name.”
“No, of course not. It’s Frankie Austin but I call him Frankie Two-Face because he’s the most hypocritical person on the planet.” She eyed the dripping coffee pot I was still holding. “Why are you cleaning the coffee pot? That isn’t a job for a general reporter.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not! I used to wash it because it made me sick to look at it but after a month or so I realized that I was the only person who ever performed that little housewifely duty so I stopped immediately. I buy my coffee at the gas station on my way into work. You will learn, DeeDee, that the 1970s never happened at this newspaper and that all of the men who work here would be more than happy to return to the days when women were second class citizens and stockings were still held up by garters.”
Oh, boy. I’d clearly caught Caroline on a bad day. “Well, since I already started cleaning it I’ll just go ahead and finish,” I told her. “I hate to leave a job half done.” I didn’t add that I also had an order for a cup of coffee from our boss waiting to be filled since I had no doubt that Caroline would welcome that news flash about as much as she’d embrace a rabid grizzly bear. Although I had known Caroline for under five minutes, I couldn’t imagine her getting a cup of coffee for anyone, including her own mother.
Caroline shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s your first day and all, so I’m sure you’re still a little bit dazzled by the glitz and glamour of the wonderful world of journalism.” She laughed again. “Believe me, it will be game over by the time you go home tonight.”
Caroline walked over to an ancient avocado green refrigerator, opened it and pulled out a Diet Pepsi that had been marked with the initials C.O in fluorescent pink that covered the entire label. Seeing me look at it, she explained, “I always mark whatever I put in there or else that rat fink Bob will steal it. I suggest you do the same. He’s stolen enough Diet Pepsis from me to start his own bottling company. He’s a great admirer of Joan Crawford and always adds vodka to his Pepsi just like she supposedly did. See you later,” Caroline said as she sailed for the door. “I have an interview with the high school principal. I can’t wait to hear him lie about how advanced his students are and how there are no sex, drugs or rock and roll happening at Kemper High. It’s so refreshing to have a job where you can expect to hear nothing but the gospel truth all day long.”
“Maybe he’ll surprise you,” I suggested.
Caroline shook her head and smiled somewhat cynically. “I used to be surprised but not anymore. You won’t be either after very long, DeeDee. It doesn’t take long for the fairy dust to settle and reality to give you a nice, sharp poke in the rear end. Not around here, anyway.”
A small shiver ran down my spine since that was almost the exact same thing Bob Meredith had said to me. “I think I’m going to like working here,” I said in my most positive and Pollyanna-ish voice that even revolted me just a little.
Caroline half laughed and half snorted. “Keep on thinking that, DeeDee. Maybe it will keep you from self-medicating like the rest of us.”
Caroline left the break room. Job satisfaction appeared to be something that needed working on at the newspaper. No, job satisfaction seemed to be something that was totally missing at the Kemper Times.
I turned back to the coffee pot resolutely. That was their attitude, not mine. I was personally thrilled to be working for a newspaper, something I had wanted to do ever since I was in high school and used to watch Lou Grant on television and dreamed about working for someone who was gruff but loveable like Ed Asner. Although I never told my husband Steve, I always found Ed Asner to be sexy in the extreme. And while Jeff Henderson looked nothing like Ed, working at the Kemper Times might turn out to be like working at Lou Grant’s newspaper, the Los Angeles Tribune. Besides, I was getting paid. Who could ask for anything more?
After seventeen minutes of extensive scouring, the coffee pot finally lost the dark brown film it had and almost sparkled and my mood had returned to its normal, optimistic level. I filled the pot with more tepid water and a little bleach and left it to soak while I cleaned out the coffee maker. Another few minutes and Jeff Henderson would have a great cup of coffee sitting in front of him. In spite of Bob and Caroline’s dire predictions, I knew that I was going to love working at the newspaper.
Chapter Two
“So, how was it?” Steve asked the moment he got home from work. My husband, Steve, is a college professor and although for the most part he enjoys his job, he also has one of those ten-year calendars where he has the day he’s slated to retire circled in red. While he likes teaching, Steve’s had it up to his eyebrows with academia and all of the accompanying boot licking, back stabbing and general Roman forum-like atmosphere. I suspect that he’s been vicariously enjoying my venture back into the working world so that he can hear about what other options are out there once he’s done with the classroom.
“It was…interesting,” I replied. I was cutting up veggies for crudités. Our daughter Jane was coming over for dinner to celebrate my new job and would be arriving in a few minutes. Jane had been dropping in for dinner a lot ever since her latest boyfriend had turned out to be not only an incurable romantic but also to have a wife and three kids stashed in a town twenty miles away. I considered it my motherly duty to cheer her up as much as possible. I also considered it my duty to remind her on a regular basis that there were many, many, many other fish in the ocean and that one of these days she would find a winner.
I finished with the celery and started on the carrots. As I worked at the familiar task, the stress of my first day at the newspaper slowly drained off of me. As a rule, I don’t like first days of anything. They’re always tough and it’s always a good feeling when they’re over. Second days are almost always better.
Steve perched on a kitchen stool and helped himself to a celery stalk. “Interesting good or interesting horrible?”
“Not really either. Just interesting,” I repeated. “Nothing like what I expected but I think it’s going to be all right.”
“What did you expect, DeeDee?” Steve asked with a grin. “People rushing aroun
d and shouting, ‘Stop the presses!’ like in some old movie from the 1930s? Or did you expect to see Lou Grant sitting at the city desk and barking out orders?”
I laughed too. “I suppose I did,” I somewhat sheepishly admitted. “Actually, the newsroom was pretty empty the entire time I was there. I met two other reporters but that was it.”
Steve picked up another piece of celery. “I suppose they were all out on stories.”
“That’s what Jeff said.”
“Jeff?”
“Jeff Henderson. The publisher, editor-in-chief and my new boss who is nothing at all like Lou Grant. He’s tall and quiet and very laid back. I guess my biggest surprise was the building itself.”
“How so?”
“Well,” I explained, “I expected a newspaper to be a little spiffier than the Kemper Times. It looks nice on the outside but the inside is pretty run down and everything looks like it was bought at a fire sale.”
“There isn’t much money in journalism,” Steve replied.
“I know but even the computers are old and slow. I thought everyone would have the newest technology out there.”
“Look at it this way,” Steve suggested, “neither of us are exactly technologically savvy. Now you won’t feel out of place.”
Steve has a way of always making me feel better. “Good point. If I had to be technologically savvy, I’m sure I would never have landed this job although to tell you the truth, I’m still not sure why they hired me. I didn’t do much today other than make coffee.”
“You have to get your feet wet,” Steve pointed out.
“I know but I didn’t feel like a reporter. I didn’t really feel like anything. Like I was a visitor instead of an actual employee. One nice thing happened, though. Jeff said that Kate—the editor—liked the writing samples I submitted. I guess that’s how I got the job.”
“You’re a terrific writer,” Steve said encouragingly, “but I want you to remember one thing: if you don’t like it, you can quit. No job is worth being miserable over and I want you to be happy. It’s not like we’ll starve to death without your paycheck. We’ll manage. We always have.”
Black and White and Dead All Over: A Midlife Crisis Mystery (Midlife Crisis Mysteries) Page 2
