Swansong
While Sam is rushing to work and hoping she won’t end up stuck in traffic on Market Street, down at The Chronicle there are already people standing around the coffee machine gossiping while others are barricaded in their offices on the top floor wondering why they didn’t stay in bed this morning with a nice cup of green tea and the sports pages.
One of them is Tom Mayer, the newspaper’s chief editor. He’s sitting at his desk looking bored and weary, pulling random magazines he has just bought at the news stand out of his briefcase one by one and slamming them down on the desk top as he recites their names in a monotone.
“Ok Magazine, Celebrity News…”
“Come on, Tom, don’t tell me you’re actually giving any credit to what’s its name… People Today? You must be kidding!” says Dave. “Why not the National Enquirer too while you’re at it?”
“You’re in there too,” Tom snaps back, folding his arms. “Page nine.”
Dave turns on his iPad and looks for the page without saying another word. “Hey, listen to this,” he says, his eyes on the screen. “Shocking Hillary confession – suspicious goings-on. Who’d have thought it? Hillary is actually a man.” He ponders the article for a moment, pretending to be interested in the latest absurdities that the magazine’s unscrupulous writers have come up with.
“Dammit, will you put that thing down?!”
“I guess those were probably her husband’s last words as President of the United States. But come on, her hairdo should have given the game away – it’s always so unnaturally perfect… How did we miss it?”
“I’m really sorry, Dave, but analysing the ex-First Lady’s hairdo is not one of my priorities,” Tom says, sighing in resignation.
“It’s true what they say,” continues Dave, completely ignoring him. “Since they invented the push-up bra, you can’t trust anyone…”
“Will you cut it out?” cries an exasperated Tom. His agenda is full to overflowing with appointments he won’t possibly be able to make, there’s more voicemail on his phone than he’ll ever have time to listen to and his desk is completely covered in mediocre gossip magazines. He could really do without Dave’s sarcasm and is about to throw him out of his office. “What a disaster…” he mutters as he tries to clear some space. “Thanks to you, it’s going to take me hours to find my keyboard.”
“What do you need it for, anyway? According to To-Morrow, the planet’s going to be destroyed by an army of aliens who are going to arrive in a fleet of UFOs in ten days.”
“Goddamn it, Dave, I’m being serious here!”
“So am I – but these magazines aren’t!” He holds up his tablet right in front of Tom’s face. It’s displaying the National Enquirer’s homepage.
Tom ignores it, picking up one of the newspapers that cover his desk and showing it to Dave. “Perhaps you would rather read it in The New York Times, then?” he asks, sounding almost amused. “Does that sound more trustworthy to you? Because in that case, you should probably know that there’s a little article about you in there too, on page five.”
“Of course,” mutters Dave, grimacing irritably. “There would be…”
Tom seizes the opportunity and starts reading out the first lines of the short article for him.
One notable absence among the many celebrities spotted at the event was lawyer Anthony Walker, a supporter of the new South Bay regeneration project. It appears the lawyer had to cancel his visit at the last minute due to an accident which occurred while he was playing golf. By a curious coincidence, however, later in the evening, model Madeleine Hunt – Walker’s by now possibly ex-wife – made her appearance, accompanied by man about town Dave Callaghan, The Chronicle’s vice director and reporter. Callaghan is well-known for his turbulent relationships with showbiz celebrities and for the controversial enquiry he has been conducting over the last months into the affairs of councilman Willoughby Hoffman.
Tom doesn’t need to dwell on that. It’s old news, the type of nonsense you hear around the water cooler, so he races through the rest, ignoring the astonished expression on the face of Dave, who obviously hadn’t been expecting today’s New York Times to feature an article about his latest fling.
In reply to accusations of him having a relationship with underage Hilary Mason, Congressman Hoffman stated that he was the victim of an elaborate conspiracy which aims to discredit the image of his party only a few days before the elections. Public opinion has nevertheless been shaken by the news, which has caused a boom in sales of The Chronicle. A fact that the newspaper’s vice director seemed to be particularly proud of while, wearing Armani, he squired the Ralph Lauren model through the crowd of paparazzi. Apparently, Mr Callaghan doesn’t feel that the allegations with which he is dragging the name of San Francisco’s administration through the dirt should be applied to his daily activities. Rather, his glorious performances at every important local event add another notch to his reputation as a womaniser.
Deciding that he has read enough, Tom puts the newspaper down and glares at Dave. “Do I need to go on?”
“That’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous,” Dave mutters, without turning to face his colleague, as though to deny even the possibility. “Did you really say it was in the New York Times?”
“That’s what it says at the top of the front page.”
“This is impossible,” he snorts. “You must have gotten it mixed up with some other newspaper. Let me see that,” he says, almost ripping the paper out of Tom’s hands and reading the article for himself, confident that there must be something in there that will exonerate him from these despicable accusations.
Tom raises his hands as though to say ‘help yourself’ and lets him check the article for himself, certain that he’ll find nothing to get him off the hook. There isn’t much that Dave can say, because one thing is for sure: starting from today, things are going to be very different around this newsroom. Tom just needs to find the right way to tell him. “Get used to it, you’re an easy target. You’ve been sleeping with the wife of one of the most popular lawyers in town. The opposition will use that to convince the public that everything you say is just some dumb vendetta. You can almost see the headlines: Disgusting Liberal Smear Campaign Scandal. If Walker decides to go after us, your little fling with Hunt will cost us a five year lawsuit and a ton of money.”
“All this is nuts! Nuts!” yells Dave, while reading through the article once more, still unable to believe that they are actually trying to use his personal life to destroy months of work. Tom isn’t over reacting – they really have gone for the kill.
“Listen to this: ‘We wish councilman Walker a quick recovery and hope to see him back on the course in the near future. And with personal assets valued at over fifteen million dollars, not even Dave Callaghan will be able to keep Hunt away from a good divorce lawyer.’ This is pure defamation!”
“No, Dave, this is politics, and I’m not about to let people belittle the serious work we’re doing here.”
At the sound of Tom’s tone of voice, Dave finally realises just how seriously he is taking the situation, and stops feigning indignant indifference. “So are you firing me?”
“No, I’m not,” he admits after a while, while massaging his temples. He’s the editor of one of the most widely read newspapers in the country, so he can never afford to be impulsive. Like all big decisions, it looks like he pondered this one for a while before making his mind up. “That’s not what I said. But I am obliged to do something,” he points out, leaning back in his chair.
Dave doesn’t react, or at least not immediately. He should feel more relaxed after hearing that he still has a job, but there’s a strange look in Tom’s eyes… He’d always been a very straight up guy, one of those people who speaks their mind freely and clearly and who will tell you to go to hell to your face if they have to. So why is he taking so long to get to the point? What exactly is on his mind? Nothing good, that’s for sure. “Come on, then – spit it out!” snaps Dave eventually, unable to stand the tension of waiting any longer. “What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness? Whip myself in public to prove that I repent? Stick twelve dollars in the collection plate down at St Joseph’s?”
“Don’t be stupid. And I have no intention of giving in to Hoffman’s threats either. If Walker can’t handle his wife, that’s his problem. And anyway, none of this makes Hoffman’s situation any more or less serious. He was caught in a car with a girl who isn’t even eighteen years old, so he has absolutely no excuse.” He clicks his tongue in satisfaction. “That was a good one and we are going to keep pushing it.”
“Okay. So what exactly are you thinking?” asks Dave, unable to disguise his anxiety or his irritation.
“So from this moment on, you have to be totally beyond reproach.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean, Dave! No more screwing around! No more nothing, period.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Ok, then I’ll try and make myself crystal clear,” Tom sighs. “From now on I don’t want to see you at parties. No more flings. No more romantic jaunts to Costa Rica for the weekend. No more getting papped on yachts or with Playboy models…”
“What? Oh come on…” Dave groans as it dawns on him what Tom is saying.
“The whole world has to think you’re a saint,” Tom continues, regardless of Dave’s reaction. “And I want to see you sitting on the front row in church every single Sunday, if that’s what it takes!”
“Oh, for fu—”
“No, Dave!” shouts Tom, leaning towards him across his desk and pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Maybe you don’t realise how bad this is. You’ve risked a lot here, believe me – a lot!” He warns him. “You’re a great journalist, and a great deputy editor, and the only reason I am saving your ass is because there’s nobody in this office that’s worth half of your big toe. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose The Chronicle because of you!” he mutters through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. “Do you know what I did when I got my promotion, Dave? Do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Dave admits laconically.
“I glued the seat of my pants to this damn chair, and so if someone wants to get me out of it, they’re gonna have to shoot me first and cut me off it. Am I being clear? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, quite clear,” Dave stammers.
“Great, so take my advice and get these words into your stupid, stubborn head: if I find out you’ve been anywhere near anything that even looks or smells like a woman, or if you’re even caught looking in the window of a lingerie shop, you’ll be out on your ass. I won’t accept any excuses or justifications and there won’t be any exceptions. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Tom…” he hesitates.
“I want an answer, Dave, and I want it right now.”
“For how long?”
“At least until after the elections.”
“But you’re asking me to abstain for almost three months!”
“Yeah, and that means that in three months time you’ll still have a roof over your head and a salary at the end of the month which you will be able to spend on sex toys and all the edible underwear you can eat, with the compliments of the newsroom. So what do you say?”
Dave thinks it over for about a second before realising that being fired in his field means ending up in the obituaries office or, even worse, writing bitter articles about conspiracies and celebrities on some sad personal blog. Dave knows that he has no choice: if he doesn’t agree, he’ll be moving back into his parents’ basement.
“I…”
No, he just can’t do it. And not because he doesn’t understand where his priorities should be – it’s that he knows himself: there’s no way he’ll be able to stay cooped up at home for three months. That’s just who he is. He has certain… needs, so to speak. And anyway, this isn’t a normal thing to ask! Who can survive for three months without—
“Think of it as a way to test your willpower. Dammit, Dave, would you really throw away all the work you’ve done so far just for some nookie? Don’t you want Hoffman to pay for what he did? Imagine his face when they throw him out of the party. Think of how much alimony he’s going to have to pay his wife.” Dave still doesn’t look convinced. “Isn’t all that enough to convince you? Well, listen to me, then… As soon as this story is over, you will have carte blanche to do whatever you decide you want to.”
“Define ‘carte blanche’.”
“It means you’ll have my permission to do whatever you want to him. To take him down!”
“Tom, are you giving me your word about this?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Don’t you trust me?”
“I want the front page, Tom. I want to put Hoffman on the front page under a headline of my own choosing.”
“Okay,” Tom concedes.
“And I also want to be free to decide what goes in there, with no editorial interference from you.”
“Okay, okay, whatever.”
“And I want a raise.”
“Get your ass out of here right now!” shouts Tom loudly.
Dave bursts out laughing. “Okay, okay – but come on, it was worth a try.”
“Fine – you tried, and you failed. Now get the hell out of here, because thanks to you, I have a million goddamn problems to fix.”
Dave nods and stands up, but before leaving the room he murmurs an embarrassed, “By the way, thanks…”
They look at each other in silence, neither feeling the need to add anything. They both know that if Tom hadn’t intervened, Dave would have been fired today. Very few people would have taken a risk like that, and The Chronicle could have found a dozen unscrupulous reporters. They probably wouldn’t be as good as Dave, but still…
“Get out, before I change my mind!” Tom scolds him good-naturedly, and Dave takes the hint and leaves Tom’s office.