Dreams from the Bottom of the Page
“So what’s new?”
It’s Tom Mayer. He’s spent about twenty of his forty-two years working in journalism, he’s been The Chronicle’s editor-in-chief for seven years and has seen his psychotherapist every Wednesday for the last two years. His shelves are stacked with awards, and he’s been married twice. He’s now on his second divorce, which is a direct consequence of the first: never marry your ex-wife’s sister. Especially when your ex-wife knows all your secrets and is a Harvard law graduate.
“Yesterday the mayor decided to close the refuge in the Mission district. It was falling apart.” says Frederic White, local news.
“Welfare slashed,” suggests Tom in a loud voice. “Holes in the budget: Crawford administration cuts care for the homeless,” he says, marking out a huge headline in the air with his hand. “I want it on my desk by five.” Frederic nods and jots down some notes for his piece.
“Foreign news,” Tom continues, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Ambassador Korov, who was paying an official visit to Paris, was admitted to hospital because of food poisoning, probably due to some shellfish he ate. The meeting with Hollande never happened.”
“Russia digs in heels, negotiations put back,” dictates Tom, his back to the journalists. Carmen, who is the head of the foreign news department, snaps to attention and then leaves the room. “Who’s next?”
“Jim Jakie won the national tennis championship,” says Albert from sport and hobbies.
“Get me something better. Is there anything about basketball?”
“It’s the final tomorrow. The Lakers have dropped to second to last position.”
“I want Steve Nash on the front page. ‘Hunting for playmakers!’”
“Ok, boss,” replies Albert, his eyes on his tablet.
Morning meetings are always packed with adrenaline. It’s very quiet until eleven, and then all hell breaks loose. Tom meets the people in charge of each department every day in the meeting room. He sums up the main news and listens to the various editors’ proposals so they can decide what articles to publish. Once the titles have been settled upon, they start drawing up the front page. At that point, Dave takes Tom’s place, recapping the progress on ongoing articles and planning the week’s interviews. In theory I shouldn’t be here. Only heads of department are supposed to be in the meeting, but asking me for help is apparently the only thing that stops Margaret from ending up at Alcoholics Anonymous. Since I was hired, I’ve been saving her Friday evenings, her Saturday evenings, her holidays, her Christmases… and I have always agreed to do it because… well… there must be at least one reason that doesn’t involve Dave, right?
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
I got distracted again. Margaret brings me back to reality. “The notes about the exhibition, Sam!” she screeches, making half the newsroom look at us.
“Oh, sure, sorry,” I mumble, searching through my documents about the William Rush exhibition. Being the centre of attention always sends me into a panic and I end up thinking of a million random things instead of concentrating on what I’m supposed to be doing. For example, I’m now looking at Tom, who is tapping his finger on the desk while he waits to hear from me. I also notice that Dave is looking slightly irritated by the delay and leaning over Tiffany, who has just been hired for the local news department. I wish I was more like her, looking so self-confident after less than a month on the job. Or like Tom, who always has everything under control. And a little bit like Dave, of course, because he’s Dave.
“I know I have them here somewhere…” I say, searching anxiously amongst the folders until I find the right file. “Here it is – sorry.”
Margaret sighs in resignation at my ineptness and hands the piece of paper to Tom, who doesn’t even bother looking at it before putting it with the dismissed proposals. But that doesn’t discourage Margaret, who starts talking about her latest achievements. “Now we’ve finished the campaign to raise awareness of the importance of reading in schools, I’m concentrating on something slightly less demanding.”
“Like what?” Tom asks, crossing his arms.
“Well, we’ve made an agreement with Carl Urban’s agent,” Margaret replies. “They are giving us an exclusive on the publication of a new series of pop-art books, It was the City Lights Bookstore’s idea. A really interesting project.” But today isn’t her lucky day. Someone knocks at the door and she has to stop.
“May I?” says Milly, as she slips into the room.
Milly is Tom’s personal assistant, the latest in a long line of ‘highly qualified’ people who have all run for the hills not long after being hired. She’s been here for almost a year already, and she’s probably the first who’s been able to stand him for eight hours a day for that long.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she murmurs, looking embarrassed as she walks past us holding a cordless phone. Silently, she reaches the editor and whispers: “It’s Roger Edison from Toulouse.”
“Give it to me,” he says, taking the phone and going over to the window for some privacy. Since he has to leave, albeit temporarily, he gestures to Dave to take his place and continue the meeting.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take over,” he answers, lifting his head up from his notes. “What were you saying?” he asks Margaret, who doesn’t seem to approve of this sudden change of editor. For no obvious reason, she seems to think that she’s the centre of the universe, or – more specifically – the cornerstone of The Chronicle, and so she feels it’s demeaning for her to have to talk about her achievements to the deputy editor, and it will probably put her in a bad mood for the whole morning. Which is even more serious because today she thinks she has the scoop of the century in hand: a tête-à-tête with the great, the extraordinary, the legendary, Adam Graham.
“Who?” asks Dave, raising his eyebrows.
Margaret’s expression is hard to describe. I can’t control myself, I have to hide my face behind a green folder to avoid bursting out laughing in front of everyone.
Something tells me that deep down she’d like to start throwing every piece of stationery she can find at him, but in reality she says calmly, “Adam Graham!” She wants to keep her job just as much as the rest of us, so she decides to take a more accommodating approach. Her strategy is probably to wait until after sunset when there are no witnesses around before she takes her revenge.
“Forgive me, Margaret, but I haven’t got the faintest idea who you’re talking about,” Dave admits, unperturbed.
“Adam Graham is one of the most important fashion stylists in the world. He works for Elle and Complex, amongst other magazines. He has just finished working on Elie Saab’s promotional campaign.” She acts like this is common knowledge, and maybe in other contexts it would be, but not here at The Chronicle and especially not for Dave. He has always displayed complete indifference, if not actual irritation, towards the frivolous news and magazines people read at the hairdresser’s.
“Ok, and why are we talking about him?”
He genuinely doesn’t get it, so Margaret has to spell it out for him, even though it’s obvious to her.
“Because he is beautiful and rich, because he’s the most interesting person in his field at the moment, and because millions of women are eager to know who’s going to be the next face of Curvy!” she explains – or maybe shouts incredulously would be more accurate.
“Cu… Curvy?” he stammers.
Margaret looks as though she’s about to have a nervous breakdown.
“Come on, Dave, people are talking about it everywhere! B.C.? Beautiful Curvy? It’s the beauty contest sponsored by Justin Lower’s new collection. Everybody knows about it! They’re going to make clothes for normal women – for the girl next door. For that reason, they are looking for a fresh young face – someone who represents real women and isn’t just one of those stereotypical, androgynous stick insects you see in magazines. There’s going to be a pageant right here in San Francisco. Do you have any idea of how many women have already applied?”
“Err… nope.”
“No? Oh, my, God! We’re talking about around two hundred thousand applications just on the West coast!”
“I don’t know, Mag… I’m not convinced,” Dave fiddles with a post-it while he tries to play for time. “Don’t we have anything better?”
“But I’m telling you, this will shift a hell of a lot of copies!” she says, refusing to surrender. But Dave seems immovable.
“So?” says Tom, returning from his phone call and looking from one to the other of them. “What did we decide?”
“Nothing yet,” Dave admits, sighing.
“Tom, listen to me. If we want the exclusive on this we have to move immediately!” Margaret insists stubbornly.
“What’s it about?” asks Tom.
Dave dismisses the whole affair in a few words. “Just some guy who is organising a beauty pageant for chubby girls.”
“He’s not some guy!” shrieks Margaret, taking it as a personal insult.
Dave simply shrugs and goes back to his notes about the murder. I am guessing he’s not going to look up again until the ‘fashion and trends’ business is out of the way. “I don’t remember reading about him in the New York Times,” he mutters distractedly.
“That’s because you only ever read the front page!” Margaret replies sweetly, almost making Dave spit his coffee all over the desk. I’m not sure exactly what she’s referring to, but I have the impression that she just scored a point.
“Ok, Margaret,” cuts in Tom before they start arguing, which they have done quite frequently since Dave was promoted. The truth is that he could never stand Margaret but he didn’t have to deal with her artistic weirdness before: she used to stay in her department and that made it easier for him to manage his irritation. Now everything’s different, though, and she’s a constant pain in his butt, and consequently, whereas in the past he was willing to turn a blind eye to her, he now keeps both of his eyes wide open and constantly focused on his enemy. He’s always looking for a flaw, a chink in her armour, and his only mission is to destroy her.
“Let’s do this,” says the boss in a conciliatory tone. “Write me a memo about it and leave it in my office. I’ll take a look at it as soon as I can. In the meantime, what do we have ready?”
“The piece about the Shakespeare company,” says Margaret, giving up.
“Great, let’s run that. Be sure to edit it properly and send it to Curtis. And in the meantime, write me something about this… sorry, what’s his name again?” he asks her, snapping his fingers repeatedly in frustration.
“Adam. His name is Adam Graham,” she reminds him again, asking herself what she could have done to deserve ending up working with such a bunch of incompetents. Poor thing, her articles are always put at the bottom of the page – even the sport pieces get more visibility. Is there a worse destiny than having your articles published amongst pictures of denture glues and personal ads? It’s true what they say: art doesn’t make you rich.
“So, Margaret, will you take care of it?” Tom urges her.
“Well, actually at the moment I am working on the ‘death whistles’ story. It’s about those Aztec whistles shaped like skulls that Carrera studied. The musician Quijas Yxayotl has managed to identify the melody associated with the sacrificial rituals that were thought to accompany dead souls beyond the terrestrial dimension,” she says, babbling enthusiastically about pre-Columbian spiritual traditions. She’s so caught up in her explanation that she doesn’t even notice that Dave, at the other end of the table, is massaging his forehead with an incredulous and miserable expression on his face. “I imagine you can understand,” she says, as it gradually dawns on her that the others present don’t share her enthusiasm, “that given the importance of the discovery… Well, anyway it’s only a short article and…” her voice trails off and she abandons the subject she was so passionately fighting for only moments before.
It’s always the same with her. She’s always there when it’s about being praised or playing the martyr, sacrificing herself to try and make the common people more culturally literate. But when what’s needed is something practical, though, she just magically vanishes, disappearing into thin air and leaving behind her only a trail of mysterious quotations of questionable accuracy.
“Do you have someone who can take care of it?” Tom asks her at that point. He doesn’t want to give up at the first obstacle. Even though he knows less about the subject matter than Dave, if that’s possible, he can always smell a good bargain. Dave is a purist, but Tom is a businessman. He can’t have heard more than 10 per cent of what Margaret said at best, but there was one key phrase I know will have captured his attention: move copies. He’s trying to play for time for the moment, but if it’s proved to him that Margaret might actually be right, no councilman, law, crime or fraud will prevent him from devoting the whole of the front page of The Chronicle to the famous fashion stylist. The only things that might stop him would be the Apocalypse or the return of Elvis Presley from the moon.
I think.
And think.
What if this were a really good opportunity for me to… I mean, what if I could use this occasion to finally make them notice me? I’m sick to the back teeth of just being considered an assistant and I would like to see my name printed in the damn newspaper for once. I’ve been pushing for it for months already – for just a tiny, insignificant chance. Don’t I deserve it? I’ve been working over twelve hours a day for the last three years. And what am I asking for in return? It wouldn’t even be a real article, just a report. A few notes… They can’t really think that I’m so incompetent I can’t even do that, surely!
“Err…”
I don’t know quite how I manage it, but I finally find the courage to raise my hand. Nobody notices at first, but then Tom, raising an eyebrow, asks, “Yes, Sam, what is it?”
“Well, if nobody wants to write it… I mean, if it’s okay with you, I could…”
“Margaret, is that okay with you?” he asks her.
She stares at me in confusion for a moment – because she probably wasn’t expecting me to pull anything like that – but it seems she has nothing against my proposal. She just nods her head, meaning that she’s fine with any decision Tom makes.
“Hmm… ok. Do you think you can handle it?” This time he’s asking me directly and I… I just can’t believe it. I mean… it’s finally really happening.
The only advice I can give to myself is to remain calm. I don’t want to look like someone who’s so desperate they’ll snatch at any chance, so I decide to act indifferent, which is the most professional attitude I can think of. I am a journalist, after all, aren’t I? And this is going to be my first real assignment for The Chronicle.
“Of course. Sure I can! Absolutely. I… I don’t… of course. Why not?” I babble hysterically, smiling like a lunatic and swallowing hard. “It would… It would be great! I’d love to!”
Yep, that was exactly what I was going for: cold and emotionless.
“It’s okay with me,” says Tom with a smile. For some absurd reason, though, Dave doesn’t agree. He suddenly stops working on his notes and speaks up.
“Are we kidding? We’re all overloaded with work here. The agreement on the nuclear program in the Islamic Republic has just been cancelled, in Europe there are new revelations from Assange about collateral murder coming in all the time, Wall Street is on the brink of collapse again and we’re wasting time and resources on this… this… what the hell is his name?
“Adam! He’s called Adam!” exclaims Margaret furiously.
“But I can… I can easily… I mean I’m not completely overloaded with work, I can still…” I stammer, trying to explain.
“Sam, listen, if we are going to cover the contest, we will have to follow it very closely and in every detail. We will have to know every time the jury makes a decision, talk to fashion houses and representatives of the industry and so on… We will have to conduct polls among the contestants, get statements from the audience…” Dave warns me, clearly trying to scare me off. What I deduce from all this is that they really do think I’m so incompetent that I can’t even write about a beauty pageant. “It’s an incredibly complex job,” he continues, “for something that, let’s face it, has practically no importance at all. This type of story is more suited to teenagers’ magazines. And anyway, weren’t you supposed to take care of that interview? Weren’t you talking about it with Terry this morning?”
How the hell does he know about that?
“With Mr Murphy?”
“Yes, him,” he confirms. “Why don’t you carry on with the schedule you’ve already decided on?”
No, dammit, I don’t want to take care of the guy at the funeral home. “Of course,” I murmur, hugely embarrassed, and the issue is resolved. Dave goes back to his crime news, Tom moves on to the weather and everybody is free to forget about Curvy, my aspirations and… God, what was his name again?”
“Mag,” I whisper, “what’s the guy from Curvy called?”
Margaret turns round and glares at me.
“Err… it doesn’t matter,” I mutter, and those are the last words I dare say for the rest of the meeting.
It goes on for another ten or twenty minutes, but I’m not really paying much attention to the time. All I do is jot down a couple of important dates for appointments and deadlines in my notepad, but mainly I just scribble between the lines to release my stress, anger and hard-to-swallow disappointment. For a moment there I’d thought I had a pretty little flower in my hands, but now it’s turned out to be a creepy, prickly little bush instead.
I only notice that the meeting has ended thanks to Margaret. She sums up quickly what’s left to do and then goes off with Tom, who accompanies her along the corridor before locking himself up in his office.
Feeling very discouraged, I gather my stuff and am just putting my bag over my shoulder when Dave comes over.
“Are you okay?”
“What?”
“I asked if you’re okay,” he repeats, sounding slightly worried. “You looked a little… out of it before.”
“No, everything’s fine,” I lie. Nothing is fine, nothing at all, but now that he’s standing next to me it’s easier to fool myself into believing things are going well.
“Really?” he asks with a kind smile.
Okay, here we go again. Why did he do that? I hate it when he does that.
“Yeah, really,” I answer, lowering my eyes. His sudden interest makes me uncomfortable.
But our conversation doesn’t last very long, anyway. Unfortunately.
“Sorry, Dave,” says Tiffany as she enters the room carrying a white notebook and a sheet of paper. “This has just arrived from Tenderloin Police Station,” she says as she waves it about like she was swatting flies. “Should we take a look at it together?”
“Let me see…” Dave reaches out his hand to her for the fax and I turn invisible again. I’m not a target any more, I’m not an obstacle. The only thing for me to do is get out from under everybody’s feet.
“See you, Dave.”
“What?” He barely looks at me. “Oh, yeah… see you Sam,” he replies.
For the last three years, practically all the interaction between us has been like that: apathetic, cold and impersonal.
I’m just Sam. Sam Preston. Sam ‘would you mind?’ Preston. And he is just Dave. Dave Callaghan. Dave ‘I’ll see what I can do’ Callaghan.