Rubout (33 page)

But after a day or two, I go home to Lyle. I miss him. I still have the dreams about my parents, and I wake up with my heart pounding. But then I tell myself that Lyle is not like my father, and I am not like my mother. If I don’t say that, Lyle does, which is another reason why I like him beside me. Often he’ll kiss me to reassure me that everything is all right, and then my heart ends up pounding for another reason.

Sonny and the other bikers thanked me for clearing their names. I told them the truth: I didn’t do anything. But they insisted on being grateful. Stephanie gave me a T-shirt that said
BITCH WITH A BAD ATTITUDE.
I appreciated the compliment. Crazy Jerry gave me a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and a twelve-pack of Busch, so I could learn to drink like a biker. Streak solemnly gave me his card, which had only his street name—“Streak”—a PO box, and “Viet Nam Vets MC.” That stood for Motorcycle Club. He signed his name on
the back. “Show that if you’re ever in trouble,” Streak said. I put it in my wallet. I’m always in trouble.

I politely declined the new-looking CD player Gilly brought me, but I did accept two tickets from Sonny for the next Leather and Lace Ball. They were the hottest tickets in town. This time Lyle went with me. We danced to “Born to Be Wild” while the Harley roared around the room. We both enjoyed looking at the extreme outfits. But Stephanie and Crazy Jerry weren’t the most outrageous couple this year. They’d split. Oddly enough, they both turned up wearing the same thing: black jeans, black boots, and faded black Harley shirts.

Nothing has changed at the
Gazette.
I like my readers and I like my job, and I consider myself lucky when the editors leave me alone. I suppose I owe that to the Voyage Committee. The committee commissioned a telephone survey of three thousand readers and nonreaders. The survey found that I was the most popular columnist at the
Gazette
with women readers—exactly the people the
Gazette
advertisers were eager to court. Nobody on the committee could figure out why readers liked me—they took it as more proof the folks who buy the paper weren’t real bright—but the committee decided I should keep on doing whatever I was doing. Georgia slipped me the survey information and said, “With your readership, Francesca, they’d have to be morons to fire you.” She seemed to think that sentence would reassure me, but I didn’t see it as job security. I still had those two warning letters in my file, and I knew Charlie, that toad, was eager for another excuse to fire me.

Georgia also told me that Voyage Captain Jason gave me his blessing after he cast me off, so the publisher wasn’t too unhappy with me. Jason told the committee, “Some creative types are happier if they sail alone. Francesca seems to be one of them.” I thought Jason was all wet, but as long as I didn’t have to go to meetings, I wasn’t going to make waves.

When Wendy took my place on the Voyage Committee, the whole department enjoyed peace for six months. For once, we were one big happy Family section. The committee met more often as the end approached. They were busy writing white papers and confidential reports. Wendy, looking dumpy and self-important, would bustle into the office maybe two days a week. The other three days were like a vacation. We knew it couldn’t last and finally, eight months after it had begun the Voyage of Discovery was over. The final report would be delivered at three o’clock Friday. Attendance was mandatory, which made the staff surlier than usual. Most Friday afternoons we were long gone by three o’clock. Paychecks were delivered at noon, and only the staff with Sunday deadlines hung around after that. Now we were all stuck at work, and we were about as happy as a class kept after school. We draped ourselves on desks and leaned against pillars, waiting sullenly for the announcement, so we could start the weekend. I found a place behind the fire extinguisher.

The entire Voyage Committee assembled in the newsroom, minus me, of course. Georgia hid her small self behind the tall Tolbart. The less she was associated with this boondoggle, the better. The publisher looked as tanned and relaxed as if he’d been on
a real voyage. He stood proudly next to Voyage Captain Jason, who still wore his uniform of jeans and work boots. Jason looked like a Marin County poster boy. He did the talking. “Eight months ago, the Voyage Committee embarked on a journey of self-discovery,” he said. “The voyage was not designed to fix what was wrong with the
Gazette”

“Nobody could do that,” I muttered under my breath.

“The purpose of the voyage was more important. We are preparing the
Gazette
to sail into a brilliant new future, and it gives me great pride to say that we have reached four major conclusions about the
Gazettes
needs in the future,” Jason said. He held up four fingers and then counted them off, one by one.

“Number one, the paper needs younger readers and more women readers.

“Number two, the
Gazette
needs more reader involvement.

“Number three, the
Gazette
needs lighter, brighter, shorter stories.

“Number four, the
Gazette
needs more local stones.

The publisher gave a stately nod to seal these conclusions. Voyage Captain Jason continued, “Therefore, the Voyage Committee recommends the following four policies be implemented to reach those objectives:

“First, a series of ‘Tell Us What You Think’ features will begin immediately, to promote reader involvement.” The entire staff groaned.

“Second, the feature section will include one celebrity
interview each day.” The entire Family section groaned.

“Third, no story will be longer than thirty inches.” The editorial page, famous for mind-numbing seventy-inch “think” pieces, groaned.

“Fourth, all stories must have a local angle. There will be no exceptions.” The staff was struck speechless at this particular piece of stupidity.

“Any questions?” Jason asked.

There were lots. This was not a happy crew. The reporters were so upset, they didn’t even care if the publisher was present. They peppered Jason with angry questions:

“Are we going to skip covering world events now? How on earth can we make a typhoon in Taiwan local?” Jasper demanded. For once, his vile temper was turned on the right person.

“You can localize that story. Write about the St. Louis relief effort to help the victims,” Jason said brightly.

“What about stories covering the conflicts in Africa and Eastern Europe?” asked Clay, a serious cityside reporter. “How do we make international news local?”

“Interview the refugees who resettle in St. Louis,” Jason said.

“How do we explain what these people are doing here in the first place, if we don’t cover the wars that made them flee their countries?” Clay pressed.

“I know you’ll find a way,” said our captain, who obviously hadn’t a clue about news gathering. This wasn’t a Voyage of Discovery. It was a shakedown cruise. Captain Jason looked longingly at the door,
as if he wanted to bolt for the exit before the crowd turned on him. “One more question,” he said.

My hand shot up first, and the other reporters held back, waiting to see what I had to say. I wanted something cleared up before Voyage Captain Jason took off, and I wanted his answer in front of witnesses, so our esteemed Family editor couldn’t waffle later and stick us with the blame.

“How can the Family section do stories about national celebrities if you want only local stories?”

Voyage Captain Jason had an answer ready: “We will localize the celebrity interviews by asking the person ‘What do you think of St. Louis?’”

That was the last treasure from Captain Jason.

Charlie had his triumphs, too. The whole town talked about his new Go Away section for weeks. They hated it. Three thousand readers called up and complained about Go Away the first week it was launched. They hated the name, and they hated the tabloid format. I could have told the paper that tabloids work only in commuter cities, where people read the paper on the subway or the train. But I didn’t charge half a mil and call myself a consultant. Hundreds of people canceled their subscriptions. But the new section was still considered a great success. Marketing had told the publisher to expect five thousand complaints. When the other two thousand complaints didn’t materialize, Go Away was pronounced a hit. Still, there is talk of a graphics makeover to stimulate more circulation.

Charlie succeeded in getting rid of the old Family
office manager, Louise. After struggling through six miserable months of computer training, Louise was put on the 12:00 to 6:00
A.M
. shift in the morgue. Nobody in their right mind worked at the
Gazette
at that hour. People who were crazy, or crazy mean, roamed the deserted streets around the paper after dark. The parking lot closest to the building was reserved for the bosses. Louise would have had to walk more than two blocks through some of the city’s meanest streets. When Smiling Steve, Charlie’s right hand, offered her a paltry five-thousand-dollar retirement incentive, she took it. “I know when I’m beat, sweetie,” she told me, and she did look weary. “No job is worth dying for.”

The staff chipped in and bought Louise and her husband a trip to Cancun. At her retirement party, she seemed happier than she had in years. But the party was still a sad event. Charlie had triumphed. Scarlette presides over the Family section now. The phones ring unanswered, the vacation checks are late, and the freelancers’ payments are often screwed up. When Charlie canceled sixteen contracts with local freelancers, Scarlette forgot to stop their weekly payments. An audit caught the four-thousand-dollar overpayment six months later. The
Gazette
rudely demanded that the freelancers pay the money back. Only two bothered spending thirty-two cents on a stamp to tell the
Gazette
to go to hell. The rest just dropped the letters in the circular file. Charlie made up the shortfall by taking four thousand dollars from the Family department travel budget. He continues to stop by daily to stare down the front of Scarlette’s sweater. I consider it pay-for-view.

It took a full month and five thousand dollars, but Ralph was restored to his former beauty. In fact, he never looked better. His body shone with six coats of lacquer. His chrome glowed like well-polished silver. All the little dings and chips that a working car accumulates were gone. So was the rust that had bubbled up around the windshield. Inside, his Iris-blue seats had the intoxicating smell of new leather. Thanks to the redone Ralph, I was getting more exercise. I parked him way in the back of the parking lots, far from other cars, to protect his new paint job.

The first day I had Ralph back, I took him to Uncle Bob’s for breakfast. I was hiking in from the farthest corner of Uncle Bobs lot when I saw Mayhew leaving with a woman. Oh, please, God, don’t let it be his wife, I thought. I felt bad enough about what happened without meeting her. The couple was heading in my direction, toward three cars parked near the Dumpsters. As they got closer, I saw this wasn’t May-hew’s round soft little brunette wife but a skinny hard-faced blonde in tight jeans and high heels. She had to be Sheila, the girlfriend Mayhew sometimes brought to Uncle Bob’s, the one the waitresses hated because they liked his wife. I’d get an earful from Marlene today.

Should I say anything? They were so close now, it would be awkward to ignore him. “Hi, Mayhew,” I said and waved. Mayhew looked trapped and uneasy. When she saw me, Sheila clamped her hand on his arm like he was a felon about to escape. She gave me a glare that should have peeled off four layers of my skin. The woman was possessive. I continued talking anyway. “Look at Ralph. He’s good as new.”

“They fixed your car already?” Mayhew said, sounding genuinely pleased.

“Already? It took a month!” I said. “But everything is back where it should be.”

“Even the Tampax?” Sheila sneered.

Mayhew blushed bright red. By the time I said “How did you know about that?” he had steered Sheila to her red Firebird. She locked the doors like I was a carjacker and drove off the lot with an angry screech of tires. He was running for his car by the Dumpster.