The
The ceilings were anachronistically high. Genuine wood paneled the walls. There were no cubicles, no partitions separating one desk from another. Not one desk was decorated with a word processor terminal.
Install some outdated phones, restore some of the old oak furnishings, bring back a few of the old-fashioned desks and one could be in the Roaring Twenties.
Adjacent to the city room was the sports department and the news room, with desks positioned in claustrophobic proximity. In an outside row that provided a bit more breathing room, was seated Patricia Lennon. On her desk were several open files she seemed to be studying. Actually, the files were no more than props, permitting her active mind the luxury of wandering over a number of potential stories she might develop.
Gradually, Pat became aware of someone standing beside her. She looked up. It was Leon London, city editor of the
“Pat, if you’re not working on anything else right now, we could use some help developing that story on the disturbance at Cobo Hall last night.”
“As a matter of fact, I am, Leon.” Her mind raced through the stories she’d been considering. Any one would be better than covering the Cobo Hall incident. That story could write itself. Bring in a top rock group, provide less than adequate law enforcement personnel, and you’re likely to get a riot. That was about the size of what had occurred the previous night at Cobo Hall.
London was now genuinely interested. “Oh? What’ve you got going?”
It was the moment of truth. She would have to pick one of the many possibilities she’d been considering. “I’m developing a piece for the Sunday magazine.”
“Oh?”
Which one? “Old St. Vincent’s Hospital, downtown.” The die was cast. “It’s coming up on its one-hundred fiftieth anniversary, and it’s a really interesting place with a fascinating history. It was the original hospital in the city and, of course, the first Catholic hospital. And it’s one of only two Catholic hospitals remaining in the city.”
“That old! I hadn’t realized.”
‘And it may not be there an awful lot longer. As far as I’ve been able to tell, it’s on really hard times. Without some more research, I couldn’t tell you how it’s managed to stay alive as long as it has.”
“Really!”
“I think it must have something to do with that nun who runs it. We’ve done a few stories on her over the past few years. But nothing in any kind of depth. I think she may very well be the story of St. Vincent’s survival.”
“Interesting.”
Lennon was hoping London would soon run out of one-line comments. She had just about exhausted the small amount of research she had done on St. Vincent’s. In fact, she was already skating on factually thin ice. She could only hope, on the one hand, that the few small details she had ad-libbed would prove accurate and, on the other, that London would find her narrative convincing. The alternative would be wasting a lot of time dredging up the same old quotes from the same old sources ending in the same old story.
“Who are you working with on this one?”
“Bob Ankenazy.” She would have to tell Bob about that. But she needed an editor/rabbi to justify her developing this or practically any other story.
“Sounds good. Keep me informed.” London moved on to find another reporter who would tell metro Detroit readers that the area’s youth was going to hell in a handbasket.
Seldom had she begun a feature story on such a whim. Either St. Vincent’s and its unsinkable chief executive officer would prove an adequate subject for the in-depth style of a magazine article or Lennon had glommed on to one of her rare lemons.
In any case, now that London had brought the matter to a head, she had only one direction in which to go. First, she would have to engage Ankenazy in her story. Without a sponsor editor, she would be up the proverbial creek. She already had the standing offer of space from the magazine editor. Then she would have to get a move on research and then, of course, write the story.
5
Bruce Whitaker had been nervous. He had had that feeling—all too usual for him—of being very much alone in attempting to accomplish something for which he was inadequate.
And he was not even anywhere near carrying out the group’s goal yet. First he was supposed to find the nurse’s aide with whom he’d come in contact yesterday. Then he was to discover how much, if anything, she knew about him. It had not occurred to him that there weren’t that many nurses’ aides in this relatively small hospital. And that she very probably would be assigned to the same floor she’d been on yesterday.
As was so often the case, his fears were out of proportion to reality. Finding her had not been nearly as difficult as he had anticipated.
He had found her on the floor. At just about the same spot he’d first met her. She was cleaning up after dropping a breakfast tray. At least he hadn’t been the cause of this spill. While he scraped the egg and cereal off the carpet, he was able to scrutinize her ID. Her name was Ethel Laidlaw and she was, indeed, a nurse’s aide.
He had just delivered a tray of medications to the nurses’ station. Thus he was between assignments. He volunteered to assist Ethel. Together, they managed to spill only three more breakfasts, disconnect two telephones, tip over a bedpan, and unplug a patient’s oxygen supply. They had had the presence of mind to call a nurse to reconnect the oxygen tube.
Over a coffee break, Bruce informed Ethel, in response to her question, that he worked part-time as a janitor at the nearby Back Porch Theatre. Ethel had never known anyone in show business. She was impressed.
Fortuitously, she had the afternoon off and there was a matinee at the theater. Bruce, being an employee, could get tickets at a moment’s notice.
Actually, with the average size of the audience at the Back Porch, anyone could get any number of tickets to any performance. In any case, Bruce took Ethel to the 2:00 p.m. performance of
Perhaps it would have been wiser if they had not bought popcorn. But then, as janitor, he would clean it up later.
Ethel told Bruce she’d never been to theater-in-the-round before. He confessed that neither had he. In fact, this was the first performance he’d ever attended at the Back Porch Theatre, even though he worked here.
It did not take long for Bruce and Ethel to decide this play was not for them. The drama contained virtually all the usual four-letter words, repetitiously.
The final straw fell when the female lead whipped off her blouse, revealing small, very firm breasts. This was closely followed by the male lead’s removing his trousers and slinking briskly across the stage, serpentine fashion, toward the leading lady. He resembled a . . . well . . . a manic sperm.
The departure of Bruce and Ethel was underscored by the abrasive sound of popcorn being crunched underfoot. Several catcalls were directed at them. Some by members of the cast.
Bruce took Ethel to one of downtown’s famous Coney Island eateries. They were seated at a table for two.
“I’m terribly sorry about that play.” Bruce dropped his wallet to the floor.
“That’s okay. You hadn’t seen it before. You didn’t know.” In trying to be helpful and retrieve the wallet, she hit her head on the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bruce’s gesture to touch her hand was aborted. He was not sure how a relationship between a man and woman should begin. But his intuition told him Ethel was not the sort of girl one touched on the first date.
