If you’re in media or entertainment, New York is your mecca. Athletes count the days until their debut at Madison Square Garden. For classical pianists, Carnegie Hall is their holy ground. Professional stripper-sorry, exotic dancer-yeah, New York is their Jerusalem, too.
It was no coincidence, then, that this was my holy land. The newsroom of the New York Gazette. Rockefeller Plaza, New York City. I’d come a long, long way to get here.
I briefly wondered what the hell a twenty-four-year-old with little more on his resume than the Bend Bulletin, was doing here, but this was everything I’d worked for. What I was destined for. Wallace knew what I was capable of. Ever since my first page-one story in the Bulletin, the one that was syndicated in over fifty papers around the world, Wallace had been following me. When he heard I was accepted to Cornell’s prestigious journalism program, he made the three-and-a-half-hour drive to take me out for lunch. And during my senior year, before I could even start to look for jobs, Wallace made me an offer to join the Gazette full-time.
The newsroom needs some new blood, he’d said. Young, ambitious kid like you, show the skeptics out there that thenext generation has its head on straight. There are other papers in this city, but if you want to chase down real stories instead of celebrities on vacation, you’ll make the right choice. Make your mark, Henry. Make it with us. Plus, our first-year salary is five grand higher.
I drank three bottles of champagne that night, and passed out in John Derringer’s shower with a Bic mustache and sideburns.
I felt Wallace’s hand against my suit jacket. I hoped he didn’t press too hard-my threads probably cost less than Wallace’s haircuts. Yet though Wallace was my professional benefactor, the top shelf on my wall of professional hero worship was permanently occupied. That man was seated just a few feet away. But as far as being indebted to a person, right after my mother giving birth, Wallace hiring me was a close second.
We snaked through the skewed chairs and cups of cold coffee, past writers who were too busy to tuck their chairs in. This was how they worked. I loved it. I knew not to interrupt a reporter on deadline, and sure as hell didn’t expect them to move. I was here to purify the blood of the newsroom, not to disrupt its flow.
I recognized some of the writers. I’d read their work, knew to look for their bylines. It was scary to think of them as my new colleagues. Not to mention how seldom they appeared to shave or shower.
I wanted them to respect me, needed them to respect me. But for now I was just a mark. A newbie. The guy all eyes would be on to see if he produced.
And then I saw him. Jack O’Donnell. Then Wallace pulled me forward and I remembered to breathe.
As we walked by, I let my hand swipe O’Donnell’s Oxford blue shirt sleeve. A silent brush with greatness. I couldn’t have been any less subtle than if I’d taken out his latest book, asked for an autograph, then smacked him across the face with it. Talk to him later, I told myself. Follow him to the bathroom. To lunch. Offer to shine his shoes, raise his kids, whatever.
Man. Jack O’Donnell.
Five years ago, if someone had said I’d be working fifteen feet from Jack I’d have kicked his ass for mocking me. A few years ago, Jack O’Donnell was profiled in the New Yorker. I had a copy of the article at home. I taped one page above my desk, underlined one quote, the quote that threaded its way through every story I ever wrote.
News is the DNA of our society. It shapes how we think, how we act, how we feel. It dictates who we are and who we become. We are all beneficiaries-and byproducts-of information.
Many people, myself included, credited the first injection of this strand of DNA to William Randolph Hearst. Hearst took over the San Francisco Examiner in 1887 at the tender age of twenty-three. The only guy who made me feel lazy.
Hearst was the first to truly sensationalize print media, splashing his newspapers with big, bold headlines and lavish illustrations. Conspiracy mongers blamed Hearst for inciting the Spanish-American war with his constant editorializing on the Spanish government’s civil rights atrocities. As Hearst reportedly said to illustrator Frederic Remington, “You furnish the pictures and I’ll furnish the war.”
Since then, it almost seems like journalism has taken a step backward. The scandal at the New York Times proved that. Some people laughed it off as an isolated incident. Others who knew their stories couldn’t hold up to scrutiny quietly updated their resumes. And I followed the whole thing shaking my head, trembling in anger, wanting to shake up the system.
And if Jack’s quote was accurate-as I believed it to be-when that blood became tainted, it could spread disease through every capillary of society. Liars and fabricators and egos the size of Donald Trump were popping up like rats in the subway, from men and women who were supposed to report the stories, not be the stories.
Just last week, a junior reporter at the Washington Post came to work jacked on amphetamines, two pots of coffee, with a deadline in six hours for a thousand-word story he hadn’t written a sentence for. He cranked out the piece then returned home, punched his girlfriend, and took a header out of their fifth-story walk-up. Just more fuel for the fire.
I wanted to be the antidote, to pick up Jack O’Donnell’s mantle, polish the surface and carry it with pride. I wanted to extract the venom that had poisoned journalism, to bring some credibility back to the newsroom in the wake of these lies. Jack O’Donnell had given me an unbreakable faith in what a good reporter could accomplish. And now here I was, within coughing distance of the legend himself. Time to put up or shut up, Henry.
After bobbing and weaving through jackets slung over chair backs and pens rolling along the floor like plastic dust bunnies, we arrived at my desk, a smile on my face as if it were opening day at Yankee freakin’ Stadium. My desk was right by the window, overlooking the veranda that in the winter became Woolman rink. Prime real estate, baby. I could watch the multilingual tourists snapping away at the beautiful golden sculptures and international flags, people gazing at the fair city as though they never knew such architecture and panache existed. Sunlight poured over my workstation, glowing off the fresh-scrubbed walls, and I couldn’t help but feel blessed.
“Welcome to your new home,” Wallace said. “Comes fully stocked with, well, everything you see here.”
“Any assembly required?” I asked.
Wallace leaned in, whispered, “Some of the old-timers, I guess you can count myself in there, keep a flask in their desk.” I didn’t know what to say. Was he serious? Wallace laughed, clapped me on the back. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
He leaned over and tapped the shoulder of the woman whose workstation was adjacent to mine. She spun around, her swivel chair well-oiled and squeak-free, and glowered at me. She was slim, blond and quite attractive. Late thirties, early forties, with a “what the hell do you want?” look on her face so convincing I couldn’t help but think she practiced it in the mirror. She wore a pink tank top and black Capri pants, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. No wedding ring. And from the looks of it, no bra. If Mya asked what my co-workers looked like, I’d have to lie.
“Paulina,” Wallace said stepping aside, allowing her to view me in full. “Meet Henry Parker. This is his first day on the job.”
Paulina shriveled her nose. “He’s taking Phil’s old desk.”
Wallace coughed into his hands, slightly embarrassed. “Yes, he’s taking Phil’s old desk.”
Paulina scanned me as if reading a computer printout. Finally she extended her hand. I shook it, her grip limp and apathetic.
“Welcome to the mad house, new guy,” she said.
“Thanks. I’m excited to…”
“Tough luck taking Phil’s old desk. You tell him what happened to Phil, Wally?”
Wallace sighed. “No, I haven’t had the chance yet.”
Paulina shrugged. “Bad karma, Henry.” She looked at me inquisitively. “Henry. That’s a strange name for such a young man. How’d you get saddled with that?”
“Saddled? I…”
“What, your parents didn’t like you?” My eyes hardened. Paulina could tell she’d dug too far, and her face became all twinkles. “I’m just playing with you, Henry. You’ve got a fine name. I like things that are different.” She looked up at Wallace, apparently satisfied with my answers. “This is the kid from Oregon, right?” She looked at me again. “Wallace told me you were, quote, a prize find. That right?”
I tried to ease the tension. “Yeah, Kmart was having a blue-light special on junior reporters. Wallace got me at twenty-five percent off.” Paulina’s eyebrow cocked and she shook her head. Wallace turned away in shame. I gave myself a mental slap.
