Paulina said, “That’s not funny, Henry. You haven’t been here long enough to get away with making shitty jokes.”
“Sorry. From now on, only funny jokes.”
“Or no jokes,” she said.
“Or no jokes.”
She smiled, much warmer now.
“Good.” Paulina held up a pen, its nub chewed to a quick. I noticed several pairs of shoes under her desk. Shiny red dress shoes, worn sneakers, broken-in Birkenstocks.
“If you’re smart, you’ll keep a few good pairs of shoes around the office,” she said. “You never know what kind of story you’ll have to chase at a moment’s notice. You need to be prepared at all times.” Wallace nodded. I made a mental note to bring in my old Reebok pumps.
“Best of luck to you, Henry,” she added. “Wally’s a good guy. Listen to what he says.”
“Absolutely.”
Paulina turned back to her computer and began typing away.
“She’s a fine journalist,” Wallace said softly. “Paulina, here, found our hero of the day six times this month alone.”
“Seven times, Wally,” Paulina said. “If you fuck that up on my performance review I’ll call my lawyer.”
“Hero of the day?” I asked.
“Every day has a hero,” Wallace said. “It’s our page-one feature, the main attraction, the story that sells papers. One day it could be the war, the next it’s the elections, the next it could be a man who keeps a Bengal tiger in his apartment as a pet or a celebrity discovered screwing his babysitter.”
Paulina added, “Every day has a different hero. Simply put, it’s that day’s biggest news. Every day needs a hero. Without one, there’s no news. We don’t sell papers, the Gazette brings in no money, we all get canned, you’re back in bumblefuck Oregon before the month is out. Plus, whichever reporter reports the most heroes over the calendar year gets a pretty nice bonus. So get cracking. There are a lot of rocks out there to turn over.”
Wallace said, “Don’t worry. You’ll have your chance. For now, though, try to observe how your new colleagues work. It’ll be hard to gain your footing and find your voice. Just remember everyone here started out exactly where you are. Mickey Mantle was an Oklahoma boy before he came to the Yankees. Pretty soon, you’ll be finding your own heroes for us.” He became serious, leaned in closer. “We’re counting on you to find ones that matter.”
Paulina chimed in, “Unlike Phil.”
Wallace nodded resignedly. “Yes, unlike Phil.”
I decided not to inquire about this Phil. It was newsroom gossip and I hadn’t earned the right.
“Well, have a seat,” Wallace said. “See how the old desk fits you.”
Watching Wallace to see his reaction, I settled into my new chair. The seat wasn’t meant for comfort, rather for a body that was constantly fidgeting, moving around. Designed more to keep you awake than keep you relaxed, and I was sure my spine would hate me for it.
“Well?”
“It’s perfect,” I said. Wallace laughed.
“Bullshit, but you’ll get used to it. Let’s have lunch Thursday. HR will send you info about benefits and 401k. Give me a holler if you need anything.” Just then a voice rang through the office. Wallace’s secretary.
“Mr. Langston! Rudy Giuliani on line two.”
He muttered, “Shit, he’s probably pissed about the piece on page five.” Wallace gave me a quick pat on the back. “And Henry?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t wear a suit and tie again. You’re a journalist, not a stockbroker. Lesson number one, your sources will want to feel you’re on their level. Not a level above them.”
As I settled in, Paulina turned to me, a cagey look on her face.
“And one more thing,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Remember one thing, and make sure you remember it good in every story you write. Ninety percent of this job is reporting good versus evil. And without evil, we’d be out of a job.”
2
“Is a good space,” Manuel Vega said, inserting a nicked key into the lock. He met some resistance, smiled as though it was intentional, then jarred the door open with his shoulder. After seeing-and rejecting-twelve apartments in barely a month, I prayed this one would fit in my budget. Not to mention fit me.
The stench of mildew immediately attacked my nose. Flecks of white paint spotted my coat where I brushed against the doorframe. A rasping noise, like the death throes of an elderly marsupial, emanated from the radiator.
Putting my hands in my pockets, I gritted my teeth. “And this is how much?”
“Nine seventy-five a month. Six months rent paid in advance.”
It was manageable. Plus this was the only apartment I’d seen remotely in my price range and still on the island of Manhattan. Most were double the price and equal in size to my baby crib. Right now this apartment, nestled on the Northwest corner of 112th and Amsterdam, whose lone streetlamp seemed to share an electrical outlet with every hair dryer in the city, was the only one I could afford without turning tricks. And if I was going to work at a newspaper, a NewYork paper, I didn’t want to live anywhere else but in the city. If I was in, I was in all the way.
The last three weeks I’d been squatting with my girlfriend, Mya Loverne, at her apartment. Every second spent together was filled with palpable tension. We counted the moments until I finally got my own place. Most couples couldn’t wait to move in together. We couldn’t wait to be apart. I had eight grand in my bank account, savings from summers spent writing for the Bulletin back in Bend and odd jobs I took to offset my financial aid at Cornell. It took all my strength to go home after each semester ended, but I couldn’t afford summer housing. I could live for free in Oregon. I could live with being a ghost in my own home. That was the only way I could stay sane, slipping in and out without saying a word to the man on the couch, or the woman who couldn’t do anything to stop him. Eight grand was all the money I had in the world. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting any monthly stipend from the man I stopped calling Dad a long time ago.
Mya was a 2L at Columbia. Her father, David Loverne, was the former dean of Fordham law, had made a killing sitting on the Internet bubble and selling right before it burst. Needless to say, her ticket was punched a long time ago. The first two years of our relationship at Cornell were a dream, and just like a dream they ended before we knew what happened. The third brutal year felt like the cold sweat residue from a nightmare that never really ended. Mya was a year older. She moved to New York when she graduated. I stayed in the frigid barrens of Ithaca and watched our relationship freeze.
It was just a few months ago, this past February, that our relationship was dealt a mortal wound. Since then our pulse had slowed, the gangrene of that horrible night spreading and poisoning us. We hoped things would get better when I moved to the city, like a couple in a failing marriage that decides to have a child in the hopes that it will “bring them together.”
I found Manuel Vega on Craigslist. The announcement was in tiny lettering, as though embarrassed to compete with the bigger notices with bolder font.
“So you’ve seen the apartment. Now you rent the apartment,” Manuel said. He pulled a piece of paper and pen from his pocket, held them out to me.
“Whoa, hold on a second, chief. What if I don’t want to rent it?”
“What’s not to like?” he said, as though personally insulted. “You have four walls, ceiling. Refrigerator even.”
How could I argue with that logic?
The price seemed reasonable, even for such a uniquely odorous pad, and I had no other options. Manuel even
