“Yes. Please do meet with me. It’s very important. When will you be by?”
He rested his pen on the paper. He’d already written down her room number. It was like a contract.
“Well, I’m coming back tomorrow around nine. But I can’t be sure I’ll have time-”
“Stop by then.”
She started to wheel the walker away. He didn’t chase after her. It wasn’t worth it, really. He’d stop by. She’d tell him something about aliens, or World War Two, or her son. A “real story”. It would be a normal morning. Hopefully he’d have gotten a date with Mel by then. He didn’t know what they’d do. Maybe they’d drive somewhere far away, where they couldn’t be interrupted. He imagined looking out at the water with her and whispering something nice about the waves.
CHAPTER 2
He took a long run around the neighborhood when he got home. A warm day turned hot. He was sweating through his t-shirt and he climbed up his apartment stairs slowly. Tired. Seven miles was his longest yet. He let his watch beep and went inside to take a shower. After he took one, he’d finish up work for the day.
The apartment still looked new. It was small and the closet door was open. Most of the clothes were new-he’d had to buy new ones. The carpet on the floor was thick and blue. He kept his socks on, so he wouldn’t make sweat marks with his toes, and checked the cell phone quickly. Two calls-one from Gary and one from Thompson. Great. When he got out of the shower, he knew who he’d call first.
“Russo!” Thompson screamed. “What the hell have you been doing?”
He sighed and combed his wet hair with his free hand.
“I just took a shower after my run. You know what the hours are like here. The business day ends around dinner. 4PM.”
“A run! I’m your editor, Jake, I know when you’re full of it. We don’t pay you to run. If I wanted a runner, I’d pay somebody who could run. You think I believe that you could run?”
“I ran seven miles today.”
“I’d pay a Kenyan if I wanted somebody to run. At least I’d believe they were telling…telling the truth.”
Thompson always sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. Maybe a whole nest was in there. He repeated words sometimes, but he wasn’t stuttering. He seemed to be doing it for emphasis. It was best to ignore him.
“I really did run seven miles.”
“Russo, what are you eating right now? Just…just tell me. I want to imagine it. We miss you here. You know what?”
“What?”
“We still call the weekly donut day ‘Jake’s Day.’ We really still do it.”
“That’s great. You know, you should change the name. I’ve cut out all the junk food since I got here. I don’t know how much weight I’ve lost. It’s more than seventy five pounds. Maybe a hundred.”
“Sure you have. Carla…Carla come here,” Thompson yelled. The phone went dead and he heard Thompson and his assistant Carla laughing. “See Russo-Carla agrees with me. Stop it Carla, you do agree. Every day I bring in donuts, people still call it ‘Jake’s Day.’ ‘Thank God it’s “Jake’s Day,”’ they say. ‘I didn’t think I was going to make it to “Jake’s Day,”’ they tell me.”
“All right. Really. I’ve changed since then, but that’s fine. Did you have something to talk about?”
“Last week, oh boy.” Thompson laughed but didn’t cough. “Last week, a new guy, Jason Edelman came up to me. He…he says, ‘Sir, I was wondering-could we push “Jake’s Day” forward? I won’t be able to write up this fire in the Bronx without a little sugar in my system.”’
Jake’s hair was dry by now. He hung up the towel and poured a glass of filtered water.
“Can you believe it?” Thompson said, screaming now. “Jason Edelman. Do you remember him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Exactly! Exactly! He didn’t start until after I sent you to Florida! Can you believe it? This little dork never even knew you, and he still says it’s ‘Jake’s Day’ when I bring in the donuts!”
“That’s fantastic sir.”
“He’s got glasses, ties, the whole thing. Harvard or something.”
“Wonderful.”
“And this kid was practically crying for ‘Jake’s Day!’”
Jake didn’t say anything. He just finished the water and looked at his watch. He had run seven miles. He had looked it up on the computer and measured it out, step by step, and his time wasn’t bad either. Not great, but not bad. He had stopped sweating and took off his socks one at a time.
“Ah Russo,” Thompson laughed. “You’re a great guy. You don’t have to tell me what you’re eating. It’s fine.”
“Thank you sir. Is there something we need to go over?”
“Right…right. I’m afraid there is. I got your latest article about the…what do you call it?”
“The entertainment centers piece? About trends in condo movie nights?”
“Right. I’m just a little disappointed in it.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
Jake picked up his notebook and pen. Thompson answered after a pause.
“Where…where are the palm trees?”
He put his pen down.
“The palm trees?”
“For God’s sake, Jake. Your article is about all these movie theatres and TVs or whatever. Jake. We’ve got TVs here in New York. Big TVs, tiny TVs, medium TVs, pink TVs, black TVs, white TVs. I don’t know why I’m talking about TVs. I hate them-all colors. But the point is, our people don’t want to read about TVs. They want to read about the things they don’t have. They want palm trees, and beaches, and motor boats. And palm trees, Jake. They want palm trees. We sent you to Sarasota for palm trees.”
“But the piece was about the new spending on entertainment centers. A good part of condo community spending is going to build these things. And most seniors love them. I thought the readers would want-”
“Listen. I know you think you know what the readers want. That’s why I’m the editor and you’re sweating and eating fried Snickers bars in Sarasota. OK? Just listen-palm trees. Sound nice, don’t they?”
“I can’t put palm trees in every article.”
“What about celebrities?”
Thompson said something off the phone. Someone laughed. Jake sighed.
“Sir, there aren’t any celebrities in Sarasota.”
“Then find some. There must be some stars down there. Our readers love that.”
“I can’t promise it.” Jake doodled in his notebook. “I’ll try for the palm trees.”
“Both!”
“Do people really want that?”
Thompson laughed.
“Right. Again, that’s why I’m the editor and you’re having your third ice cream cone by 9AM.”
“I told you that I’ve been on a strict diet-”
“So that’s it. More palm trees, please.”
He sighed and wrote it in the notebook, next to the doodles. He penned in his mileage for the day next to that. He had run that far. His thighs ached. He wanted to stretch. But he had to ask now.
“Wait a second, sir. I have just one other thing.”
“Yes? What is it?”
Sometimes, Thompson pretended he liked questions. Not this time.
“It’s about Gary.”
“Who’s that?”
“My photo guy. I’m just wondering if there’s anything in the budget to get somebody a little more…”
