“And what’s journalism, young Fletcher?”
“Developing the skill of ending sentences with prepositions? Especially questions?”
“Did I just do that?” Behind his thick lenses, Frank’s watery eyes moved across the top of his messy desk. “I just did that.”
“Frank, what I wanted to see you about—”
Frank opened a folder on his desk. “I’ve dug out your personnel file.” The folder was not thick. “You’re suited for journalism, or pick-and-shovel work. I wonder which it will be?”
“Why are you looking at my personnel file? You hired me months ago.”
“Three months ago. Do you remember why? I don’t.”
“Because I can be really good, Frank. I—”
“I think I had the idea this newspaper needed a breath of fresh air, young maverick who would shake things up a bit, see things differently, maybe, jerk people out of their ruts.”
“How can I do that, Frank, if you won’t give me a job?”
“I’ve given you a job. Lots of jobs.”
“Not a real job.”
“First, I put you on the copy desk.”
“Writing headlines is for poets, Frank.”
“And kept you there, over the growing protests of your co-workers, I might add—”
“I spilled orange soda on somebody’s terminal keyboard.”
“That’s not all you did.”
“I made it up to him. I bought him a pair of surgical gloves.”
“—until you wrote the headline GOVERNOR JOKES ON PURPOSE.”
“I thought that was news.”
“And somehow the headline appeared in two editions before being killed.”
“Sheer poetry, Frank. Not long-lived poetry, I admit, not deathless poetry, but—”
“So then I assigned you to writing obituaries.”
“You know I want to write sports, Frank. That’s why I came in to see you this morning.”
“Not the toughest job in the world, writing obituaries. You answer the phone, listen politely, sometimes you have to check a few facts.”
“I’m very good at checking facts.”
Frank held up a piece of paper. His hand quivered and his eyes shook as he read the first paragraph from it. “ ‘Ruth Mulholland died peacefully today, having accomplished nothing in her fifty-six years.’ Did you write that?”
“It was a fact, Frank. I checked.”
“Fletcher, one of the points in your writing obituaries is in our being able to print them.”
“I kept asking her sister,
“Fletcher—”
“What, there’s not supposed to be any truth in obituaries? When someone has won the Nobel Prize we print that in an obituary. When someone accomplishes exactly nothing in life, why don’t we print that? Doing absolutely nothing is a statement, Frank, a response to life. It’s news, it’s interesting.”
“Ruthie didn’t get her obituary printed, either.” Frank held up another shaking piece of paper. “So you were assigned to writing wedding announcements. That’s just a job of taking dictation. You don’t even have to be responsible for the main fact, the wedding, because it hasn’t taken place yet. Your very first announcement read, ‘Sarah and Roland Jameson, first cousins, are to be married Wednesday in a ceremony restricted to family.’ ”
“Crisp.”
“Crisp,” Frank agreed.
“Concise.”
“Concise.”
“To the point.”
“Absolutely to the point.”
“And,” Fletch said, “factual.”
“Took talent, to dig that story out.”
“Not much. When the mother of the bride called, I simply asked her why both the bride and groom had the same last name.”
“And she answered you without hesitation?”
“She hesitated.”
“She said they were first cousins?”
“She said their fathers were brothers.”
“And neither the bride nor the groom was adopted, right?”
“Frank, I checked. What do you think I am?”
“I think you’re an inexperienced journalist.”
“If the rules of journalism apply on political and crime and sports pages, why don’t they apply on obituaries and wedding-announcement pages? Newspapers are supposed to tell both sides of a story, right? Pah! Sundays we devote pages and pages to wedding announcements. Why don’t we give equal space to divorce announcements?”
“Fletcher—”
“News is news, Frank.”
“You think that by writing obituaries and wedding announcements in this heavy-handed, factual way is how you’re going to get yourself assigned to the sports pages, is that it?”
“Truth is truth, Frank.”
“Someday, Fletcher, may you be a victim of someone like yourself.” Through his pupils dipped in clam juice, Frank looked at Fletcher. “You’re getting married Saturday?”
“Yes. Next Saturday.”
“Why?”
“Barbara has the day open.”
“Unless the purpose is to have children,” Frank said slowly, “marriage is a legal institution guaranteeing only that you get screwed by lawyers.”
“You don’t believe in true love?”
“True Love ran at Saratoga Saturday. Made a strong start, faded fast, and ended at the back of the pack. I suppose you expect time off, for a honeymoon?”
“Barbara’s rather counting on it. That’s another thing I wanted to see you about.”
“You haven’t worked here a year yet. In fact, some say you haven’t worked here at all yet!”
“Yeah, but, Frank, how many times in life do you have a honeymoon?”
“Don’t ask. Why are you so sunburned?”
“I ran in the Sardinal Race yesterday.”
“Your hair looks like it hasn’t crossed the finish line yet.”
Fletch smiled. “There’s a story there.”
“In your hair? I’d believe anything is in your hair.”
“In the race. Do you know about the Ben Franklyn Friend Service?”
“Guess I don’t.”
“Basically, it’s a company specializing in health and prostitution.”
“What?”
“You call them and this sultry voice answers, saying, ‘Ben Franklyn Friend Service. You want a friend?’ Only
