“I’m sorry,” I say to Richard. “I couldn’t get any more weed after all.”
“Yeah?” Richard asks. “That’s okay. Honestly, that shit was kind of strong for me anyway. I didn’t get a thing done yesterday. Fine for you, but I still
God, he really is an asshole. I fight the urge to sell to him after all.
After I hang up with Richard, I call the number I’ve been planning to call ever since this idea revealed itself to me…the moment I asked my father if we could still get the sons-of-bitches who told me the world would be fair.
M-’s secretary answers. I tell her it’s Matt Prior. And although it kills me, I tell her to say that I’ve called to apologize. Just as I expected, the Idi Amin of newspaper editors can’t resist contrition
from someone he’s tortured. I stammer, shuffle, swallow my pride and offer this ass-bag my (God, this is hard) apology. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
“I appreciate that, Matt,” he says, and the worst part is that I’ve given him the chance to sound magnanimous. “And I understand. I think we’re both victims of this economy.”
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “It was wrong to blame you. I hope you’ll accept my apology. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“Sure,” M-says. “This has been stressful on us all.” Just the sound of his voice makes me strangle the steering wheel, as he explains that it’s been hard on him too, laying off so many people. Turns out he isn’t sleeping well at night. (Yeah? Day Four for me, asshole.) “It can’t be easy to be laid off, but at least those people only go through it once. I’ve had to go through it over and over again.”
Thankfully I’m not driving or I’d have to veer into a telephone pole to make it stop. The poor assassin-all those beheadings! Noisy crowds…guillotine cleanup…constant blade sharpening…
“I don’t mean to suggest that it’s not hard on people like you,” he says.
“No, I hear you,” I say. And then, when my hatred is strongest, I gently release the line into the water. “And I know what you mean about stress. I got a prescription for medicinal marijuana.”
“Did you really?”
“Yeah. It’s the only thing that helps.”
“You can get a prescription for that? For stress?”
“Sure,” I say. “It saved my life. You should try it. The pot they grow these days, you can’t believe it. It’s amazing.”
“Yeah, I keep hearing that.” He laughs. “But it’s been years for me. Those days are long behind me, I’m afraid.”
Circling…“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. I hadn’t gotten
high since college.” And I give a little hum. College. (Introduce nostalgia and the carefully chosen word:
“My roommate was from Hawaii,” M-says. “You don’t have to tell me.”
I laugh nonchalantly. Then: “Hey. You know what? I ended up getting way more than I can use…I mean…I could sell you some, if you want. You should just try it. Amazing stuff.”
“Oh,” laughs M-. “No. I don’t think so.”
“It’s perfectly legal,” I say. “I have a prescription.”
Quiet for a moment. Wait. Wait.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Wait. Don’t speak. Wait.
He laughs. “You know what? That actually sounds good. I’d like that.”
“Yeah? Okay. I could bring it down today if you want.”
Just like that. Easy. Maybe I’ve found my calling.
I meet M-in the parking garage of the newspaper. I don’t have a parking pass anymore so I have to walk in. M- is waiting by his car, wearing his fey 1940s newspaper editor uniform, gray suit, suspenders, fedora. He has a small twitch in the corner of his lying mouth, which is perfectly framed by his pencil-thin beard. M-looks around the parking garage and makes a Deep Throat joke. I pretend to laugh. It’s cold and gray all around us. He holds out three fifties even though I told him two hundred. Is he really low-balling me? Guy’s an asshole to the end. Still, I give him one ounce in a sandwich bag. I’d sell at a loss to get this asshole. He closes his eyes, smells it. Smiles.
I collect the money with the hand wearing the bright watch.
“I’m looking forward to this,” he says. “My first newspapering job, we got high in the darkroom every afternoon. Everyone got high then.” And then, perhaps worried that I’m judging him, he adds: “Nobody had kids.” Shrugs. “It was the seventies.” Smiles wistfully. “It was a different time, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” God, I want out of there. I feel sick…can’t spend another second near this guy. “Call me if you need more.” My hands are shaking.
“I might do that.” The pot disappears in his coat. “I’m going to have some time on my hands. Have you heard? I’m leaving, too. I quit rather than be a part of this any longer.”
“No. I hadn’t heard,” I say, though I have heard, of course. And I also know that he’s really being forced out. But unlike the scores of people he slagged, M-gets to go out on his own terms, probably with a bonus. A guy like him saves the suits a few hundred grand by marching good people into the wood chipper, then gets to pretend he quit in indignation (even though he stuck around to do the layoffs
M-nods, and seems to take my silence for sympathy, which I’m in no danger of actually feeling. “I’ll be okay, though,” he says. “I can always teach. And maybe there are still papers out there looking for a good old-fashioned newspaperman.”
With his last ship still listing in the bay, Queeg wants another one. I suppress a scoff.
Meanwhile M-is warming to our postwar camaraderie. “So you’re out there…in the world. What’s the job market like for old ink-stained pros like us?”
Us. “I don’t know…if you’re willing to work…there’s always something. In fact, I picked up a little freelance work today.”
He smiles wearily and I think his eyes rim with tears. “That’s great, Matt. I’m happy for you.”
I have to look away to keep the sympathy from welling up in me.
“I don’t mind telling you, I’m a little bit scared,” M-says, and tightens his scarf. “Fifty-six? And no job?” He wipes at his eyes. “What if it’s…you know, the end?”
I don’t say anything.
“Well.” He pulls the bag of weed from his coat and smells it again. “Thanks for this, Matt. I think it’s going to help.” And then he puts his pot away again and considers me seriously. “It’s too bad you and I didn’t spend more time together.”
“Well…” I twitch and shudder, glance at my glowing watch and hear myself laugh maniacally again. “Never too late to start!”
CHAPTER 23
I AM OH-2 THE VENGEFUL
Wiretapping angel of fury
Be prepared to meet your maker
Or at least a federal grand jury
The guy who talked me into refinancing last year, John Denham, no longer works for the mortgage company in the mini-mall next to the tanning salon. In fact, John’s mortgage company is no longer a mortgage company but an
