“Ted,” I said, “get with Doug on the cover. Mal, I will want more room for my editorial and plan on the letters to the editor being longer than usual. We will print all the hate mail as long as it’s somewhat coherent.”
“What about my stories?” chimed in Jeremy. “What am I supposed to do about the art galleries?”
“Get off your ass and walk down the street to the galleries. Take Teddy with you to take photos,” I said.
“Yeah, Jeremy,” said Mal, “whoever heard of an A&E writer that’s afraid to do face-to-face interviews or listen to bands in person?” She understood that Jeremy might use the ruckus as an excuse for not meeting a deadline. Since Mal was the master of all deadlines, it appeared I had her for an ally, at least for this meeting.
“I’m not the problem around here,” Jeremy said. “I make my deadlines.”
He directed his full bravado at our production manager, like a child standing in front of a mechanical pony outside of Winn-Dixie telling his mother that he wasn’t afraid. “And I listen to plenty of bands in person.”
“Yeah, right,” said Mal.
We wouldn’t hear from Jeremy again for the rest of the morning. He couldn’t wait to take a call from his boyfriend and discuss his woes over another cigarette in the alleyway behind the building. Roxie was another matter.
Ad sales were the lifeblood of our free newspaper. We didn’t have paid subscribers. Ads covered our costs. We had no reserves, and my savings had dwindled steadily since the Hines article was published.
I told her and the rest of the staff, “We’ve been here before, guys. The story was the right thing to do. Hines is a fake and stole taxpayers’ dollars that were intended to support nonprofits that struggle even more than we do to make ends meet. We can never hide from the truth.”
“But it’s my commissions,” Roxie said, not wanting to give up just yet. Big Boy walked into the conference room and put his head in her lap. The sales director scratched him behind his ears.
“Roxie, we have our Best of the Coast issue in six weeks. We will make up the lost ad sales, and besides the trial will be over soon.”
The paper normally sold about $45,000 to $50,000 worth of ads in the Best of the Coast issue that listed the best restaurants, shops, and businesses in Northwest Florida. Roxie knew it, and her commissions would start rolling in before her honeymoon trip.
“Email me the list of cancellations,” I said to her. “I will call or visit those advertisers by Friday.”
Meeting adjourned. Big Boy headed back to the couch while the rest of us went to check our email.
The office was one large space with exposed, ancient bricks and lined with windows that faced Palafox and Intendencia streets. The sun rushed through the uncovered windows and skylights making the room seem stark. The space had two small bathrooms and a break room that doubled as a conference room. My loft apartment occupied the top floor. Below sat Frank’s Pizzeria.
The building had been around since the mid-1800s. Before we moved in, it was a punk club where Green Day, The Wallflowers, and numerous less memorable bands played on their way to Atlanta, New Orleans, Orlando, or Austin. Before that, it had been a jazz club that hosted Al Hirt and Fats Domino. And before that, my barber Eddie told me that it was a “high-class” strip club, which meant the strippers had all their teeth. Before that, nobody remembered. The office was haunted, if only by residual punk angst.
Most visitors loved the feel of the office. Governors, state lawmakers, and anyone seeking national, state, or local office dropped in at one time or another. The staff worked on six-foot long plastic folding tables. Papers were spread everywhere. Framed covers of old issues covered the walls. The space looked how the office of an underdog alt-weekly should. It was cool.
My head was killing me, and the caffeine wasn’t helping. Summer Kay, our receptionist, walked over to my desk. She had handled the phones while we held our staff meeting.
“Hi, Boss.” Tall and skinny with long brown hair with a touch of red on the tips, Summer had a fondness for tight jeans and eighties rock band T-shirts. Today, it was Culture Club.
She handed me my phone messages and told me that the day’s deposit was $3,485. The first two messages were to call the state attorney’s office—not likely. Another message was from Bree asking that I have a beer with her at Intermission at 6:00 p.m.
When I asked Summer about Bree’s call, she elaborated, “She said she had a possible news story. She also wanted to know how you were you feeling.”
Dropping her voice to a whisper, Summer said with a concerned look on her face, “She told me about Jace Wittman. Are you okay?”
“I could use some ibuprofen, but other than that I’m fine.”
Outside my window, I watched the Palafox Street secretaries and administrative assistants stroll out to early lunches. Their dresses weren’t quite as crisp as they had been earlier, but the view was inspiring.
Big Boy strolled over, ignoring Summer, and begged to go outside. Usually Summer took care of the dog’s needs, which weren’t many, during office hours. I guess he wasn’t a Boy George fan.
5
Big Boy and I sat on a bench in Plaza de Luna at the foot of Palafox Street. I tossed the dog a crust of Frank’s Pizzeria pizza as I finished the last of my Diet Coke. A refreshing breeze drifted off Pensacola Bay. Laughter and shrieks of delight came from children playing in the fountain in the center of the park. Their mothers gossiped on a nearby bench as they watched their kids play
