I nodded my agreement with her assessment.
She continued, “Roxie is the perfect salesperson for this paper. She fights for clients and challenges you on their behalf. And I love her clothes.”
“How about Jeremy and Doug?” I asked.
“You and Mal give Jeremy too hard of a time. He can be a box of kittens, but he knows art and music.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “It’s just too easy to pick on him, especially with all of his melodrama.”
“Walker, he’s your A&E writer. Doesn’t melodrama come with the job?”
I laughed. “You have a point.”
“I also hate to see Doug and Mal always at odds,” she added. “But Mal is probably right. He isn’t really cut out for this paper. He has the coolest job in town—investigative reporter for the Pensacola Insider. Girls would love to date him and hear his tales, but all he wants to do is fish.”
I nodded. “I’m hoping he will come around and see the value of our reporting.”
“I don’t think it will ever happen,” Summer said, “but I love your optimism.”
I ordered some edamame and a small house salad to get a little more food into her. She got her second wind and wanted to talk more about the paper.
Sipping a water with a slice of lemon, she asked, “Has it always been this way? So, hectic and with such constant pressure?”
I took a gulp of my beer and looked out at the traffic on the bridge. “It’s like walking a tightrope without a net, but our reporting is important. The Insider is the equalizer for the powerless and voiceless in this community. Often it seems like we are the only ones standing up for justice and against corruption. But somebody has to be Horatius on the bridge, standing in the gap fighting off the horde.”
Summer said, “I can’t imagine Pensacola without the Insider. I’ve seen how people look forward to their issues. I’m proud to say I work here.”
“I make it sound more heroic than it is,” I said. “But we have done a pretty good job of keeping our finger on the pulse of the community and picking the right side of most issues. Financially, I think it will start paying off at some point. Advertisers follow readers.”
She asked, “What’s your exit strategy?” Summer’s accounting and MBA sides were showing.
“Originally our goal was to corner enough of the advertising dollars in this market to force Barnett to buy us out and merge the Insider with the Herald,” I said. “Then we were hit by hurricanes Ivan, Dennis, and Katrina. The economy fell apart. Barnett figured that putting us out of business was easier than buying us.”
She asked, “What about your investors?”
I laughed. “They are looking for an escape clause without losing the half million they invested.”
“Surely they are pleased with the investigative reporting.”
I shook my head. “No, they are more often upset that we uncovered their favorite politicians and the backroom deals of their friends. Our early board meetings were epic battles over editorial control and the finances. My investors haven’t written a check to help us in years.”
“How have you survived?”
“Hubris and credit cards,” I said.
After I paid the tab I walked Summer to a cab and headed back to the loft, where Big Boy anxiously awaited his nighttime walk. Forty-five minutes later, we were in bed asleep.
That night I dreamed of Mari.
By the second semester of my second year at Ole Miss, Dare and Rory were an item. Dare had less and less time for me, though she got me dates with her sorority sisters for the big parties. Rory would finish law school soon and ask Dare to marry him. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, but my feelings didn’t matter.
I began working for the college newspaper, The Daily Mississippian. The juniors and seniors got all the cool beats and big stories. Sophomores did the fluff pieces unless we could scoop the upperclassmen with a story or topic that they hadn’t thought of. Scooping them became my obsession, of course.
The New York Times published a story on the rise of suicides on college campuses that had gotten some attention. I went to interview the telephone operators that handled Ole Miss’s twenty-four-hour crisis line.
That was how I met Mari Gaudet, a psychology major from Eunice, Louisiana. Petite, dark-haired, and olive-skinned, she had no interest in being interviewed, especially by a skinny frat boy in khakis and a white button-down shirt.
Mari took the volunteer job seriously. Twice that semester she had talked students out of overdosing on pills. She had a calming voice and a big, genuine laugh. Her coworkers said she had regular callers, lonely students who needed someone to help them navigate adulthood.
They also told me that she had recently broken up with a football player and had little interest in dating. They clearly didn’t think I was in her league. She was also a GDI, a God Damn Independent, who hated anyone tied to the Greek system. I later learned that Mari had dealt with too many suicidal coeds who had failed to make it through sorority rush.
After three phone calls and two visits to the crisis center, she agreed to do the interview at the library. She refused to meet for coffee or a drink, not wanting to give me the wrong impression.
I did my homework on suicide and its prevention. My knowledge on the subject and my questions impressed her. She even smiled a few times and laughed once.
The article had a huge impact, making it to the front page, but below the fold. The Associated Press wire picked it up, and other student newspapers and a few dailies published the article with my byline. The chancellor even appropriated a few more dollars for the crisis center’s budget. The senior and junior reporters hated me, but I didn’t give a shit. I became addicted to journalism.
I
