Fat Chance. Deborah Blumenthal
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we have a secretary around here?”
“Out sick, Tex.”
“Sick of what, this joint? Anyone think to call a temp?”
“Don’t think.”
Business as usual.
“T E X, you cut half the story,” the police reporter’s whine fills the room. “I spent three hours with the commissioner and you give me four hundred words?”
“No space. We’ll do a follow.”
“Follow? He won’t spit at me after this abortion.”
“Bring me a hankie.”
A general assignment reporter shows up next, a Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism graduate, with no obvious pathology, who in two short years at the paper has developed a tic. He’s smacking a copy of the newspaper against his hand in fury and grousing about a typo in his story about a hero cop. He closes his eyes, dropping his head in despair.
“We said he’s been with the department for ONE HUNDRED years.”
“Only an extra zero,” Tex says, waving it away with his hand. “Look at the bright side. Now the department thinks they owe him 90 years of back pay, the guy’s rich, and he’s eligible for immediate retirement.”
He winks at me, then fogs his glasses, wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt, before turning back to the lead story on his screen about a supposed affair between the mayor and his press secretary. At the press briefing, they decided, uncharacteristically, to take the high road and play it down, hiding it deep inside. The mayor already hated the press. They had alienated him sufficiently with their in-depth probe right before the election. But now that every gossipmonger in the city had weighed in, it would be the cover.
Tex stretches his legs up over the desk, crossing his scuffed Tony Lamas. “Here’s our head: CITY HALL HOTBED. What the hell—it would sell papers. If the megalomaniac mayor couldn’t stand the…”
“I’m starving….” I sing out sweetly. “Ribs encrusted with honey and teriyaki glaze.” I dangle the thought before him. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to start filing my nails. Bingo. He looks out at the copy desk.
“Okay, bro’s, put it to bed. I’ll be at Virgil’s if you need me.”
“You and Maggie eatin’ Pritikin again, eh?”
Tex snorts. “Not likely. No spinach salads and Diet Sprites for her,” he says, punching my arm. “She’s the only girl I ever met who knows how to eat.” That’s a compliment, I think. He grabs his coat and we hail a cab. I can’t wait to tell him about California.
I gnaw off all of the red caramelized beef on the baby back ribs and then soak up the remaining droplets of amber glaze on my plate with a slab of doughy bread. The oval platter between us that had been heaped with crisp golden brown shoestring fries is now bare except for a sprinkling of burned crumbs and flakes of coarse salt.
I lean back on the thick wine velvet banquette and sigh. “So then the phone rings, and guess who called yours truly?”
“The papal nuncio?”
“Negative.”
“Temptation Island?”
“No, and I’ll spare you your remaining eighteen questions. A hotshot from L.A. who wants me to fly out there and help with a movie they’re making.”
Tex closes his eyes and looks down. “You’re such a pushover. It was Alan Barsky.”
“It was not Alan Barsky.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Alan Barsky would have said he was Steven Spielberg.”
“Hmmm…I see your point…so what did you say?”
“I said I’d drop everything and be there in a heartbeat.”
Tex guffaws. “They sending a Lear?”
“No, a Peter Pan Bus ticket.”
He shrugs. “Hell…you’re on a roll, why not? You’ve got the media eating out of your hand, go for it. It could beef up your career even more. Celebrity fat columnist reaches to the stars. Definitely a sound career move.”
I’m suspicious now. “Why are you so gung ho?” I can’t help but think of Tex as, well, my protector. Maybe it’s his build. Former star tackle—the kind of guy who’d smile as he was hauling your couch up a flight of stairs. He hoists his beer bottle and drains it. That’s the sum total of his daily exercise, not counting the jaw work of the job.
“You’ll be the next IT girl and I can say I knew you when.”
“Naw, it’s not me…. I’ll just forget the whole thing,” I say, flicking bread crumbs into a miniature replica of the pyramid at Giza. “I mean, even though it probably means mega bucks—you know how these movie companies pay consultant fees when they want help—I despise L.A. anyway. I mean who doesn’t?”
“Remember that Woody Allen movie?” He works at keeping a straight face, but his own stories always set him off. He leans back into the seat to get more comfortable before he starts spinning the yarn.
“You know where he’s in the car with Tony Roberts who’s got on this space-age, silver Mylar jumpsuit? Roberts zips up the hood that just about engulfs his entire head, like he’s going to be launched to Mars, and Woody turns to him, deadpan, and asks, ‘Are we driving through plutonium?’” Tex almost doubles over with his loud, roaring laughter. I give him a small tolerant smile.
“Yeah, the clothes, the cars, you can’t walk anywhere,” I say, “except for the treadmill in your home gym. And then there’s the Freeway. What an oxymoron. The Freeway, where you sit in traffic, looking at the guy in the next lane. How did he get that car? What does he have that you don’t? The car and the phone, the phone and the car, that’s their whole shtick. I think they all have phones jammed up their asses, I swear. What a disgusting way of life!”
“Maybe you’ll get into it, who knows?”
I look at Tex and wonder. What if he got a call from, say, someone like Gwyneth Paltrow or Kim Basinger asking him, in a breathy voice, if he could tutor her for an upcoming role as a newspaper editor? Would he go? I can only imagine his reply. “Let ’em try.”
“So,” he says, slapping his hand on the table, “how about we go to that Italian bakery on Third Avenue for tiramisu?”
We walk across town and up Madison Avenue. The trees in front of the Giorgio Armani shop are laced with tiny sapphire Christmas lights, arboretum couture, while window-lit mannequins wear strapless gowns and tuxedos of tissue-thin silks and crepes, and high-heeled sling-backs encrusted with ruby crystals. We pass candlelit restaurants where dark-haired men with romantic eyes face blondes in white wool suits with minks draped over the backs of their chairs, while just outside on frosty street corners open to the sharp wind lie vagrants with unkempt hair under cardboard shelters offering bent paper cups for spare change. The fragmented New York mosaic.
For all its opulence, and all its shortcomings, the city tapestry seduces me. Why would I want to leave it for L.A.? Who wants to spend half a day flying out to a place where nobody thought about anything but competing for parts and coveting awards for pretending that you were someone you weren’t? They were all bent out of shape, pretentious. The whole damn place was pretentious.
We walk to Third Avenue, passing the Tower East movie theater and a Victoria’s Secret. The long expanse of windows is devoted to sherbet-colored Miracle Bras that can incrementally ratchet up your cleavage, a “have it your way” for bras instead of burgers. They’re paired with matching thongs as sheer as snowflakes. I’m watching Tex.
“So what was the name of the movie anyway?” he says, raking a hand through his dark, curly hair as he finally