“Russo!” Thompson screamed. “What the hell have you been doing?”
He sighed and combed his wet hair with his free hand.
“I just took a shower after my run. You know what the hours are like here. The business day ends around dinner. 4PM.”
“A run! I’m your editor, Jake, I know when you’re full of it. We don’t pay you to run. If I wanted a runner, I’d pay somebody who could run. You think I believe that you could run?”
“I ran seven miles today.”
“I’d pay a Kenyan if I wanted somebody to run. At least I’d believe they were telling…telling the truth.”
Thompson always sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. Maybe a whole nest was in there. He repeated words sometimes, but he wasn’t stuttering. He seemed to be doing it for emphasis. It was best to ignore him.
“I really did run seven miles.”
“Russo, what are you eating right now? Just…just tell me. I want to imagine it. We miss you here. You know what?”
“What?”
“We still call the weekly donut day ‘Jake’s Day.’ We really still do it.”
“That’s great. You know, you should change the name. I’ve cut out all the junk food since I got here. I don’t know how much weight I’ve lost. It’s more than seventy five pounds. Maybe a hundred.”
“Sure you have. Carla…Carla come here,” Thompson yelled. The phone went dead and he heard Thompson and his assistant Carla laughing. “See Russo-Carla agrees with me. Stop it Carla, you do agree. Every day I bring in donuts, people still call it ‘Jake’s Day.’ ‘Thank God it’s “Jake’s Day,”’ they say. ‘I didn’t think I was going to make it to “Jake’s Day,”’ they tell me.”
“All right. Really. I’ve changed since then, but that’s fine. Did you have something to talk about?”
“Last week, oh boy.” Thompson laughed but didn’t cough. “Last week, a new guy, Jason Edelman came up to me. He…he says, ‘Sir, I was wondering-could we push “Jake’s Day” forward? I won’t be able to write up this fire in the Bronx without a little sugar in my system.”’
Jake’s hair was dry by now. He hung up the towel and poured a glass of filtered water.
“Can you believe it?” Thompson said, screaming now. “Jason Edelman. Do you remember him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Exactly! Exactly! He didn’t start until after I sent you to Florida! Can you believe it? This little dork never even knew you, and he still says it’s ‘Jake’s Day’ when I bring in the donuts!”
“That’s fantastic sir.”
“He’s got glasses, ties, the whole thing. Harvard or something.”
“Wonderful.”
“And this kid was practically crying for ‘Jake’s Day!’”
Jake didn’t say anything. He just finished the water and looked at his watch. He had run seven miles. He had looked it up on the computer and measured it out, step by step, and his time wasn’t bad either. Not great, but not bad. He had stopped sweating and took off his socks one at a time.
“Ah Russo,” Thompson laughed. “You’re a great guy. You don’t have to tell me what you’re eating. It’s fine.”
“Thank you sir. Is there something we need to go over?”
“Right…right. I’m afraid there is. I got your latest article about the…what do you call it?”
“The entertainment centers piece? About trends in condo movie nights?”
“Right. I’m just a little disappointed in it.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
Jake picked up his notebook and pen. Thompson answered after a pause.
“Where…where are the palm trees?”
He put his pen down.
“The palm trees?”
“For God’s sake, Jake. Your article is about all these movie theatres and TVs or whatever. Jake. We’ve got TVs here in New York. Big TVs, tiny TVs, medium TVs, pink TVs, black TVs, white TVs. I don’t know why I’m talking about TVs. I hate them-all colors. But the point is, our people don’t want to read about TVs. They want to read about the things they don’t have. They want palm trees, and beaches, and motor boats. And palm trees, Jake. They want palm trees. We sent you to Sarasota for palm trees.”
“But the piece was about the new spending on entertainment centers. A good part of condo community spending is going to build these things. And most seniors love them. I thought the readers would want-”
“Listen. I know you think you know what the readers want. That’s why I’m the editor and you’re sweating and eating fried Snickers bars in Sarasota. OK? Just listen-palm trees. Sound nice, don’t they?”
“I can’t put palm trees in every article.”
“What about celebrities?”
Thompson said something off the phone. Someone laughed. Jake sighed.
“Sir, there aren’t any celebrities in Sarasota.”
“Then find some. There must be some stars down there. Our readers love that.”
“I can’t promise it.” Jake doodled in his notebook. “I’ll try for the palm trees.”
“Both!”
“Do people really want that?”
Thompson laughed.
“Right. Again, that’s why I’m the editor and you’re having your third ice cream cone by 9AM.”
“I told you that I’ve been on a strict diet-”
“So that’s it. More palm trees, please.”
He sighed and wrote it in the notebook, next to the doodles. He penned in his mileage for the day next to that. He had run that far. His thighs ached. He wanted to stretch. But he had to ask now.
“Wait a second, sir. I have just one other thing.”
“Yes? What is it?”
Sometimes, Thompson pretended he liked questions. Not this time.
“It’s about Gary.”
“Who’s that?”
“My photo guy. I’m just wondering if there’s anything in the budget to get somebody a little more…”
“More…more what? Spit it out!”
“Just more…a lot of things.”
“Gary, huh. Listen, Russo, his shot of the movie theatre was the best thing about your article. He’s staying. Our photographer there has been our man for 45 years this June. He’s getting a plaque.”
“Exactly-45 years. Almost half a century. There’s no way we could get someone a little…”
“Tell Gary to shoot more palm trees though. You…you both could use more palm trees.”
Thompson hung up. He still did that. Jake held the phone in his hand for a few seconds then put it down. That’s how it was. He hadn’t even gotten to argue his case. But he hadn’t had time, had he? He stretched a little and looked around. The kitchen was in view. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this. But it had been a hell of a day. He walked to the kitchen and opened the cabinet.
He took out the shot glass. “Queens NYC” it said. A memento. He opened the refrigerator. He’d sworn he wouldn’t do it. He was going to turn over a new leaf. He’d bought the bottle on a dark day a few weeks ago and kept it there. He’d never opened it and he knew he should throw it out. But he couldn’t. He went in the fridge, pushed aside the jugs of mineral water and the containers of Diet Vegetable Juice, and there it was. He felt his hand wrap around the label.
He set the bottle beside the shot glass. It was just a sip. And this small of an amount didn’t matter, right? It couldn’t matter. It was trivial. He ran his hand through his hair and combed it back again. He’d burned off all the calories during his run. It was fine. And since he’d bought the bottle, it would be wasteful not to use it. Sixteen ounces had 252 calories and 65.7 grams of sugar. 65.7. But when you poured cream soda, you could smell it and see it sparkle. He used to drink a bottle a day. He deserved a taste.
He started twisting the cap, the little white ridges lining up with his fingerprints. Right when he’d almost broken the seal, the phone rang. He screamed and put down the bottle. His heart was beating faster than when he’d been running. He put it back in the fridge-if he didn’t answer the phone now, Gary would keep calling back.