Part 2 (1/2)

At.w.a.ter was speaking to his a.s.sociate editor at Style. Style. He was at the little twin set of payphones in the hallway off the Holiday Inn restaurant where he'd taken the Moltkes out to eat and expand their side of the whole pitch. The hallway led to the first floor's elevators and restrooms and to the restaurant's kitchen and rear area. He was at the little twin set of payphones in the hallway off the Holiday Inn restaurant where he'd taken the Moltkes out to eat and expand their side of the whole pitch. The hallway led to the first floor's elevators and restrooms and to the restaurant's kitchen and rear area.

At Style, Style, editor was more of an executive t.i.tle. Those who did actual editing were usually called a.s.sociate editors. This was a convention throughout the BSG subindustry. editor was more of an executive t.i.tle. Those who did actual editing were usually called a.s.sociate editors. This was a convention throughout the BSG subindustry.

'If you could just see them.'

'I don't want to see them,' the a.s.sociate editor responded. 'I don't want to look at s.h.i.+t. n.o.body wants to look at s.h.i.+t. Skip, this is the point: people do not want to look at s.h.i.+t.'

'And yet if you -'

'Even s.h.i.+t shaped into various likenesses or miniatures or whatever it is they're alleging they are.'

Skip At.w.a.ter's intern, Laurel Manderley, was listening in on the whole two way conversation. It was she whom At.w.a.ter'd originally dialed, since there was simply no way he was going to call the a.s.sociate editor's head intern's extension on a Sunday and ask her to accept a collect call. Style' Style's whole editorial staff was in over the weekend because the magazine's Summer Entertainment double issue was booked to close on 2 July. It was a busy and extremely high stress time, as Laurel Manderley would point out to Skip more than once in the subsequent debriefing.

'No, no, but not not shaped into, is the thing. You aren't-they come out that way. Already fully formed. Hence the term incredible.' At.w.a.ter was a plump diminutive boy faced man who sometimes unconsciously made a waist level fist and moved it up and down in time to his stressed syllables. A small and bell shaped shaped into, is the thing. You aren't-they come out that way. Already fully formed. Hence the term incredible.' At.w.a.ter was a plump diminutive boy faced man who sometimes unconsciously made a waist level fist and moved it up and down in time to his stressed syllables. A small and bell shaped Style Style salaryman, energetic and competent, a team player, unfailingly polite. Sometimes a bit overfastidious in presentation-for example, it was extremely warm and close in the little Holiday Inn hallway, and yet At.w.a.ter had not removed his blazer or even loosened his tie. The word among some of salaryman, energetic and competent, a team player, unfailingly polite. Sometimes a bit overfastidious in presentation-for example, it was extremely warm and close in the little Holiday Inn hallway, and yet At.w.a.ter had not removed his blazer or even loosened his tie. The word among some of Style' Style's snarkier interns was that Skip At.w.a.ter resembled a jockey who had retired young and broken training in a big way. There was doubt in some quarters about whether he even shaved. Sensitive about the whole baby face issue, as well as about the size and floridity of his ears, At.w.a.ter was unaware of his reputation for wearing nearly identical navy blazer and catalogue slacks ensembles all the time, which happened to be the number one thing that betrayed his Midwest origins to those interns who knew anything about cultural geography.

The a.s.sociate editor wore a headset telephone and was engaged in certain other editorial tasks at the same time he was talking to At.w.a.ter. He was a large bluff bearish man, extremely cynical and fun to be around, as magazine editors often tend to be, and known particularly for being able to type two totally different things at the same time, a keyboard under each hand, and to have them both come out more or less error free. Style' Style's editorial interns found this bimanual talent fascinating, and they often pressed the a.s.sociate editor's head intern to get him to do it during the short but very intense celebrations that took place after certain issues had closed and everyone had had some drinks and the normal constraints of rank and deportment were relaxed a bit. The a.s.sociate editor had a daughter at Rye Country Day School, where a number of Style' Style's editorial interns had also gone, as adolescents. The typing talent thing was also interesting because the a.s.sociate editor had never actually written for Style Style or anyone else-he had come up through Factchecking, which was technically a division of Legal and answered to a whole different section of or anyone else-he had come up through Factchecking, which was technically a division of Legal and answered to a whole different section of Style' Style's parent company. In any event, the doubletime typing explained the surfeit of clicking sounds in the background as the a.s.sociate editor responded to a pitch he found irksome and out of character for At.w.a.ter, who was normally a consummate pro, and knew quite well the shape of the terrain that Style' Style's WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD feature covered, and had no history of instability or substance issues, and rarely even needed much rewriting. feature covered, and had no history of instability or substance issues, and rarely even needed much rewriting.

The editorial exchange between the two men was actually very rapid and clipped and terse. The a.s.sociate editor was saying: 'Which think about it, you're going to represent how? You're going to propose we get photos of the man on the throne, producing? You're going to describe it?'

'Everything you're saying is valid and understandable and yet all I'm saying is if you could see the results. The pieces themselves.' The two payphones had a woodgrain frame with a kind of stiff steel umbilicus for the phone book. At.w.a.ter had claimed that he could not use his own phone because once you got far enough south of Indianapolis and Richmond there were not enough cellular relays to produce a reliable signal. Due to the gla.s.s doors and no direct AC, it was probably close to 100 degrees in the little pa.s.sage, and also loud-the kitchen was clearly on the other side of the wall, because there was a great deal of audible clatter and shouting. At.w.a.ter had worked in a 24 hour restaurant attached to a Union 76 Truck 'n Travel Plaza while majoring in journalism at Ball State, and he knew the sounds of a short order kitchen. The name of the restaurant in Muncie had been simply: EAT. EAT. At.w.a.ter was facing away from everything and more or less concave, hunched into himself and the s.p.a.ce of the phone, as people on payphones in public s.p.a.ces so often are. His fist moved just below the little shelf where the slim GTE directory for Whitcomb-Mount Carmel-Scipio and surrounding communities rested. The technical name of the Holiday Inn's restaurant, according to the sign and menus, was Ye Olde Country Buffet. Hard to his left, an older couple was trying to get a great deal of luggage through the hallway's gla.s.s doors. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that one should just go through and hold the doors open for the other. It was early in the afternoon of 1 July 2001. You could also hear the a.s.sociate editor sometimes talking to someone else in his office, which wasn't necessarily his fault or a way to marginalize At.w.a.ter, because other people were always coming in and asking him things. At.w.a.ter was facing away from everything and more or less concave, hunched into himself and the s.p.a.ce of the phone, as people on payphones in public s.p.a.ces so often are. His fist moved just below the little shelf where the slim GTE directory for Whitcomb-Mount Carmel-Scipio and surrounding communities rested. The technical name of the Holiday Inn's restaurant, according to the sign and menus, was Ye Olde Country Buffet. Hard to his left, an older couple was trying to get a great deal of luggage through the hallway's gla.s.s doors. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that one should just go through and hold the doors open for the other. It was early in the afternoon of 1 July 2001. You could also hear the a.s.sociate editor sometimes talking to someone else in his office, which wasn't necessarily his fault or a way to marginalize At.w.a.ter, because other people were always coming in and asking him things.

A short time later, after splas.h.i.+ng some cold water on his ears and face in the men's room, At.w.a.ter reemerged through the hallway's smeared doors and made his way through the crowds around the restaurant's buffet table. He had also used the sink's mirror to pump himself up a little-periods of self exhortation at mirrors were usually the only time he was fully conscious of the thing that he did with his fist. There were red heat lamps over many of the buffet's entrees, and a man in a partly crumpled chef's hat was slicing prime rib to people's individual specs. The large room smelled powerfully of bodies and hot food. Everyone's face shone in the humidity. At.w.a.ter had a short man's emphatic, shoulder inflected walk. Many of the Sunday diners were elderly and wore special sungla.s.ses with side flaps, the inventor of whom was possibly ripe for a WITW WITW profile. Nor does one hardly ever see actual flypaper anymore. Their table was almost all the way in front. Even across the crowded dining room it was not hard to spot them seated there, due to the artist's wife, Mrs. Moltke, whose great blond head's crown was nearly even with the hostess's lectern. At.w.a.ter used the head as a salient to navigate the room, his own ears and forehead flushed with high speed thought. Back at profile. Nor does one hardly ever see actual flypaper anymore. Their table was almost all the way in front. Even across the crowded dining room it was not hard to spot them seated there, due to the artist's wife, Mrs. Moltke, whose great blond head's crown was nearly even with the hostess's lectern. At.w.a.ter used the head as a salient to navigate the room, his own ears and forehead flushed with high speed thought. Back at Style' Style's editorial offices on the sixteenth floor of 1 World Trade Center in New York, meanwhile, the a.s.sociate editor was speaking with his head intern on the intercom while he typed internal emails. Mr. Brint Moltke, the proposed piece's subject, was smiling fixedly at his spouse, possibly in response to some remark. His entree was virtually untouched. Mrs. Moltke was removing mayo or dressing from the corner of her mouth with a pinkie and met At.w.a.ter's eye as he raised both arms: 'They're very excited.'

Part of the reason At.w.a.ter had had to splash and self exhort in the airless little men's room off the Holiday Inn restaurant was that the toll call had actually continued for several more minutes after the journalist had said '. . . pieces themselves,' and had become almost heated at the same time that it didn't really go anywhere or modify either side of the argument, except that the a.s.sociate editor subsequently observed to his head intern that Skip seemed to be taking the whole strange thing more to heart than was normal in such a consummate pro.

'I do good work. I find it and I do it.'

'This is not about you or whether you could bring it in well,' the a.s.sociate editor had said. 'This is simply me delivering news to you about what can happen and what can't.'

'I seem to recollect somebody once saying no way the parrot could ever happen.' Here At.w.a.ter was referring to a prior piece he'd done for Style. Style.

'You're construing this as an argument about me and you. What this is really about is s.h.i.+t. Excrement. Human s.h.i.+t. It's very simple: Style Style does not run items about human s.h.i.+t.' does not run items about human s.h.i.+t.'

'But it's also art.'

'But it's also s.h.i.+t. And you're already tasked to Chicago for something else we're letting you look at because you pitched me, that's already dubious in terms of the sorts of things we can do. Correct me if I'm mistaken here.'

'I'm on that already. It's Sunday. Laurel's got me in for tomorrow all day. It's a two hour toot up the interstate. The two are a hundred and ten percent compatible.' At.w.a.ter sniffed and swallowed hard. 'You know I know this area.'

The other Style Style piece the a.s.sociate editor had referred to concerned The Suffering Channel, a wide grid cable venture that At.w.a.ter had gotten Laurel Manderley to do an end run and pitch directly to the editor's head intern for piece the a.s.sociate editor had referred to concerned The Suffering Channel, a wide grid cable venture that At.w.a.ter had gotten Laurel Manderley to do an end run and pitch directly to the editor's head intern for WHAT IN THE WORLD. WHAT IN THE WORLD. At.w.a.ter was one of three full time salarymen tasked to the At.w.a.ter was one of three full time salarymen tasked to the WITW WITW feature, which received .75 editorial pages per week, and was the closest any of the BSG weeklies got to freakshow or tabloid, and was a bone of contention at the very highest levels of feature, which received .75 editorial pages per week, and was the closest any of the BSG weeklies got to freakshow or tabloid, and was a bone of contention at the very highest levels of Style. Style. The staff size and large font specs meant that Skip At.w.a.ter was officially contracted for one 400 word piece every three weeks, except the juniormost of the The staff size and large font specs meant that Skip At.w.a.ter was officially contracted for one 400 word piece every three weeks, except the juniormost of the WITW WITW salarymen had been on half time ever since Eckleschafft-Bod had forced Mrs. Anger to cut the editorial budget for everything except celebrity news, so in reality it was more like three finished pieces every eight weeks. salarymen had been on half time ever since Eckleschafft-Bod had forced Mrs. Anger to cut the editorial budget for everything except celebrity news, so in reality it was more like three finished pieces every eight weeks.

'I'll overnight photos.'

'You will not.'

As mentioned, At.w.a.ter was rarely aware of the up and down fist thing, which as far as he could recall had first started in the pressure cooker environs of the Indianapolis Star. Star. When he became aware he was doing it, he sometimes looked down at the moving fist without recognition, as if it were somebody else's. It was one of several lacunae or blind spots in At.w.a.ter's self concept, which in turn were part of why he inspired both affection and mild contempt around the offices of When he became aware he was doing it, he sometimes looked down at the moving fist without recognition, as if it were somebody else's. It was one of several lacunae or blind spots in At.w.a.ter's self concept, which in turn were part of why he inspired both affection and mild contempt around the offices of Style. Style. Those he worked closely with, such as Laurel Manderley, saw him as without much protective edge or sh.e.l.l, and there were clearly some maternal elements in Laurel's regard for him. His interns' tendency to fierce devotion, in further turn, caused some at Those he worked closely with, such as Laurel Manderley, saw him as without much protective edge or sh.e.l.l, and there were clearly some maternal elements in Laurel's regard for him. His interns' tendency to fierce devotion, in further turn, caused some at Style Style to see him as a manipulator, someone who complicitly leaned on people instead of developing his own inner resources. The former a.s.sociate editor in charge of the magazine's to see him as a manipulator, someone who complicitly leaned on people instead of developing his own inner resources. The former a.s.sociate editor in charge of the magazine's SOCIETY PAGES SOCIETY PAGES feature had once referred to Skip At.w.a.ter as an emotional tampon, though there were plenty of people who could verify that she had been a person with all kinds of personal baggage of her own. As with inst.i.tutional politics everywhere, the whole thing got very involved. feature had once referred to Skip At.w.a.ter as an emotional tampon, though there were plenty of people who could verify that she had been a person with all kinds of personal baggage of her own. As with inst.i.tutional politics everywhere, the whole thing got very involved.

Also as mentioned, the editorial exchange on the telephone was in fact very rapid and compressed, with the exception of one sustained pause while the a.s.sociate editor conferred with someone from Design about the shape of a pull quote, which At.w.a.ter could overhear clearly. The several beats of silence after that, however, could have meant almost anything.

'See if you get this,' the a.s.sociate editor said finally. 'How about if I say to you what Mrs. Anger would say to me were I hypothetically as enthused as you are, and gave you the OK, and went up to the ed meeting and pitched it for let's say 10 September. Are you out of your mind. People are not interested in s.h.i.+t. People are disgusted and repelled by s.h.i.+t. That's why they call it s.h.i.+t. Not even to mention the high percentage of fall ad pages that are food or beauty based. Are you insane. Unquote.' Mrs. Anger was the Executive Editor of Style Style and the magazine's point man with respect to its parent company, which was the US division of Eckleschafft-Bod Medien. and the magazine's point man with respect to its parent company, which was the US division of Eckleschafft-Bod Medien.

'Although the inverse of that reasoning is that it's also wholly common and universal,' At.w.a.ter had said. 'Everyone has personal experience with s.h.i.+t.'

'But personal private private experience.' Though technically included in the same toll call, this last rejoinder was part of a separate, subsequent conversation with Laurel Manderley, the intern who currently manned At.w.a.ter's phone and fax when he was on the road, and winnowed and vetted research items forwarded by the shades in Research for experience.' Though technically included in the same toll call, this last rejoinder was part of a separate, subsequent conversation with Laurel Manderley, the intern who currently manned At.w.a.ter's phone and fax when he was on the road, and winnowed and vetted research items forwarded by the shades in Research for WHAT IN THE WORLD, WHAT IN THE WORLD, and interfaced for him with the editorial interns. 'It's done in private, in a special private place, and flushed. People flush so it will go away. It's one of the things people don't want to be reminded of. That's why n.o.body talks about it.' and interfaced for him with the editorial interns. 'It's done in private, in a special private place, and flushed. People flush so it will go away. It's one of the things people don't want to be reminded of. That's why n.o.body talks about it.'

Laurel Manderley, who like most of the magazine's high level interns wore exquisitely chosen and coordinated professional attire, permitted herself a small diamond stud in one nostril that At.w.a.ter found slightly distracting in face to face exchanges, but she was extremely shrewd and pragmatic-she had actually been voted Most Rational by the Cla.s.s of '96 at Miss Porter's School. She was also all but incapable of writing a simple declarative sentence and thus could not, by any dark stretch of the imagination, ever be any kind of rival for At.w.a.ter's salaryman position at Style. Style. As he had with perhaps only one or two previous interns, At.w.a.ter relied on Laurel Manderley, and sounded her out, and welcomed her input so long as it was requested, and often spent large blocks of time on the phone with her, and had shared with her certain elements of his personal history, including pictures of the four year old schipperke mixes who were his pride and joy. Laurel Manderley, whose father controlled a large number of Blockbuster Video franchises throughout western Connecticut, and whose mother was in the final push toward certification as a Master Gardener, was herself destined to survive, through either coincidence or premonition, the tragedy by which As he had with perhaps only one or two previous interns, At.w.a.ter relied on Laurel Manderley, and sounded her out, and welcomed her input so long as it was requested, and often spent large blocks of time on the phone with her, and had shared with her certain elements of his personal history, including pictures of the four year old schipperke mixes who were his pride and joy. Laurel Manderley, whose father controlled a large number of Blockbuster Video franchises throughout western Connecticut, and whose mother was in the final push toward certification as a Master Gardener, was herself destined to survive, through either coincidence or premonition, the tragedy by which Style Style would enter history two months hence. would enter history two months hence.

At.w.a.ter rubbed his nose vertically with two fingers. 'Well, some people talk about it. You should hear little boys. Or men, in a locker room setting: ”Boy, you wouldn't believe the dump I took last night.” That sort of thing.'

'I don't want to hear that. I don't want to imagine that's what men talk to each other about.'

'It's not as if it comes up all that often,' At.w.a.ter conceded. He did feel a little uneasy talking about this with a female. 'My point is that the whole embarra.s.sment and distaste of the issue is the point, if it's done right. The transfiguration of disgust. This is the UBA.' UBA was their industry's shorthand for upbeat angle, what hard news organs would call a story's hook. 'The let's say unexpected reversal of embarra.s.sment and distaste. The triumph of creative achievement in even the unlikeliest places.'

Laurel Manderley sat with her feet up on an open file drawer of At.w.a.ter's desk, holding her phone's headset instead of wearing it. Slender almost to the point of clinical intervention, she had a prominent forehead and surprised eyebrows and a tortoisesh.e.l.l barrette and was, like At.w.a.ter, extremely earnest and serious at all times. She had interned at Style Style for almost a year, and knew that Skip's only real weakness as a BSG journalist was a tendency to grand abstraction that was usually not hard to bring him back to earth on and get him to tone down. She knew further that this tendency was a form of compensation for what Skip himself believed was his chief flaw, an insufficient sense of the tragic which an editor at the for almost a year, and knew that Skip's only real weakness as a BSG journalist was a tendency to grand abstraction that was usually not hard to bring him back to earth on and get him to tone down. She knew further that this tendency was a form of compensation for what Skip himself believed was his chief flaw, an insufficient sense of the tragic which an editor at the Indiana Star Indiana Star had accused him of at an age when that sort of thing sank deep out of sight in the psyche and became part of your core understanding of who you are. One of Laurel Manderley's profs at Wellesley had once criticized her freshman essays for what he'd called their tin ear and cozening tone of unearned confidence, which had immediately become dark parts of her own self concept. had accused him of at an age when that sort of thing sank deep out of sight in the psyche and became part of your core understanding of who you are. One of Laurel Manderley's profs at Wellesley had once criticized her freshman essays for what he'd called their tin ear and cozening tone of unearned confidence, which had immediately become dark parts of her own self concept.

'So go write a Ph.D. thesis on the guy,' she had responded. 'But do not ask me to go to Miss Flick and make a case for making Style Style readers hear about somebody p.o.o.ping little pieces of sculpture out of their b.u.t.t. Because it's not going to happen.' Laurel Manderley now nearly always spoke her mind; her cozening days were behind her. 'I'd be spending credibility and asking Ellen to spend hers on something that's a lost cause. readers hear about somebody p.o.o.ping little pieces of sculpture out of their b.u.t.t. Because it's not going to happen.' Laurel Manderley now nearly always spoke her mind; her cozening days were behind her. 'I'd be spending credibility and asking Ellen to spend hers on something that's a lost cause.

'You have to be careful what you ask people to do,' she had said. Sometimes privately a.k.a. Miss Flick, Ellen Bactrian was the WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD section's head intern, a personage who was not only the a.s.sociate editor's right hand but who was known to have the ear of someone high on Mrs. Anger's own staff on the 82nd floor, because Ellen Bactrian and this executive intern often biked down to work together from the Flatiron district on the extraordinary bicycle paths that ran all the way along the Hudson to almost Battery Park. It was said that they even had matching helmets. section's head intern, a personage who was not only the a.s.sociate editor's right hand but who was known to have the ear of someone high on Mrs. Anger's own staff on the 82nd floor, because Ellen Bactrian and this executive intern often biked down to work together from the Flatiron district on the extraordinary bicycle paths that ran all the way along the Hudson to almost Battery Park. It was said that they even had matching helmets.

For complicated personal and political reasons, Skip At.w.a.ter was uncomfortable around Ellen Bactrian and tried to avoid her whenever possible.

There were a couple moments of nothing but background clatter on his end of the phone.

'Who is this guy, anyhow?' Laurel Manderley had asked. 'What sort of person goes around displaying his own poo?'