Playing By The Book, page 10
Sam, Julie, and I huddled together. I had an idea.
“I just read about a diner that’s being shut down after sixty years,” I said. “The Empire Diner.”
Julie’s jaw dropped. “In Chelsea? No!”
I nodded. “Yep. The landlord wants to build a high-rise condo slap dab on the spot where that diner’s parked.”
Sam wasn’t impressed. “A diner? C’mon—we need something edgy. There must be a thousand diners in New York. Does anyone care?”
“This isn’t just any diner,” Julie said. “It’s legendary. Okay, maybe it’s not the Plaza Hotel, but it’s been featured in a million movies and television shows. My dad and I used to eat there all the time.”
I pulled a computer printout from my backpack and handed it to Sam. “Plus, in three of the past five years, this program gave out awards for articles involving eating establishments.”
Sam scanned the list. “Wow, Jake, you really did your homework. I’m impressed. Okay, brah, I’m in.”
On the way to the diner, my mind was in overdrive. As I already mentioned, I’d only written one editorial before and relied heavily on The Preacher’s input. While The Preacher and Sam got a kick going off on how they thought things should be, I preferred reporting on the way things were. News rocks. It’s neat and clean and there’s nothing more satisfying than covering every aspect of a news story so that there are absolutely no outstanding questions. Like the answers in the back of a math textbook, you just checked the facts with news to verify your work was airtight. If someone took offense at the article, you just pointed to the facts.
By comparison, editorials don’t have anything remotely resembling an answer key—you just stick your neck out and no amount of fact checking can keep the world from going all Marie Antoinette on you. If it were up to me, newspapers wouldn’t even have editorials—they’d just present every detail so readers could form their own opinions. After all, it’s a newspaper, right? Fortunately, The Preacher took great interest in editorials and really helped me out the last time, and I knew he’d do the same today. I just didn’t want Julie and Sam knowing I was an editorial lightweight, so I’d have to first gather all the facts about the diner then sneak in a quick call to The Preacher. He could always be counted on for an opinion—that was for sure.
Julie had insisted we bring the camera equipment, although no self-respecting editor would include a photograph in an editorial. Sam didn’t argue and I didn’t care as long as we made our six o’clock deadline. I was just glad everyone seemed to be getting along.
Sam lugged the camera equipment this time while I toted Julie’s and my backpacks towards an old-fashioned stainless steel and glass dining car restaurant. I got the door for Julie, who strolled right in, yakking on her cell phone to the mayor’s son like she owned the place.
We all hung out by the door while Julie continued her conversation. “Josh, I’ve got connections at Zegna and Ralph Lauren. I was thinking of a big fashion spread for your dad. Something to let the public see our mayor in a different way.”
A heavyset waitress marched from behind the counter. She had almost no chin—her face simply melted right into the folds of her stubby neck. She glared at Julie and pointed to a NO CELL PHONES! sign taped to the glass door.
Julie held up one finger at her to indicate “just a minute” then turned her back. “Josh, think regal yet understated.”
“Excuse me,” the waitress said to Julie, impatiently.
Julie cupped the phone. “Sorry, just one more sec—I’m on the phone with the Mayor’s son.”
“I don’t care if you’re on the phone with the Pope. This is a cell phone-free diner.”
Julie’s eyes narrowed. “Josh, I’ll have to call you back.” She closed her phone and said coldly. “We’re here to see Mr. Hagler. The owner?”
Julie was about as subtle as a tornado.
“My name’s Debbie. Debbie Hagler. And you’re…”
I extended my hand. “Hi, ma’am. I’m Jake Powell and these are my, um, colleagues Julie and Sam from Columbia University. We contacted Mr. Hagler about writing an article on your lovely diner here.”
Her attitude softened instantly. “Well, sure, hon. My husband is expecting you. Have a seat. He’s a little hard of hearing, so speak up.” She motioned to a booth at the window, then as if an afterthought, glared at Julie.
Mrs. Hagler came back with Mr. Hagler, an energetic white-haired man with a potbelly. He wore his white short-sleeve shirt tucked into his gray polyester pants. I stood politely to greet him and shook his hand.
“I’m grateful to you kids for your interest in the diner,” Mr. Hagler said. “Debbie, please get these students whatever they want—on the house.”
I waved my hand. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly accept—”
“May I see a menu?” Julie asked.
“But we insist on paying, especially considering what y’all are going through,” I said.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, we insist.”
Journalists aren’t allowed to accept gifts or special treatment of any kind since it could be misconstrued as a bribe.
Mrs. Hagler removed a pad and pen from her apron pocket. “What’ll it be?”
After a great amount of deliberation on Julie’s part, we all ordered cheesecake, which Mrs. Hagler brought while Mr. Hagler explained the situation they were in.
“Let’s see,” I said, jotting notes down on my pad. “Forty-nine-year lease…adverse possession.”
“So, like, she gave you no notice at all?” Sam asked.
“Nope. The landlord said we had thirty days to get the diner off her property. That’s a load of crap if you ask me.”
“But you think she’s probably within her legal rights since the lease is up?” I asked.
“Son, I don’t care if the law is on her side. My grandfather put this diner here sixty years ago—it’s not going down on my watch. I’ll fight to the bitter end.”
“Do you have any other recourse?” I asked.
“I tried the New York City Landmark Commission, but they weren’t much help. It’s not like George Washington slept here. But this particular area wasn’t even zoned for a high rise until earlier this year. How did she get the permits, I ask you? I bet somebody at City Hall got paid off.”
I checked the time on the neon clock above the cash register—we only had thirty minutes before our interview with the landlady at three-thirty. She’d been extremely wary when I phoned and only agreed to go on record after I mentioned our connection to the mayor. (I never said it was a strong connection.)
“Well, I think that covers it,” I said. “Do you mind if we speak with some of your customers?”
“Go right ahead,” Mr. Hagler said with a wave of his hand.
Julie removed the digital camera from our camera bag. “And we also need a photo of you and Debbie.”
Mr. Hagler shouted toward the kitchen, “Debbie, they want our photo. Debbie! C’mon and get your picture taken.”
“One sec!” Mrs. Hagler wandered out of the kitchen, removed her apron, then hit a key on the cash register causing the drawer to open with a ding. She retrieved a lipstick tube and applied it with the help of the mirrored wall behind the counter.
After we paid the bill, I rushed outside before the rest of the group, telling Sam I needed to make a quick phone call. I thought my dad would never pick up, but he finally did, and I wasted little time getting to the point. “Preacher, I need your help on this editorial I’ve got to write.”
“I can’t right now, son. I’m meeting with the architect, and he’s charging about a hundred dollars a minute.”
“Well, it’s about this restaurant. The landlord’s kicking out the family that’s run it for sixty years because she wants to—”
“Let’s talk tonight after church? Around nine?”
“But it’s due at six.”
“Just ask yourself what Jesus would do, and you’ll have your answer,” he said, then went on with more assurances that weren’t all that helpful.
My heart sank. I bit down on my lip and stared out into space as I waited to say goodbye.
“Jake!” Julie shouted from the diner entrance. “Are you coming?”
I held up a finger to Julie. “Right. Thanks, Preacher.”
Back at my dorm room desk, I was propped on my elbow, staring at the blinking cursor on my computer screen while Sam and Julie, both behind me, debated the fate of the diner. We had gotten both sides of the story—the landlord’s lawyer was actually present during her interview—and a few great quotes, including this one from a diner regular: “Just what this city needs—another faceless condo. Who needs pancakes or sunlight for that matter?”
It would’ve made a great news article, but the assignment was to write an editorial and I’d drawn the short straw. What if Professor Greenberg disagreed with my conclusion, once I figured out what it was? With my luck, he’d be a personal friend of the landlady if I sided with the Haglers, and vice versa. What if he knew of some legal precedent I failed to cite? I haven’t passed the bar so who was I to say whether the diner should stay or go? Let the reader decide! It was a complete waste of time. I didn’t know what to write and, in fact, hadn’t written a single word.
“I hate that they have to close,” Julie said. “But the landlady said the lease ran out years ago. By law, she only had to give them thirty days notice.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sam said. “Thirty days isn’t enough time for them to find a new location for their diner, much less move it. They so deserve better after sixty years. Jake, how’s our editorial coming along?”
“Um, well, I’ve got a great headline. What do you think of ‘The Fall of an Empire?’”
“That works,” Julie said, stabbing away at her phone.
Sam walked over, seeing that that was all I had—the headline.
“Jake, what’ve you been doing, brah? This thing is due in forty-five minutes.”
I ran my fingers along the rigid part in my hair. I didn’t know what to write. The law said they had to leave, but that didn’t pass the what-would-Jesus-do test. I had turned that question over in my head so much I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. “I know but if there’s a clear-cut solution, I sure don’t see it. What do you think, Julie?”
She let out a big sigh. “Jake, just write the damn editorial so we can get out of here.”
My mind was still blank, so I just started talking. “Well, it doesn’t seem very Christian of the landlady, but it’s the law. I mean, it’d be awful nice if she’d let them stay. That’s what Jesus would do.”
Julie looked at me like I was nuts. “That’s what Jesus would do?”
“Yes, maybe if they prayed about it or something,” I said, my voice trailing off, realizing how lame I sounded.
“That’s your entire assessment?” Sam asked. “Like, they should just hold hands and pray about it? Really?”
I looked away, and my eyes landed on the portrait of my parents. “Guys, I’ve only written one editorial in my life and got a lot of help from my dad. If y’all will write this thing, I’ll write the next two news stories to make up for it.” I turned to Sam with pleading eyes. “Editorials just aren’t my thing.”
“But, dude, Professor Greenberg said we had to trade off on the writing,” Sam said.
“I took the photo,” Julie said, like that mattered. Who includes a photo with an editorial? No one. Everyone knows that.
“Our time is running out,” I said. “Sam, can’t you write it? You seem to have a strong opinion. You just said the Haglers deserve better.”
Sam threw up his hands, “Okay, okay. I’ll write it.”
“Thanks, Sam! I really appreciate it. I’ll make this up to you, I promise.”
Sam sat down at my computer and started typing away. I knew I really would have to make it up to him. I don’t know why, but I needed him to respect me in a way that I didn’t need from Julie. Both Sam and Julie mattered to me, but in different ways. I just wasn’t exactly sure why.
After Julie and Sam left, I just sat alone in my room while my stomach churned and a red neon sign in my head flashed LOSER! I couldn’t stop thinking about my failure. Granted, my headline was killer and I had tightened Sam’s writing, but I should’ve just plunged right in and written that editorial myself, as if it were any other article. What was wrong with me? Was I afraid of taking a stand? Maybe I just didn’t know what I stood for. How pathetic.
Making matters worse, I’d only been gone from home for four days, but I longed for my big comfy bed and a decent glass of iced tea. Most of all, I really missed my parents. It may sound lame, but knowing that I had five weeks plus before I saw them again suddenly seemed unbearable. Maybe it was because I was an only child or maybe I was just scared: scared that I wouldn’t fit in; scared of the consequences of not winning an award; but mostly, scared that those old nagging desires of mine weren’t completely gone.
Trying to pull myself together, I checked my email to see if there was any news from home. I had several messages from friends, but focused on the one from Tracy; I really hated being away from her at such a critical time—her parents were talking divorce.
Everything in her email was in code, probably just in case her mom and dad were monitoring her account. She said that things were really quiet around the house, so the “news must be out.” She was afraid they might “buy a second home,” which I’m sure meant she feared her parents might actually get a divorce. Poor Tracy. I’ll never forget the day she told me the news about her parents, right after my first meeting as editor of The Tattler.
She was driving me home after school in the pouring rain. Earlier that day, we’d had a huge argument in front of the entire Tattler staff over whether to run Kenny Ballard’s All-State baton-twirling championship win on the front page. Kenny’s win was certainly a big deal, but I had nixed the article: if I put a guy wearing a leotard on the front page of the paper—not to mention the first issue with me as editor—it would raise more than a few eyebrows with the biggest ones being The Preacher’s. People would ask why I’d do such a thing and say, “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” I couldn’t afford to get caught up in that whole program but had sacrificed my journalistic integrity in the process and Tracy knew it.
Even though we disagreed from time to time, Tracy and I had a mutual understanding that nothing would come between our friendship. Of course, that didn’t stop her from giving me the silent treatment.
Neither of us spoke on the entire drive to my house until we pulled onto my street. She stopped the car half a block from my driveway and stared ahead as her hands trembled on the steering wheel.
I felt horrible for wimping out on the Kenny Ballard article and deserved everything Tracy was about to throw my way. I crossed my arms and took a deep breath, preparing myself for one of her big hissy fits.
“My father’s having an affair,” she finally said, then burst into tears.
“What? Tracy, there’s no way Mr. Scruggs would do that,” I said, but I could see in her eyes it was true, and she proceeded to tell me every detail.
“Do you want me to tell The Preacher?” I asked. “He’d know how to help.”
“God no!” she said, turning to me. “Jake, promise you won’t tell anyone!”
“I promise!”
I couldn’t blame her—if the situation were reversed and I suspected one of my parents was having an affair, I don’t think I’d tell anyone. Not even Tracy. Once the genie was out of the bottle, he wasn’t going back in, as Grandmother Clarke used to say.
“Tracy, want to come in for some cookies or maybe some ice cream?”
“No, I’d better get home.”
That all happened just last month. I hammered off a quick email to her but decided not to mention Sam and Professor Greenberg until later since I wanted to focus solely on her. I wasn’t sure if I could ever bring up Julie since that felt like a betrayal. (Although Tracy and I were just friends, the way she looked at me sometimes made me think she wanted more.)
But even on the off chance that Julie was into me, I wasn’t sure I could ever go out with her since she wasn’t Christian. Our church literature advocated a Christian-only dating policy since that’s the only way to be sure you’d marry one. But if I really liked Julie, would I let that stop me from dating her while I was in New York? Perhaps I could find a way to bring up the subject of Jesus, although she’d probably just laugh at me. I’d have to try. Besides, none of us could save anyone—only Jesus could do that. All I could do was put it out there and hope the Spirit moved her to accept Jesus as her Lord and Savior.
After going through the rest of my email, I took the photo of my parents from my desk. It was an outtake from the most recent photo session for the annual church directory. The Preacher was grinning ear to ear as he gazed upon Momma, who had her head thrown back in a fit of laughter. I realized how much I’d taken them for granted all these years. Being away from them for a few days made me aware of how much I needed them. They always wanted to know about my day and were quick to say how proud they were of me and how much they loved me. I felt the same about them. I only had one more year left at home before college and decided at that moment that I would cherish every single day. I didn’t want to be one of those people who only grasped how great their parents were after they were gone.
There was no sense calling them since they wouldn’t be home from church until around nine. I was kind of lonely so I dialed Phoebe and was surprised to find her home.
“Aunt Phoebe—I mean, Phoebe!” I said. “Just calling to confirm dinner Saturday.”
“Yes, eight o’clock,” she said.
That seemed awfully late for dinner. I’d have to grab a snack beforehand.
“Remember to bring your overnight bag,” she said. “I’m throwing a dinner party for you and my dinner parties always run late.”
No one had ever thrown me a dinner party before. “You’d do that? For me?”
