Wednesdays are the worst, this one in particular. Three weather previews to edit, a process story on what could have been the least productive county legislature meeting (which included a vote on buying yet another plow, because 10 isn’t enough) and an all-hands meeting with the execs to discuss desk organization and maintenance among our younger colleagues.
Make the work space neater, they told us, and keep the bullpen pristine. We are being shopped, after all.
Yes, it’s Wednesday, I feel crummy, and I need a drink.
No libation in the apartment, the reason for which escapes me in this moment. But, then again, there’s no accompanying conversation for that matter either.
Libation. Now that’s a word you don’t hear often. Then again, I’m old.
Seems the aforementioned weather stories may be right on the money – that said, the cold is welcome on my face.
I take the turn from Court Street to River Road and there it is, the donut place – or, as it’s now known, The Donut Shoppe – recently renovated and renamed to reflect an age when, apparently, we don’t have time to just say “donut and coffee.”
I get it though … they’re trying to let everyone know that they are “more than just donuts these days.” Wraps, iced tea, lattes, etc. (Personally, I wish they’d stick to their perfect black coffee and Boston cream donuts, bit I digress.)
I eye them under the glass on the other side of the door and remember that that was my exact order the day poor Paul introduced me to Trish, pregnant as anything, in the parking lot so many years ago.
And that sudden and depressing memory reminds me of the purpose of this walk, of the fact that chocolate and pudding don’t go with beer, and I open the door to the Riverside where there’s music, heat, and a few locals lined up around Cassie.
“Bernie! How’s it going? Good to see you.”
Cassie was either highly caffeinated or really glad to see me. Her cheeks were flaming red.
Luckily, I could grab a seat against the wall, which meant I’d only have to talk to one person, if any, under pressure. I’m guessing that’s code for a bartender: This one’s not well.
“Going OK, as well as I have any right to expect, I guess”
Cassie chuckled.
“If you say so … I got a new draft in, River Rock, would you believe. Remember the Stapleton Twins from down the street? The track stars? Well, they’re back and they have MBAs, so this is their first business. Want a sample?”
I nodded in her direction. “And just who is financing this?”
She smiled. “I’m sure Mom and Dad had a lot to do with it. It’s really not bad … I was impressed.”
She pushed a shot glass with about an ounce of River Rock beer inside and I sipped it. She was right.
“Sure I’ll have that.”
Cassie distracted herself with the pour. “You don’t seem happy this evening. Anything going on?”
The draft ran over the edge of the glass as she set it on a cocktail napkin in front of me and slid a bowl of peanuts my way. I sipped heartedly, nodded slightly in her direction and pointed to the nuts.
“Thanks in advance for dinner.”
Cassie leaned behind her to grab a menu. “On the house,” she said. “What’s up?
After ordering one of her specialty mushroom burgers – the kind of burger that runs about $17 – extra fries and another beer, Cassie put in the order and returned with the second draft. I shook my head.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Paper’s being shopped, I just spent weeks of my life shilling for a Mayor I don’t even like to raise money for a cause that, I think given your position in all of this, you would agree is suspect at best, All of that is to say that my acute awareness of my lack of marketability in this profession, which I love, is flashing in front of my face every moment of every day.. I need to get back to just being a journalist, and I could not be at a worse place or in a worse position to do so.”
Cassie’s nodding slowly as I come down from my emotional pedestal. “It’s time to write a book.”
A jolt shot through me, like a B12 shot. “A … book?”
She nodded. “A book. You have a point of view, you have something to say. Why are you letting those people dictate who you are when they don’t even know what they’re doing? Listen, I subscribe. It’s a five-minute read and the only reason I even have it delivered is so I know my ad is in there every week. You’re not changing the world, you’re getting beaten up by it.”
The bar bell rang from the other side of the room, vibrating in my head.
“Next round’s on Stanley!” Cecil, making a rare appearance outside the kitchen where he was, quite simply, genius, bellowed the good news.
Cassie wiped her hands on her apron. “That’s me – gotta go. Think about it, though. You have more control than you think.”
As she turned away, I began a checklist of failures in my head. Mentoring John McHenry … led him to quit the business. Following around Mayor Charlotte … led to me compromising my own integrity for the sake of access. Putting work ahead of Elyse and the girls … well, that one is obvious.
Where was the journalism in any of that?
I finish my beer, pay the bill and turn to go.
Cassie stepped to the edge of the bar.
“Skipping the comp?” she asked.
I nodded. “Give the burger to Cecil,” I shouted as I stepped into the night chill, deep in thought, thinking about our conversation. The wet, icy snow had started to fall, and it felt great.
Ten minutes later and I’m on the couch, notebook in hand. A book, she says.
A book.
Maybe she’s right.
Jenny Page