“No matter how hard the past, you can always begin again,” the famous spiritual guide one once said.
Which brings us to this moment, here at the Riverside.
I am sitting at the bar, more money in my bank account than I’ve had in months – so much money I’m half-tempted to purchase Mr. Simon’s dinner for him. From the other side of the bar, it sounds like he lost his teaching job. I’d heard wonderful things from his former students about his love for American History and how he’d managed to squeak a B from the school’s starting quarterback, a notoriously horrible student, by marrying the truth of our nation’s growth to the growth and maturity of an athlete meeting his or her potential. Night after night of tutoring and watching film … and he’d happen to hop into the bar to see Cassie two to three evenings a week when he could regale her with his herculean success, and she and her sweet spot for nerds would buy him a drink.
This night for him, it seemed, wasn’t quite so jovial. He was, as I had been a few weeks back, in need of a fresh start – the chance to truly focus and begin anew, free from the burdens or mistakes of the past. The chance to change an outlook and behaviors, or even circumstances in a completely new and different way.
For this, dear reader, is what I’m finally getting – the chance to perform again.
Was quitting the Dispatch a bit dramatic? Sure. Got a little too puffed up, you’d probably say. Was the fact that I made more money at the library helping patrons check out their books and use the electronic card catalogue beyond humiliating? Yes.
But Carson wasn’t questioning.
“One-hundred thousand a year, plus benefits, of course,” he said, then tugged loosely on my sweater. “Of course we’ll cover travel, so you’ll need to track mileage, and I can do a stipend for you to get back to New York from time to time to see your family – and see about any connections between here and there. Company card issued in your name, of course. Does any of this sound good to you or are you going to tell me you’re happy running story hour for 4-year-olds and teaching seminars on contemporary fiction?”
I’m guessing that was my cue to talk.
“Sure, sure … of course I’m going to do it. I mean, that’s a lot of money.”
“Improvement over library money, yes?”
“For sure.”
“Good, now here’s the rub … I have your first story in mind, hope you’re okay with it.”
I nodded. “I’m sure I can be.”
“Great, just brilliant. Here’s the story: I need a feature on Bitsy McMurtry and her return to Riverside society,” Carson said. “I mean, think about it … the woman has been through the ringer and back, losing her husband but staying strong, nearly losing her house but staying strong, and now rising from the ashes of that fateful day only to emerge resplendent and powerful.”
As if on queue, Bitsy stepped through the Riverside’s double doors from the street and peered every so slightly toward them.
Carson sat up in his seat and drained his bourbon. “Well, I couldn’t have scripted that any better.”
He stood up and threw a hundred dollar bill onto the bar in my direction. “Enjoy. Get something to eat, and something for Mr. Simon and be sure Cassie is part of that equation. I hear Mr. Simon’s having a day. Write this story well and you’ll have long future with us.”
“All due respect, sir,” I asked. “What’s the name of the magazine at this point?”
“Off the record, I have no idea. On the record, ask Bitsy what she thinks it should be. Tell her we’re asking the audience for help in naming our GPS routes. Let’s try it and see what she says.”