The October Humanitarian

Larry slammed the phone back onto the cradle and the sound made me jump in the quiet of the empty work room. He struggled to loosen his tie with one hand while he lit a cigarette hanging from his pale thin lips with the other; he mumbled something quietly to himself which was followed by a silence he broke several moments later when he said, “bastard always sounds like he’s drunk.”

               Larry moved from Boston two years before so when he said “bastard” it still sounded like “bastahd.” His typewriter clacked a handful of times and he sneezed and then cursed again when his cigarette fell onto the desktop.

               “Well, that’s Dustin for you…” I said.

               Larry glanced at me over his large glasses and then went back to typing. The clacking was like a long fingernail tapping on a tabletop. He had a mason jar on his desk which was filled with pencils, but he never used any of them other than to chew on; all his writing was by typewriter. Smoke curled up from the Lucky Strike between his fingers, collecting near the ceiling in a dense haze. I noticed him from the corner of my eye as I arranged my pages – he was staring blankly at the paper before him, a thin glaze of sweat clinging to his upper lip.

               Larry leaned forward and forcibly snubbed his cigarette out in his crowded ashtray and huffed, “you know, I’ve been working in journalism for twelve years, and I’ve had to do this more times than I can count.” He rested his chin in his hand, again glaring at the page before him, his leg bouncing up and down in a very familiar fidget.

               “Ahhh,” I mumbled with some annoyance. “It won’t be the first time we’ve printed a lie. Remember the time Mayor Winslow…”

               “This isn’t like that at all, Pete,” Larry snapped back, stopping me in mid-sentence. “The whole goddamn world could be blown up tomorrow and Dustin is more worried about keeping the Feds off our backs.” He yanked the page out of his typewriter, wadding it up with his giant hands and tossing it over his shoulder.

               I felt on the defensive and it made me want my own cigarette, though I had sworn to Jackie that I had quit for good this time. Larry started to feed a new sheet into his typewriter but stopped, scooting his chair back with a sigh and tramped over to the water cooler.

               “Come on Larry, I get it. Dustin has made some bad calls in the past but he’s the editor.”

               “Yeah, some editor.” Larry’s “editor” sounded like “editah.” “The Commies are sunning themselves on Cuban beaches and we’re here trying to tell the American people that it’s a goodwill trip.”

               Headlights filled the window by the office door and the squeal of brakes made us both turn to see. Through the front door came Dustin; his hair wasn’t the typical wet slick-back we were used to, it was limp and messy. All of his editor-in-chief polish was now just a dull veneer of suburban life, complete with five o’clock shadow and sweatpants.

               “Well well, speak of the devil,” Larry grumbled.

               Dustin said nothing to him, but gave me a weak grin, like he had tried practicing it in the rearview mirror before he walked in.

               “Hiya, Pete,” Dustin said with a nod. “Burnin’ the midnight oil, I see.”

               I shrugged ambivalently and turned back to my notes. I knew what this was about and I had no interest in being in the middle.

               Larry leaned heavily on the water cooler; he could be imposing with his tall, large, slender frame. He might have been a football player in a previous life, or maybe a coach with his flattop haircut and thick glasses.

               Dustin was ready for an argument and didn’t give either of us the courtesy of the first word.

               “Listen Larry,” he started, “I’m gonna say to you what that guy from Washington said to me earlier today.” He was facing us, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. “The President is trying to handle this thing as delicately as possible but there are a lot of unknowns right now. The last thing he wants to do is cause a panic.”

               “Sheesh,” Larry vented. “This is the Bay of Pigs all over again. Catholic John says ‘jump’ and we say, ‘how high?’” He downed a paper cup of water and dropped it into the waste bin. “We had a duty to tell Americans about that fiasco, you know.”

               Dustin rubbed his forehead and sighed, “Come on Larry, I know you’re still sore about that Bay of Pigs thing. Kennedy’s the President, whatdaya want me to do?”

               “I want ya to remind those Washington types that we’ve got a freedom of the press for a reason, Dustin. You know who doesn’t have freedom of the press? Those goddamn Russians. The same ones putting their nukes on Havana Boulevard as we speak.”

               I could see Dustin’s face growing pale. Larry had a temper but he was a softy when it came to following the rules, something Dustin didn’t know. I knew Larry wasn’t going to run that story but I didn’t say anything, instead letting him have his moment to feel good about himself.

               There was an awkward silence which descended over the work room for a moment. I leaned over the aisle to Larry’s desk and took one of the cigarettes from his soft pack. As I lit it he glared at me in an almost paternal way.

               Dustin’s eyes had lowered to slits, though he remained stoic as he stood looking haggard and old. If this is what being editor gets you, count me out, I thought to myself.

               “Listen, the two you of you. I’m the editor, and I gave my word that we wouldn’t run this story. Tomorrow’s headline is going to read that a Russian delegation is visiting Cuba for humanitarian purposes, and it will say nothing” (Dustin stressed the word “nothing”) about nuclear missiles, airstrikes, or anything else having to do with some kind of conflict with us. Do I make myself clear?”

               I exhaled with some amount of guilt, only nodding silently. Larry walked slowly back to his desk, as Dustin looked on, and coolly sat down in a very tense and rigid pose.

               “I understand,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the desktop.

               “Good,” replied Dustin, looking more relaxed than he had since he came in. “We can talk about this more in the morning, if there is anything still to talk about.” He slipped out into the cool October night, and Larry remained transfixed in his pose for a long time afterward. I felt stupid with the cigarette in my hand, for a lot of reasons, but I didn’t know what to say otherwise. I made a show of collecting my notes for my piece on Arlington’s mid-term elections and tried to get Larry to loosen up by asking him who he liked to win, which I already knew the answer to.

               Larry heaved a tremendous sigh when he slid his chair up to his desk. “I’m telling you Pete, this is a mistake. Soon the world is going to see what we already know: that Russia is putting nukes on that island.” His long fingers began clacking the keys, while the whole time he mumbled under his breath.

               With my pages in order I leaned back in my chair and watched him type for a time; it was amusing to see how easily the words flowed from him, since all he was doing was writing fiction. I set my piece lightly inside my briefcase and grabbed my coat from the rack, reaching for a cup of water.

               “I gotta get this over to press,” I said, which meant I was leaving for the night.

               “There’s mints in my coat pocket,” Larry said absent-mindedly as he continued to type. Pulling out of the parking lot, I saw his determined face yellow in the light from his desk lamp, his fingers still typing away.