Ash Wednesday by Chet Williamson, Neil Jackson Page A

you need?" Jim shrugged. "I'll do it."
    "Well, there have been two things that've been a pain in the ass lately. One's the advertising. I guess I'm just getting too old and fat to toddle around town trying to sell the shit."
    "You mean you don't have a permanent-space agreement with any store owners?"
    "Oh, a few, but most of 'em only advertise when they've got a sale or a little money to burn. Keeping them buying regularly's like pulling teeth. The other thing's the 'Around the Square' column. Lettie Parker'd been handling that for me, but her husband got transferred and I've been doing it myself. There's a lot that people call in, but never enough to fill it up, so I gotta go hunting and I got no time to hunt."
    "What kind of hunting?"
    "Calling churches, the Lions, Moose, the high school, asking them what the hell's going on, then writing it up. A few little gossipy things—who went to Europe on their vacation, who visited who in Florida . . ."
    Jim smiled. "Sounds like Marie Snyder'd be a natural for it.
    Gingrich barked a laugh. " That old bitch? But you're right. She'd be a damn good source. I'd doublecheck everything from her though."
    "I will."
    "You will? Hold it, kid. We haven't talked money yet. I'm not a rich man, in spite of my luxurious surroundings." He gestured expansively around the cluttered office at the scattered papers, dented furniture, and a multitude of empty Styrofoam coffee cups.
    Jim chuckled, still liking the man and his style. "Oh, I think we can come to a mutually acceptable agreement."
    "Listen to him. He even sounds like a journalist. You use those two-dollar words in my quarter rag, kid, and you're out of work." He frowned. "How's five bucks an hour for working the advertising sound? And twenty-five a week for 'Around the Square'?"
    Jim thought for a minute. "How many hours a week will the ad stuff take?"
    "Seven or eight. Thursday or Friday nights or Saturdays." Sixty-five a week. Jim thought it would help, and he'd probably enjoy it. He nodded. "Sounds good."
    "Hot damn, I got me a sucker. Wanta start next week?”
    “Sure."
    "Tell you what," Gingrich smiled. "How about another column? Write it all by yourself, an extra fifteen bucks a week."
    "Great. What about?"
    The older man shrugged. "Leave it up to you. Just connect it with the town somehow. And not too political or controversial, y'know ."
    Jim nodded cynically. "I'm used to that."
    "I bet you are, working at Linden. Everybody's running scared, especially with that dumbo Nixon and this Watergate mess. It's gonna open a few eyes before it's all over, see if it doesn't."
    "Wait a minute," said Jim carefully. "I thought you were a Nixon man."
    "Ha! That stinker? Don't believe everything you read in the paper, kid, especially mine. As goes Merridale, so goes the Messenger . I've been a Roosevelt Democrat my whole damn life. The paper supports Republicans because it's bought by Republicans. Hell, you run Mussolini as a Republican, this town'd vote for him." He shook his head sadly. "And I'd probably write an editorial supporting him. Welcome to yellow journalism."
    Jim liked Bill Gingrich's brand of yellow journalism. The Saturday visits to the town merchants to peddle ads were not at all unpleasant. On the contrary, he enjoyed talking to these men and women who had put their stake in Merridale, and even if he didn't come out of a store with a sale, he came away with a feeling of warmth and communication nonetheless, of his batteries being charged in the dynamo of small-town humanity, so different from the calculated heartlessness of Linden Industries. These businesses were manned by human beings, not automatons whose sole loyalty was to profit. And in the stores and small businesses of Merridale there were no scapegoats to blame, no gray faceless clones far down the line. In Merridale if something went wrong, it was the owner who took the blame, and if he succeeded, it was due to his own efforts. Rugged individualism still survived