hung up and moved over in front of his typewriter. It
was an old Royal that weighed as much as a watermelon. Nothing fancy,
nothing electric. It was the same typewriter he'd had for twelve
years.
The rest of the staff of the Daily
Times had gone to VDT machines four years
ago. The New Journalists sent their words into a computer. Shellburn
had refused to learn.
He'd fought with a managing editor over that, gone
all the way to Davenport. T. D. Davis had refused to hear the
argument, Shellburn being a city institution and the managing editor
being the man who was supposed to deal with him then. T. D. Davis had
a chain of command, and he lived by it, although eventually he took
over Richard Shellburn himself.
Shellburn could still see the look on the managing
editor's face. "If Richard Shellburn wants to write with piss in
the snow," the old man had said to the M.E., "you keep him
in snow. As long as he writes here, you keep him in snow .... "
Shellburn began to think of the old man as the only
real newspaperman on the staff. He began to think the old man was his
friend. He went into his office later that week, though, and
Davenport thought he was the air-conditioner repairman.
He put a piece of yellow paper in the typewriter,
wrote his name in the corner, straightened the chair. Thinking of
piss in the snow, he went in the bathroom and took half a minute in
front of the urinal to work up about what you'd get wringing out a
sock. Shellburn's kidneys were in worse shape than his liver.
He went back into his office and sat in front of the
typewriter again. He rewound the tape recorder, and began to switch
it on and off writing down what he'd said on the way to work. He
called it "A Love Affair with the City."
It started out, "I have written the story of
this city for twenty years. Twenty years today . . ." and was
five hundred words deep when the Puerto Rican's voice came up at him
from the desk.
"You right. I think 1 fuck her last night. "
It intruded all over again, and Shellburn was almost two hours
writing the last three hundred words.
Just before he finished the phone rang. He picked it
up and a voice was shouting at him out of a crowded bar. "Mr.
Shellburn? No shit? You answer your owns phone?"
"What can I do for you, pal?" he said.
Usually Billy answered his phone. The man on the other end was
telling his friends to shut up, that he was talking to Richard
Shellburn.
"Hey look," he said, "I mean, we're
not important or nothin', but we thought you ought to know Leon
Hubbard was a tragedy, with his mother and all. It's a human interest
story. He come from the Pocket, and we thought maybe you could write
somethin' about him, how it was a tragedy the way he died."
"How did he die'?"
"Well, you know, it was common labor," the
man said. I don't know if it was malfeasance or not, but he wasn't
the kind of guy to walk around havin' shit fall on his head, I'll
testify to that in court. So will everybody else down here. We
thought maybe you could write somethin' up about it. You know, the
neighborhood takin' up a collection for his mother and all."
Shellburn said, "I'll see what I can do."
"You're a great man," the man said. "I
mean it. I wouldn't just fuckin' say that."
The man thanked him for another five minutes.
Shellburn hung up afterward and looked past William
Penn to the city that loved him. Then he finished the column and read
it over. Somehow it sounded familiar. But it was finished, and that
was what Richard Shellburn asked out of a column.
To be finished, and get
him away from the typewriter for another night.
* * *
When Mickey woke up, there was a family of Texans
cutting the parts off houseguests up on the screen, and five hundred
screaming colored people in the audience. He'd been dreaming, but it
took a while in the noise to remember what it was about. Turned Leaf.
She'd come into the stretch all by herself and the
crowd was screaming—and then something had happened. He could hear
it from the
was an old Royal that weighed as much as a watermelon. Nothing fancy,
nothing electric. It was the same typewriter he'd had for twelve
years.
The rest of the staff of the Daily
Times had gone to VDT machines four years
ago. The New Journalists sent their words into a computer. Shellburn
had refused to learn.
He'd fought with a managing editor over that, gone
all the way to Davenport. T. D. Davis had refused to hear the
argument, Shellburn being a city institution and the managing editor
being the man who was supposed to deal with him then. T. D. Davis had
a chain of command, and he lived by it, although eventually he took
over Richard Shellburn himself.
Shellburn could still see the look on the managing
editor's face. "If Richard Shellburn wants to write with piss in
the snow," the old man had said to the M.E., "you keep him
in snow. As long as he writes here, you keep him in snow .... "
Shellburn began to think of the old man as the only
real newspaperman on the staff. He began to think the old man was his
friend. He went into his office later that week, though, and
Davenport thought he was the air-conditioner repairman.
He put a piece of yellow paper in the typewriter,
wrote his name in the corner, straightened the chair. Thinking of
piss in the snow, he went in the bathroom and took half a minute in
front of the urinal to work up about what you'd get wringing out a
sock. Shellburn's kidneys were in worse shape than his liver.
He went back into his office and sat in front of the
typewriter again. He rewound the tape recorder, and began to switch
it on and off writing down what he'd said on the way to work. He
called it "A Love Affair with the City."
It started out, "I have written the story of
this city for twenty years. Twenty years today . . ." and was
five hundred words deep when the Puerto Rican's voice came up at him
from the desk.
"You right. I think 1 fuck her last night. "
It intruded all over again, and Shellburn was almost two hours
writing the last three hundred words.
Just before he finished the phone rang. He picked it
up and a voice was shouting at him out of a crowded bar. "Mr.
Shellburn? No shit? You answer your owns phone?"
"What can I do for you, pal?" he said.
Usually Billy answered his phone. The man on the other end was
telling his friends to shut up, that he was talking to Richard
Shellburn.
"Hey look," he said, "I mean, we're
not important or nothin', but we thought you ought to know Leon
Hubbard was a tragedy, with his mother and all. It's a human interest
story. He come from the Pocket, and we thought maybe you could write
somethin' about him, how it was a tragedy the way he died."
"How did he die'?"
"Well, you know, it was common labor," the
man said. I don't know if it was malfeasance or not, but he wasn't
the kind of guy to walk around havin' shit fall on his head, I'll
testify to that in court. So will everybody else down here. We
thought maybe you could write somethin' up about it. You know, the
neighborhood takin' up a collection for his mother and all."
Shellburn said, "I'll see what I can do."
"You're a great man," the man said. "I
mean it. I wouldn't just fuckin' say that."
The man thanked him for another five minutes.
Shellburn hung up afterward and looked past William
Penn to the city that loved him. Then he finished the column and read
it over. Somehow it sounded familiar. But it was finished, and that
was what Richard Shellburn asked out of a column.
To be finished, and get
him away from the typewriter for another night.
* * *
When Mickey woke up, there was a family of Texans
cutting the parts off houseguests up on the screen, and five hundred
screaming colored people in the audience. He'd been dreaming, but it
took a while in the noise to remember what it was about. Turned Leaf.
She'd come into the stretch all by herself and the
crowd was screaming—and then something had happened. He could hear
it from the
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