Vintage (3 page)

“Um, Bruno, we need to talk.”

“I'm working on a story, Grovnick.” Bruno slowly turned the crank on his pencil sharpener, breathing in the metallic smell of ground lead, shredding spirals of paint and wood into its clear plastic tray.

Grovnick tilted the legal pad in front of Bruno. It was blank save for the words
ten years, decade, decline
. “Doesn't look like much of a story to me.”

“Goddammit, Ernie, a writer does his real work here, not here.” Bruno spun in his chair, tapping his head and then the legal pad.

“Excuse me for offending your artistic sensibilities, but I've got a dozen writers to pay. And I, unfortunately, do my real work here.” He tapped his watch and spun. There were chuckles from the other journalists in the room. A few rolled eyes.

Bruno followed the circle of flesh at the back of Grovnick's head that shone through his greasy black hair. He noticed smirks and winks as he passed the cubicles.

Grovnick's office likewise had floor-to-ceiling windows, but its view of a neighboring building made it feel confined. The desk was stacked with papers and manila folders. There was a framed photo of Ernie in wraparound sunglasses hoisting a fishing pole in one hand and a toothy northern pike from a Minnesota lake in the other. There were photos of his college-age children. A crowded bookshelf indicated that the man had at least read a few worthwhile books. There was a copy of Mike Royko's
Boss
, one of Ebert's movie compendiums and Asbury's delightfully lurid ramble,
Gem of the Prairie.

Bruno slouched in the chair across the desk from his editor like a rebellious teen in the principal's office. But now that they'd settled in, Grovnick's gruff demeanor changed. He fumbled with proofs on his desk.

“So, how's the book coming, Bruno?”

“It's fine.”

“You're overdue, you know. You're a good writer.”

“Thanks, Ernie.” A compliment. Grovnick usually didn't
do flattery; it always seemed to pain or embarrass him. Bruno smiled.

“When I read
Season
, Bruno . . . holy shit . . . what was it, twenty years ago now? When I read that novel, I thought,
There's a guy who knows his grape juice. There's a guy who knows how to eat. How to enjoy life. And then tell other people about it
. Then when Harley called me up and said he had a guy in town who could do a food column, I thought,
Yeah, yeah, whatever. I got a million guys who can do food
. But then he said your name, and I didn't have to think twice about taking the idea up to the boss. Everybody knew you. You were a writer's writer. You had fans all across the business. I knew it was a good idea.”

Bruno squinted at Grovnick with suspicion. This was beginning to sound like a eulogy. “What's this really about, Ernie?”

Grovnick released a long sigh. He looked right at Bruno, and then his eyes flitted away. “We're going to have to let you go.”

Bruno laughed and started to get up. “Come on, don't waste my time. We've been through this before.”

“No, it's real this time.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“The maître d' from La Marsellaise called. He said you made a scene.”

Bruno froze, his hand on the door handle. “What's that got to do with anything? I was on my own time. I had to go somewhere to write. Ma had some girls over for pinochle . . .”

“Joel Berteau is a customer. He takes out full-page ads. You broke some waiter's glasses?”

“The whole reason Joel's little dive still exists is because of me. I discovered that fucking place! Were people lining up and down the street to get in before I started writing about that Frog?”

“They sent us a bill for the wine. And the glasses.”

“Those sonofabitches broke my dad's typewriter!”

“The twelfth floor wasn't happy.”

“My job isn't to make the twelfth floor happy. It's making the readers happy that counts.”

“That's the other thing, Bruno. Your blog traffic hasn't been the greatest, either.”

“Blog traffic? I don't even know what the hell that means! I'm a columnist, for chrissake.”

“You were a columnist.”

“Were?”

“Corporate wants you gone. It's a tough business. The Internet's slowly killing us. Death by a thousand cuts. Arts and Culture just cut four columns.”

Bruno was beginning to realize that this was an actual firing. It felt different from the virtual firings he'd experienced in the past, when he'd storm out of the room and Grovnick would appear at his cube later in the day, his voice conspiratorial, like a defense lawyer.
I got you an extension, Bruno. I convinced them that they don't want to be seen dumping a top writer. Sends a bad signal.

But there was a hint of sadness in the way Grovnick regarded him now. The middle manager sat slumped and helpless, merely an instrument of the forces that drive the world.

Bruno felt a tingle at the back of his neck.
Jesus, this is it.
How much lower could he get? He was already on Ma's couch. He was supposed to be helping Anna with the mortgage and the girls' college funds. He dreaded hearing the inevitable disappointment and condescension in his estranged wife's voice when he told her the next time he visited his daughters.

He had weighed the pros and cons of being fired before. It could be a good thing. Unemployment benefits, if he scrimped,
would give him a few months to write. It would be a small price to pay for a full draft of his next book.

But he now recognized that impulse as a fantasy. Life without a net wasn't exactly exhilarating. It was terrifying. He didn't even have the opening of his new book. Being cast off by the paper would be a confirmation of his greatest fear: the end of his relevancy. An irrelevant writer was someone in need of a career change. And there was very little else for which he was qualified. Obsolescence, he realized, was humiliating. He felt tears pressing. He forced them back. He released the door handle and leaned against it, facing Grovnick. “Give me six months, Ernie. I just need to get a jump on the book.”

“Sorry, Bruno.”

“I'll do a contract. Half-time, no benefits. Just kick me a little something. Six months and I'll be on my feet again.”

“We can't.”

“I'm not going to beg, Ernie. Please . . .”

“You're already begging.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Okay, I'm begging. Please, you wormy little sonofabitch.
Please
.”

“No.” Ernie handed Bruno an envelope.

“What's this?”

“Your final check. It's prorated through yesterday. There's a bit extra for vacation time.”

Bruno took it and stared at it for a long moment, his heart pounding, experiencing a parade of emotions. He'd passed from denial to indignation, and then, strangely, he felt a ray of hope. After all, this was an early payday.

His stomach rumbled, distracting him from the hard
question of what he would do next with his life. His short-term goal became lunch. There was an upside to everything, and he now had actual money in hand, whereas a few minutes before that had not been the case. Wasn't staving off despair a worthy investment? He felt a little shiver of happiness that made the world of unemployment a touch less bleak.

The gears began to whirr in the back of his brain.
Lunch!
Nick's Fishmarket in the Loop flew coho salmon in daily. Perhaps that would be irresponsible. Maybe he should just go down to Maxwell Street and get the greasiest Polish sausage he could find. Then he could hit Natasha's and pick up groceries, the best ingredients. Hunt down a bottle of Côte du Rhône or two. What could he fix for Anna and the girls? He'd surprise them for dinner. He was now unencumbered, liberated from the long and dreadful funerary wake that was the demise of the newspaper industry. He was now free to write! A celebration was in order.

Ernie stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at his shoes. He wiped his nose with the back of a sleeve. Bruno suddenly felt a little sorry for the man. It wasn't his fault.

“Hey, Ernie . . . I don't want you to think that I never appreciated what you've done for me over the years. You're one of the top editors around. I mean that.”

“Thanks, Bruno.”

Bruno engulfed him in a hug. He felt the small man's shoulders heave with a sob.
The sorry little bastard's going to miss me.

“Bruno, you're one of the last old-school true believers. Used to be our room was filled with guys like you. And holy smokes, did we break some great stuff. This is a sad day for me.”

“Of course it is,” Bruno said, kissing Grovnick on his balding forehead and spinning toward the door. “But don't worry about me. I'll be back in top form before you know it.”

But Grovnick caught Bruno's sleeve before he could slip out the door. He cleared his throat sheepishly. “Bruno, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

“Now's probably not the time.”

“It's your last chance . . .”

“Well, it's kind of personal.”

“Okay, then,” Bruno said, grabbing the door handle and making to leave.

“Wait. It's Lois. I wanted to fix her a little something for our anniversary.”

Bruno could read him right away. There was a hint of despair on the edge of Ernie's nervous smile. His eyes had the wild look of someone who was afraid to give up on life, the jaundiced haze of a man beginning to doubt the resilience of his marriage.

“How long's it been?”

“Thirty years . . .”

“That's not what I'm asking, Ernie.”

“What do you mean?”

“How long has it been since you did the horizontal mambo?”

“Huh?”

“Since you and Lois were lathered up and rounding the last bend? Since you were screwing like teenagers in the back of Dad's Buick?”

“Umm . . .”

“Out with it . . .”

“Ah . . .”

“Come on, then . . .”

“Two years. Maybe three.”

“And before that?”

“Used to be we'd get a room up in Door County every year on our
anniversary. But last couple of years . . . nothing. Neither of us have the energy, I guess. Or maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe Lois has been stepping out on me. Maybe I don't do it for her anymore and she's been looking elsewhere for . . . you know.”

Ernie slumped back in his chair, a beaten man. Bruno tried to suppress a smile as he eyed the photo of Lois on the file cabinet behind him. She was grinning beneath the butt-crack center part of her hairdo, the shoulder pads in her blouse hiding her neck and extra chins. The photographer's lights glinting off the lenses of huge round glasses supported by a knobby beak. Bruno couldn't actually picture her “stepping out” on Ernie.
Remember that love is in the eye of the beholder
.

“This is a hell of a time to be asking me for advice, Ernie.”

“I'm sorry. It's just probably my last opportunity.”

“Fine. It's been two years, you say?”

“Maybe three.”

“Let me think.” Bruno paced the room. Grovnick watched expectantly. Bruno stopped suddenly, stabbing his finger at the air. “Got it! Elk tenderloin.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Fischer's Meat House down by the river. And don't let him sell you
aged
. That's just a euphemism for
rotten
.”

“How do I fix it?”

“Stud with garlic spears. Brush with olive oil. Good stuff. Extra, extra. Roll in fresh-cracked black pepper, not too sharp, a bit crunchy. You want it seared on the outside but real pink in the middle. You're going for contrast here. Grill it. Soon as the juice is clear, you're done. Got that?”

Ernie scribbled furiously on a reporter's notebook. “What do I serve it with?”

“Grilled asparagus, of course. Don't be so dense, Ernie. And wild rice. You can get the real stuff, gathered by the Ojibway on lakes up in Minnesota. Natasha's has it.”

“Wine?”

“Pommard Premier Cru. Maybe Volnay. Or an Oregon Pinot. Temperance Hill, or Yamhill County. Don't go cheap, Ernie—I know you.” Bruno shot him a stern glance and Grovnick nodded earnestly. He snapped his notebook closed and glanced back at Lois's photo. He seemed relieved, as if a weight had been lifted.

“Thanks, Bruno, I . . .”

But Bruno was already halfway out the door. “Don't tell me you owe me, Ernie.”

At his cube, Bruno swept his stack of legal pads into the trash. He didn't truly believe in notes and records. He stored everything important in his head. It was the best way to protect his sources . . . especially those he invented. He grabbed his stack of cooking books and headed for the door, whistling and planning lunch.

He stopped short as he passed Iris. Her eyes glistened as she stared into her monitor screen.

“Did you know, Iris?”

She opened her lips to speak, but no words came. Instead, she nodded her head. She brushed her hair out of her face. She glanced up at him. A tear welled and shivered in the corner of her eye, threatening to drop. “I'm sorry, Bruno,” she whispered. “Oh, here. This is yours.” She cleared her throat and handed him a stack of his mail: some overdue bills and a letter from
Gourmet
magazine. Anna had had his mail forwarded to the office after kicking him out.

He stuffed it into the inside pocket of his blazer and hovered. He realized he'd never embrace Iris. Inside his head he heard
the sad strains of the prelude to the waltz in Tchaikovsky's
Eugene Onegin,
always one of his favorite operas. Iris rose from her desk and floated to Bruno like Tatyana in the opening of the second act. He slipped his arm around her, his hand at the small of her back, her forehead pressed to his chin, the fingers of their extended hands interlaced. He breathed in the smell of her hair. Lemons, the chemical tang of shampoo, car exhaust and all the must and splendor of a spring morning in Chicago. They swirled to the three-part meter and the office dissolved around them.