The "Novel:" Part 4
Part 4
This is part 4, which picks up a word or two after part 3...scroll down for the other parts....
A quick telephone call to Mark yielded the information that an intern at the paper took in all the funereal information and wrote all the obituaries. It was Mark’s experience that it was the type of work best suited to those hungry and inexperienced newspapermen–those who were undaunted by work could easily turn ghoulish, who were all too willing to deal with the (often) irrational bereaved on which details should or shouldn’t be included.
Mark told me that at least once a week a family member of the bereaved would call with some manner of problem. Usually, the problem was nitpicky–it was a nephew named Marion, not a niece. Sometimes, there was a problem with reporting how the deceased had passed–it was tricky, Mark said, especially if AIDS or drugs were involved in the death, writing the obituary so that it seemed like 27-year-olds go pass peacefully three and four times a week. More often than not, the trouble came from an ex-wife, especially if the decedent had multiple ex-wives and/or lovers.
Mark himself, as an intern, had been berated not once, not twice but three times by three different women of a particularly amorous Dr. Ernest Abzug from Millerberg. Two were ex-wives, and the third issue-taker was the x-ray tech whom the doctor had been fricking when he suffered his infarction. I noted Mark’s use of frick, the euphimism he’d been using for “fuck” since we’d been in the second grade and guessed that one or both of his daughters was nearby.
The first two were angry with their relative placement in the Abzug obituary, each finding themselves buried in the second from last paragraph, after the listing of Dr. Abzug’s 27 grandchildren. The x-ray tech, Edda, who hailed from some Eastern European country that probably doesn’t exist anymore, and who was several times more beautiful than her name belied was most upset at not being included in the obituary despite the passion of their multiple-week long, fiery, torrid affair.
And while I considered just how charismatic and/or rich a feller named Ernie Abzug had to be to bed two ex-wives, a current wife, a hot European x-ray tech, and enough kids to produce 27 grandkids, Mark told me that it’s fairly common practice to throw the obituaries off on a college kid for one last reason. Were there to be quite enough of an issue from one family member or faction, it was easy enough to pawn any problem of the obituary off on the kid who just didn’t know what he was doing.
“Does that work?”
“America is surprisingly accepting of incompetence.”
“Is there an intern doing your obituaries now?”
“Yeah. And I’d say Willie’s down at the paper now. It’s his job to sort out the football contest, and he’s probably got his feet up on my desk, right now, watching football and sorting out winners when it suits him. If it’s important enough to you, he’ll at least know if there’s been a death notice.
“Headphones are probably on, though,” he said, “I called down there an hour ago and didn’t get an answer. Donna got back from shopping and said his car’s out front. He may hear you knock, he may not.”
I thanked Mark got off the phone with him, agreeing to dinner with his family in the coming week, and turned to find Teddy had adorned himself in a makeshift warrior’s gear. He was wearing my old catcher’s chest protector and a University of Tennessee football helmet. He wielded a warped 3-wood in his right hand–it had been sitting apart from my golf bag since I’d decided that the club I’d used all of 4 times was to blame the slice I’d suffered from all my life..
“Big weekend plans, Teddy?”
“May I borrow these?”
“You’ll have to turn around lefty if you’re going to drive with that. And I don’t think a chest protector will work as a substitute for golf shoes.”
He stared at me as my only response, spectacles gleaming above the helmet’s facemask.
Cletus joined Teddy. He rubbed against his leg once, seemed disappointed. He then sat and joined Teddy in his game of “stare at Michael in silence.”
“Yes, you can borrow them.”
“I’ll have them back to you in due course.”
“Take your time.”
Teddy stood in the doorway to my kitchen, examining the club.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m going to head up to the paper, see if Willie knows what the deal is with the obituary. Want to go?”
“No,” he said, picking at an ear through a hole in the helmet. “I prefer the press to think of the legend, rather than the reality.”
“Liberty Valance rule, huh?”
“Something like that,” he said. “I’ll see you soon?”
“Why don’t you come to Lyndon’s funeral?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Go stealth,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said, thinking a second more, and then nodding.
Then, he clicked his heels and stood at perfect attention, football helmet and chest protector coming straight. He held the driver like a rifle over his shoulder.
“Michael,” he said sharply, “I bid you good day.”
I too stood at attention.
“Mr. President. Good day.”
This is part 4, which picks up a word or two after part 3...scroll down for the other parts....
A quick telephone call to Mark yielded the information that an intern at the paper took in all the funereal information and wrote all the obituaries. It was Mark’s experience that it was the type of work best suited to those hungry and inexperienced newspapermen–those who were undaunted by work could easily turn ghoulish, who were all too willing to deal with the (often) irrational bereaved on which details should or shouldn’t be included.
Mark told me that at least once a week a family member of the bereaved would call with some manner of problem. Usually, the problem was nitpicky–it was a nephew named Marion, not a niece. Sometimes, there was a problem with reporting how the deceased had passed–it was tricky, Mark said, especially if AIDS or drugs were involved in the death, writing the obituary so that it seemed like 27-year-olds go pass peacefully three and four times a week. More often than not, the trouble came from an ex-wife, especially if the decedent had multiple ex-wives and/or lovers.
Mark himself, as an intern, had been berated not once, not twice but three times by three different women of a particularly amorous Dr. Ernest Abzug from Millerberg. Two were ex-wives, and the third issue-taker was the x-ray tech whom the doctor had been fricking when he suffered his infarction. I noted Mark’s use of frick, the euphimism he’d been using for “fuck” since we’d been in the second grade and guessed that one or both of his daughters was nearby.
The first two were angry with their relative placement in the Abzug obituary, each finding themselves buried in the second from last paragraph, after the listing of Dr. Abzug’s 27 grandchildren. The x-ray tech, Edda, who hailed from some Eastern European country that probably doesn’t exist anymore, and who was several times more beautiful than her name belied was most upset at not being included in the obituary despite the passion of their multiple-week long, fiery, torrid affair.
And while I considered just how charismatic and/or rich a feller named Ernie Abzug had to be to bed two ex-wives, a current wife, a hot European x-ray tech, and enough kids to produce 27 grandkids, Mark told me that it’s fairly common practice to throw the obituaries off on a college kid for one last reason. Were there to be quite enough of an issue from one family member or faction, it was easy enough to pawn any problem of the obituary off on the kid who just didn’t know what he was doing.
“Does that work?”
“America is surprisingly accepting of incompetence.”
“Is there an intern doing your obituaries now?”
“Yeah. And I’d say Willie’s down at the paper now. It’s his job to sort out the football contest, and he’s probably got his feet up on my desk, right now, watching football and sorting out winners when it suits him. If it’s important enough to you, he’ll at least know if there’s been a death notice.
“Headphones are probably on, though,” he said, “I called down there an hour ago and didn’t get an answer. Donna got back from shopping and said his car’s out front. He may hear you knock, he may not.”
I thanked Mark got off the phone with him, agreeing to dinner with his family in the coming week, and turned to find Teddy had adorned himself in a makeshift warrior’s gear. He was wearing my old catcher’s chest protector and a University of Tennessee football helmet. He wielded a warped 3-wood in his right hand–it had been sitting apart from my golf bag since I’d decided that the club I’d used all of 4 times was to blame the slice I’d suffered from all my life..
“Big weekend plans, Teddy?”
“May I borrow these?”
“You’ll have to turn around lefty if you’re going to drive with that. And I don’t think a chest protector will work as a substitute for golf shoes.”
He stared at me as my only response, spectacles gleaming above the helmet’s facemask.
Cletus joined Teddy. He rubbed against his leg once, seemed disappointed. He then sat and joined Teddy in his game of “stare at Michael in silence.”
“Yes, you can borrow them.”
“I’ll have them back to you in due course.”
“Take your time.”
Teddy stood in the doorway to my kitchen, examining the club.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m going to head up to the paper, see if Willie knows what the deal is with the obituary. Want to go?”
“No,” he said, picking at an ear through a hole in the helmet. “I prefer the press to think of the legend, rather than the reality.”
“Liberty Valance rule, huh?”
“Something like that,” he said. “I’ll see you soon?”
“Why don’t you come to Lyndon’s funeral?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Go stealth,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said, thinking a second more, and then nodding.
Then, he clicked his heels and stood at perfect attention, football helmet and chest protector coming straight. He held the driver like a rifle over his shoulder.
“Michael,” he said sharply, “I bid you good day.”
I too stood at attention.
“Mr. President. Good day.”
posted by Tommy at
11:42
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