Faking Life Read online

  I recognized some of the writers. I'd read their work, knew to look for their bylines. It was scary to think of them as my new colleagues. Not to mention how seldom they appeared to shave or shower.

  I wanted them to respect me, needed them to respect me. But for now I was just a mark. A newbie. The guy all eyes would be on to see if he produced.

  And then I saw him. Jack O'Donnell. Then Wallace pulled me forward and I remembered to breathe.

  As we walked by, I let my hand swipe O'Donnell's Oxford blue shirt sleeve. A silent brush with greatness. I couldn't have been any less subtle than if I'd taken out his latest book, asked for an autograph, then smacked him across the face with it. Talk to him later,I told myself. Follow him to the bathroom. To lunch. Offer to shine his shoes, raise his kids, whatever.

  Man. Jack O'Donnell.

  Five years ago, if someone had said I'd be working fifteen feet from Jack I'd have kicked his ass for mocking me. A few years ago, Jack O'Donnell was profiled in the New Yorker. I had a copy of the article at home. I taped one page above my desk, underlined one quote, the quote that threaded its way through every story I ever wrote.

  News is the DNA of our society. It shapes how we think, how we act, how we feel. It dictates who we are and who we become. We are all beneficiaries—and byproducts—of information.

  Many people, myself included, credited the first injection of this strand of DNA to William Randolph Hearst. Hearst took over the San Francisco Examiner in 1887 at the tender age of twenty-three. The only guy who made me feel lazy.

  Hearst was the first to truly sensationalize print media, splashing his newspapers with big, bold headlines and lavish illustrations. Conspiracy mongers blamed Hearst for inciting the Spanish-American war with his constant editorializing on the Spanish government's civil rights atrocities. As Hearst reportedly said to illustrator Frederic Remington, “You furnish the pictures and I'll furnish the war.”

  Since then, it almost seems like journalism has taken a step backward. The scandal at the New York Times proved that. Some people laughed it off as an isolated incident. Others who knew their stories couldn't hold up to scrutiny quietly updated their résumés. And I followed the whole thing shaking my head, trembling in anger, wanting to shake up the system.

  And if Jack's quote was accurate—as I believed it to be—when that blood became tainted, it could spread disease through every capillary of society. Liars and fabricators and egos the size of Donald Trump were popping up like rats in the subway, from men and women who were supposed to report the stories, not be the stories.

  Just last week, a junior reporter at the Washington Post came to work jacked on amphetamines, two pots of coffee, with a deadline in six hours for a thousand-word story he hadn't written a sentence for. He cranked out the piece then returned home, punched his girlfriend, and took a header out of their fifth-story walk-up. Just more fuel for the fire.

  I wanted to be the antidote, to pick up Jack O'Donnell's mantle, polish the surface and carry it with pride. I wanted to extract the venom that had poisoned journalism, to bring some credibility back to the newsroom in the wake of these lies. Jack O'Donnell had given me an unbreakable faith in what a good reporter could accomplish. And now here I was, within coughing distance of the legend himself. Time to put up or shut up, Henry.

  After bobbing and weaving through jackets slung over chair backs and pens rolling along the floor like plastic dust bunnies, we arrived at my desk, a smile on my face as if it were opening day at Yankee freakin” Stadium. My desk was right by the window, overlooking the veranda that in the winter became Woolman rink. Prime real estate, baby. I could watch the multilingual tourists snapping away at the beautiful golden sculptures and international flags, people gazing at the fair city as though they never knew such architecture and panache existed. Sunlight poured over my workstation, glowing off the fresh-scrubbed walls, and I couldn't help but feel blessed.

  “Welcome to your new home,” Wallace said. “Comes fully stocked with, well, everything you see here.”

  “Any assembly required?” I asked.

  Wallace leaned in, whispered, “Some of the old-timers, I guess you can count myself in there, keep a flask in their desk.” I didn't know what to say. Was he serious? Wallace laughed, clapped me on the back. “You'll fit in just fine.”

  He leaned over and tapped the shoulder of the woman whose workstation was adjacent to mine. She spun around, her swivel chair well-oiled and squeak-free, and glowered at me. She was slim, blond and quite attractive. Late thirties, early forties, with a “what the hell do you want?” look on her face so convincing I couldn't help but think she practiced it in the mirror. She wore a pink tank top and black Capri pants, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. No wedding ring. And from the looks of it, no bra. If Mya asked what my co-workers looked like, I'd have to lie.

  “Paulina,” Wallace said stepping aside, allowing her to view me in full. “Meet Henry Parker. This is his first day on the job.”

  Paulina shriveled her nose. “He's taking Phil's old desk.” Wallace coughed into his hands, slightly embarrassed. “Yes, he's taking Phil's old desk.”

  Paulina scanned me as if reading a computer printout. Finally she extended her hand. I shook it, her grip limp and apathetic.

  “Welcome to the mad house, new guy,” she said.

  “Thanks. I'm excited to…” “Tough luck taking Phil's old desk. You tell him what happened to Phil, Wally?”

  Wallace sighed. “No, I haven't had the chance yet.” Paulina shrugged. “Bad karma, Henry.” She looked at me inquisitively. “Henry. That's a strange name for such a young man. How'd you get saddled with that?”

  “Saddled? I…”

  “What, your parents didn't like you?” My eyes hardened. Paulina could tell she'd dug too far, and her face became all twinkles. “I'm just playing with you, Henry. You've got a fine name. I like things that are different.” She looked up at Wallace, apparently satisfied with my answers. “This is the kid from Oregon, right?” She looked at me again. “Wallace told me you were, quote, a prize find. That right?”

  I tried to ease the tension. “Yeah, Kmart was having a blue- light special on junior reporters. Wallace got me at twenty-five percent off.” Paulina's eyebrow cocked and she shook her head. Wallace turned away in shame. I gave myself a mental slap.

  Paulina said, “That's not funny, Henry. You haven't been here long enough to get away with making shitty jokes.”

  “Sorry. From now on, only funny jokes.”

  “Or no jokes,” she said.

  “Or no jokes.”

  She smiled, much warmer now.

  “Good.” Paulina held up a pen, its nub chewed to a quick. I noticed several pairs of shoes under her desk. Shiny red dress shoes, worn sneakers, broken-in Birkenstocks.

  “If you're smart, you'll keep a few good pairs of shoes around the office,” she said. “You never know what kind of story you'll have to chase at a moment's notice. You need to be prepared at all times.” Wallace nodded. I made a mental note to bring in my old Reebok pumps.

  “Best of luck to you, Henry,” she added. “Wally's a good guy. Listen to what he says.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Paulina turned back to her computer and began typing away.

  “She's a fine journalist,” Wallace said softly. “Paulina, here, found our hero of the day six times this month alone.”

  “Seven times, Wally,” Paulina said. “If you fuck that up on my performance review I'll call my lawyer.”

  “Hero of the day?” I asked.

  “Every day has a hero,” Wallace said. “It's our page-one feature, the main attraction, the story that sells papers. One day it could be the war, the next it's the elections, the next it could be a man who keeps a Bengal tiger in his apartment as a pet or a celebrity discovered screwing his babysitter.”

  Paulina added, “Every day has a different hero. Simply put, it's that day's biggest news. Every day needs a hero. Without one, there's no news.
We don't sell papers, the Gazette brings in no money, we all get canned, you're back in bumblefuck Oregon before the month is out. Plus, whichever reporter reports the most heroes over the calendar year gets a pretty nice bonus. So get cracking. There are a lot of rocks out there to turn over.”

  Wallace said, “Don't worry. You'll have your chance. For now, though, try to observe how your new colleagues work. It'll be hard to gain your footing and find your voice. Just remember everyone here started out exactly where you are.

  Mickey Mantle was an Oklahoma boy before he came to the Yankees. Pretty soon, you'll be finding your own heroes for us.” He became serious, leaned in closer. “We're counting on you to find ones that matter.”

  Paulina chimed in, “Unlike Phil.”

  Wallace nodded resignedly. “Yes, unlike Phil.”

  I decided not to inquire about this Phil. It was newsroom gossip and I hadn't earned the right.

  “Well, have a seat,” Wallace said. “See how the old desk fits you.”

  Watching Wallace to see his reaction, I settled into my new that was constantly fidgeting, moving around. Designed more to keep you awake than keep you relaxed, and I was sure my spine would hate me for it.

  “Well?”

  “It's perfect,” I said. Wallace laughed.

  “Bullshit, but you'll get used to it. Let's have lunch Thursday. HR will send you info about benefits and 401k. Give me a holler if you need anything.” Just then a voice rang through the office. Wallace's secretary.

  “Mr. Langston! Rudy Giuliani on line two.” He muttered, “Shit, he's probably pissed about the piece on page five.” Wallace gave me a quick pat on the back.

  “And Henry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don't wear a suit and tie again. You're a journalist, not a stockbroker. Lesson number one, your sources will want to feel you're on their level. Not a level above them.”

  As I settled in, Paulina turned to me, a cagey look on her face. “And one more thing,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember one thing, and make sure you remember it good in every story you write. Ninety percent of this job is reporting good versus evil. And without evil, we'd be out of a job.”