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Day Two: Tuesday, November 8, 1994

Chapter Ten

Not this one again. Oh, please, no, the voice providing the narrative to Jamie’s morning dream was pleading.

Deadline was approaching. The phone on the night table kept ringing. Jamie knew it was a source with information he needed for a story. But when he reached out to answer, the cord was severed from the receiver. He tried frantically to reattach it, but Karyn materialized, brandishing a shopping list for Aaron’s birthday party. She chastised Jamie for forgetting plastic spoons.

The exception being that Jamie’s subconscious had given her a makeover. She had Debbie Givens’ blonde hair and was demanding an apology with a microphone aimed at his chin.

The ring came again—twice, a third time. Jamie’s recorded voice intervened and delivered a shot of psychological caffeine that awakened him to the cognitive realization that he was better off asleep.

For the second morning in a row, it was Steven rousing him from the deep morning slumber that is so precious to an insomniac.

“So where the hell did you disappear to yesterday?” he bristled.

“What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“What’s your problem?”

“Better question,” Steven said. “Are you out with the rest of us?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Steven said in his most provident tone, “you made yourself scarce after the meeting yesterday, and we need everybody we can get on the line today because they got the damned paper out…”

Which Jamie received as promising news…

“…and we’re hearing that the sportswriters may be ready to cross and maybe the photographers and…”

This is really getting good, Jamie thought. He would soon have ample ammunition in a campaign to convince Karyn to cease and desist on her relocation strategy.

He propped himself up on his right elbow, the phone now wedged between ear and neck.

“…once that happens, the Alliance is finished, Brady can isolate the other unions as blue-collar thugs and there’s a good chance the asshole wins…”

“Why are the sportswriters crossing?” Jamie asked casually.

“Couple of guys at Jersey papers supposedly got calls, offered jobs,” Steven said. “I don’t know who in his right mind would leave a job, even at a smaller paper, to come to one on strike. But our guys panicked and went back in. Got to get back to ripping the baseball owners for forcing the players out and killing the World Series.”

Steven left Jamie a window of silence to acknowledge his sports association and, better yet, his wit. Jamie respectfully declined. For the most part, Steven didn’t much know a foul ball from a football. He had managed, however, to sneak one summer column past Brady that condemned the owners for their attack on organized labor after the Fall Classic was taken off life support and interred in disgrace.

“We’ve got calls out for everyone to show up early this afternoon for a rally with a few speakers,” Steven said. “A couple of guys from the national office—Robbins said they’re trying to get Mario Cuomo—if they can guarantee some television coverage.”

“I’ll be there, I guess, if that’s what you woke me up for,” Jamie said, feeling blindly for the television remote in the tangle of blanket and sheet.

“It’s at noon,” Steven said. “I’ll be speaking too.”

“Hey, nice,” Jamie said coolly.

“Not to change the subject,” Steven said, “but didn’t you once go out with Deb Givens?”

“Deb? How informal we’ve gotten.”

“OK, excuse me, Deborah.”

“I wouldn’t call it going out,” Jamie said. “We had drinks after work a couple of times. Why?”

“She’s doing a studio thing on the strike over at the station,” Steven said. “The producer called. I’m going on tonight.”

“Nice person, a bit hyper, talking to the world while she’s talking to you, like everyone else on TV.”

“You sleep with her?”

“We had drinks, I said. I was married at the time, remember?”

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

“I’ll tell you what, if she starts asking tough questions, why don’t you change the subject and ask her if she’ll sleep with you? It’ll be better television than discussing that fat fuck, Brady.”

On the screen of Jamie’s set, speaking of the Lord, Brady’s massive frame swallowed up the pretty morning anchor, making the NY1 set look out of balance, like a seesaw. Brady was smiling and holding up a copy of the morning’s Trib, its front-page welcoming itself back into circulation. The banner headline read, AS WE WERE SAYING, as if clearing its throat. There was a large color photo below of a scab Trib driver with a sheepish smile, unloading bundles of papers in front of a newsstand.

Jamie could make out the actual lead to the story in the sub-head.

Driver Beaten in Late-Night Attack.

He turned up the sound just in time to hear Brady congratulate the city on the return of its God-fearing daily.

“…assure our readers that there will under no circumstances be further interruptions of production or delivery of their favorite morning paper. Today’s edition is on the stands, with all the hard-hitting, insightful analysis that Trib readers have long been accustomed to and…”

Jamie had a vision of Pat Blaine propped up on a midtown bar stool, hoping the strike would be finished by the time he sobered up and remembered his contract. Poor Pat, he thought.

“Mr. Brady,” the anchor interrupted before Brady could continue. Her voice was calm yet challenging, her demeanor pleasant but firm. Her brown hair was clipped just below her ears, her makeup inconspicuous, as if done in defiance of the more flamboyant network brand.

“Before we go live to Deborah Givens at the Trib’s downtown Manhattan plant, could you explain how the newspaper was able to publish this morning without its union work force?”

“As you know, the untimely work stoppage by the drivers and the other unions has compelled us to employ a new staff of deliverers, as well as replacements to man the presses and numerous other positions. Some of these workers have come from our sister papers in Canada and others are new Trib employees. And I must compliment all of these men who have embraced a most difficult situation, in many cases leaving their homes and families, risking danger. But they recognize that the threat of violence is not enough to turn church-going men away from the opportunity to support their families.

“Our new employees are determined to help us build a prosperous future for the Trib, as opposed to continuing along the disastrous road the unions have been forcing one of our city’s great institutions to travel with their intractable and militant negotiating practices. I want to personally thank and commend these men and promise them all good jobs, good benefits. God bless.”

“Are you willing to negotiate?” the anchor asked. “And if not, aren’t you engaging in union-busting tactics?”

“Our employees have voluntarily vacated their positions and at this time we cannot make the presumption that they plan to return,” Brady said. “In the vernacular of the industry, the people we have hired are called permanent replacement workers. And permanent means permanent.”