DRAWINGS BY ROGER HAYES
BY JOHN PAUL BARRETT
I became city editor at the paper the same way I had
become assistant manager at the finance company: there was no
one else. They were thin titles in lieu of pay, like performers
who nearly disappear when they turn sideways.
Sick of college journalism classes, I walked into the
newspaper office several months before, offering to sweep
floors, run errands — anything to just get out of school and into
the business, near desperate to start anywhere. I thought it was
my destiny; seems it was, in a strange way.
As luck had it the city editor had just quit and I took
his place. I'm not sure what I thought the job would be like, but
it wasn’t like anything I expected. Almost every word I wrote,
good or bad, was printed. Nobody cared much. After a few
months, I didn't care much either. None of it seemed to really
matter. The romance of being a newspaperman was there. I
could drink and nobody said anything. It was as though
everybody expected newspaper folks to drink; it seemed to go
with the territory, and that was fine with me.
I could drive with the knowledge that, if stopped, I
could show my L.A. County Sheriffs Department press pass and
go on my way. There seemed to be an understanding, as though
the officers would automatically assume I was headed
somewhere important. I was stopped a few times, but nobody
ever said, "Where's the fire?"
I arrived late to work nearly every day and nobody
cared, I guess, because I usually stayed late. Nobody seemed to
know or care just how many hours I actually spent working.
What was working? If I was having a beer at the tavern next
door, talking to someone about anything connected with the
paper, that was working. Otherwise I was just on a well-
deserved break. Nobody ever said anything about my absences
from my desk, so long as the paper got out twice a week, and it
always did.
My desk was the first thing you saw when you came
through the paper's imposing double doors — they opened onto
a large, dusty street next to a railroad track. The desks were
always coated with grit. Each morning I brushed some away; at
night I blew mud from my nose.
Mick, the owner of the convenient tavern next to the
office, was always happy to pour more beer. He understood
everything. He understood everything about keeping regular
customers. He could talk to me (usually on any topic, whatever
it happened to be that day) like a good bartender, standing
there next to the tap as I drank the last from my warm glass,
his hand resting on the cover of the cooler where the fresh, cold
glasses were. I liked fresh, cold glasses and that first, near-
freezing hit, after which one clicks tongue to palate and goes
"N yahhh!"
n O R IH
u m is
IR G L I
A JOURNAL OF ART AND OPINION
PUBLISHED MONTHLY IN ASTORIA,
OREGON, 955 24TH STREET 97103.
MICHAEL PAUL McCUSKER, EDITOR
AND PUBLISHER.
After a few beers I drained the last saliva-warm
mouthful from the hot glass I had been nursing and head back
for my gritty desk to call so-and-so" or try to glean something
printable from one of my stacks of mostly useless mail.
Sometimes the real estate section man would slip me a
fifty to rewrite a description of a property or development.
These stories were constantly rewritten. It was excellent
practice at low-level writing. Occasionally I would recognize a
piece I had already rewritten weeks or months before. So I
would rewrite it again, changing words, moving parts of the
story around to make it seem fresh, should anyone have read
the previous story. I am almost certain no one did, except me, of
course. It was absurd, and there was some comfort in that for me.
"This is fucking stupid," I would mutter. And then I would
think of what I could do with $50 and rewrite the story, even if
I had something else to do, for which I was already going to be
paid at the end of every week. Like I said, the paper always
came out.
A few times after work, or even during, I drank with
Dean, one of the other editors. We stopped at one of the many
juice joints in the area and talked about everything there was or
had ever been. The guy was a genius and a near-total cynic. He
had thick glasses, a permanent sneer and a quick, razor-sharp
mind. He was an L.A. denizen, beyond hip, minimal and terse.
He was an excellent writer and could probably have made some
money at it, but he was also a hopelessly addicted drinker. I've
known a few of these fellows; they simply can't function in the
world without a wetsuit. To make them do without booze would
be like leaving a fish out of water. Dean would surely drown in
unmuted reality.
He told me he was gay (I think he actually said "I'm
trysexual. I'll try anything"). He lived with a man he called
his brother, but I think they were really lovers — even if they
were brothers. 1 didn't care.
Dean made a few passes at me, usually when we were
both drunk or drinking. I didn't mind. I understood. I just said I
wasn't interested and we stayed friends, bound by the powerful
common glue of drink and words. He was funny and smart and I
liked him. His homosexuality and drunken moments were small
things. They seemed to fit the rest of him. No big deal. Gay
people were everywhere. He could hardly have been expected
not to have been gay. He told me he was working on an epic gay
novel.
One morning I was uncustomarily early to work. I pulled
into the area next to the railroad track, which we employees
used for a parking lot, and killed the little VW’s engine. Since
it was early I decided to just sit for a few minutes and have a
cigarette.
I noticed through the windshields of the cars in front of
me that someone was also sitting in a car before heading for
those big dirty doors. I couldn't see who it was at first, but then
the car door opened and Dean's skeletal frame emerged. He
didn't see me. I watched as he reached behind the carseat and
withdrew a full bottle of clear liquid from a paper bag. He
looked around, unscrewed the cap, and tipped the bottle to his
lips. I could see the bubbles rising to the upturned bottom of the
bottle as about a quarter of the liquid was replaced by air. Dean
carefully swung the fifth down once more to the upright
position and wiped his mouth. Then he put both hands against
the side of the car, still holding the bottle in the right one.
A big hump formed at the base of his spine and rolled
its way up to his shoulders as he bent forward with a few
muted jerks and expelled what he had just ingested, in
projectile fashion — but not without some remarkable control I
must add; he seemed to know what he was doing.
Dean straightened up and wiped his mouth again on
his coat sleeve. Then, to my amazement, he raised the bottle.
Again the bubbles rose to the surface as the level of liquid
diminished to roughly half. I could see the adam's apple
working up and down as he swallowed. I knew he was a drinker
but I never witnessed anything quite like this. Once again the
thin body roiled and heaved, and once again the fiery juice
spewed to the ground near the left rear tire.
Then he unhunched, coughed several times, and took a
few smaller sips from the bottle; leaving, I suppose, just enough
to get through break to lunchtime. It stayed down.
Dean fished around in the pockets of his sportscoat for
his long smokes and lit up one before walking across the street.
1 sat there for another minute or two after he went in.
Then I flipped my smoke out the window onto the tracks and got
out of the VW. It was a few minutes past 9. It was time to go to
work.
John Paul Barrett lives in Astoria. He is the publisher
of Gaff Press and author of Sea Stories (Vol. I: "Of Dolphins &
Dead Sailors"; Vol.il: "Seagods b Sundogs"), a collection of his
poetry (Poems), and his most recent book. How to Make a Book.
Roger Hayes, formerly of Detroit and Astoria, now
lives in Ilwaco, Washington. His artwork and illustrations
have appeared in several issues of the NCTE.