to say. “Look, I hate to talk to you about this over the phone, but rumors are swirling, and as we always tell our readers, it’s best to get the truth at times like this.”
“Yes” is all I can manage.
“We will be offering you a severance package, Michael. Please know it is not in any way personal or a reflection on the work you’ve done for us. There were any number of factors involved, and the decision making was an arduous, complicated process.”
“I’m sure it was. So who else got the ax?”
“Michael—”
“Evelyn. Just tell me.”
She rattles off the list. I notice Kate’s not on it. I would like to be glad for her, but she has no children to support, she’s beautiful and charismatic. She’d bounce back, probably higher than she is now.
“When’s my last day?” I ask.
“We’re keeping everyone on through the end of the year.”
“December 31?”
She pauses. “Yes.”
Happy goddamn New Year.
I become aware of my father sneaking looks at me.
Evelyn and I exchange businesslike pleasantries, and she thanks me for my years of service, but I’m not really listening as the conversation winds down and I hang up, still wondering why I didn’t make the cut.
Kate must be the rising star of the Herald, what there is left of it, anyway. She’s been using Twitter and has gathered quite a following of loyal readers who hang on her every post.
I never could figure out that damn Twitter, and it made me want to gnaw off my own hand every day when I read the comments posted beneath each of my stories on the newspaper’s Web site, from such insightful pundits as “Tigerrrfan32” and “Gdawg.” They picked apart the content of my stories, the syntax, even what I did at council meetings, reading hidden agendas into my every action: when I looked bored, when I was taking notes, whom I interviewed first after a meeting.
My dad begins to pull off the road.
“What are you doing?”
He nods toward the signs advertising places to eat. “Can’t see anything anyway. We might as well stop to eat and hope the snow lets up. Anyway, I want to talk to you, and I can’t do that very well while I’m driving.”
“We need to get to Dylan, and we’ve got sandwiches in the car.”
“I can’t see anything, Mike. We’ve got to stop. So we’ll eat.”
Minutes later we’re at a Wendy’s. My dad orders a baked potato and a salad and a glass of water.
I order the biggest, most cheese-drenched sandwich I see and a large fries. Plus a Diet Coke.
My dad raises his eyebrows at me, and I ignore him.
Dad leads the way and chooses a seat in the far reaches of the restaurant away from the counter, where the employees are joking around now that we’ve walked away. Except for a couple other storm refugees, we’re the only ones in here.
I drench my salty fries with more salt.
I have to acknowledge I might be doing this just to bug him.
Dad spreads his napkin carefully over his lap and picks at his plain potato. Not even butter.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you anyway,” he says, squeezing his packet of fat-free Italian dressing.
“What about?” I ask, as if I don’t know, and take a giant bite of burger.
“So you’ll go to grad school.”
I chew the burger carefully, and decide not to reply. I’m just too tired.
“I’m not supporting you forever.”
I swallow hard. “You’re not supporting me now.”
“I could get much more in rent for that house than I do from you, and you haven’t purchased your own car in years. And I know you need the help, but the time has come to face facts, Mike.”
“Do tell.” I gaze out the window, but there’s nothing to see. Just bright dots piercing the white: headlights, taillights, gas station signs.
“Your career is a dead end. Journalism is dying, especially print journalism. You can’t make a living as a blogger; that’s a joke. What are you going to do, teach? I’m sure all the local colleges will be buried in ex-journalist résumés first thing Monday. It’s time you got a serious education.”
I swipe fries through a pool of salt on my paper placemat and dunk them in ketchup.
He goes on. “I will loan you the money for grad school provided you choose a field with some promise, something that can support three children and however many more you’ll have with your new girlfriend, in the proper fashion.”
“Ha. Proper fashion?”
“So you don’t have to ask me for money