M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

As he passed the reception desk he groused, “Doesn’t anybody in this town know how to park? This has been some day!!”

Wendy Hilyard, the dark haired receptionist raised her eyes from a page she was reading, adjusted her thick glasses and managed a weak smile. “Oh, hi, Andy, here are your messages,” she held out her hand containing a sheaf of 3 x 4 pink message slips and let her eyes drop back to the paper; he grabbed them as he hurried by hardly looking at her. Brushing wet hair out of his eyes, he mumbled “Thanks” while a disgruntled frown clouded his ordinarily congenial face.

There wasn’t time to comment although Wendy wished she could think of some soothing remark. “This must have been a really bad day,” she thought. “Bye Andy” she called after the lanky man in the dripping raincoat dashing through the door to the stair well. “Have a nice…” she paused, weighing the obvious circumstance, “oh well.”

He took the stairs two at a time to get to his second floor ‘office’ that consisted of a desk with a telephone, gooseneck lamp and a typewriter in the Northwest corner of the newsroom. The location offered him a small semblance of privacy.

As Andrew threaded his way through the crowded city room, past reporters’ desks, water dripped from his clothes onto the asphalt tile floor; a few of those who sat in proximity enroute to his desk caught some of the moisture, causing mild consternation.

“Hey, Kincaid, why don’t you furnish towels? For cryin’ out loud, I got wetter from you than from my shower this morning!” one disgruntled recipient of unwelcome drops complained as Andrew worked his way through the noisy, smoked filled room.

“You could always use another shower, Ted.” Andy shot back. “I’ll order towels next week.”

“Oh yeah, well next time it rains and you’re out in it, do us all a favor—don’t come in,” another voice complained. “You got water spots on my copy.”

“That’s probably the most punctuation anyone has seen on your stuff. It gives it a little something extra. You should thank me,” Andrew retorted.

“Ha, ha and ha; that’s very funny, Oh mighty king of drips! Remind me to recommend you for comedian of the month award!”

The verbal sparring ended as Andrew reached his desk and flipped through his messages. One was an urgent request from Father Ben Lee to call him at the Seattle Seamen’s Center as soon as possible. He noted that the message came at 3:00 PM. Andrew ordinarily didn’t respond to his messages until after 5:00 PM, but he was expecting information for the next day’s program at radio station KGM so he carefully went through them and came back to Ben’s request. Usually unflappable Father Ben would not request an immediate response unless it was important.

Shedding his wet coat and dropping it on a nearby chair, Andrew perched on the corner of his desk and dialed the Center. Ben answered on the second ring. “Father Ben, what’s going on? I got your message. Sounded serious; are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” responded Ben, “but a man came here today who I think may be in trouble.”

"What kind of trouble, Father?”

“I do not know, but I do know he is not a merchant seaman. Although he came in on a ship called the Tsien-Maru, he is not part of the crew. I have talked with some of the men from the ship and they do not know him. He is Caucasian and I think he is an American. He seems somewhat anxious. I have tried talking with him–but it seems as though…” his voice trailed off in search of the right words. “He asked for paper to write some letters; in fact, he has spent several hours writing letters. Then he asked me to look up a telephone number for Mrs. Paul Thayer, Charlene Thayer. I think…”

Andrew broke in, “Hold on, Ben, was he asking about the woman you talk about that helps raise money for the Center? That one?”

Ben responded, “Yes, Andrew, that is the only Charlene Thayer or Mrs. Paul Thayer listed. He knew both names, Andrew, and he did call her.” Father Ben paused, waiting for a response, “and—he asked about you.”

Andrew mumbled, “About me? What about me? That ’ s strange,” and then added “okay, look, I have to go back to the station to make a couple of calls about tomorrow’s show. I will be taking live calls about today’s interview so I need to get some things in place. Then I’ll drop down to the Center and the two of us can talk with this guy when I get there. Okay? I’m sorry, Ben, I do need to get on this. Can you hold on to him for a little while?”

Ben nodded to the phone as he peered out his office door at the stranger still at the table, bent over busily writing, “I will try, Andrew” he said wearily. “I will feel much better if you can come and talk with him.”

Ben sighed as he hung up. “What a day, Lord, I need help!” Ben’s attention was drawn to two sailors arguing over a board game. One had thrown tiles on the floor and it appeared the other man was about to physically attack the thrower as Ben intervened.

He reflected that his right arm Sister Ruth Myers had the day off as he shuffled through the papers on her otherwise neat desk looking for a list of repair people. He had to find someone to fix the restroom sink. Right now, this moment, he felt abandoned even by his friend Andrew. Dejectedly he mused, “Even Andrew is putting me off in helping that poor soul over there,” looking at the man hurriedly writing at a corner table.

Ben tried to rid himself of the feeling of foreboding. He trusted Andrew to get there as soon as he could, but he wasn’t sure that Andrew had really heard; Ben knew he was preoccupied. “Ah well,” he thought, “there is nothing to do but wait and see.”

Andrew had heard and was annoyed not being able to respond to Ben immediately. This was important to Ben and his own curiosity had been piqued.

Being an outspoken columnist and investigative reporter and radio talk show host was only a portion of Andrew Kincaid’s interests. His political views and intention to influence public policy were well known and generally respected in Seattle and Western Washington. He was seen as a “bulldog” crusader; when Andrew Kincaid believed in a cause he didn’t let go until the matter was resolved.

Andrew was more than a glib “hired gun” for radio station KGM. Talk radio was a new forum for political ideologues; he firmly believed it was a concept that could only grow and influence listeners. He had argued long and hard with his editors at the Seattle Times to agree to let him broadcast on KGM. Finally, he successfully negotiated an agreement that was mutually beneficial to both the newspaper and the radio station.

His hour long programs were incisive, thought provoking and challenging; and the issues he raised for his daily audiences were generally explored in depth in his bi-weekly column in the Times.

With all that said, Andrew was restless; he tried to dismiss the creeping dissatisfaction that troubled his quiet moments. He had made a personal commitment to himself to not ever becoming stale Now at thirty two he was a man on his way up and careful in his steps always looking over the horizon for a new challenge. He had caught the eye of some of the more seasoned politicians in Seattle and Olympia on both sides of the aisle. Political power brokers acknowledged that charismatic Andrew Kincaid would bear watching.

His support for Father Ben Lee and the Center began through Father Ben’s efforts to help a Chinese merchant sailor who had lost his papers and been arrested. He was subsequently ensnared in bureaucracies designed not to help the individual, only to thwart each other.

The Seattle Seamen’s Center was a maritime outreach ministry sponsored by the local Episcopal Diocese. Located in an industrial area close to the container Port of Seattle, it offered shelter and hospitality for merchant sailors from ships from around the world predominately from Southeast Asia.