Ann Beattie - Love Always

Johnny Carson didn’t bother to put it in context, when he referred to it in his monologue the other night. Something like that elevated the person or thing mentioned to …

And did she think of herself as cultish for watching the Tonight show?

Well, that was hardly something only the cognoscenti knew about, after all these years.

Still: couldn’t she see Country Daze as something that united people, instead of — as she implied — something divisive?

Could he describe himself as a counterculture Johnny Carson, then?

He wouldn’t be happy with that. He wasn’t a public figure, and that was as it should be.

Didn’t he think that as the magazine circulated more, he was going to have to deal with personal fame?

No no no; movie actors were glamorous, not writers and editors.

Clark Kent.

That was so clearly a figure of masculine authority that it was rather irrelevant that he had been a mild-mannered reporter. What that was really about was macho defensiveness, a maintenance of the status quo by showing that even the meepiest, most inconsequential man can dash …

He excused himself, and changed into more formal attire (jeans) for lunch.

If he couldn’t have predicted that the magazine would be such a success, maybe his sense of a large, homogeneous group of Americans wasn’t as sure as he said.

Luck was a factor. It was certainly less of a gamble than Pet Rocks or Trivial Pursuit. He realized he was taking a gamble and he hoped that it would work; this success was just very gratifying.

But he did feel that he had his finger on the pulse …

Well — since he had mentioned Trivial Pursuit, was it really the case that those guys, sitting around brainstorming in a bar, thought that they were brilliant sensors of what people wanted at just that moment? Didn’t they just decide that taking a long shot would be worth the gamble?

He had an Amstel Light. She had a glass of white wine. They were sitting at a sidewalk café with red tablecloths and uncomfortable chairs. Her knee kept hitting his by mistake.

Was it true that Garry Trudeau was doing the comic strip, under a pseudonym?

No. Cameron Petrus did it.

Quite a few people loved that strip. They liked the fact that the main character always had such a bad time that he dropped dead in the last frame. Wasn’t this a serious social comment, disguised …

Have to ask Cameron.

But taken all together: the inevitable death in Petrus’ column, the unhelpful, off-the-wall advice given by Cindi Coeur to people with problems, the — what would you call it? — fantasy fiction in which people killed IRS agents and their landlords … Did he really think that the people who liked those things were just having a lighthearted laugh, or wasn’t it possible that people actually felt alienated and angry, and that out of their despair …

She’d be talking to people about their reaction to the magazine. What she found out would be telling, of course.

But people weren’t good at psychoanalyzing themselves.

He ordered spinach ravioli. She ordered an avocado stuffed with crab. One more Amstel. One more wine.

He was always amazed at how much people would tell writers. They probably would try to analyze their reactions for her. Wasn’t she amazed at what people would say, for the record?

Yes. But that might have to do with the fact that she was a woman, and in spite of knowing that she was a reporter, they didn’t quite take her seriously.

People had always told him things for the record when he had been a reporter. It was almost suicidal.

She asked whether, apropos of his earlier remark about psychoanalysis, the column Analysts Say the Darndest Things was made up, or whether people sent in these howlers.

It started as a made-up column, but the readers began to send in true stories that were better than the things the staff had been thinking up.

The cooking column?

That was made up. And he must say, the suggestions for preparing field mice …

What magazines did he read?

The New Yorker , the Atlantic, Time, Geo, Connoisseur, Paris Review and Architectural Digest .

What did he do when he wasn’t working on the magazine? He really worked very hard putting out the magazine. He had a wife, didn’t he? She enjoyed gardening. What about Cindi Coeur?

Lucy? He had known her for fifteen years. Since college. An extended family, indeed. It was too bad Myra had missed the annual staff party. But she might want to come to the Friday meeting and see if she could line people up to talk to afterward.

He picked up the check. She asked if she could go back to the office with him — try to get a feel for the place, keeping out of the way, of course — perhaps take a look at some of the mail if that wouldn’t be an inconvenience.

Last sip of beer. He paid the bill in cash.

Who put the pig on the desk?

Instead of a water cooler, they had Bennie the Seltzer Man deliver. It wasn’t Madison Avenue, after all.

Had he ever been tempted by that?

Madison Avenue? Of course not.

What if Country Daze hadn’t been a success?

He’d probably be doing what she was doing: a reporter, somewhere.

Who did put the pig there?

Noonan. And from time to time he decorated it: a scarf in the winter. That was a merkin on its head right now.

A what?

You’re the reporter.

Must be nice to work in a casual environment. Did he get along with Matt Smith?

A great guy.

He had sold the magazine at quite a profit.

Yes, he had.

Was there a new project on the horizon?

He was very happy editing the magazine.

He certainly did present himself as being complacent, happy, grateful — somebody who had just been very lucky.

He had been.

What about the other part?

He hoped that he was a little more complicated than that.

If the staff felt as grateful to be escaping Madison Avenue and the system in general as he did, they must be quite devoted to him.

There were disagreements. No matter what business you’re in, there will be disagreements.

It was an unusual success story. She didn’t mean to suggest that things were other than what he said — it was just a very untypical situation.

He started the car.

“Where are you from?” he said.

“Washington, D.C. I grew up there and in Alexandria.”

“My roommate at Yale came from Alexandria. His father owned some restaurants around Washington. Ever eat at La Toque?”

“I took my mother there for her birthday!”

“Still live there, huh?”

“They’re divorced. My mother lives in Old Town. My father lives in Paris.”

“Visit him in Paris?”

“Once. In London, actually. I was in London for a week, and he flew there to see me.”

“I spent a year in Europe when I got out of college. The dollar’s so strong now, I wish I had the time to go back there. Even Paris is cheap.”

“At least you’re not a nine to fiver. You’ve got so much freedom. People must envy you.”

“Some people think I’m a bum. They don’t understand that you’ve been awake all night on deadline night if they catch you out in a rowboat the next day.”

“Lake Venue?”

“I’ve been there a few times. It’ll be better next week, when the mosquitoes disappear.”

He had taken a Valium before lunch, because he knew he would have to speak to a reporter, and the effect of the pill and the beer was drowsiness.

The silver Checker was parked in front of the driveway beside the Country Daze building. They parked a block away and walked back. Remembering the Fourth, Hildon thought what a welcome thing a hit of grass would be, to smooth things out even more. With his luck — with Myra DeVane in tow — Noonan would be there smoking a joint, as casually as George Burns out on the porch, smoking a cigar.