Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

Vaughn calls that evening, and Oliver picks up this time-if there are plans, perhaps he should be apprised.

"So," Vaughn asks, "are we going to sell that house?"

"Which house?"

"The house you're living in."

"Grandpa's? What for?"

"Well, you are coming back, I assume."

"What are you talking about, Vaughn?"

"Ollie, you do know we're putting the paper out of its misery, right? Abbey recommended that we shut it. How can you not know this, Ollie? What are you doing out there?"

"But why close it?"

"Money, basically. Maybe if we'd got more layoffs a few months back we could've dragged it out. But they fought us on everything-all they agreed to in the end was one job cut from editorial. And they're expecting capital infusions after that? It's crazy. We kept Kathleen going for a while, dangling the possibility of fresh investment. But what's the point? You guys don't even have a website. How can you expect revenue without a Web presence? We could have ditched Kathleen, I guess. But let's be honest: the paper is a lemon. Time to move on."

"Don't we have enough money to keep it going?"

"Sure we do," Vaughn responds. "We have enough money because we make a habit of not keeping shit going that's a lemon."

"Oh."

"I want you at that staff meeting. Kathleen is adamant about it. And we need to keep her happy for now-we don't want bad publicity, okay?"

"What do they want me there for?"

"We need an Ott rep on-site. No way out of this one, Ollie."

The morning of the meeting, Oliver asks Schopenhauer, "If they come at me as a mob, will you bite them?" He tickles the dog. "You wouldn't, would you-you'd be useless. Come on."

They walk all the way there, up Via del Teatro di Marcello, through Piazza Campitelli, along Corso Vittorio, Oliver muttering to Schopenhauer as they go: "I mean, we all know that I don't understand this sort of thing. The rest of the family does. But I seem to be missing it somehow. Missing the chromosome for it. The cleverness gene. I'm faulty. So here's my question, Schop: can I be blamed for my defects? I mean, are my faults my fault?" The dog glances up at him. "Don't give me that condescending look," Oliver says. "What have you ever done with your life that's so spectacular?"

They arrive at the scribble-gray building that has housed the paper for a half century. Employees smoke industriously before the towering oak door. Oliver hurries past them all, through the hinged portal, down the frayed burgundy runner to the elevator cage. Upstairs, he learns that Kathleen and Abbey have gone out. Thankfully, most of the editorial staffers are occupied piecing together copy on a shooting at Virginia Tech. But a few employees attempt to buttonhole Oliver about "the big announcement" they have been promised. Is it good news? Sinkingly, he realizes that they don't know yet. He touches his cold hands to Schopenhauer's coat for warmth. The dog licks them.

Kathleen returns, escorts him to her office, and says he will have to run the meeting alone. Abbey joins them and seconds Kathleen's position: he will get no help.

"But I don't know anyone here," he says.

"I'll introduce you," Kathleen replies.

"And I don't know anything about the media industry."

"Maybe you should have learned something," she says. "You've been here two years."

They check the clock: a few minutes until the meeting.

"I'm really sorry," he says, "about this."

Kathleen scoffs. "Sorry? Come on-you could have averted this. You've been totally indifferent."

"No, no, I'm not."

"Oh, come on-you've made no effort here. The paper has been going all these years, and it's ending with you in charge. Your grandfather started this place. Doesn't that bother you? He wanted to build a newspaper for the world. Now you're closing it."

"But I'm totally useless at this sort of thing-they shouldn't have given me the job in the first place."

"Yeah, but they did, Oliver. They did. You were it."

"But I'm-I'm faulty, if you know what I mean. I don't work right." He laughs nervously, sweeping hair from his spotty forehead, still staring down at Schopenhauer, not once looking up at the women. "I lack the right chromosome or something."

"Cut it out."

"We should probably go in there," Abbey says.

Oliver moves toward the door, but Kathleen halts him with her forefinger. "You're not bringing the dog in."

"For moral support, I thought."

"Absolutely not. Show some respect."

Oliver ties Schopenhauer's leash around a leg of Kathleen's desk and strokes his friend quickly. "Wish me luck." He closes the door after himself and follows Kathleen and Abbey into the newsroom.

They lead him to a central position and retreat several paces. The staffers gather before him. How dirty the carpeting is, he notes. Whispers emanate from the crowd. He fills a plastic cup from the watercooler.

"We should probably start," Kathleen says.

He offers a wobbly smile.

"You know everybody here?" Kathleen asks.

"I think some faces might be familiar," he says, looking at none. He leans in to shake hands, murmuring, "Thank you… thanks… hi… thanks for coming."

Most of the paper's employees have worked here for years. They married based on their earning prospects, took out mortgages because of this place, started families knowing that the paper would fund their children's lives. If this place folds, they're ruined. All these years, they have vilified the paper, but now it's threatening to quit them, they're desperately in love with it again.

"Everyone here?" Oliver asks. He speaks extemporaneously for a minute, then loses his nerve and grabs for a copy of the Ott board's confidential report on the paper. As he scans its pages, he glances imploringly in Kathleen's direction. She looks away. He clears his throat and locates a relevant passage. He reads it aloud, adding, "That's what the board decided." He clears his throat again. "I'm really sorry."

The room is silent.

"I don't know what else to say."

A question rips from the back of the room. The crowd turns, makes a gap. The questioner is the head technician, a broad-shouldered American who appears even taller because he happens to be wearing Rollerblades that day. "What the fuck is this?" he says. "In plain English, tell us what's happening."

Oliver stammers out a few words, but the man interrupts: "Stop bullshitting us, man."

"I'm not. I'm trying to be clear. I think that-"

Ruby Zaga breaks in: "So, the Ott Group is pulling the plug? Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm afraid that's how I read it," Oliver answers. "I'm incredibly, incredibly sorry. I know that's inadequate. I do feel terrible about this, if that makes you feel any better."

"No, it doesn't actually," the head technician says. "And what the hell do you mean, 'That's how I read it'? Read what? You guys wrote it. Don't give me that, man. Don't give me that."

"I didn't write it. The board wrote it."

"Aren't you part of the board?"

"Yes, but I wasn't at this meeting."

"Well, why didn't you go?"

Someone else mutters, "Who appointed this guy publisher?"

"The report says," Oliver continues, "that… that it's a question of the business environment. It's not solely the paper-it's the whole of the media. I think. I mean. All I know is what's written in the report."

"Bullshit."

Oliver turns to Kathleen and Abbey.

"Wait a second," Herman Cohen says. "Before we all fly off the handle here, is there something that can be worked out? I'd like to know how final this decision is."

The head technician ignores this and clomps in his Rollerblades closer to Oliver. "You're an asshole, man."

The situation teeters on the edge of violence.

Oliver steps back. "I… I don't know what to say."