• “Good, do it that way,” Robert tells the reporter. “Done. Next.”
He sits stiffly, trying not show how agitated he feels. Wearing a striped shirt, the tie knot loose. He’s at the head of a large table, two reporters to his left, another two on his right. Only one woman. He’s grateful he doesn’t find her attractive. The state he’s in, he might gawk at her.
“The aid package,” one of them says. “Alright, the money comes through, we say PRESIDENT TRIES TO BUY VOTES. The money’s not coming, we say UP YOURS, PRESIDENT TELLS BIG APPLE. Or words to that effect.”
“Come on,” the woman says, “the President can’t win.”
“Winning’s not his job,” Robert says, his voice quiet, carefully controlled. “His job’s selling papers.”
“Here, here.”
“How about PRESIDENT’S AID PACKAGE SAVES DEMOCRATIC MACHINE?”
“Shit, that’s almost the truth. You can’t put stuff like that in the newspaper.”
They all laugh. Energetic, restless, vaguely rumpled people. The kind of faces you see gambling in Atlantic City. Robert hopes they won’t notice what has happened to him. No, they have to notice. He’s coming apart in front of them, for Chrissake.
A reporter says, “I want to do something new on the drug wars.”
“Who cares?”
“Right! They keep shooting kids, that’s the only story. They just kill each other, hell, you’re happy to hear—”
“The city ought to regulate these jerks. You know, make ’em take shooting lessons.”
They’re all laughing, arguing, interrupting each other. Robert likes it. People acting silly won’t notice him.
“Look, the city regulates a business, they leave. Maybe it’s an angle.”
“A Department of Drug Dealers. Yeah, it’ll work. A whole new bureaucracy for the mayor’s cronies. And finally the dealers move to the Sun Belt. Let’s put the paper behind it.”
“Sweet. Genius.”
“Hey, I got a serious idea. Why don’t we offer rewards, you know, for the baddest guys? Like those Old West wanted posters. Say $10,000. Information leading to arrest and conviction.”
“That’s great. Better $25,000. Jesus, that’ll get the community behind the cops.”
“I see it. We call it Dealer Lotto. Here’s the pitch. Don’t waste your dollars on those bogus gambling schemes, better chance of getting hit by lightning, et cetera. The New York News offers a real payout. Just rat on some fuck who should be doing ten to twenty anyway. . . . What do you think? Sure, it’s a promotional gimmick. But it’ll spin off a huge amount of copy for us, too. Human interest. Real news. It’s got everything.”
“You’re serious?” Robert says, happy to be doubting somebody else’s sanity. Put the spotlight on this poor schmuck. Very gravely, Robert says again: “You’re really serious?”
The guy looks around. “Yeah. What’s wrong? Hey, $50,000 makes it guaranteed. Really. We’d get great press all over the country. Think about the photo op. The mayor giving some guy with a bag over his head a big check. Then we do follow-up, see if the guy lives to spend the money. Dealer Lotto, get it?”
A secretary Robert hardly knows comes in to relay a message to one of the reporters. She leans over to speak in the man’s ear. Robert glances down her blouse, sees the swell of her breasts. Lovely. She stands and smiles pleasantly. At him? Yeah, she’s saying, Use me, big guy. This is all yours. She turns to leave. A tight gray skirt. Robert studies the shadow marking the crack of her ass. Yeah, she wants him to follow her out into the hall, wrap her legs around him right there. His groin jumps. He sees himself springing out of the chair.
It’s so real. Too real.
Robert drops his right hand, grips the front of the chair, hard. Steady, man. He feels like Dr. Strangelove, trying to hold his arm down. Or his dick. Or his life. His eyes jump to the ceiling and he shudders inwardly. Kathy! The woman’s made me a maniac. Is this what sexual dementia is like? You want to hump everything.
All I do, I just call, leave a secret message. In an hour, maybe much sooner, we’re on the 26th floor, she looks so beautiful, we’re kissing, her hand’s in my pants, we’re doing anything I can think of. . . .
No, no, hold it. We’re meeting at five. Got to hang on. No, what I have to do is call Anne, tell her I’ll be on the later train. Oh, God, Anne. . . . What excuse do I make this time?
“Robert, hey. Robert. Boss!”
One of the reporters is staring at him. A strange look on his face. See, they can tell. Robert’s sure he stinks of sex, like a man doused in some bad cologne.
Robert sighs as if he’s been thinking over some deep problem of journalistic ethics. “Yeah, just running that around in my head. It’s a stunt. But why not talk to the legal department. It’s your idea, run with it.”
They talk story ideas for another thirty minutes, then Robert walks back to his office. Feeling like this obscene pulsing thing, sure that people are staring at him. He wonders who he can ask about it. Notice any change? Horns? Goat’s feet? A tail? Hair sprouting everywhere? Damnit, there are huge tits in front of my face. You must have noticed. Are you blind?
Robert can’t remember anything like this. He’s obsessed, filled toe to head with thoughts of sex, with thoughts of her.
He slumps behind his desk. Tries to hold his head up, look intelligent. Oh, sure. A hard-on with an IQ of ten or twelve.
Think about it. When I was a kid, say sixteen, was that like this? Yeah, horny, horny all the time. But it’s in the body. You jerk off and then you forget about it for a while. This is different. This is in my head, I think. Like a fever, a disease. I want Kathy all the time. I want something. . . .
I’ve got to call Anne, tell her I’ll be late.
He stares at the small color portrait of Anne on the right side of his desk and winces. She’s so nice. So trusting. The most decent person. . . . She deserves better than this. It’s just too nuts. It can’t go on.
He studies her, the smart face, the soft smile. Why can’t they have what . . . what he and Kathy have? It hurts to think about it. They’re both waiting. Maybe that’s it. For the other one to do something, to take the lead, be aggressive. Is that it? Robert isn’t sure. They’re too well bred? They’re too timid? What the hell is it?
For a few minutes the lust fades away. A rush of guilt takes its place. He feels sad . . . he feels like a failure. He can’t pick up the phone.
No, I’ll call Kathy, meet her on 26, cancel, tell her it’s no good. Got to cool this down.
I’ll explain it to her. Kathy, you are wonderful. Maybe the most wonderful woman in the world. But I am married and we really ought to keep our balance.
He imagines what’ll happen. She’ll look at him with this slightly pitying expression. He knows he’ll feel like a weakling.
She’ll say what she said once before: “Maybe, Robie, I’m basically a more serious person than you are. Women usually are, don’t you find? It’s never just fucking for us.”
He’ll feel like a real jerk.
Then she’ll smile and joke, “Of course, sex is nice, too. Stand closer and I’ll tell you what I thought up. You will love this. . . .”
Then he’ll feel like an engorged penis, six-feet, one-inch long.
He snatches up the phone.
Be a man, he thinks. It’s the best sex imaginable. That’s good. I deserve this. A gift from God. I love Kathy. I really do.
Damnit, man, call Anne, tell her you’ll be late. Anne, Anne, Anne. . . . We have to talk. . . . I’ll tell her the truth. Anne, this is bigger than I am. I can’t say no to this. . . .
Or maybe I just jerk off in the bathroom, calm down, then I could talk to Kathy rationally. Kathy, please, let’s be reasonable about this.
Maybe meet her on the street, so even if she gets to me, we can’t do anything. Yeah, what about that?
Robert leans his elbows on desk, pressing his hands back through his long hair, rubbing his face. The skin feels hot.