Headlines and Hard Truths

Whatever you are, be a good one.

—Abraham Lincoln

Ned crossed the lobby to meet me. “Are you here for that tour already? I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m waiting on a source to get back to me, so your timing’s impeccable.”

Of all the luck. Why did I have to run into him? He was a reporter. Of course a reporter would ask questions. “Yes. No. I mean, I wouldn’t impose on such short notice.”

Panic must have been apparent on my face. He stepped closer and took my parcels. “It’s really no bother. Come along.”

I tried one more time. “Honestly, I just stopped by to—” To what? My brain was not giving my mouth any assistance.

“And I’m delighted you did. Off we go now.”

I said a quick prayer that our wanderings would not take me anywhere near Miss Tight Corset. I responded to Ned’s warm smile with a tepid one of my own. Only I could get myself into such a pickle!

“Your secret is out,” he said.

“Secret?” Could this get any worse?

He nodded. “Maude told me that you’re published yourself. Honyocker’s Homilies. Sounds like something I’d enjoy reading.”

I stopped. “Promise you won’t tell anyone. About my homilies.” There’d probably be bruises later where I clenched his arm. “Promise.”

“Not only are you a writer, you’re modest, to boot.” He drew an X across his chest. “Promise. Now come on.” We stepped into the grating elevator. Up we went until the operator announced, “Newsroom.” Ned towed me out. We weaved our way through half a dozen young men milling about in the hallway. “They’re waiting for that big break,” Ned said.

“You mean they don’t work here?” I asked.

“No, but they want to.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It happened to me, it could happen to them,” he added.

“What happened to you?”

“This.” He slipped a press card from his breast pocket. “I was part of that crowd, too, but I hung around and hung around until one day all the reporters were out on assignment and Monson—he’s the managing editor—hollered for a stringer. I got to Monson first, snagged the story, and”—he grinned—“the job of my dreams.”

“That gives me the chills.” It also gave me hope about landing the job of my dreams.

We stepped around a corner into a well-lit space abuzz with activity and energy. “Welcome to the madhouse!” Ned motioned me forward. A parquet floor checkerboarded beneath our feet to a row of glassed-in offices, transom windows ajar above the closed doors. A double row of desks marched up the center of the room. Each desk’s occupant clicked and clacked away at the typewriter in front of them, occasionally ripping a page out of the machine and calling, “Boy!” That command summoned an office boy who took the sheet and ran it, Ned explained, “Off to the copy readers.”

I could hear Miss Clare’s voice in my head saying, “Close your mouth, Hattie.” But there was so much to take in! The staccato rhythm of the typewriter keys pounded into my very being. No salty sea air in here: I inhaled a mist of eraser dust, cigarette smoke, and excitement. I glanced down the rows of desks across a sea of suit coats dotted with the occasional shirtsleeve and started when I saw a hat that Maude would’ve envied. And that fabulous hat sat atop a head of hair the color of Praeger’s best black patent leather shoes. A woman! In the newsroom.

“Who’s that?” I whispered to Ned.

“Miss Marjorie D’Lacorte.” He grimaced. “Otherwise known as the Tiger Woman.”

At that moment, an office boy sidled up to Miss D’Lacorte’s desk, stopping an arm’s length away. “Excuse me, ma’am—”

The Tiger Woman extended one red-polished claw into the air, signaling quiet. She kept typing, one-handed.

“Mr. Monson wonders—” the hapless boy started again.

“Monson wonders!” the Tiger Woman roared. “That’ll be the day. Now scram and let me finish this. I’ve got a smashing lead, and I don’t want to lose it.” The boy scrammed and Miss D’Lacorte tapped on the typewriter keys with military rhythm.

“I’ll introduce you two another time,” Ned said.

My innards sloshed like soup at the thought of being introduced to her. Ever. I wasn’t sure my head would survive the meeting.

Ned led the way back to the elevator, and we jostled and banged our way to the next stop. Over the commotion, he told me more about Miss D’Lacorte. “Marjorie is the Chronicle’s version of Nellie Bly. With a little Captain Bligh thrown in for good measure,” he added, referring to the cruel commander of the HMS Bounty. “She’s a good writer, but a hard egg.”

I wondered if a woman in a man’s world could be anything but a hard egg. That thought gave me pause, as I certainly wasn’t the Tiger Woman type. Maybe the roar came with experience.

The noisy elevator had been relative peace and quiet compared to our destination. “Watch out for boys with turtles,” Ned shouted as we stepped into an enormous room jam-packed with thundering machines.

“What?” I was certain I’d misheard him. Then a young man dashed by, pushing a wheeled rectangular cart. We barely missed colliding. “Turtles!” I exclaimed.

“And nothing slow about them.” Ned motioned me over to a stationary turtle. “This is the chase,” he said, indicating a heavy metal frame atop the turtle-cart. “The compositors take slugs of type from the linotypes over there—” He pointed to two rows of massive machines, groaning and roaring in operation.

They could have been dragons, crouched on sturdy haunches, the sunlight barely piercing their smoky exhalations, ready at any moment to spread colossal scaly wings for flight. The only things to remind me that these were not dragons, though no less fantastical, were the operators’ brass spittoons gleaming brightly on the floor next to each machine.

“And then they lock them into the chase, here, before rolling the turtles to the press room,” Ned finished his explanation.

I couldn’t help covering my ears as we walked the entire length of the floor. We exited through a steel door, and the immediate quiet in the stairwell was pure joy to my throbbing head. “How do the men stand the din, day after day?” I asked.

“Well, it’s part of the job. So is shaking out bits of linotype lead from their clothes each night. But I don’t imagine one fellow in there would trade his job for anything. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.” Ned once again offered his arm for our journey to yet another floor, where a huge wave of inky perfume rolled over and around us. Again, it was noise on top of noise as presses clattered and ground, paper rolling off great reels like black-and-white yard goods. I smiled to think of making a quilt out of all this newsprint.

We moved from the noisiest rooms to the quietest. Not that the editorial floor was all that quiet. People were calling out to one another, and in the pauses between voices and ringing telephones, a squadron of blue pencils scritch-scratched over reporters’ copy.

“Now you’ve seen it all,” Ned said. “Almost.” He gestured down with his thumb. “There’s still the morgue.”

A chill shot through me as we retraced our footsteps even though I knew a newspaper morgue housed not bodies but back issues. “Do you have to work here to use the morgue?”

Ned rubbed his dapper moustache. “Why? Is there someone whose checkered past you wish to uncover?” He guided me to the right. “We’re going to turn at the end of the hall there.”

I forced myself to keep my tone as light as his. “A lady never snoops.” But I had been thinking about pasts—specifically, Uncle Chester’s.

He laughed aloud. “I’m sure you’re right about that. Ladies don’t.” He pulled open the next door for me. “But reporters—both male and female—surely do. It’s part of the job.”

“Well, Miss Brooks.”

I turned at the vaguely familiar voice. “Oh. Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said to Miss Tight Corset.

Ned wore a quizzical expression on his face. “You two know each other?”

“Hardly.” Miss Tight Corset pursed her lips. “But I may have the pleasure”—she said this as if she meant the complete opposite—“should Miss Brooks accept our offer of employment.”

“You’re coming to work here?” Ned straightened his tie. “That’s the bee’s knees. Which department?”

I made my eyes look as pitiful as possible, sending Miss Tight Corset a silent message not to tell.

With a brisk nod, she took my arm. “No chitchatting. There are papers to be filled out. You can socialize on your own time.” With that, I took my parcels back from Ned and she escorted me away. I could have hugged her! I gave Ned a quick glance and a wave over my shoulder.

You would have thought I was applying for a job as publisher of the newspaper, there were that many forms to fill out. Miss Tight Corset turned off her desk lamp and was gathering her things up to go home for the night by the time I finished.

She gave them a quick once-over. “This all looks fine. Can you start tomorrow night?”

The job was the graveyard shift, ten p.m. to six a.m. Worse than farmer’s hours. But much better than farmer’s pay! Better than a wardrobe mistress’s wage, too. “I need to give my current employer a day or so notice.”

With a sigh she flipped through the day calendar on her desk. “Hmm. Thursday’s the third, and it seems pointless to start the day before a holiday. I guess you’ll have to start Monday. I’ll tell the night watchman to expect you. Come to the front door. There’ll be a work smock for you in the custodial room.”

I gathered my parcels and smoothed the skirt of my new dress. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Believe it or not, I was young once, too.” She settled her hat on her head. “Good luck with your young man.”

She was out the door before I could correct her mistake about Ned. No matter. I took a deep breath. I had a job at a newspaper! I did a little twirl, right there in the employment office. It wasn’t the job of my dreams—far from it—but it was a job for a newspaper. I only hoped it wouldn’t be too long from heavy lifting to headlines! I hummed while waiting for the elevator to arrive. Though I wasn’t crazy about the thought of walking to work at night, the late shift would mean it would be easier to avoid Ned. With luck, he’d never know his sister’s friend was dusting the desk he sat at each day.

The elevator dinged and I readied myself to step inside. And found myself face to face with Ned. Again!

“Fancy meeting you here.” He winked. “Everything all set with the new job?”

“Yes. Quite set.”

“Want me to show you where the steno pool is?” He stepped aside to make room for me in the crowded car.

“Oh, no thanks.” This wasn’t exactly a fib. I didn’t say I worked in the steno pool; he assumed that.

“I have a fine idea to go with that fine new dress.”

My cheeks burned hot with the attention.

“We’re practically coworkers. I’d say that calls for a celebration. Do you have plans for dinner?”

I shifted my feet. My new shoes pinched a bit. “It’s only a starter job.”

“Well, you have to eat, don’t you? Have you been to the New Delmonico?”

“No, but I couldn’t—”

He shook his finger at me. “What you really mean to say is ‘Yes, I’d love to, Ned.’ ” Then he cocked his head and batted his lashes, doing his best imitation of a pup with big brown eyes. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing.

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

Why not? A pleasant dinner with a new friend beat out a grilled cheese sandwich from the corner diner any day. “It’s a yes.”

Once again, he took my bags from me, and we stepped outside, brushed by a warm summer breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a tuba oompahed, and strains of a John Philip Sousa march filled the air.

Ned and I chattered the entire way to the restaurant. He was full of stories. Summer holidays with Maude. Pranks he’d pulled in college. Stateside war duty stuck typing reports. “The only good thing about that desk job was that my boss was an old newspaper man. Drilled the ‘who, what, where, when, why, and how’ into me, that’s for sure. Ah, here we are.”

New Delmonico’s was the swankiest restaurant I’d ever been in. It would take more than a chic dress and new hat to make me look like I belonged. Ned took it all in stride, greeting the maître d’ by name and shaking his hand.

After we were seated, I did my best to nudge my shopping bags under the table while Ned ordered each of us an iceberg lettuce salad with shrimp and Russian dressing to start. He went for the roast beef main course; I chose the chicken. A waiter swooped by, balancing a tray laden with glistening wedges of chocolate cream pie. I made a note to leave room for dessert.

“So. When do I get to read some of your writing?” Ned asked.

I concentrated on sweetening my iced tea. “Oh, it’s not very good.”

“Quantity grows quality,” he pronounced. “And Maude says you’re always scribbling away in every spare moment at the theater. That’s the first sign that you have the disease.”

“Disease?” I didn’t realize Maude had seen me writing backstage. I thought I’d been so discreet.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. It strikes the least suspecting. It begins with rewriting letters to friends before mailing them off.”

How did he know I did that?

“And then it moves on to challenging oneself to find twelve ways to describe a”—he glanced around the café—“a tomato aspic.” He sighed heavily and dramatically. “And finally, the patient succumbs.”

Ned had a knack for tickling my funny bone. I laughed. “To what, pray tell?”

“To a life of writing.”

“I wish.” I picked up my fork and set it back down. “Tell me about your job. What’s it like to be a real reporter?”

His eyes lit up. “No two days are ever the same! And you never know when something’s going to blow. You have to think on your feet. And you have to trust that, no matter how dry your brain is, once you press your fingers to those typewriter keys, some kind of story is going to emerge.” He tapped the white tablecloth with his fingertips as if typing. “Besides, even if it’s darned good, the copy readers will rip it to pieces.” He rolled his eyes.

The waiter arrived with our salads and we dealt with napkins and salt and pepper and tasting and such for several minutes. I savored the cool flavors in my mouth—lettuce, shrimp, and tangy dressing—as I savored the thought of being a reporter, like Ned. The thought was equally as delicious as the salad.

“So is Miss D’Lacorte the only woman reporter at the paper?”

He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “General reporter, yes. There are two gals on the fashion and society desk.” He crooked his pinky. “Silk dresses, silver spoons, and all that.”

We munched in silence for a few moments.

“Well, does she have to be the only woman reporter?” I reached for my glass of water. “Is there room for another?”

“Like a certain Miss Brooks?” he asked.

I felt my cheeks go hot again. But I stood my ground. “Why not?”

“Indeed.” He leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands, and looked straight at me. “Why not?”

“So what would it take, do you think?”

His expression grew thoughtful. I was grateful to him for taking me seriously. “You’d need a story. It doesn’t have to be page one–worthy, but it must be the kind of story that makes you stand out. Something only you could write.”

I traced the fork tines through the dribs of salad dressing on my plate. “I don’t suppose anyone here wants to read about my homestead exploits.”

“Not that they wouldn’t want to, of course,” he said gallantly. “But it’s been done. You need something new. Something different. Something with a San Francisco connection. A hook to this city.”

An idea began bubbling like soup stock on low heat. “It could be about anything?” I asked. Or anybody, I added to myself.

“Sure.” He waved the waiter over to clear away our salad plates. “Whatever it is, you can count me in to help.”

The conversation shifted as we enjoyed our main courses. Even though I’d tried, I had left no room for dessert. Ned had a cup of coffee, and then he paid the bill.

“Thank you,” I said, hesitating to even give voice to the request on the tip of my tongue. Was it proper? Was it right? Would it even be news? Well, a fish certainly doesn’t jump in the skillet by itself, does it? As Ned said, I needed a hook. And it could be that I had one. I’d never know if I didn’t do some digging. “You’ve been so nice, I hate to impose further—”

“Impose away, fair lady!” He bowed his head at me across the table.

“Could you get me permission to use the morgue?” I ducked my eyes down. “And would you?”

“Could and would,” he said, pulling my chair out. “You let me know when.” He took my hand in his warm firm grasp and shook it. “I look forward to it. And I look forward to seeing you around the Chronicle Building!”

I forced a smile, imagining him catching me with a bucket of suds and a mop. Not if I can help it, I thought. Not if I can help it.