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1:00 p.m.
I had turned my cell phone off during the rehearsal. Big mistake.
Bob Chamberlain had left me six messages, each one progressively more panicked than the last. The sixth message contained a slew of profanities and several creative-sounding death threats.
In the alternate universe of the rehearsal studio, I had completely forgotten about Wednesday’s column.
There wasn’t one.
For the first time in my career, I had missed a final deadline. The Gazette had run without my column. In its place was a brief but mysterious explanation from the editor:
Donny Love’s column will run again tomorrow. Mr. Love is on assignment today with Steven McCartney.
By the time I had screwed up my courage enough to return Bob’s calls and try to save my bacon, I had six beers in me. I felt that I ought to enunciate a little more than usual, just in case.
“Hi there, Bobby. Guess I messed up a bit, eh? Sorry, Bob.”
I thought that I heard heavy breathing on the end of the line.
“Bob? Is that you? ‘Cause I’m gonna make it up to you. I really am. Tomorrow’s column is gonna be a beaut.” I was pleased with my ability to placate Bob.
Bob’s voice, when he finally spoke, was cool and smooth as ice. “That’s right, Love. You are going to write me a double column for tomorrow’s paper. You are going to come in here and write it right here, in front of me, right now. You are not going to leave my sight for food, drink, or the can until you have completed the mother of all columns. You’d better get yourself into Depends, boy, because I’m quite serious here. You just about cost me my job today.”
The beer made me a bit slow on the uptake. “Pardon? Sorry, I was listening, Bob, but I just had to ... scratch my ear for a minute. Sorry. Say that part again?”
“Love, are you drunk?” Bob was losing his cool.
“No! No way!” I cleverly responded. “I’ve only had six. That’s nothing. I could write War and Peace on twice that amount. I could write that, Bob. Easily. War and Peace.”
I could hear Bob cussing and giving orders in the background. I felt a sudden, slightly numbed pang of concern for the poor guy.
“Bob, man, I know that I gave you a bit of a problem today, but, hey, it’s OK. You need to relax a bit, Bob. You could end up having a stroke or something, man. Your health is a gift. You gotta look after it.”
There was a strange noise on the other end. At one point, it sounded as though the phone were being swung about by the cord. Suddenly, Meg was on the line.
“Hi, Donny. Meg here. I just need to know where you are right now. I’m sending a cab to pick you up.”
I felt like crying, all of a sudden. Sweet Meg cared about me. They all cared about me. They didn’t want me to wrap my car around a telephone pole! My heart could hardly bear the wash of love that I felt for my Gazette family.
I think that I may have told Meg that I loved her. Several times. And that I loved Bob. Like a father, I think. Apparently, I couldn’t handle six beers quite the way I used to. I took a cab to the paper, but I’m not sure if it was the one they called for me. In fact, I don’t remember paying the guy, so I sure hope that they had already given him a chit. On the way, I called Allison’s cell phone. I left a sloppy but deeply-felt message of adoration and apology. In retrospect, I couldn’t recall hearing Allison’s voice in the recorded message. I wondered if I’d mis-dialled.
