Bitch Slap Read Online Free PDF Page B

unexpectedly, and pester him till it was time for us to move onward to lunch.
    Stepping to the desk in my inner office, I donned my jacket and checked my pockets for wallet, keys, pen, and notepad—an old habit, as an experienced reporter had no way of telling when a story might break. I also made sure that a pair of reading glasses was tucked in my breast pocket—a newer habit, one I had resisted, necessitated by the first ravages of middle age. And finally, I plucked a phone from its charger on the desk and slipped it into a side pocket of my coat—a brand-new habit that still made me uncomfortable.
    I hate cell phones. Once the cutting-edge technology of heart surgeons and others who might legitimately be interrupted at dinner on a
matter of life or death, these intrusive gadgets have become so ubiquitous that most adolescents now carry them—and use them—to the constant annoyance of society at large. I had once thought that the mark of true success was to be disconnected. I reasoned that if I was important enough, and if someone needed to reach me, that was his problem, not mine. Now, apparently, I needed to keep myself at the disposal of anyone with the whim to dial my number.
    It was Lucy who finally convinced me that my reticence to carry a phone was stodgy and contrarian. Journalism, she lectured, was an increasingly electronic medium; lost minutes could mean missed deadlines. She needed me, the Register needed me, twenty-four-seven. So a week ago, against my better instincts, I told her to get me a phone—with the strict caveat that only she would know the number, a condition to which she readily agreed. (Naturally, I shared the number with Neil, but only after securing his promise never to use it.)
    As of that Tuesday morning, the gizmo had never once rung. On the one hand, I found its silence a matter of great relief; my fears had been unfounded. On the other hand, I had begun to suspect that the phone simply didn’t work, so out of sheer curiosity, before leaving my office, I flipped it open and decided to check the local weather number. It was then that I discovered that the timing of two recent incursions into my life had proved ironically propitious—in my pocket I had glasses at the ready, which I needed in order to read the damn buttons on the phone.
    Learning that the afternoon would remain cool but sunny, I decided there was no need for the trench coat I kept at the office, so I pocketed the phone, pocketed the glasses, and headed out, crossing the newsroom, descending the stairs, waving to Connie, and emerging through the glass doors onto the street.
    First Avenue was quiet; sleepy little Dumont’s noon “rush” was some forty minutes off. There was a snap to my step as I ambled along the sidewalk, peering into shop windows as if they might contain something new. At the corner, I waited for the light to turn, even though there wasn’t a moving car in sight. Then, crossing the street, I began to whistle some unnameable tune. Feeling suddenly foolish, I laughed at
myself, enjoying the bright fall day. As I headed toward Neil’s office, my pace quickened in anticipation of seeing him.
    And the phone began to warble.
    Good Lord, I thought, had some catastrophe befallen the world? Was Lucy running wild through the newsroom, shrieking to stop the presses, trying desperately to reach me?
    I turned on my heel to head back to the paper, then realized the phone was still ringing and decided I’d better answer it. Stepping beneath the awning of a dark corner tavern, I extracted the phone from my pocket, flipped it open, and fumbled with the buttons. Squinting, I couldn’t quite read them, but the green one seemed a reasonable choice, so I punched it. Lifting the phone to my face, I asked uncertainly, “Yes?”
    â€œUh … Mark?”
    â€œYes, Lucy.”
    â€œ Lucy ? It’s Roxanne. What’s wrong, Mark? You sound