Bright Lights, Big City Read Online Free PDF Page B

say.
    “I mean especially in this case. He hasn’t left Paris in twelve years, and spends most of his time in restaurants. He never double-checks anything.”
    Jesus wept.
    Twice during the afternoon you call the writer to ask him where he picked up his facts. The first time you call you go through a list of errors and he concedes each point cheerfully.
    “Where did you get this about the French government owning a controlling interest in Paramount Pictures?” you say.
    “Don’t they? Well, shit. Run a line through that.”
    “Your next three paragraphs depend on it.”
    “Damn. Who told me that?”
    By the end of the second call he is annoyed, as if the errors were of your devising. This is the way it goes with the writers: they resent you to the degree that they depend on you.
    Late in the afternoon a memo arrives addressed to “staff.” It is signed by the Druid’s assistant, which makes it gospel.
It has come to our attention that a Mr. Richard Fox is writing an article about the magazine. Some of you may already have been approached by Mr. Fox. We have reason to believe that the intentions of this reporter are not coincident with the best interests of the magazine. We would like to remind all staff members of the magazine’s policy with regard to the press. AU queries and requests for interviews should be referred to this office. Under no circumstances should any employee presume to speak for the magazine without prior clearance. We remind you that all magazine business is strictly confidential.
    The memo occasions amusement in the Department of Factual Verification. The magazine has been involved in many freedom of press trials, but in this gag order there is not a glimmer of irony.
    Wade says, “I wish Richard Fox would call me.”
    Megan says, “Forget it, Yasu. I know for a fact that Richard Fox is straight.”
    “For a fact ? I’d be very interested to hear about your verification procedure.”
    “I know you would,” Megan says.
    “At any rate,” Wade says, “I only meant that I would be fantastically curious to know how many pieces of silver some of the institutional dirty laundry is worth. But don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I don’t find Fox attractive.”
    Rittenhouse is tugging at his glasses, indicating that he wishes to speak. “I, for one, do not feel that Richard Fox is an objective reporter. He has a penchant for sensationalism.”
    “Of course,” Wade says. “That’s why we love him.”
    The possession of dangerous information excites a brief feeling of power here in the Department of Factual Verification. You wish Richard Fox or anyone else cared enough about Clara Tillinghast to perform a character assassination.
    By seven everyone is gone. They all offered to help, and you waved them away. There is a shabby nobility in failing all by yourself.
    Clara sticks her head in the door as she’s leaving. “My desk,” she says.
    My ass, you think.
    You nod and, in token of your earnestness, hunker down over the page proofs. From this point on it’s a matter of covering your tracks, running pencil lines through anything that you have not been able to verify and hoping that nothing important slips through.
    At seven-thirty Allagash calls. “What are you doing at the office?” he says. “We have plans for the evening. Monstrous events are scheduled.”
    Two of the things you like about Allagash are that he never asks you how you are and he never waits for you to answer his questions. You used to dislike this, but when the news is all bad it’s a relief that someone doesn’t want to hear it. Just now you want to stay at the surface of things, and Tad is a figure skater who never considers the sharks under the ice. You have friends who actually care about you and speak the language of the inner self. You have avoided them of late. Your soul is as disheveled as your apartment, and until you can clean it up a little you don’t want to invite anyone inside.
    Allagash tells you