My Korean Deli_ Risking It All for a Convenience Store - Ben Ryder Howe [74]
“Hullo?” he says. “Hullo? Hullo?” Disappointment—it’s only the friend of a staff member, not even an angry author demanding payment for a story published years ago.
Ever since Chicago I’ve been fearing a moment like this. Sooner or later he’ll come down and—will we talk about the state of the magazine? Will I tell him about Brigid? Others, too, are leaving, I know. Is it time for a frank discussion or should we go on skirting the issue? What will his reaction be if I tell him that the magazine seems to be falling apart? Will he be angry? Sad? Indifferent?
At ten-fifteen George practically tackles the mailman on his way into the building. Then he drops into the office.
“Don’t mind me,” he says with concentrated seriousness, holding under his arm a copy of the New York Post opened to Page Six. “Just looking for the, um, galleys I left here last night.” Shuffle, shuffle. George starts rummaging through the mounds of paperwork on Brigid’s desk, destroying whatever semblance of order it might have had.
“Can’t find a damn thing in here. This office is a bloody mess! Where in tarnation is everyone? Why is this office always empty?”
“You told everyone to go on vacation last week, George. Remember?”
George looks briefly at a loss. “I did?” That was before George started the memoir, when he was still in a good mood. “Yes, of course,” he says, his voice immediately softening. “Well, good for them. All with their families, I hope.” As for George’s own family, they’re out in the Hamptons till the end of summer, along with nearly all of George’s friends.
“Very well, then, carry on,” George says, lifting up his chin. But I don’t hear the door shut; instead I hear the tortured machinations of a man dying for companionship. More papers shuffle, magazine pages flip, and now and then comes a small, helpless sigh. Finally I sense a presence immediately behind me and catch a whiff of stale Scotch and last night’s veal piccata at Elaine’s.
“George!” He’s leaning over my shoulder.
“What are you working on? If I may ask.”
“I’m trying to read,” I huff, wheeling around. “The fall issue is due in a couple weeks, and there’s almost nothing in it. Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Of course it does. Of course. How long did you say, three weeks?”
I nod.
“That’s no time at all. Still, we can squeeze in a drink, don’t you think? Why don’t you come upstairs and I’ll fix us both something—”
“George, it’s not even noon.”
“—while you call up the girls.”
“George!”
“What, you don’t know any girls? Well, come upstairs anyway and have some lunch. We’ll order sandwiches from the deli.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Not your deli, of course.”
Upstairs, the Plimpton apartment has been transformed. The de Koonings and Warhols are still in place, plus the mounted water buffalo and other trophy kills, but with George’s family out of town, an aging, dilatory frat boy appears to have moved in, leaving the townhouse covered in Chinese food cartons, half-empty cocktail glasses and dirty clothes. A late-night pool game is in evidence, an ashtray, a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.
“So,” says George, his mood rapidly improving, “I have been thinking about the next issue, and who we should interview.”
“Oh really? Who?” Last week there was an editorial meeting devoted to this very question. Interviews are always the centerpiece of an issue, and for the fiftieth anniversary it is vital that we come up with a heavy hitter. The names floating around include Solzhenitsyn, Eco and Murakami.
“Niminam!” George shouts triumphantly.
Niminam? Is that an African author? I am not a connoisseur of world literature like others