Tips for Living(6)
As I pulled into a parking space almost directly in front of the Courier office’s bay window, I could see Ben working, probably on his story about a new traffic camera that was generating a suspiciously high number of tickets.
He sat at his large oak desk, jammed between a file cabinet and a sagging bookcase, weighted with back issues, staring at his computer screen and pulling his left ear. Ben always pulled his ear when he was writing. He caught me watching him once. I could tell it made him really uncomfortable; he instantly found a reason to leave the room. He’s a great editor, but on a personal level, he’s about as open as a bear trap.
Ben stopped tugging abruptly and turned to say something to Lizzie, the junior member of our tiny staff. She left her desk and strode over in her lace-up army boots to study his screen with him. Lizzie has Orphan Annie hair, a pixieish freckled face and a petite frame that makes her look even younger than her twenty-three years. She tends to dress like a war correspondent to convince people she has gravitas. “The more you push for answers and don’t back down, the more they’ll take you seriously,” I’ve advised, trying to be a mentor to her.
I exited the car and entered the three-story redbrick building, formerly a bindery in the mid-1800s.
“Morning,” I said as I opened the office’s old-fashioned, oak-and-glass front door.
Ben and Lizzie both looked up from his computer with solemn expressions.
“Uh-oh. Did the hard drive crash?”
“No,” Ben said, swiveling his wooden swivel chair around to face me. As usual, he looked and sounded cranky, like he’d been yanked out of bed. The cowlicky salt-and-pepper hair, the deep shadows under his brown eyes and the stubble on his dimpled chin contributed to the effect.
“Then who died?”
“We just received another letter about your Tips column,” he said.
I’d pitched Tips for Living as a creative way to give voice to the locals’ gripes. Until I lived here full-time, I hadn’t realized the impact Summer People had on the year-round community. “We need a new approach to talking about how tough things have become for the average Pequod resident,” I’d told Ben.
I admit I came up with the idea after Hugh and Helene moved to Pequod. I could relate to the locals’ aversion to having their hometown invaded by people who didn’t treat them well. A snarky tone might let off some steam for all of us, I thought. So far, we’d run a half dozen Tips and received a fair amount of appreciative fan mail. But we’d also gotten a number of nasty letters.
“What does this one say?” I asked.
Ben turned back to his computer and read: “‘Nora Glasser still thinks she’s clever, doesn’t she? Her Tips are an insult to people who are struggling to get by. There’s real suffering out here. She should watch what she writes or she’s going to regret it.’ The letter is signed Mad as Hell.”
Ben folded his arms across his chest and raised both of his unruly eyebrows. “That’s number two from Mad as Hell. I draw the line at threats. I’m not going to publish it,” he said.
“And he’s rethinking the column, too,” Lizzie added.
Ben shot her an annoyed look, and Lizzie stared down at her boots, chastened.
Lizzie’s father is Pequod’s four-term mayor. All that campaigning for him has made her highly competitive. She compares word counts and story placement even if she’s only writing the week’s weather outlook. Ever since I started writing Tips, she’d been angling for her own column reviewing smartphone apps. But Ben won’t sign off. He credits the paper’s success with sticking to local angles.
“Is that true? Are you rethinking?” I asked, concerned. I loved writing Tips. It not only added something unique to the paper, but writing it finally brought me to life again after the divorce. At least in my work.
“Frankly, yes. I’m always rethinking,” Ben said. “That’s my job.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion, Ben. It’s two letters. People who write angry letters have already found an outlet for their hostile feelings.” Sobachny ne karyyty. “Barking dogs seldom bite.” That’s what Aunt Lada would say. “Watch out for the quiet one that tucks its tail,” she warned.
“It’s the silent brooders you have to worry about,” I told Ben.
“Don’t be so sure,” he cautioned. “I don’t have to tell you how much resentment has risen with the cost of living here.”
It’s true. You can feel the tension in the air. Even the bar fights have escalated. Last July, an intoxicated plumber pulled a gun on a Summer Person over an unpaid fee for dealing with a backed-up toilet. The Courier’s Police Blotter used to list a few DUIs and the occasional shoplifting incident. But we’ve reported a record four burglaries already this fall—all of vacant summer homes. Still, I believed what I said about not worrying about one irate letter writer.
“We’ve gotten lots of positive letters, too. And what about a free press? You didn’t stop writing stories about the condo project because of the rock thrower.”
After the Courier came out against a proposed high-end resort that threatened to pollute a tract of wetlands, a large rock crashed through the front window while Ben was working late. A note wrapped around the rock said, “Stay out of it.” Grace even had Ben on her radio show to discuss the incident. Now he keeps a baseball bat by his desk.