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Study no. 2
He dropped out of college to take the job. This worried his father, who still held fast to a thread of hope that his kid would end up playing college ball and go on to the majors. "Pop," Jimmy always reminded him, "I blew out my knee. Nobody plays a catcher with a bum knee." The conversation was an old favorite. Pop always followed that with, "So whatcha gonna do, then? Work on Wall Street? You ain't got college, boy." To which Jimmy inevitably would reply, "You don't need a degree to write, Pop. I'm gonna be a writer."
The interview was held in the lobby of The Oregonian. Jimmy walked in ten minutes early, counting on having to sit in a stiff-backed chair for a little while, waiting. He walked past a man in a dirty baseball jersey and a cap and stopped at the front desk. The girl behind the desk looked up expectantly.
"I'm Jimmy Madison," he said. "I have a ten o'clock."
The girl barely opened her mouth. "With?" she said through her teeth.
"Reginald Matthews."
The girl smiled imperceptibly and Jimmy found himself admiring her white teeth. She chomped gently on air and he shook his gaze away. "Over there," she said.
The guy in the jersey followed with his eyes as Jimmy began the long walk across the lobby. "Jimmy Madison?" he asked, sticking his hand out before Jimmy was in range, leaving Jimmy with the uncomfortable decision of making the guy wait or speeding up his pace to grab the hand before it hung out a little too long. He sped up.
"Mr. Matthews?" he replied, giving the man a firm shake.
"Reggie," he said. "Take a walk with me?"
Jimmy fell into step with Matthews.
"I hear you're a bit of a writer," Matthews said. "That's good. I guess the right guy for the job should know his gerund from his dangling participle." Matthews laughed a little. Jimmy added a nervous chuckle, a little too late. Matthews went on. "I hear, too, some good things about you."
This perplexed Jimmy. He imagined the only thing someone might tell his prospective employer was that he couldn't stick it out in school. "You do," Jimmy said, his voice flat.
Matthews stopped and turned. He grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders and shook him a little. "Loosen up, kiddo," he said. "Now come on."
Over his shoulder, Matthews said, "I also hear you played a little bit of ball back in your day. What happened? Not for you?"
"I, uh, blew out my knee," Jimmy admitted.
"Still be playing today if you hadn't?"
"Absolutely."
"Job's yours, then, Madison." Matthews turned again and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. "You understand what you're gonna be doing here?"
Jimmy shrugged, the weight of Matthews' hand rising with the movement. "I'll be writing."
"They tell you what department?"
"Just that it was sort of an entry-level position, probably more basic copywriting than anything."
"Well," Matthews said, "that's not exactly right."
Jimmy closed the kitchen door and leaned against it. The job was his. The relief he felt could only be compared to that of a war-weary boxer landing the one punch that counts and getting to raise that arm one last time.
He snapped his eyes open at the snuffling noise from the living room. Jimmy picked up the only thing in reach and crept to the open doorway. His breath whooshed out when he saw his pop stretched out on the sofa.
"How'd you get in?" he said.
Pop woke with a start and shot up. He saw Jimmy and yawned, rubbed at his eyes. "What's with the spatula?"
Jimmy looked down at the utensil. "Nothing."
Pop nodded like this was typical and yawned again. Then he said, "Reggie give you the job?"
Jimmy's smile went flat. "You didn't."
Pop grinned. "You know you want to thank me." He patted his middle. "And I could sure use some of Rosa's pancakes right now. Whaddya say?"
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