What Men Want. Deborah Blumenthal

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СКАЧАТЬ other possibility was that after spending day after day using the system to fight for the rights of the downtrodden, she had closed herself off to available men who came her way either by assuming that they had their private agendas or simply by feeling too mentally and physically exhausted from working twelve-or fourteen-hour days to even go out on a date and have a normal discussion.

      I could understand that. There were days when my job totally sucked the lifeblood from me. No wonder some women on the ladder to success find themselves without husbands or even boyfriends, because a demanding career chips away at how much you have to give to someone else. There is just so much loving and nurturing in all of us, and sometimes our careers become our little children, demanding full-time attention, and requiring us to wipe noses and behinds.

      Forget the image of superwoman; few of us can do it all, or at least do it all very well. And the knowledge of that—especially if you are a perfectionist and overachiever—always eats away at you and makes you feel somehow compromised.

      On Ellen’s birthday, I couldn’t resist buying her a T-shirt from a Soho street vendor that said, Just Fuck Off.

      “Whose rear did you save today?” I said when Ellen answered.

      “Not my own. Never complain again when your shower isn’t hot enough or when your super takes too long to turn on the air-conditioning. We sent a crew up to a rat-infested tenement in Harlem where the windows have holes in them big enough for a cat to crawl through and the water in the pipes is so rusty you can’t wash dishes.”

      Maybe Chris was right, reality did suck. “So what did you do?”

      “Well now, after six months, we’re forcing the landlord to do repairs and in the meantime we’re moving the family into a hotel.”

      “You did good,” I said, immediately forgetting about my gripes and feeling small for needing to vent about what was eating me.

      “Yes, for one family,” Ellen said, “after months of calls and intervention by the city. But what about the others who live in those burnt-out joints and never bother to contact consumer reporters for help because they’ve given up on everybody and everything or simply don’t know how to navigate the system?”

      “You save the world one person at a time,” I said, reaching for an old cliché. “If you dwell on the extent of the job, you’ll be paralyzed. But to change the subject, you sound like you could use a break, so how about joining me and Chris for dinner? His old roommate is in town.”

      “Now you’re trying to save me,” she said, exhaling. “A blind date?”

      “He’s not blind,” I said. “And you have to eat anyway.”

      There was silence on the other end of the line.

      “Well?”

      “Fine,” Ellen said. “But let’s not talk about what I do, okay? Last time we double-dated I woke up the next morning and found that he had slipped his résumé under my door along with several letters of recommendation.”

      I didn’t remember that. “Why?”

      “He wanted to get out of law and break into TV journalism. He thought, it was ‘sexier.’ And if they don’t want to change careers, they start telling me about how their banks screwed them, how the dry cleaner burned their suit, or how they couldn’t cash a traveler’s check without two forms of ID, even though it’s the same thing as cash.” She had my sympathy there. Everyone who had a particular beef usually ended up sharing it with a friend from the media.

      “Then there was the guy who thought that when you were fixing him up with an action reporter you meant a journalist who put out,” Ellen said. I never doubted that if she left TV she could become a stand-up comic.

      We arranged to meet for dinner on Saturday. What I didn’t tell her was that Chris’s former roommate, who I hadn’t met because he lived in upstate New York, wasn’t like the other guys that she knew.

      “What’s his name?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.

      I paused for a minute. “His name…”

      “His name, yes… Is that such a hard question?”

      “Moose,” I mumbled.

      Silence. “What? What did you say?”

      “Moose.”

      “Is he one?” Ellen said, cracking up.

      “No…he’s not an animal. He just lives up in the Adirondacks to be near them. Likes wildlife more than city people.”

      “Oh,” Ellen said, considering that. “I can understand that.”

      I started to hang up, when I heard her call my name. “Jenny?”

      “What?” I said, lifting the receiver back up to my ear.

      “You’re not fixing me up with some freaky loner like Ted Kaczynski, are you?”

      “The Unabomber?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Oh please,” I said. “Definitely not. He lived in Montana. Moose lives in upstate New York.”

      “Oh,” Ellen said. “That sets my mind at ease.”

      Chapter Three

      On a regular basis I get one or two angry letters from readers complaining that the media always dwells on what is “base and unsavory about the human condition, and that it can never find good news to report,” as one reader put it. I thought about that and with Christmas approaching and a warm, generous spirit warming my soul as the holiday got closer, I put off a column about major fraud in a prestigious Manhattan co-op in favor of a column about what was working well in New York and what reflected its essential goodness. I wrote up a charitable group that came to the aid of homebound people in need; animal shelters that had gone from kill to no-kill, and a group of college graduates who banded together to renovate houses for the poor on the Lower East Side. That brought a few favorable calls, and a pound of homemade dog-shaped short-bread cookies (for human consumption, I assumed) from an animal rights group.

      Slaid was obviously feeling less charitable. His column zeroed in on accounting discrepancies between what a major charity reported and what it actually took in and the fact that the authorities had found that the chairman had a criminal record. He described the widening investigation hinting at indictments to come. A coup for him, but I was above calling him to take potshots at his reporting, particularly his obvious failure to respect a news embargo. But I’d be big about that, let it slide. I considered sending him the cookies, but decided against it, once I tasted them.

      Of course, I could have taken the opportunity to call and demonstrate my largesse—simply congratulate him. Christmas was in the air, why be mean-spirited? It was a nice piece of reporting and we were all working for the common good. But he’d never accept my praise at face value. He would ponder my real agenda, so I held back.

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