Cold Type. Harvey Araton

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СКАЧАТЬ from my two years at Princeton? Jeffrey? We ran into him one night in the city, coming out of the movie theater on Twenty-Third Street?”

      “The guy who dated your roommate, but you thought might have been more interested in you?”

      “Not the point,” Karyn said. “He’s got this business idea, and he remembered from our conversation that night that I was working with Harper. He called there looking for me, and they gave him my number up here. He’s got an idea for a startup company, selling books.”

      “Wasn’t he a Wall Street guy?” Jamie said.

      “Wall Street guys make money and invest it in other things,” Karyn said. “He’s apparently done pretty well and wants to go into the book-selling business, except he wants to sell them electronically.”

      “How do you do that?”

      “On this internet thing everyone in the business world is so excited about. They’re saying that a huge segment of goods and services are going to become available through the computer.”

      Jamie stifled a chuckle and rolled his eyes, but decided if he knew what was good for him he had better be positive.

      “So, that’s good,” he said. “Will it pay more than the real bookstore in Chappaqua?”

      “Yes, it will. Plus benefits. Plus…moving costs.”

      “Moving? To where?”

      “Seattle.”

      “You’re kidding,”

      “No, actually I’m not.”

      “Yes you are.”

      Silence convinced Jamie she wasn’t.

      “Wait a minute,” he said. “Just wait. Are you saying that you’re going to pick up Aaron and move him all the way across the country without talking to me about it?”

      “I am talking to you about it.”

      “Yes, I hear. I’m on strike from my job for one day and already you’re telling me you’re moving three thousand miles. And if this—pardon me—bookstore is supposed to be in a computer, why would you have to move to Seattle to work for it?”

      “Look, I told you. This guy…Jeffrey…we had lunch and he said he is launching the company out there and that there would be a good position for me if I was willing to make the move, take a chance. He called the next day and offered me the job. I told him I needed some time to think about it, given the circumstances.”

      “I don’t get it,” Jamie said. “Why would you even do the interview?”

      “Excuse me, aren’t you the critic who’s always complaining about how little I make? You’re the one who was so pissed when I quit Harper to have Aaron to begin with. Remember? How many times have you accused me of making fourteen cents an hour?”

      “I didn’t suggest you could make more money in fucking Seattle.”

      “Jamie, for one thing, fucking Seattle is a lot closer to Los Angeles, where my father lives, than New York. Aaron and I see him—what—once a year? And when I heard about the strike at the Trib this morning, it got me to thinking that you were right about how I can’t put off my career forever. I owe that to Aaron. I’ve been home all day with him pretty much for two years, working nights just to get out of the house and make a few bucks. What I make basically pays for sitters while I’m working. It was a long shot that I would move when I did the interview, but when I heard today you were on strike, it made me think, what if something really goes wrong with your job? Then what would I do? How would I pay for this house? His clothes? His future?”

      “Karyn, I’m on strike one day. That doesn’t mean I’m unemployed.”

      “Jamie, the real issue here is me, not you. You have nothing to do with this…”

      “Aaron is also my son, no?”

      “That’s not what I mean. I’ve got to resume my own career. And if that means I have to move, then I’ll have to move, and we’ll have to deal with it.”

      “You mean I’ll have to deal with it.”

      “I never said I didn’t want Aaron to have his father…you…in his life. But what about his future? What about college? It’s not like either of us is ever going to inherit any real money. You pay the mortgage, the bills, but you don’t have a cent in the bank, and neither do I.”

      “Karyn, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but the last time we went out it was over in a couple of days. Most of these things don’t last. Don’t take this job because of the strike.”

      “I told you, this is about me. I need to give Jeffrey an answer by the end of the week.”

      Jamie paused, working hard to hold back his agitation. “Give it a few days, we’ll see what happens,” he said. “Maybe you could look for a job in New York.”

      “I’ve been looking for six months.”

      Jamie had no response for that. The inevitable suspicion of whether Karyn had developed a romantic interest in her old college friend—and vice versa—crossed his mind. He knew better than to broach that subject or she’d hang up on him and somehow manage to not be home for his next visit—her standard tactic when her custodial mood turned sour.

      “Just don’t do anything for a day or two,” he pleaded. “Seattle—how in the world would I ever see…?”

      “The other line’s beeping,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

      Jamie hung up, pulled the receiver up again and froze in mid-slam.

      He walked over to the bed, sat down and looked up at the inoperative ceiling fan. He realized that in the shock and confusion of Karyn’s thunderbolt, he hadn’t asked to speak with Aaron. He thought about calling back. But his mood, not exactly sunny to begin with, was as gray as the sky over Seattle—or so he had heard.

      Day Two: Tuesday, November 8, 1994

      Chapter Ten

      Not this one again. Oh, please, no, the voice providing the narrative to Jamie’s morning dream was pleading.

      Deadline was approaching. The phone on the night table kept ringing. Jamie knew it was a source with information he needed for a story. But when he reached out to answer, the cord was severed from the receiver. He tried frantically to reattach it, but Karyn materialized, brandishing a shopping list for Aaron’s birthday party. She chastised Jamie for forgetting plastic spoons.

      The exception being that Jamie’s subconscious had given her a makeover. She had Debbie Givens’ blonde hair and was demanding an apology with a microphone aimed at his chin.

      The ring came again—twice, a third time. Jamie’s recorded voice intervened and delivered a shot of psychological caffeine that awakened him to the cognitive realization that he was better off asleep.

      For the second morning in a row, СКАЧАТЬ