Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-four

There are some people who, by all appearances, are perfect. I have one question for those people ... I take that back, I have two questions: Why are you that way? And how did you get that way? And I'm not talking perfect in a beauty-like way, like when I first saw Miss Illinois. I'm talking perfect in self-conscious appearance way. The perfectly pressed shirt, with the textbook Windsor knotted tie, falling at perfect length. Pressed pants with a hard crease. Shoes shined to military level. Hair and mustache seemingly trimmed on a daily calendar, with every hair perfectly in place. Skin freshly tanned, shiny clean, and wrapped around a perfectly fit body, for that healthy glow. Fingernails, manicured and cleaned with bleach. And finally, glasses that fit with precise simplicity. Who is this guy, and what kind of energy does it take to live like this?

I almost asked him, but I knew Kate would have a fit if I embarrassed her boss like that. Nonetheless, as he walked away from grilling Kate about some fact-checking boner, I gave Kate several nicknames to choose from: Anal Al, Tidy Man, and my personal favorite, Powder Fresh. Once I assessed her boss, in all his perfectness, I became engrossed in the bank of TVs showing CNN, MSNBC, CSPAN, ESPN, CLTV, and a rerun of I Love Lucy—As my eyes darted from one screen to the other, image after image, like a cruel experiment from A Clockwork Orange, I wondered how in the hell anyone could get any information with all the stations on at once.

"That's called a TV," Kate whispered in my ear. "If you'd like I'll get you a chair, and you can watch all day, but I've got to get back to work."

"What happened to the tour of the presses?" I said while still in a semi–TV coma.

She grabbed a newspaper, slapped it on my chest, and said, "Sorry about the press tour, but here's your free Trib."

"What about finishing our argument? I'm still mad at you about the Ben tapes."

"Do you mind if we finish it later? That way," Kate said, "it'll give us something to talk about when you come over to my place for dinner tonight. What do you think?"

There I was, standing in the middle of the Chicago Tribune newsroom, being asked by a beautiful woman to join her for dinner at her place. This was a big story. Headline news. Front-page material. And for some reason, I acted like a freak. The room spun like a bad effect from a '60s drug movie, and all I could do was shake my head up and down, and up and down, and up and down, like one of those fucking dog toys with the bobbing heads.

I get close to the wall of intimacy, stand in front of it, and look up. I see a huge wall, and feel overwhelmed. But this time I saw a break in part of the wall. I saw a little light coming through it—Nothing blinding, but a light on the other side of the wall.

"Does the bobbing of the head signify a yes?"

"What time would you like to do this dinner?"

"Why don't come over at seven thirty?"

"I'll see ya then ..."

I turned around, stared at the bank of TVs, and walked away before she changed her mind.