Ernest in the Afternoon

PART ONE

Monday morning. Natalie was late again. It had been bumper to bumpers across the Golden Gate Bridge. In San Francisco, traffic was heavy as she sped down Pacific Avenue, and she was trapped behind an old lady doing twenty in a seventies-something Cadillac. The van alongside her slowed, and she jerked the wheel left and squeezed into the small opening. She roared ahead of the Caddy and whipped back into the right lane. Only one more intersection before the parking garage. The light turned red as she reached the crosswalk, but she gunned the little Chevy, ran the light and cut off a man turning left. Natalie ignored his furious horn, whipped into the garage and waved at Charlie, the old gate-keeper, as she flew by. Screeching around corners to the fourth level, she glanced at her watch. 9:05.

She wheeled the Chevrolet Volt into her parking space and slammed the gearshift into 'Park'. Grabbing the huge purse and the files that had kept her up late last night, she kicked the car door open. Natalie yelled "Shit!" as the door banged against Rod Cooper's old VW. He had parked crooked again. Her voice still echoed off the concrete walls as she ran to the elevator. On her way to the fourteenth floor, Natalie checked the top file. Everything was ready for her studio interview of the pop singer, Laura Watson, today.

The elevator jerked to a stop and the automated lady cheerfully announced, "fourteenth floor, Personalities Magazine!" Natalie slid through the half-opened door, wishing the announcer an untimely death.

As she rushed across the lobby, Susan, the receptionist, held up a folded note.
"From Mr. Krejak!" she said, and smirked as their eyes met. Natalie was sure the note had been opened and read. They had been friends briefly when Susan was first hired by the magazine. Soon after, Susan started pressuring Natalie to take some of her fiction directly to Bill Krejak, the editor-in-chief of the magazine. When Natalie refused, Susan stopped speaking to her.

Inside her office, Natalie opened the note and read the scrawled words: "See me before you do anything else. Bill." Was he going to chew her out for being late? She knew that her pretty face, tight body and ample breasts had helped her get hired here two years ago. Tom Linderman, senior editor, had interviewed her. She was just twenty and had been working for Vogue magazine under a fat, older, oppressive supervisor. When she heard that Personalities was looking for another staff writer, she applied the same day.

Tom had nodded approval as he read her profile. He showed her a framed picture of a sunny, laughing girl with wind-blown hair. His daughter Linda, just eighteen when she drowned in a boating accident. After they chatted, Tom took her to meet Bill Krejak.

Bill had looked her up and down and asked her, "Why do you want to go to work for Personalities Magazine?" He had smiled as she stuttered through an answer, glancing at her breasts. She had felt his eyes follow her when they left, but Bill had never made a pass at her or said anything inappropriate. Tom Linderman had been like a father, guiding her through the first couple of months.

When she worked at Vogue, Jerry Watkins, a college friend, had been spending an occasional night with her. After she got the job at Personalities, she buried herself in her work and was never home. They had a few spats, then Jerry quit calling. She often took work home with her to ease the lonely hours.

Now, Natalie read the note again, then flipped it back and forth across her other hand. She didn't look at Susan as she walked by her desk and then past the cubicles where keyboards clicked, copy boys rushed in and out and phones rang constantly. They were three days from the magazine's printing deadline and the air was thick with tension.

Bill Krejak was yelling at someone on the phone as she paused outside his office. He motioned her in and pointed at the chair in front of his desk. A sport coat hung crookedly on the stand. He had already loosened his tie, a bad sign. His left hand held a half full coffee cup with a scowling face and "Because I'm The Boss!" on it. Bill listened for a moment, then his face twisted. He held the phone away from his face and yelled, "I don't give a damn! You get over there, take flowers, kiss some ass and do whatever it takes to save that account!" He started to hang up and then yelled into the mouthpiece, "And your ass!" The phone slammed into its cradle. Coffee slopped onto the green desk pad. Compressing his lips, Bill stared down at his desk for a moment, then looked up at Natalie and one side of his mouth pulled back. Grey stubble stuck out on one side of his chin where his razor had missed.

"Fred Carter is trying to blow off the Revlon advertising!" He blotted the coffee with a sheet of paper and shook his head. "Just think, I turned down that cushy job at Cosmopolitan for this rat race!" He looked away and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I would have been Assistant Editor-in-Chief. Almost as much money, and all I would have had to do was follow orders."

He put his elbows on the arms of his chair, clasped his hands together and leaned forward. "Anyway," he said; all business again, "Tom Linderman had a heart attack last night."

Natalie started and Bill held up his hands. "Mild attack, but he will be off for a week." Bill picked up a folder and wagged it back and forth. He glanced at her chest under the smart beige jacket and her short business skirt. "So, I had to make a few changes. Tom asked if you would do the Ernest Higgins interview today, at his home in Seacliff." He tapped the file on the desk.

Natalie leaned forward, her eyes widening. "You mean Ernest Higgins, the Hemingway clone?"

"That's the guy, never gives interviews, big news!" Bill tapped the folded newspaper on his desk. "Might be because of the attack on his work by this critic--" he opened the paper and pointed a finger, "Spalding Wright."

"But I have everything ready for Laura Watson and I-"

Bill nodded. "I know, but I need for you to do Higgins." He held the file out. When she didn't take it, he put it down.

Natalie grabbed the arms of her chair. "Dammit Bill, I stayed up until midnight, researching Laura and writing out the interview questions!"

"Sorry kiddo, can't be helped." Bill blinked twice and there was a tick in one cheek. He put his hands on the desk. "Besides," he said, tilting his head, "You are the best we have, and the most qualified for the job!" they said together. Bill laughed. Natalie frowned, nodded and picked up the file.

"Everything you need is in there, including the review Spalding wrote." The big chair squeaked as he leaned back. "Oh, I had Rod Cooper load some film clips from both guys in the rush room."

Natalie opened the file and looked inside. "So what time is this fiasco?"

"Not until two this afternoon so you have time to preview Higgins."

"From what I've heard and read about him, this guy is a conceited phony, with an ego the size of Gibralter!"

"Well, don't let that color your interview." Bill grinned. "Lots of lonely, older ladies are going to buy this issue just to fantasize and drool over Macho Man Higgins."

"So who is going to do the Laura Watson interview?"

Bill looked down and shuffled some papers. "Thinking about letting Susan do this one, you know, give her a chance."

"Susan?" Natalie stood up. "You've got to be kidding!"

Bill bunched the papers together. "Well, I could have Bob Morgan, if-"

"By all means!"

They locked eyes for a moment, then Bill nodded. Natalie turned to go. She stopped at the door and turned back. "By the way, who is doing the filming for me?"

"Rod Cooper, plus the sound and lighting."

Natalie's eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything as she left. Stuck with that wierdo Cooper again! Talk about adding insult to injury! Well, as long as he keeps his mouth shut and does his job.

It was cold in the tiny rush room. As she turned on the CD viewer, there was a low growl and the faint odor of tobacco smoke came from the bath room where Rod Cooper had sneaked his morning cigarette, in violation of Bill Krejak's "smoke free" orders. Rod had left the door ajar and the fan on.

Natalie went into the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror. The blouse was just a little too tight, so  left the top two buttons undone. Only the tops of her breasts showed unless she bent over.

She went back to the viewer and watched black and white clips of Ernest Hemingway, fishing off his forty-foot motor yacht, "Pilar," lion hunting in Africa, and getting a standing ovation at the bull ring in Pamplona, Spain. Her eyes narrowed and she pushed the 'Fast-Forward' button so hard a chip flew off of her finger nail. She said "Damn!" as she pushed the 'Stop' and bit the chip off. Looking down at the ruined nail, she thought bitterly about today's assignment.
Of all of the magazine staff available, why in the hell did I have to get stuck interviewing Ernest Higgins? Sure, the man is a world famous sportsman. His novels have sold in the millions. But he has admitted his fascination with Ernest Hemingway. He even resembles his predecessor, six-foot and one inch, thinning gray hair and grizzled beard, barrel chested. But he is an idiot! Married four times with numerous affairs in between with some of the most beautiful and talented women in the world (How could they have been so stupid?). Higgins has modeled his life after his hero. He has even taken some ridiculous chances to better Hemingway. Yeah, what a jerk.

Pulling an emery-board from her purse, Natalie carefully filed the nail. She pushed the 'Play' button. In black and white on the screen in front of her, Ernest Hemingway, in a white, short sleeved shirt, slacks and loafers, smiled at the camera. He turned and took a large cape and a wooden sword from a grinning matador in full uniform. Hemingway brandished the sword at the camera and then climbed the tall fence into a wide corral. A gate at the far end opened. A huge, black bull with horns three feet wide stormed into the ring, kicking up dust as he glared right and left. Dirt flew as the big animal slid to a halt. A fleeting "El Toro!" appeared at the bottom of the picture and vanished.

Hemingway flared the cape. "Estoque simulada," flashed on the screen as Hemingway draped the cape over the wooden sword. He shuffled forward as he shook the cape.

"And he's no doubt yelling, 'Hey, hey, toro!" Natalie thought, "What bullshit!" The bull charged furiously, lowering its massive head as it flew through the cape. "Ole!" flashed on the screen. At the fence, the huge animal wheeled, then charged again. Natalie watched Hemingway gracefully lead the bull through pass after pass. Finally, the bull stood still, sides heaving, snot dripping from it's nose. Hemingway approached the bull, then withdrew the wooden sword from the cape. He leaned forward and touched the bull's forehead with the sword, then turned and strolled arrogantly back to the fence, dragging the cape behind him. "Ole!" flashed on the screen.

Natalie punched two buttons. The screen went dark and then flashed on again. Ernest Higgins appeared in a golden matador's uniform and climbed over what looked like the same fence as Hemingway had, years before. He carried a bright red cape and the "estoque simulada," the wooden sword. Higgins took a rigid stance. The gate opened. An immense, horned bull charged into the ring.
Natalie watched as Higgins repeated Hemingway's performance,then  he leaned over the bulls horns and held the wooden sword against the spot where the steel sword would have been shoved between the bull's shoulder blades and into it's heart. Natalie shut the machine off. "What an arrogant bastard," she thought. "He had to one-up Hemingway!"

Picking up her papers, Natalie sighed as she fastened them together with a paper clip.. The first two pages were interview questions Tom Linderman had written to ask Ernest Higgins this afternoon. She turned the machine off and went back to her office to memorize the questions.

Rod Cooper stuck his head in just after lunch. He was tall and skinny. His mouth was always twisted into a mocking grin that was no doubt there when he slept. A shock of blonde hair stuck out under his ball cap. He had the annoying habit of tucking his head down before he spoke. He wore ancient black and white tennis shoes, khakis, and a black 'Grateful Dead' T shirt. His fingernails were always dirty from his constant efforts to keep his old Volkswagen running. His mission in life seemed to be how many people he could piss off.

"Hey Nat," he crooned, "you ready to roll?"

Rod knew she hated that nickname. Natalie glared at him and put everything in a large canvass bag. Rod drove the company van to Seacliff, she followed in her Chevy. She thought about the Higgins information and the interview questions again. What a conceited goof this guy was! Higgins had not written Hemingway's volume, but he had three best sellers to his credit and was supposedly working on his fourth. At sixty-one, he was a tall, muscular man with gray hair and a white beard. She gritted her teeth and reminded herself that she needed this job.