I haven't done a damn thing this entire week. Being a crime reporter means that sometimes, during a lull in crime, the workload will be light. I can't write stories about criminals if there haven't been any crimes.
But I haven't had a week like this, not even during my first years as a reporter at a small daily in a backwoods county upstate. This is New York for crying out loud. Invariably, somebody's murdering, or someone else is scamming, or the cops shake up a kiddie porn ring or fat capo.
But the entire newsroom is quiet. Usually this place sounds like the call-in room for a 24-hour telethon, but now not a phone is ringing. Our fax machines churn out more than 5,000 press releases a week. This week, nothing.
I look to the next desk from me. Zayra is staring at her computer screen, looking annoyed. She's tough and extremely sharp, one of our top political reporters. She's got a disarming beauty to her, which distracts most sources from a top-shelf bullshit filter and enough patience to supply the Hudson for a month. The first day she showed up in a skirt I told her she should have been a TV reporter and almost got slapped for it.
If she's annoyed, I know I'm not the only one who's wondering what the hell is going on.
"What's on your plate?" I ask her.
"What does it look like?" she answers my question with a question. "I have about as much work to get to as you do, which is to say, none."
"Right. Coffee?"
"Yes, let's."
..........................
I take a drag from my cigarette in between sips of coffee. Eleven-thirty in the morning and I'm on my third cup already. Not that I need it. I'm wired.
Zayra leans back in her chair, folding her arms beneath her breasts. She exhales sharply, blowing a curl of dark hair away from her mouth.
"Let's write about this," she says.
"What?"
"This," she repeats. "All of this. It's not just us, Max. There's something wierd going on. I came home yesterday, and Jeff tells me everyone in his company has had their salary doubled. My neighbors who were taking a second mortgage out on the house six months ago just bought a new Mercedes and a sailboat. My uncle hasn't walked without a cane in years, but when I came to pick him up for a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, he was playing basketball with my nephew. Come on."
Across from us, three men in sharp-looking black suits and crisp black ties sit down. The fact that they're indoors doesn't seem to register with them -- they're all wearing dark sunglasses. I feel like I'm in a badly done FBI flick.
"Well, I mean, maybe it's our social circle or something. Maybe it's just one of those odd coincidences. I'm sure it's not impossible that everyone's doing well at the same time, for whatever reason. Chance? I don't know."
Outside, it starts to drizzle, and the wind slaps tiny drops against the window of the coffee shop.
"I called the morgue this morning," she says, stirring half a packet of sugar into her cup. "Not one body has been brought in all week. In a city of 10 million people, Max."
"Well..."
The rain starts to pick up.
"No, there's something going on. There's something definitely going on. After I called the morgue, I got to thinking, and I called every major hospital in the city. Guess what?"
"I don't know, what?"
"Not one birth since Monday. The nursing supervisors were telling me they don't remember ever having a week like this."
The rain drops are getting heavier, tapping the window in what almost sounds like a steady rhythm. If I didn't know better, I would swear the raindrops were making a song today.
"Allright," I say. "Let's pitch it to the eds and see what they say."
........................
It's 12:15 a.m., and I'm standing next to Zayra, the both of us looking over the copy chief's shoulders to give a final check-over before the pages are set to print.
ARE WE AWAKE, NEW YORK?
Plastered across page one, bold. Unemployment rate in five boroughs drops to zero, page 2A. Overabundance of cabs, subway seats strikes odd note with New Yorkers, 11A. Cops, courts: No crime for eight days, 3A and 4A. Homess shelters empty, 4A. When did this city get so clean?, page 5A. Israelis and Palestinians form peace pact, 6A.
.........................
Who was staring at me in the dark?
My eyes flipped open. Slowly, quietly, I reached for the lamp on my nightstand and clicked it on to see my wife curl up, tugging the blanket over her head, and an otherwise empty room.
6:59.
I slide the alarm switch off a minute before it would have buzzed, and, grabbing a t-shirt, start to do a groggy stumble down the stairs.
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.
ARE WE AWAKE, NEW YORK?
What an odd headline. I scan down to the byline and see my name, and Zayra's.
A flicker of familiarity skips across the back of my brain, and then it's gone. The newspaper shimmers for the smallest of an instant, the words seemingly liquid on the newsprint.
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.
ARE WE...
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.
For the fifth straight day, the cover blares financial news. Biggest gains in history on the markets. Real estate inexplicably booming at the same time. Consumer spending up.
I don't care for financial news.
I toss my paper on the couch and start to walk back to the kitchen.
.........................
But I haven't had a week like this, not even during my first years as a reporter at a small daily in a backwoods county upstate. This is New York for crying out loud. Invariably, somebody's murdering, or someone else is scamming, or the cops shake up a kiddie porn ring or fat capo.
But the entire newsroom is quiet. Usually this place sounds like the call-in room for a 24-hour telethon, but now not a phone is ringing. Our fax machines churn out more than 5,000 press releases a week. This week, nothing.
I look to the next desk from me. Zayra is staring at her computer screen, looking annoyed. She's tough and extremely sharp, one of our top political reporters. She's got a disarming beauty to her, which distracts most sources from a top-shelf bullshit filter and enough patience to supply the Hudson for a month. The first day she showed up in a skirt I told her she should have been a TV reporter and almost got slapped for it.
If she's annoyed, I know I'm not the only one who's wondering what the hell is going on.
"What's on your plate?" I ask her.
"What does it look like?" she answers my question with a question. "I have about as much work to get to as you do, which is to say, none."
"Right. Coffee?"
"Yes, let's."
..........................
I take a drag from my cigarette in between sips of coffee. Eleven-thirty in the morning and I'm on my third cup already. Not that I need it. I'm wired.
Zayra leans back in her chair, folding her arms beneath her breasts. She exhales sharply, blowing a curl of dark hair away from her mouth.
"Let's write about this," she says.
"What?"
"This," she repeats. "All of this. It's not just us, Max. There's something wierd going on. I came home yesterday, and Jeff tells me everyone in his company has had their salary doubled. My neighbors who were taking a second mortgage out on the house six months ago just bought a new Mercedes and a sailboat. My uncle hasn't walked without a cane in years, but when I came to pick him up for a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, he was playing basketball with my nephew. Come on."
Across from us, three men in sharp-looking black suits and crisp black ties sit down. The fact that they're indoors doesn't seem to register with them -- they're all wearing dark sunglasses. I feel like I'm in a badly done FBI flick.
"Well, I mean, maybe it's our social circle or something. Maybe it's just one of those odd coincidences. I'm sure it's not impossible that everyone's doing well at the same time, for whatever reason. Chance? I don't know."
Outside, it starts to drizzle, and the wind slaps tiny drops against the window of the coffee shop.
"I called the morgue this morning," she says, stirring half a packet of sugar into her cup. "Not one body has been brought in all week. In a city of 10 million people, Max."
"Well..."
The rain starts to pick up.
"No, there's something going on. There's something definitely going on. After I called the morgue, I got to thinking, and I called every major hospital in the city. Guess what?"
"I don't know, what?"
"Not one birth since Monday. The nursing supervisors were telling me they don't remember ever having a week like this."
The rain drops are getting heavier, tapping the window in what almost sounds like a steady rhythm. If I didn't know better, I would swear the raindrops were making a song today.
"Allright," I say. "Let's pitch it to the eds and see what they say."
........................
It's 12:15 a.m., and I'm standing next to Zayra, the both of us looking over the copy chief's shoulders to give a final check-over before the pages are set to print.
ARE WE AWAKE, NEW YORK?
Plastered across page one, bold. Unemployment rate in five boroughs drops to zero, page 2A. Overabundance of cabs, subway seats strikes odd note with New Yorkers, 11A. Cops, courts: No crime for eight days, 3A and 4A. Homess shelters empty, 4A. When did this city get so clean?, page 5A. Israelis and Palestinians form peace pact, 6A.
.........................
Who was staring at me in the dark?
My eyes flipped open. Slowly, quietly, I reached for the lamp on my nightstand and clicked it on to see my wife curl up, tugging the blanket over her head, and an otherwise empty room.
6:59.
I slide the alarm switch off a minute before it would have buzzed, and, grabbing a t-shirt, start to do a groggy stumble down the stairs.
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.
ARE WE AWAKE, NEW YORK?
What an odd headline. I scan down to the byline and see my name, and Zayra's.
A flicker of familiarity skips across the back of my brain, and then it's gone. The newspaper shimmers for the smallest of an instant, the words seemingly liquid on the newsprint.
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.
ARE WE...
I stop in the kitchen. Flip on the light. In with the filter, on with the coffee machine.
I make my way to the front door, slide open the locks and bend down to grab my paper off the doormat.
For the fifth straight day, the cover blares financial news. Biggest gains in history on the markets. Real estate inexplicably booming at the same time. Consumer spending up.
I don't care for financial news.
I toss my paper on the couch and start to walk back to the kitchen.
.........................