Page 68 of Good Days Bad Days
I’ve only worn a tuxedo once before, to an orchestra performance in Chicago. Mark tried to talk me into wearing a tux in powder blue or with a fancy silk lining, but I went with the classic look, hoping to blend in.
I turn around, expecting to see Nicole Davenport but instead spotting Martha in a floral-print dress with large, playful blue and green flowers, cinched at the waist with a long blue ribbon. Her dark hair has been professionally done and is piled on the top of her head, her skin is impeccably powdered, and she’s added lashes on top of thick black liner. When I picked her up outside her apartment, I did my own version ofMark’s double take. She looks even more glamorous than she did at our ill-fated advertiser meeting at the Playboy Club-Hotel.
“Don’t forget your manners,” I scold Mark with a pointed finger, more forcefully than I typically speak to him. But I know him well enough to not trust him.
“Who, me? I’m a goddamned gentleman.”
“Sure you are,” I say as Martha reaches our table.
Mark politely kisses the air next to her cheek, and I think about taking her hand since she’s my date, but I’m not as smooth as Mark, so I pull out her chair instead. She thanks me, and I’m sure she’d let me hold her hand if I tried.
Mark gave me a long pep talk this morning, ending with “She’s clearly in love with you. Just go for it.”
I still can’t decide if his appraisal of Martha is realistic or if I’m letting my experience with Betty cloud my judgment. I’ve done my own assessment, and I’m almost convinced. Martha’s eagerness to work with me onJanesville Presents..., her willingness to stick with me when we were left withThe Classy Homemaker, her jealousy when I agreed to help Betty—it’s all too familiar, that kind of unrequited love. It’d be so much easier if I could love her back. What’s wrong with me?
“You guys ready?” she says to both of us, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Yup. Even wrote my speech.” Mark flashes a set of note cards.
“Impressive.” Martha takes a glass of wine off a waiter’s tray. “The Small Market categories are stacked this year. I bet WKBT or WAOW will win. Actually, I’m counting on not winning. If we do, the speech is on you, Greg.”
I know she’s teasing, but my throat tightens at the idea of speaking in front of professionals from across the Midwest in this gigantic ballroom. The crowd is full of serious journalists, newsmen, and writers. Heroes of mine. They’ve been to Korea, Cambodia, Vietnam. I’m just some kid sitting behind a camera safe and sound in Janesville, Wisconsin.
“I’m kidding.” Martha slaps at my arm, and I take a sip of my drink to calm my buzzing nerves. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I would. When I win, I’m calling you up to give my speech.” Mark razzes me and then excuses himself to get another drink.
“I think Nicole Davenport just walked in with her husband. Won’t Mark be disappointed?” Martha searches the table cards for our names. We’re seated next to each other, which of course makes sense. She sets her clutch on the table beside her place setting and then gazes across the room at the other clusters of prettily dressed men and women.
“I’m going to introduce you to some people tonight, so do what you gotta do to loosen up a little. Here. Take this.” She gives me her wineglass, half full, with the shape of her lips imprinted on the edge in lipstick. She encourages me to drink as she grabs two more.
“I’m not sure alcohol is the answer ...”
“Humor me,” she says, pulling me to my feet. I take her liquid prescription, regretting it almost immediately as my head starts to spin. “Now, hold on to this one.” She hands me a third glass and I take it, determined it’s just for show.
“Barry. Hey ... Barry ...” she calls to someone behind me. A medium-height man in his thirties, balding prematurely and wearing dark horn-rimmed glasses, hugs Martha with one arm, giving her a polite kiss on the cheek.
“Smith. Look at you. Belle of the ball.” He twirls her around with a natural flick of his wrist that I envy. Her dress spins out at the bottom, and she does look like she’s from a fairy tale.
“All right. All right. We don’t want to make Lila jealous now,” Martha says, a little winded. She slows herself down, but the hem of her dress continues to swing from the momentum. She’s so good at talking to everyone.
“Too late,” Barry says, taking out his wallet and retrieving a picture of a fair-faced twentysomething woman and a chubby, smiling infant. “She’s home with the baby and is green as eggs and ham that I get a night off.”
“Oh, my heavens. Yes. The baby! Congrats, Barry. My goodness, never would’ve imagined you two crazy kids settling down and havinga whole human child, but you proved me wrong.” She claps happily. “Greg. This is Barry Montague. He was a grad student at UW when I was there and swept my poor, unsuspecting roommate off her feet. Until very recently they traveled the world together. Barry now works for KSTP. Barry, this is Greg Laramie. We work together on that housewife show I told you guys about at Easter.”
“Greg? LiketheGreg? Fellow videographer, right?” Barry shakes my hand. I stutter as I process everything Barry and Martha have said.
“Well, camera operator for now. And Martha is the boss. I’m just another set of hands.”
“Not true. None of that’s true. He has an eye,” Martha says, giving me a hard stare. I’m struggling to pick up on the intricacies of this conversation after having so much to drink so quickly with no food in my stomach.
“So I’ve heard,” Barry says. “Martha showed us the segment you two worked on together. The tornado story. You’ve got some balls, man. I was impressed.”
“I’m glad ... I’m glad you liked it.”
“Like I’ve told Martha a million times over”—he leans in and lowers his voice as though he’s concerned someone may overhear—“when you get tired of small-town news and wanna broaden your horizons, I always need a good eye over my way.” He finishes his drink and adds, “We have a crew heading out next month to do some in-the-field stuff in Vietnam. Nothing super dangerous, but you never know over there. One of our guys came down with mono, and I’m looking for a late replacement.”
Vietnam. The word sounds like a funeral bell ringing. It’s the last place my brother walked this earth, the soil tainted with his blood. But I’ve often thought that the journalists over there, the ones showing the world what this war is truly like, are the only way to spare more young men, mothers, and brothers from the same fate. I’ve thought of going, of being one of the brave ones, using my camera for something that really matters.
