“you wanted to see me, max?” flossie flanagan, the ace investigative reporter for the new york federal-democrat, “joe stalin’s favorite new york paper”, asked .
max malmberg, the managing editor of the federal-democrat, looked up from the pad he was doodling on, and sighed. “yes, i did, flossie. have a seat.”
“is this going to take long?”
“well, maybe not, maybe not. it’s about jasper.”
jasper mccarthy was a cub reporter that max had hired as a favor to his old friend fred mccarthy, a comrade in the abraham lincoln brigade. jasper had not seemed a promising recruit, and had more than lived up to his lack of promise.
“oh, no. is he in trouble again, or do you just want me to help you get rid of him? “
"ha, ha, well, if i have to get rid of him, i am not such a rat as all that, i will do it myself and not shove it off on anybody else.”
“so - ?”
max couldn’t look flossie in the eye. “i’ve decided to give jasper - one more chance.”
“hasn’t he had a few already?”
“this is the last one, i promise,” max tried to smile.
“why promise me? where do i come in?”
“all i want is for you to give him a tip - maybe just one idea for a story? just one? please, flossie, as a favor to myself.”
“sure, max, i’ll do you a favor. no need to get all lionel barrymore about it. just send him over to my desk. i should be in for the rest of the afternoon.”
“thank you, flossie.”
*
“here we are,” flossie told jasper.
“here” was the sidewalk outside a bar on houston street. faded lettering on the window proclaimed it to be - in fairly large red letters - “henry’s” - and in smaller green letters - “horseplayers bar “ and “est. 1879”. there were no signs advertising a particular brand of beer, or indicating whether the establishment served food or provided any form of entertainment, or anything about it at all.
“i could have walked past this place a hundred times and never noticed it,” jasper said.
“exactly,” flossie answered.
“so is there something here i don’t see?”
“i don’t think so. but why don’t you go inside?”
“are there - are there some colorful characters inside? is that why you brought me here, to write a human interest story about some colorful characters?”
“no, there are no colorful characters,” flossie said. “ that’s the point of the story - a bar with no colorful characters, no bartenders dispensing wisdom, no sad old floozies who used to light up broadway, none of that. i always had the idea to maybe on a slow day to write a story about such a place, and now, as a favor to max, i give you the idea. get it?”
“o k, i get it.” jasper hesitated. “are you going to come inside with me?”
“no, why would i do that? it’s your story now. good night, jasper.” and flossie walked off in the direction of broadway.
i might as well go through with it, jasper thought. he entered the bar. it was dim. very dim.
at first jasper thought there were no other customers, but then he saw there was one, a man slouched over the bar at the end farthest from the door.
jasper took a seat near the door, and the bartender came over to him.
“what’ll you have?”
jasper decided not to make a show of his knowledge of imported beers, or fine whiskies, and just said, “a dark draft”.
“um - do you do a lot of business here?” jasper asked the bartender when he returned with the beer.
“some. couldn’t stay in business if we didn’t.”
“but some nights more than others, eh?”
“you might say that.”
jasper took the plunge. “do any colorful characters come in here?”
the bartender did not seemed surprised by the question, or annoyed by it, but just shrugged. “depends what you mean by colorful. there’s willie down at the end of the bar, you could ask him how colorful he is.”
“thank you. i’ll do that.”
jasper, who was not completely uncomfortable talking to strangers, picked up his drink and went and sat down beside the man the bartender had called “willie’.
“how do you do?” jasper asked willie. seen up close, willie looked about forty-five years old, with no distinguishing characteristics.
“rotten,” willie said, without looking at jasper.
“i’m a reporter,” jasper said. he did not add, “for the federal-democrat”, because willie might hate reds, and jasper would have to explain that he hated them too, and only worked for the federal-democrat because he needed the job blah blah…
on the other hand maybe willie was a red himself… but somehow jasper didn’t think so.
willie did not respond to jasper’s statement that he was a reporter.
“why don’t you tell me something about yourself,” jasper broke the silence.
“i’m the unluckiest guy who ever lived.”
this was promising! “is there any particular reason you are so unlucky?”
“i just am. take my word for it.”
“what was the unluckiest thing that ever happened -“
“get lost.”
“all right, my friend, sorry to have troubled you.” jasper looked up and saw that another customer had come in, and was sitting near the door.
jasper got up and took a seat beside the newcomer., who might have been willie’s twin brother.
“good evening,” jasper greeted him.
“what’s good about it?”
“i’m a reporter.” this guy didn’t look like a red either, so jasper didn’t mention the federal-democrat.
no response.
“what’s your name?” jasper asked.
“sam.”
“how are you feeling tonight, sam?”
“sad.”
“i am sorry to hear that.”
“not as sorry as me. i’m the sorriest, saddest guy that ever lived.”
“any particular reason?”
“nothing ever happens to me.”
jasper soldiered on. “want to tell me about it?”
“nothing to tell, if nothing ever happens, is there?”
jasper gave up. i am not cut out for this, he thought, these guys might open up to some people, like flossie, but not to me.
he decided to go home to his lonely room and work on his novel.
jasper’s novel was about a young man named desmond “dez” daugherty who graduates from yale and travels in south america and falls in love with the beautiful young wife of a sadistic dictator. it just isn’t meant to be, and dez barely escapes with his life. but dez can not forget her, and he wanders the world from tangiers to tasmania, the unluckiest and the saddest guy who ever lived.
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