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.Beyond the buff et, a bar was set up staff ed by two uniformed bartenders wearing Ritz-Carlton nametags.Bottles’ labels were prominently displayed: Wild Turkey, Famous Grouse, Jack Daniel’s, Macallan, Laphroaig, Hennessy, Bacardi Añejo, ZD Chardonnay, Mondavi Reserve Cabernet, Sierra Nevada, Anchor Steam and Singha.“Don’t ever accept the standard crap they put out for the gentlemen of the press box,” Brian explained, leading me past the food to the bar.“There’s always better.It’s reserved for people who know to look for it.Now what will you have to drink?”I pointed to the Jack Daniel’s.“Short,” I said.“With a splash.I’m working tomorrow.”“Black Jack for my friend here,” Brian instructed the bartender.“Short, splash of Saratoga, if you please.” He paused, inspecting the bottles.“Make it two while you’re at it,” he added.“Make the second a double.” Palming a fi ver, he slipped it into the tip glass.He nudged me, his sharp eyes locking mine when I turned toward him.“We’ll be working every tomorrow for the next two and a half weeks, my friend.We have to treat ourselves with respect when the opportunity arises.”The bartender handed us drinks and paper napkins stamped ACOG-AT&T.“Only the best,” Brian said, holding up his glass to me.“But only for people who know to look for it,” I answered, feeling slightly reckless.Elliott Mackle158“Very, very good,” he answered.“You heard that.”I smiled and sucked down half my drink.The liquor burned mythroat.I was also feeling a little angry that this straight, attractive man was so unavailable, so corporate, so fucking like the worldly editor I hoped to become.Why the hell does fate keep dealing me small cards and jokers like Frank Cochran and Wade Tarpley?“I’ve never been to one of these,” I said instead.“You mean a conglomerated dog-and-pony show?”“I mean the Olympics.I’m just reporting local angles.You already know I don’t know which doors to open.Didn’t even know the door was there.”“No time like the present to start learning.”I checked my souvenir Swatch watch.Brian checked his.It was fi ve before seven.The party upstairs was supposed to shut down atseven.But more people entered the room as we looked up.Moving toward the buff et, Brian paused, waved to one of the newcomers, surveyed the table and picked up a glass plate, silver fork and linen dinner napkin.“So tell me, Henry,” he said, beginning to pile shrimp onto his plate, “you’re not a sports writer, I take it.How did you get into this game? I’m assuming you or your paper has connections.Good connections.Help yourself to shrimp.Cocktail sauce? Lemon?”I loaded up on the shrimp, just as Brian had, followed by baby fi eld greens with crumbled Roquefort and balsamic vinaigrette, lobster, sushi and one cookie.“We had to edit a sports page in J-school,” I answered, dodging his question.“I don’t remember much about it.”Brian laughed and asked another question.Over coff ee an hour later, he said sports writing was the last career he’d have chosen.“It happened.I’m pleased that the gig’s gone on as long as it has.I try to do the best I can.Covering sports doesn’t give a man much range—or hope.I try to avoid interviewing old pros.Somebody once said that covering politicians is like walking behind the elephant in the circus parade.Well, jockstrappers’ shit smells even worse.You know any?”When I said I’d covered more politicians and preachers than sports stars, Brian laughed.“What do you really want to write?” he asked.“I edit Atlanta’s gay and lesbian weekly,” I answered, looking straight at him, feeling even more reckless after a second Black Jack.159Hot off the Presses“I’d initially hoped to build up the paper, make it the best in the country.I want to change things, convert haters and homophobes.We’ve been covering people in the community who aren’t famous, who do good stuff —gay men and lesbians that are regular guys, non-gays who are part of the community.What I mean is, I’m an editor.Most of the time when I write, it’s either editorials—which is part of my job—or just to fi ll a space.I encourage my people to give Outlines a real alternative edge.The owners are after me to tone it down, though.I don’t know where the paper’s going.”Brian raised his coff ee cup in another toast.“Actually, I’ve seen your paper a time or two.It’s well put together.Your owners are, ah, homosexual conservatives?”“No.They’re the parents of a gay man who died.Well-meaning but the opposite of radical revolutionaries.”Brian smiled.“Owners and good editors seldom see eye to eye.They haven’t fi red you.”I touched my ACOG badge.“I’m still here, right.”“Storm the barricades, my friend.Vive La France! Climb every mountain, ford every stream.Whatever fl oats the old boat.”“Only the best.”Touching his brow, he winked.“But only for people who know to look for it.I nodded.“What about you? You want to write anything else, or diff erent?”“The best I can.The truth.Words that people can easily under-stand, maybe admire.Beautiful words, I guess.Words and message that are strung together beautifully, I mean.When I can work sports fi gures into it, that’s when I fi le copy, earn my check.”The guy sounded real.I had to like him.“What’s the worst story you ever had to cover?”He laughed and rolled his eyes.“Oh, easy.I’d just started on the Southeastern college beat.Didn’t know the territory.Got a tip that some drunken, numb-nuts football jocks at the University of Florida in Gainesville—the Gators, right?—they’d cut the tail off a pet alli-gator the school kept in a tank.Huh? The school mascot? I ran thecrummy bastards to earth in their dorms, they were animals, that was bad enough.They talked, I got quotes.But you know what was worse?Elliott Mackle160One of their coaches, he tried to take up for them, said his boys had had a hard season and anyway, he said, it was only a itty-bitty gator.And the alumni club was fi xing to buy another critter to replace the dead one.”“Jesus.Real Southern gentleman.”“Quote-unquote: ‘Fixing to buy another critter to replace the dead one.’ The bastard got those words thrown back in his sorry face two weeks later, times two million copies.My editor didn’t even question it.Appalling.”Brian set his cup down, brushed a crumb off his sleeve and added,“Off the record, I always secretly cheer for Miami or the Seminoles or Ole Miss or whoever Florida plays.Just appalling.”He stood.“You don’t know any pro jockers at all? Man, have you got two educational weeks in front of you.Bring a basket.”“One, actually,” I admitted.“I know one.I guess he’s kind of a big name.”As soon as I spoke, I wanted to snatch back the words.Braggart, I whispered to myself.Name-dropper.Big talker.“He’s more a friend of a friend,” I added, backtracking as best I could.“Pro ballplayer? Golfer? Tennis?”“Gymnast.We work out at the same club sometimes.Wade Tarpley.”“Big name,” Brian answered right away.“Going for the gold.And I expect to see him Saturday morning, when Gymnastics compulsories start, over at the Georgia Dome.”“Maybe we’ll cross paths then,” I said.“I’m hoping to get over there that morning myself.I’ll be reporting on local volunteers working backstage.”“Dome’s humongous.But if you miss me, I’ll be spending any free time I have over at wrestling, in the World Congress Center.” He touched his neck
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