He came in close behind me, his elbow hard on my shoulder until I shrugged him off. He had one arm on either side of me, fighting for keyboard space.
What’s your password? he said.
Fuck off.
For real, you want to log on or what?
I tried to move my body in such a way that he couldn’t see what I was typing.
E-V-I-E? That’s what you came up with?
I opened the Nexis window. The cursor blinked at me.
What about like this, I said. Angie Cavallo editor years old .
Put a search limit on, Vinh said. So she’s the subject, not the author. Right there. See? There.
You still on this? Angie said. Five bucks says you get nothing.
Except when it doesn’t, I said. Except when five bucks says: Here you go, Evie.
The screen expanded to show a small list, still green-on-black:
NEXIS SEARCH: SUBJECT, ANGIE CAVALLO EDITOR YEARS OLD
MAY 31 1992: Free Press takes home production awards, writers prize
MAY 5 1992: Free Press columnists Cavallo, Perry get nod on award list
Did you win last year? I said. No, wait. Don’t spoil it for me. I hit the arrows on the keyboard until the entry for May 31, 1992, lit up, reversing to show black type on a small, green, highlighted field.
And go, I said.
FREE PRESS , MAY 31, 1992
Free Press staffers went home happy last night after the National Newspaper Awards ceremony, with production teams earning top marks for Special Project and Presentation, and news editor Angie Cavallo walking away with a Gold Award in the Column category. A self-described “lifer,” 55-year-old Cavallo has been working the news beat at the Free Press for more than 30 years. This is her seventh NNA win and her twelfth nomination.
I could get used to this, I said.
Fifty-five! Vinh said. Shit, Angie, you’re looking okay. You still get laid? He gestured to his chair with one hand. You want the wheelchair, you go ahead and use it anytime you like.
You want me to get laid in your wheelchair? Angie said. That’s so sweet. Now fuck off back to the newsroom.
The door shut behind him and I started a new search.
Look, Ma, I said. And I’m not even crashing the system.
Of all the guys to help you out, Angie said. That guy’s a pig. I don’t like to give him an inch.
He’s only got an inch, I said. Maybe two.
I typed new parameters into the search window: Vinh Nguyen public masturbation.
Atta girl, Angie said.
Nothing? I said. Impossible.
I got up and threw myself into the wheelchair to get it rolling.
Okay, Angie said. School’s out. You still need to come down here sometimes. You want images, you want context, this is still your best bet.
Whew, I said. It’s pretty glamorous here in the basement. I pushed back with my feet and the chair took me rocketing backward ten feet or so. I’d hate to give all this up.
CHAPTER 4
----
D avid and I came busting down the street toward home. He’d come to pick me up after my day in the archives and now we were waving our arms in the air and arguing. Houses in my part of town are old and most of them were split up into apartments or rooming houses at one time or another. If you take a walk around inside any of them you’ll find they’ve all been altered the same ways: stairwells capped off and ceilings lowered to save on heating costs. So where there were these gorgeous fourteen-foot ceilings, now you’ve got cardboard ceiling tiles at maybe eight feet. Keeps you warm but makes for poor circulation, and you can tell by looking at the size of the icicles hanging from every eave. Broad-based and dripping.
It was the icicles that got us going. We were arguing about the state of the Earth.
It’s not worse, I said. You just don’t remember. When I was nine there was a thaw every year in January and again in February. Nowish, I said. We’d throw our jackets on the stairs and skip rope at recess. There was no ice. We were sweating, I said.
Nah, David said. That was his whole argument. Two weeks ago when we were snowed in you told me that was normal for
What’s your password? he said.
Fuck off.
For real, you want to log on or what?
I tried to move my body in such a way that he couldn’t see what I was typing.
E-V-I-E? That’s what you came up with?
I opened the Nexis window. The cursor blinked at me.
What about like this, I said. Angie Cavallo editor years old .
Put a search limit on, Vinh said. So she’s the subject, not the author. Right there. See? There.
You still on this? Angie said. Five bucks says you get nothing.
Except when it doesn’t, I said. Except when five bucks says: Here you go, Evie.
The screen expanded to show a small list, still green-on-black:
NEXIS SEARCH: SUBJECT, ANGIE CAVALLO EDITOR YEARS OLD
MAY 31 1992: Free Press takes home production awards, writers prize
MAY 5 1992: Free Press columnists Cavallo, Perry get nod on award list
Did you win last year? I said. No, wait. Don’t spoil it for me. I hit the arrows on the keyboard until the entry for May 31, 1992, lit up, reversing to show black type on a small, green, highlighted field.
And go, I said.
FREE PRESS , MAY 31, 1992
Free Press staffers went home happy last night after the National Newspaper Awards ceremony, with production teams earning top marks for Special Project and Presentation, and news editor Angie Cavallo walking away with a Gold Award in the Column category. A self-described “lifer,” 55-year-old Cavallo has been working the news beat at the Free Press for more than 30 years. This is her seventh NNA win and her twelfth nomination.
I could get used to this, I said.
Fifty-five! Vinh said. Shit, Angie, you’re looking okay. You still get laid? He gestured to his chair with one hand. You want the wheelchair, you go ahead and use it anytime you like.
You want me to get laid in your wheelchair? Angie said. That’s so sweet. Now fuck off back to the newsroom.
The door shut behind him and I started a new search.
Look, Ma, I said. And I’m not even crashing the system.
Of all the guys to help you out, Angie said. That guy’s a pig. I don’t like to give him an inch.
He’s only got an inch, I said. Maybe two.
I typed new parameters into the search window: Vinh Nguyen public masturbation.
Atta girl, Angie said.
Nothing? I said. Impossible.
I got up and threw myself into the wheelchair to get it rolling.
Okay, Angie said. School’s out. You still need to come down here sometimes. You want images, you want context, this is still your best bet.
Whew, I said. It’s pretty glamorous here in the basement. I pushed back with my feet and the chair took me rocketing backward ten feet or so. I’d hate to give all this up.
CHAPTER 4
----
D avid and I came busting down the street toward home. He’d come to pick me up after my day in the archives and now we were waving our arms in the air and arguing. Houses in my part of town are old and most of them were split up into apartments or rooming houses at one time or another. If you take a walk around inside any of them you’ll find they’ve all been altered the same ways: stairwells capped off and ceilings lowered to save on heating costs. So where there were these gorgeous fourteen-foot ceilings, now you’ve got cardboard ceiling tiles at maybe eight feet. Keeps you warm but makes for poor circulation, and you can tell by looking at the size of the icicles hanging from every eave. Broad-based and dripping.
It was the icicles that got us going. We were arguing about the state of the Earth.
It’s not worse, I said. You just don’t remember. When I was nine there was a thaw every year in January and again in February. Nowish, I said. We’d throw our jackets on the stairs and skip rope at recess. There was no ice. We were sweating, I said.
Nah, David said. That was his whole argument. Two weeks ago when we were snowed in you told me that was normal for
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