The Editor of the Satellite - the first paper that hired Fred was giving him his initial assignment.
"We need features, man", he said vaguely but hurriedly riffling through a set of papers on his desk. The telephone rang and he lifted it. "Try for human interest - get anything you can.... .. - yes?"
Fred was young and alone in town. As a matter of fact, he always had felt alone ever since he lost his family during the war. Somehow he managed to get through a course in Journalism but not without years of hard work and perseverance. He would often remember with gratitude Monsignor Aquitania- the kindly pastor who sent him to college- fiftyish and tall, who looked through rimless spectacles with deep-set eyes and with the type of mouth that if they ever had to do a film of his life, they would have to get Rossano Brazzi.
Now Fred was on probation with the paper. And he felt awkward about it. But as he walked through the cheerless November dusk toward the park, the dreams- the thing young people have plenty of - helped him forget. He found a place in one of the benches. He had to think. He fished out a cigarette and lighted it.
The blue of the sky was already darkening, the cold deepening, but he still sat there with a blurred vision of the Editor pointing to the door. He knew he wouldn't make it. Not while he felt that way... thoughts scattered, restless and for no reason at all! "This is ridiculous!", he muttered under his breath. Just then he caught a tinker of laughter and looked up to three youngsters, bats over their shoulders and balls in their hands, racing probably homeward. This brought back reality. So he stood up, hands in his pockets and started for home.
Back in his apartment,he lay on his bed trying to steady his nerves. Through his half-closed window, he could gaze into the star-studded moonless night while the radio softly played. This, however, didn't even create an appeal to him. Abruptly he got up. On his table was his typewriter. "Maybe if I tried", he said to himself, "maybe at least if I began -"
He rolled a bond paper into the machine. But when he tried to strike the keys, his finger rather stiffened, making the typing sounds give the impression of an amateur typist which simply was not him. He didn't give up though. After some fleeting moments, he paused to read what he typed. But, Trash! - he blurted out desperately. Angrily pulling the sheet from out of the machine, he crumpled it and flung it into the waste can beside the table. He rolled another sheet in but time and again, after a few lines would be written, it'd only end up in the trash. He finally got up from his chair, - very cross- once more picturing the Editor with the odd sinister look on his eyes. He had to give in his article first thing in the morning if it was to realize an ardent aspiration. And there he was, twelve-forty-five in the morning without a sensible thing in mind.
He opened his locker and reached for his jacket. He was going to walk the streets.... aimlessly, for that matter. Never mind the biting cold of the night. Maybe he'd be able to get something out of it... perhaps a fleeting glance at Dracula's shadow? An envelope fell out from his jacket's pocket. He remembered receiving it that morning but his restlessness since then made him forget all about it - even all about trying to guess from whom it came. Now the childish handwriting was familiar and the spell-weaving smile of Linda came floating into his mind. How well could she be doing right now?
Linda and he were friends ever since they were in grade school. Just after the war, her parents -distant relatives - were so kind as to let him live with them. Linda had no brother. And she wanted one so much... one who would go with her to school.... one who would fight the boys that would tease her after school until it was Monsignor Aquitania who took over sending him to the university. Through the years, they had written to each other now and then, each telling the other how he was getting along. And every time Linda turned on a new year, Fred would send her orchids. Could she be wanting them now? But it's only November and her birthday won't come until after the holidays! He opened the letter to read - "and don't send the orchids this time. Mom and Dad have finally consented to letting your little sister enter the convent. Please bring the orchids with you on my birthday?"
Fred heaved a long deep sigh. The jacket and the letter slipped off from his hands as he slowly but firmly held on to the chair and then sat down. Out into the darkness of the night, through the half-closed window, he tried to create images. In the first place, why did he want that job so badly? Ambition, maybe? Perhaps a dream to show the kindly Monsignor his gratitude? Or was it for Linda - the young woman who to him had always been beautiful.... beautiful the way only a woman who could love much and was much loved could be beautiful? The last thought caught him in a solid moment's standstill as it resolutely sank deep, deep into the essence of his very existence.
Suddenly now he felt like writing. Once more he slipped a bond paper into the typewriter. At first, his fingers struck the keys with uncertainty. A little later, he did it faster, faster, until the rhythmic sound of his typing sounded like a mockery to the early hours of the evening. It was already two quarter in the morning when he stopped. "That'll give me more or less six hours before I face that heck of an editor", he muttered, glancing over his finished article with expressionless eyes. He heaved another deep sigh then began to read it:
"The Editor of the Satellite - the first paper that hired........"
Linda and he were friends ever since they were in grade school. Just after the war, her parents -distant relatives - were so kind as to let him live with them. Linda had no brother. And she wanted one so much... one who would go with her to school.... one who would fight the boys that would tease her after school until it was Monsignor Aquitania who took over sending him to the university. Through the years, they had written to each other now and then, each telling the other how he was getting along. And every time Linda turned on a new year, Fred would send her orchids. Could she be wanting them now? But it's only November and her birthday won't come until after the holidays! He opened the letter to read - "and don't send the orchids this time. Mom and Dad have finally consented to letting your little sister enter the convent. Please bring the orchids with you on my birthday?"
Fred heaved a long deep sigh. The jacket and the letter slipped off from his hands as he slowly but firmly held on to the chair and then sat down. Out into the darkness of the night, through the half-closed window, he tried to create images. In the first place, why did he want that job so badly? Ambition, maybe? Perhaps a dream to show the kindly Monsignor his gratitude? Or was it for Linda - the young woman who to him had always been beautiful.... beautiful the way only a woman who could love much and was much loved could be beautiful? The last thought caught him in a solid moment's standstill as it resolutely sank deep, deep into the essence of his very existence.
Suddenly now he felt like writing. Once more he slipped a bond paper into the typewriter. At first, his fingers struck the keys with uncertainty. A little later, he did it faster, faster, until the rhythmic sound of his typing sounded like a mockery to the early hours of the evening. It was already two quarter in the morning when he stopped. "That'll give me more or less six hours before I face that heck of an editor", he muttered, glancing over his finished article with expressionless eyes. He heaved another deep sigh then began to read it:
"The Editor of the Satellite - the first paper that hired........"
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