The Last Magazine: A Novel (25 page)

W
hoosh
. I’m pulled into the blogosphere.

I’m at my cubicle at
The Magazine
at 6:45 a.m., a copy of the
New York Post
and the
Daily News
on my desk, scanning the papers for items that I can’t find online. I’m hooked into Wretched’s email system, where all the tips from readers come in, naming names, hinting at layoffs, leaking details to fuck somebody over. Wretched’s slogan is “Envy is a beautiful thing,” and it’s apparent from the kind of correspondence that envy is the grease of the Wretched Empire.

I don’t want to use my real name as a guest editor, so I come up with a pseudonym. I settle on K. Eric Walters, the name of a little-known and short-lived Irish revolutionary who had accidentally punched out a Brit in a drunken brawl, sparking a rebellion that Michael Collins would later take credit for. There is also a K. Eric Walters who spends his time as an amateur bass fisherman—the perfect name, one that gets plenty of Google hits, seemingly legit, and would cause a bit of confusion for anyone trying to figure out my identity—food critic? Bass fisherman? Molecular scientist at UCLA? Film critic for some site called Rotten Tomatoes? Yes, there were plenty of K. Eric Walterses to choose from.

Grove emails me.

Specting 10 posts a day? Use IDs.

I forward it to Sarah, with a “?”

Oh, he’s obsessed with IDers. I don’t know why. The guy is a freak. Something from his FT days I think.

Ten posts a day. Where to find them?

I check the story-tips email box. There is a forward from a publicist at a publishing house, a press release announcing that Stephen King’s son has just published his first collection of short stories. “Think he deserves this on merit?” the emailer asks.

Okay, that works. Nasty potential there. I copy a chunk of the press release then write a few lines about how Stephen King’s son got a book deal because he was Stephen King’s son. Scathing.

And then I’m off, and I get a full sense of the power of the blog, like I’m walking a tightrope, a live piece of performance art. Hundreds of thousands of readers out there are responding within seconds and minutes to what I am writing, and I sense this sensation and the only thing I can think of is that it’s like crack. This is a powerful drug, having the ability to communicate so freely and widely and instantaneously, and to get a response—yes they are reading my snark, hurrah.

The next few items are simple. A reporter for
The New York Times
has written a book about the three weeks he spent in Iraq at the paper’s Baghdad bureau and has made up names for some of the Arabs they spoke to—probably true, and that is the problem with it, and Wretched is able to tee off, getting three posts out of it, until finally, one of his allies from the
Times
stands up for him in an email
and says, Hey, if you want to really start talking about inaccuracies for the
Times
, try writing about our television critic—she has more corrections per story than any other
New York Times
person currently on staff. And with a bit of LexisNexis fun, I do a post on the television critic and how many mistakes she makes per column; by this time, I’m done, it’s noon, the rush hour is over—the highest traffic is usually in the morning—and I go grab a sandwich at the corner store.

—

The subject heading of the email says: “Imus Racist comment.”

“Hey, did you listen to the show today? Imus called the Rutgers women’s basketball team a ‘bunch of nappy-headed hos.’ That’s racist!”

The emailer is Sarah Klein, the other Sarah, who left my apartment earlier this morning. I know that she could use a link from Wretched. It would really drive the traffic her way. She has posted a partial transcript on her website.

I don’t think much of posting it. It’s one of many. It takes off.

L
ike wildfire—cliché. Like flesh-eating bacteria? Closer.

The new new media, the new media, and the old media, go into action.

Again, at my desk, at 7:30 a.m. I’m not alone.

Sanders Berman, looking ill, leaves the men’s room and walks by.

“What are you doing here so early, Hastings?”

“Oh, just working on some extracurricular stuff,” I say. “Yourself?”

“Some silly thing with the blogosphere. Apparently Don Imus said something racist on air yesterday. I was on his show, and now the
Times
is doing a story on it, so I’m going to talk to their reporter in a few minutes. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Um, yeah. I saw something on Wretched.com.”

“Wretched? Who reads that trash?”

“A lot of people, I think.”

Berman leaves me at the cubicle.

Throughout the night, the Imus comments, the “nappy-headed hos” controversy, has swept away all other news. Bloggers on the East Coast and West Coast and in the American Midwest have listened to the show, in full, and started to dissect the entire transcript; the cable
news networks are playing the audio recording, and “Is Imus a Racist?” columns are already being prepared for tomorrow’s papers.

Fifteen minutes later, Sanders Berman comes back down the hall, his face greenish. He goes into the bathroom again and then comes back out.

“They said I laughed, Hastings.”

“Laughed at what?”

“The reporter, the
Times
reporter. They said that Imus called the Rutgers team a bunch of nappy-headed hos, and I was on the line, doing my weekly interview, and they said I laughed at the joke.”

“Wow.”

“I cleared my throat, I recall, and unfortunately it happened to time with his comments. Have you seen Milius? Where is he?”

Berman disappears down the hall again.

Within minutes, the
Times
has posted a story on its website, including the Sanders Berman comment: “‘I don’t think we want to rush to judgment,’ magazine editor Sanders Berman said. ‘We should wait to see how it plays out.’ Mr. Berman, a regular guest on
Imus in the Morning
, can also be heard apparently laughing after Mr. Imus’s remarks. Mr. Berman said he was ‘clearing his throat.’”

By noon, human rights groups, media watchdog groups, civil rights organizations, and the majority of mainstream media outlets are calling for an apology from Imus. Former guests on Imus’s show, many of whose books had become bestsellers after their appearance there, are also demanding an apology. Imus refuses at first and strikes back at his critics, saying they are acting like “rats on a sinking ship. Not that this ship is sinking.”

Nishant Patel, back from a meeting with European advertisers, strolls in around one p.m.

“Mr. Hastings, hope you are well, sir.”

“Yes, Nishant, doing great, thanks.”

“What have I missed?”

“The Imus controversy. He called the Rutgers basketball team a bunch of nappy-headed hos. They’re black, so everyone is saying it was racist.”

“Ah, I would visit Princeton when Yale played them, in American football.”

“Sanders was on the show when he said it.”

Nishant nods, then goes to his corner office.

“Dorothy, call Henry, tell him we should talk very soon.”

“Yes, Nishant. You know, of course, that Henry is away, and Sanders is acting . . .”

Nishant nods and turns away.

Dorothy stands up and scans the room.

“Patricia?”

Patricia pops up from her cubicle, startled.

“Yes, Dorothy?”

“Call Henry the EIC and tell him Dr. Patel wants to speak with him.”

“What is the EIC?”

“Not what, who—Henry, the EIC.”

“Henry from the copy desk?”

“No, not the copy desk, the editor in chief.”

“You want him to call you?”

“You won’t get him, you’ll get his assistant, and tell her to tell him to call.”

I turn back to my cubicle. I’ve already posted three items on what is being called a “growing controversy.” I’m getting a little nervous. Glad I have a pseudonym. I’m thinking that it might be smart to resign my position at Wretched for the week. That’s when Grove pings me.

“Great job so far, keep this up and there might be a position for you here. Leave the dead trees once and for all.”

I hear the hiss of Delray M. Milius, walking two steps behind Berman. They stop on the other side of the cubicle wall.

“Send another statement to the
Times
,” Berman says. “Tell them
The Magazine
is no longer going on the show. Tell them I found his comments reprehensible—I scoffed at them on air! And let’s get one of those staff meetings together. And make sure to invite all the . . . we need to get their input . . .”

Delray M. Milius sends out a company-wide email, calling for an emergency staff meeting to discuss the new policy in relation to the Imus show.

An hour later, the conference room on the fifteenth floor is filled up with staff. I’m about to sit down when Delray tells me that these four seats are reserved. I say okay and stand in the back of the room, by the door.

Charlotte, the youngest African American woman on staff, comes into the conference room.

“Sit right there,” Delray tells her, pointing to the empty seat that I was going to sit in.

The three seats next to her are filled by the remaining three African American members on the magazine’s staff.

Sanders Berman comes in, second to last, beaten in being fashionably late only by Nishant.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve all heard of the growing controversy surrounding Don Imus’s appalling comments,” Berman begins. “First, I’d like you to know that I had no idea that Imus would say such things.”

Berman looks around the room, his eyes stopping on Janet, the woman who runs the magazine’s public relations department and who regularly books the magazine employees for media appearances.

“Janet, I’m really disappointed that you never told me Imus ran this kind of a show. I’m really disappointed that no one warned me that he would say such horrible things.”

Janet starts to respond, “You’ve been on the show for three years and—”

Sanders cuts her off. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He sweeps the conference room.

“So, our new policy. We’re not going on
Imus
anymore. And we’re going to address the issue of his comments in the next issue. I’d like you four,” he says, pointing at the four African Americans on the staff who are sitting at the table, “I’d like you four—Charlotte, Sammy, John, and Lucas—to take the lead on this reporting.”

“I don’t cover media,” says Charlotte.

“It’s okay, and I think we really need your perspective. And if you have any problems, or would like to discuss this further, Delray is going to talk to each one of you individually. Obviously, this is not how I wanted my time as acting EIC to go, but Henry supports, and the Dolings support, my position to boycott Imus completely, and I support all of you to do the best damn story we can about it.”

I go back to my cubicle. I figure I’d wait an hour before posting anything about the meeting on Wretched. Things are getting way too close to home. I have to tell Grove that I can’t be guest editor the rest of the week—he has to take over the site himself.

I send him an email.

He responds.

“That’s fine, but you did sign a weekly contract with us, but I see how you are in a bind, so just give me updates on what’s going on inside your magazine. You don’t have a choice, otherwise I’ll do a post now saying you were the one who started this whole controversy.”

Fuck.

“Mike, Nishant wants to see you,” Dorothy calls out to me.

Shit.

—

I walk into Nishant’s office. He’s sitting there, reading the new issue of the
New York Herald
, its distinct pink paper standing out against the other papers on his desk.

“Have you read the
Herald
this week, Hastings?”

“Not yet, didn’t know it was out yet.”

“You’re in it. I didn’t know you were friends with these bloggers.”

That Jonathan Lodello. He’d put me in his story. I wonder if he’s mentioned that I’m guest editing under a pseudonym. If so, my career at
The Magazine
is about to end, and fast.

“Oh yeah, what did he say?”

“Nothing, except that you are dating a girl named Sarah Klein. Wasn’t she the blogger who started this whole controversy?”

“I’m really sorry, Nishant. I’m no longer having anything to do with that crowd. It was a mistake being there, and it was a mistake guest editing this week—”

Nishant isn’t listening.

“So, your girlfriend, don’t you think she might find our meeting this afternoon with Sanders interesting?”

I suppose she would, but I don’t know what Nishant is getting at right away.

“She’s not my girlfriend, but—”

“I mean, to have the four African Americans reporting this story, doesn’t that also have the faint stench of racism? After Berman laughs—scoffs—it seems rather clumsy to then have four blacks at
The Magazine
do the black story. You don’t think so? Perhaps I’m mistaken.”

“Oh yeah, I guess that could look bad.”

“Hastings, you sent me that email, I don’t think I ever responded, about you guest editing Wretched. Is it this week you’re doing that?”

“Nishant, yes, but I’m not doing it anymore.”

“And I never gave you permission, and you didn’t ask Berman or Delray about it either?”

“I thought you knew, you were cool with it, no news is good news, and everything—”

“I would suggest you not doing it from this point on. That being said, I would not object to any further communication that you might have with Ms. Klein.”

He turns back to his computer. I’m dismissed.

Back at my cubicle, I compose an email to Sarah Klein. I cc Timothy Grove. This is all I can give you, I tell them. He writes back, “Perfect.”

This is how the scandal is propelled to the next level, wishing for another victim, full saturation, because this is a scandal that has started to drag others down with it, amplifying speculation, its tentacles grappling more boldface names into the abyss, into that area that got other boldface names to start speculating and hiding and focusing on survival—somebody is going to have to pay for Imus’s comments, and if it is more than just Imus, all the better, as long as it isn’t you.

There doesn’t need to be any official words or messages; the instinctual calculations have been made—to risk a career and a family and a paycheck and a well-crafted brand name and status to defend Don Imus? Not likely. The indignation that can be found in the talking heads in the media elite is not so much over Imus’s comments—after all, who truly gives a shit—but the indignation of almost getting dragged down too by his careless remarks. This feeling of a near-miss sparked the true outrage, which is expressed in comments about racism and demands for apologies, but it is truly just
a cover for the outrage over Imus’s misstep, and while making that gross misstep, to have threatened their own careers.

Danger looming, the momentum building up, an epic fall approaches. The knives are unsheathed, incisors sharpened, and enemies and targets of his scorn in the past are making phone calls, remarks on television, coming out of the media landscape, electronic specters with Rolodexes and grudges and access to editors, nudging the story along. Silently building, it expands and expands and by nightfall, the name Sanders Berman is on every Movable Type page and every gossip columnist’s screen—will he go down too?