The Reporter

Abstract

The Reporter Steve Slavin (bio) 1 I met Gail Olson at a very crowded New York City loft party in 1972. It was probably being held to honor some poor painter whose show had just opened, but most of us regarded it as a great singles party. Soon after I squeezed my way into the loft, I saw Gail, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, trying to have a conversation with two very interested guys, each of them cupping their ears. I decided to have some fun, so I passed her a note that read, "The two gentlemen you're conversing with escaped from an institution for the criminally insane, and I'm waiting for backup. Please keep them occupied." She looked at me, and I shrugged. Five minutes later, we were making out in a corner of the loft. Then we shared a joint—the first one I had ever rolled without expert supervision. I had packed the paper with uncleaned pot—stems and all—and twisted both ends. When I lit it, a three-foot flame shot up. Thankfully, she didn't say anything, happy to just share the joint. A few weeks later, when Gail and I had dinner with one of her friends, I told him the story about the joint. As the three of us laughed, he said, "Gail was too kind to say anything." Indeed, Gail was perhaps the nicest person I would ever know. As our relationship grew more serious, I became more and more aware of just how nice she was. A reporter for a banking newspaper, she once told me that sometimes the most important element of writing was what you didn't say—what was purposefully left out. She introduced me to one of her colleagues, Stanley—a big guy, almost as round as he was tall. When she had started working at the American Banker, her first journalism job in New York, Stanley more or less took her under his wing. While he was a crack reporter, it was obvious that he had a drinking problem. But how could that be? He held down a good job, showing up on time every day. Maybe Stanley was a little odd, but he always made his deadlines and there were no complaints about his work. [End Page 136] Then Gail found out he was homeless. She insisted that he move in with her until he could get it together to find his own apartment. A few weeks later, she introduced him to her friend Caroline, and he soon moved in with her. A year later they got married, and Gail was their maid-of-honor. 2 I had a long-time friend who I often invited to parties. Jerry had almost no success meeting women. But one night he got lucky. Marcy was very bright and had a good sense of humor. She was an editor at a large publishing house and always had funny stories about the writers she met. She once took a rather successful author to lunch. While they waited for coffee and dessert, the author picked up her handbag, excused herself, and went to the ladies' room. When she did not return for some time, Marcy went to see if she was OK. As she approached the door of the ladies' room, Marcy heard a banging noise and rushed inside. The writer was hitting the door with her fist, and then trying to force it open. But because it was a pay toilet, it would remain locked no matter how hard you hit it. Marcy was puzzled. Was someone in there? Why didn't the author just use a different toilet? The author's face was beet red. It took her a while to catch her breath. Then she held out her hand, palm up. Finally, Marcy understood. She opened her handbag and gave the author a quarter. Without a word, the author took it, put it in the slot, opened the door, went inside the stall, and left Marcy standing there. Marcy and Jerry had been together for a month or so when she broke up with him. Two years later...