The Obituary
By Joel Mark Harris
Copyright Smashwords
It takes a certain type of person to make a living writing obituaries. They are usually outcasts in newspaper rooms, as if they were firsthand peddlers in death or were the skeletal figure Santa Muerte themselves. Obit writers –which is what they call themselves – have certain type of flair that most newspaper writers don’t have. They spend more time than other newspaper writer thinking about the finer points of emotions and the consequences of lives lived and things done or left undone.
The job of an obituary writer is difficult. First, they need to be trusted. They need to swoop like dark vultures onto a family when it’s at its most vulnerable and surgically probe with words, soothing statements, extracting information about their subjects death. Nobody would trust a steely-eyed obit writer.
Second, an obit writer needs to know how to obtain that small, kernel, that small nugget of privileged information that only a select few are privy to. For any fool can gather facts: yes, he was born 1942, yes he served time in Korea in 56, yes he married two years after that to Lynda Howe. Their first kid was born seven months after. . . Those things are found with a finger stroke on Google. It takes a good obit writer to find the affair with his neighbour’s wife, to find he always wore a necklace with silver cross given to him by his great grandmother, to find he was afraid of air travel and travelled the continent by car or train, or to find he was really into Sadomasochism.
Third, the obit writer needs to be well travelled, worldly. They need to know something about life, divorce, death, children, graduations, grief, triumph. They need to know the majestic lure of New York, or L.A. or sometimes Europe. They need a good sense of home, the human condition, and all the other things that comprise the complex modern society.
Fourth – and most importantly – they need to know something about the past. They need to know about the lure, about the value and insignificance of the past. They need to understand the human need to make sense of things done and gone, the paradoxical importance of knowing life is more than just a set of instances built upon brick by brick, but somehow it isn`t as well.
Andy Duningham was one of those people. He was of indeterminable age – anywhere between forty and sixty and had a broad, flat face with large ears and pinkish cheeks. He smiled smoothly, naturally as if he had no cares in the world. He always seemed to wear a grey pullover sweater with faded jeans.
John Webster was drinking alone at the Palace Bar when Andy slide into the seat across from him. John only knew Andy vaguely although Andy had been working at the Daily Globe for over twenty years. That was the other thing: obit writers usually had only one or two close friends.
Andy was the only obit writer the Globe had left, somehow surviving the cuts and gutting. Maybe that was a sign of a good obit writer too—the sense to know when to keep their head low. Andy only worked part time on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. John didn`t know what Andy did the rest of the time. Did he have a second job writing somewhere else? Was he working on that novel most journalist had stuck away in their bottom shelf? In John’s experience, obit writers were more likely than any other newspaper writers to get something published. John didn’t know if that was because obit writers were naturally more talented in long, willowy sentences or because their occupation provided them with more core material and more colour.
“How’s it going John?” Andy asked.
John was on his third drink and was feeling light and calm. “Good, Andy. What brings you down here?”
Andy wasn’t a regular patron of Palace Bar, which was the watering hole for many journalists in the city.
“I’m looking for anybody who knew Seymour Malamud.”
“Who?” John asked.
Andy smiled. “Exactly. . . He was the city editor before Robert Smyllie.”
John frowned. “I thought it was Frank Snyder.”
Andy nodded. “Yeah, most people do. Seymour isn’t exactly a well-known name. He was fired over some story. . . although the details are a little hazy. He then started the online news program Realvancouver.com.”
John nodded. Of course he had heard about the left-leaning news organization. They were a regular topic of conversation at the paper. “Really? He founded that?”
Andy nodded.
John’s put his hand to his forehead. “And he died?” It was the only reason Andy would be writing about him.
“Yeah, he was drinking and driving. . . swerved into a tree. He was only fifty-six.”
John shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. He was before my time. Have you talked to Chuck yet? I’m sure he would be able to help you out.”
Charles Dana was the managing editor for the Daily Globe.
Andy nodded. “Yeah, I’m trying to get an interview with him. . .It’s just. . . I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
Andy shook his head as if in exasperation. “I get this sense he’s trying to brush me off.”
“No, I’m sure that’s not the case,” John said. “He’s probably just really busy.”
Charles Dana was always generous with his time, especially with journalists in the trenches. It was odd, to say the least, that he hadn’t spoken to Andy yet. If the story warranted it, as it sometimes did, Chuck would be the first one to speak with the reporter on the record.
John walked back to the office thinking of Seymour Malamud. He had never seen a picture of him, heard him mentioned in conversation . . . he supposed it wasn’t strange per se—especially if he was fired, but his natural journalistic instincts was to find out more about him.
John Googled his name and found he was born in Los Angeles and had moved to Vancouver when he had met a Canadian woman who had gone to UCLA for film directing. Malamud had worked on the crime beat for the Los Angeles Times. The articles John found didn’t say how Malamud had met his wife but he imagined it was from some article, maybe a murder at the school.
In 1998, he won a Pulitzer for an article about the antitrust suit the United States brought against Microsoft, claiming the computer maker was unlawfully trying to destroy the competition. The same year, he was promoted to city editor of the Daily Globe at the age of forty-four. At that point, he probably could have had any job in the industry. . . the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Manchester Guardian. . . but he chose to stay in Vancouver. Why? Family probably. His wife or kids didn’t want to leave, John figured.
Below was a link to his article which John clicked on and read. He admired Malamud’s writing style, his use of sources, his in depth analysis and grasp of the complex antitrust suit. It was several pages long and he finished it, admitting to himself he felt a slight twinge of envy.
John sat back in his chair, contemplating. Malamud seemed to be a rising star, a superstar in the newspaper business with a Pulitzer Prize. How could you top that? Where was there to go but follow the unyielding gravitational force back to the ground?
And how did Malamud feel about the Pulitzer? Did people look at him differently? Were people more likely to buy him a round at the bar? Did he fall prey to the feeling of superiority, a feeling of invincibility?
Was it carelessness that got him fired? Or worse a lie? The article didn’t say and so he clicked back and scrolled down, choosing an article by the Vancouver Times that was titled “Journalist Seymour Malamud dies in Car crash.”
The article described how Malamud had been out drinking at a party when he decided to drive home and inexplicitly lost control and drove into a tree. Malamud was well known to have a drinking problem, the article said. Just as Andy had described, the article was scant on details. At first, John figured it was just the Vancouver Times’ lazy reporting, but then he reconsidered. Who was Malamud drinking with? What type of party was it?
John knocked on Smyllie’s office. He was told to enter. Robert Smyllie was sitting at his computer, typing furiously. John sat down, waiting for Smyllie to stop.
“I want to do a story on Seymour Malamud,” John said.
Smyllie glanced back at his computer. “The editor for realvancouver.com? Why?”
“He was killed in an accident.”
Smyllie put his arm on his forehead. “Jesus. What happened?”
“I heard he had a few too many and crashed into a tree.”
“Jesus,” Smyllie said, again. He pushed back his chair and leaned back. “I hadn’t heard.”
John sat forward in his chair. Smyllie should have been one of the first persons to know. Why hadn’t he been?
John asked. “Do you know why he was fired from here?”
Smyllie shrugged. “Not sure, something about a news story. You’ll have ask the boss about it. . . What are you planning on writing?”
John thought about making something up but in the end decided to tell the truth. “Not sure yet.”
“Well when you figure that out, come back and pitch me again.” Smyllie pushed himself back into his desk and resumed typing on his computer.
“The Vancouver Times got a story in yesterday. We’ll look like idiots if we don’t have something.”
“You have something they don’t?” Smyllie asked, not looking up, but a large frown passed his face..
“Not yet.”
“Then come back when you do.”
“Why didn’t we have something yesterday?”
Smyllie sat back irritated. “Look, do your job and mind your own fucking business.”
John turned and walked out. His next stop was Charles Dana’s office. He didn’t bother to knock, instead just barged right in. Chuck was talking to Elizabeth Cochrane, but they both stopped when John entered.
Charles Dana was lanky with faded grey hair and a rugged, creased face. He wore broad-rimmed glasses that hadn’t been in style for at least thirty years. Liz sat across from him. She had on a pencil-dress with a white oxford-collared shirt. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail.
“Webster, can we do something for you?” Chuck asked.
“I want to know about Seymour Malamud.”
“When did you get assigned to that? I wasn’t aware we were doing that.”
“I think it would be in our best interest,” John said, calmly.
“John, give me a call tonight. We can discuss it all you want. Right now, Cochrane is on deadline.”
But John wasn’t going to be dismissed so easily. “Why are you covering it up?”
Dana turned, a flicker of anger passed through his large eyes but it quickly passed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
John studied his boss intently. He would never have called Chuck a lair, but there was something behind those intense large eyes. There was something Chuck was hiding and John, the natural journalist, wanted to know what that was. “Then why didn’t somebody cover the story?” John said. “The Times beat us.”
“We’re doing an obit. It’ll be better. More fitting, I think for such a giant. Don’t forget you’re talking about a friend of mine.”
“I’m going to write it,” John said. “Not some obit piece. A proper story.”
“No, you’re not,” Chuck said, shaking his head.
“Fine, then I’ll sell it to someone else.” John was very stubborn when he wanted to be.
Chuck leaned back in his chair and slowly, carefully took off his glasses and rubbed the corner of his eyes. He sighed. “You do that and you’ll be looking for another job,” he said.
“Somebody will publish it,” John said, turning and walking out the room.
The more somebody told John he couldn’t have it, the more he wanted it. And he wanted to do a story about Seymour Malamud. Badly.
He went back and sat at his desk brooding. His phone rang. He ignored it. He looked around the large newsroom, at the waves of motion, the chaotic mass of journalists, editors, copy editors, page editors, photographers, photography editors. On television screens CNN was playing, the usual pundit was talking about the price of oil and the instability of the middle east. . . blah. . . blah . . . blah. It was only background noise.