“Oh, it’s definitely a good thing,” I said. “You’ll see.”
After I hung up, though, I began to have second thoughts. What I’d turned in to my editor was a positive, honest, human interest story, and I thought it captured Alex pretty well. But that didn’t mean that the finished product would turn out that way. What if some editor higher up decided to turn the story into a humor piece poking fun at Alex or, worse, holding him up to ridicule? I’d seen things like that happen before and the result could be pretty cruel. If that happened, he’d think I’d written it that way. The more I thought about it, the more I wished I hadn’t called him.
Reporters are supposed to keep a distance from their subjects, to be dispassionate. If they don’t, they lose their objectivity and then they aren’t reporting any more. But, dammit, I found I couldn’t help liking Alex, and if my article got turned into a slash-and-burn piece, I’d feel terrible. Plus, I admitted to myself, I’d likely never see the guy again. While that wasn’t likely anyway, it would be nice to think it could be a possibility.
I deliberately avoided taking an advance look at the magazine, but when my own copy of the Times hit my doorstep, I quickly pulled out the magazine section. There on the cover, staring back at me with smiling eyes and a steely expression on his face, was the picture of Alex standing on the boulder in Central Park. Below it was the headline: “The Brokenhearted Superhero from Queens.”
OMG, my story had made the cover! I quickly flipped to the story — under my byline! — and began reading. No, I was relieved to see, they hadn’t turned my article into a parody. In fact, the more I read, the more I realized they had used it almost exactly as I had written it! Not only that, but they’d used it all, my whole damned submission! What a rush!
I sat there in my pajamas and felt great. Getting a cover story was a terrific coup, something a reporter like me could only dream of. Then another thought surprised me: I found myself wishing that Alex would read it and tell me he liked it. “Where did that come from?” I wondered.
After Terri read the article, she just shook her head. “You’re doing it again, Elle. This guy is damaged — I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I ignored her.
I got lots of calls of congratulation on Monday, but I didn’t hear from Alex. I knew that there was no particular reason why he should call, but I found myself becoming more and more apprehensive as the day went on. Perhaps he had had a different reaction to the article, I thought, or perhaps he had resented my efforts to give a balanced picture of him. Or maybe, I thought sadly, he just wasn’t interested in talking to me again.
I was deep in self-pity mode when my cellphone rang. It was Alex! “Hey, Elle,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but things have been crazy around here. None of my friends at work can believe it’s me. My Mom back in Illinois even called – I don’t know how she found out about it. She’s worried about me,” he said with a laugh, “she thinks I’ve lost my mind.” He continued to ramble on as I tried to get a word in edgewise.