Page 10 of Are You Happy Now?

As promised, the seats are excellent, six rows back, just behind the Cubs’ bullpen along the left-field line, and Bill Lemke is waiting. Duddleston orchestrates a clumsy minuet that sends Lincoln down the row to sit next to the author. “Hi, Bill! Great night for a game, huh?” Lincoln enthuses as he sits down.

Lemke nods slowly, barely acknowledging his editor. He holds a hot dog in one hand, and a daub of mustard colors the corner of his mouth.

Soon, however, Duddleston has corralled several vendors, and he’s passing beer, hot dogs, and peanuts all around. The game starts, and as the beer continues to flow, Lemke’s mood lightens. He’s a balding man with a halfhearted comb-over across the back of his pate and a round, florid face marked by bumps and crannies. Lincoln can’t be certain of Lemke’s age, though his wardrobe—knit gray pants and a knit shirt with pale, green stripes—appears to come straight from a Sears sale in the 1950s. He’s unhappy with the state of sports writing today, as he explains to Lincoln over the course of several innings. “It’s a bunch of psychological crap,” Lemke laments. “Where are the facts? You read a story and you don’t even know what happened in the goddamned game.”

“It’s tough today,” Lincoln points out. “The scores are out there immediately—on the Internet, TV. There’s a lot of pressure to find new angles and ways to tell the story.”

Lemke ignores the point and leans close, his breath reeking of mustard. “Twice I was voted Illinois Sportswriter of the Year,” he confides.

Lincoln thinks: right, the only difference between Lemke and Nelson Algren is Algren didn’t get any break

s. “That’s a great honor,” Lincoln tells him.

On the field, the Cubs’ Alfonso Soriano overswings, as always, but gets enough of a fat pitch to send a ball high into the night sky and two rows deep into the left-field bleachers. The crowd stands and roars. The stadium lights pushing against the enveloping darkness create a dome of golden illumination over the playing field and the stands. The effect is so intimate that Lincoln feels as if he could reach out across the outfield and grab a handful of peanuts from a shirtless guy sitting in the bleachers. It’s like having a ball game in your living room. Lincoln glances down his row and sees Amy at the far end, cheering and clapping around a beer in one hand. If he can maneuver his way beside her, he thinks, this would be a good night to drop the seeds of the book.

By the seventh inning, the home team is winning. The Cubs’ pitcher is throwing a shutout, and Lemke is maundering on about his life and career as if Lincoln were his favorite nephew. When everyone stands during the seventh inning stretch, singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” under the direction of guest celebrity soloist Vince Vaughn, Lemke sings a few lines, then wraps an arm around Lincoln’s shoulder. Swinging his head to indicate the buff young traders in Polo shirts, the suited businessmen in their expense-account box seats, the chattering girls showing off their navel jewelry, the suburban dads with their troops of restless kids—the whole nouveau Cubs family—Lemke whispers hoarsely, “These are my readers.”

With the last call for beer, the Pistakee lineup shifts. Lincoln and Breeson go out for refills; Lemke slides over to recall his career triumphs for Duddleston. On his return, Lincoln manages to slip into the seat next to Amy. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“This is a blast,” she exclaims. “I love this place. I’ve never been to Wrigley Field before.”

“I guess Professor Davoodi didn’t organize too many field trips up here.”

Amy eyes him coolly. Just then, a Cubs outfielder dashes in, flops on his stomach, and, sliding, grabs a soft line drive. Amy lets out a whoop, along with everyone else in the stadium. When the crowd quiets, Amy says, “You’re disdainful of the U of C, but a lot of people who went there really liked it.”

“I know the school has a lot of great qualities,” Lincoln says, trying to sound reasonable. “Hell, in the fifties, the U of C was the hippest place in the country. While everywhere else was sleeping through the Eisenhower era, Hyde Park was overrun with smart, edgy, creative types. Mike Nichols, Elaine May, Susan Sontag, Philip Roth. Mostly Jews from the East. Children of immigrants. Second City started down there. They invented improvisational comedy—cutting-edge, intellectual stuff with real political bite.”

“So?” Amy asks.

“Something happened. By the time I got there, the place had lost its spark—turned insular and crabbed. Nothing but kids who beavered away in the library all through the weekend.”

Amy stares off at the field for a second, then says, “You know, you always seem so sour. You must be really unhappy.”

The remark sets Lincoln back for a moment. Unhappy? Lincoln always thought he was just cynical—or maybe touched by cynicism’s journalism-refined cousin, skepticism. But unhappy?

“What do you really want?” Amy presses. “Do you even know?”

“I’m an editor,” he tells her. “I just want to make things better.”

Amy shakes her head in exasperation, setting in motion her dangly silver earrings, showcased now with her styled short hair combed behind her ears. She and Lincoln watch the game wind down at a glacial pace. Though the Cubs are far ahead, the Brewers keep bringing in relief pitchers, prolonging the inevitable. Lincoln would like to lure Amy away to a neighborhood bar, where they can talk in privacy about his sex book idea, but he doesn’t want to leave before Duddleston. Down the row of seats, Lemke is blattering into the boss’s ear.

After a while, Lincoln tells Amy quietly, “I’ve been enjoying your stories.”

“Really?” She turns to him, unable to mask her excitement.

“They’re raw,” he says, dialing back, trying to play this carefully, “nothing that could be published yet.” He watches her deflate. “But you’ve got a nice touch. An eye for detail.”

On the field, Soriano homers again. Everyone in the stadium stands except Lincoln and Amy. “Take ‘Standard Deviation,’” Lincoln says over the commotion. “I think that story shows promise. The setting has possibilities.”

“I know. That’s such a weird situation—asking all those utterly private questions, in this totally clinical, sexless manner. I think I could really do more with that.”

“Yes.” Lincoln nods slowly. “Yes, you may be right.” Bingo, he thinks.

At the end of the eighth inning, Duddleston announces he has to leave to tuck in his kids. Everyone from Pistakee gets up to follow the boss; only Lemke will watch the game to its last, staggering out. Lincoln jockeys over to shake the old sportswriter’s hand. “I’ll call you this week,” Lincoln promises.

Lemke won’t let go. “I was telling Byron about when the Cubs’ outfielder George Altman ran over between innings and bought a hot dog from a vendor,” Lemke says. “He thought we should put that in the book.”

“Maybe, maybe. We’ll talk.” Lincoln manages to pull away.

---