Daimler Dreams Meghan H

Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Retrospective Theses and Dissertations Dissertations 2006 Daimler dreams Meghan H. Bullock Iowa State University Follow this and additional works at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/rtd Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons Recommended Citation Bullock, Meghan H., "Daimler dreams" (2006). Retrospective Theses and Dissertations. 16246. https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/rtd/16246 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Dissertations at Iowa State University Digital Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Retrospective Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of Iowa State University Digital Repository. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Daimler dreams by Meghan H. Bullock A thesis submitted to the graduate faculty in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS Major: English Program of Study Committee: Barbara Haas, Co-major Professor Laura Winkiel, Co-major Professor Kathy Hickok Jill Bystydzienski Iowa State University Ames, Iowa 2006 ii Graduate College Iowa State University This is to certify that the master's thesis of Meghan Hope Bullock has met the thesis requirements ofIowa State University Major Professor Major Professor For the Major Program III Acknowledgements I would like to thank Barb Haas, for her support of, help with, and enthusiasm over this project; Drs. Winkiel, Hickok, and Bystydzienski, for serving on my committee and for your insights on revision; my wonderful parents, for putting up with countless hours of hearing about my thesis and the revisions I'm going to make (or not make); Jason, for lending me space on the card table to work up my first draft; Laura, Colette, and Michael, for the good parts oflife in Ames; and Bill Shatner, for lunch. 1 I turned my back to the wind and struck another match, but this one, too, was blown out. I flicked it away from me and stared across the street, at the river as it wound along, choppy and brown. I put my unlit cigarette between my lips and remembered, for some reason, how unimpressed I had been with the river the first time I had seen it. I had been six years old and my father had pointed it out to me from the window of a rusted out Ford pick up. That pick-up had taken me from the quiet marble halls of Union Station over the river and west. If! had been driven past the lake, that first day, my impression ofthe city may have been different. "Lois, you need a light?" Sam asked. I tore my eyes from the river long enough to see him standing in front of me, his arms loaded with files. "I'm not going to ask you for one," I said. "It looks like you've enough to keep you busy." Bells clanged and the Michigan Avenue bridge separated in the middle and each side rose to let a steamer through. I couldn't see what color it was because the bridge was in the way. I didn't care. "It's not a problem," Sam said, setting the files down on the step we stood on. "I was going to have a cigarette myself." "What's in the files?" I asked. He had a lighter that he cupped in his hand, but he lost the fight with the wind, too. He sighed. The steamer let out a long, low whistle. "No wonder they call it 'The Windy City' ," Sam said. 2 He took a step closer to me and struck the lighter again. A flame trembled for a moment and was put out by a gust that blew some grit into my eye. I blinked and, in my sightlessness, kicked over the stack of manila folders. "I'm sorry, Sam," I said, more feeling them go over than seeing it happen. I knelt down, still blinking, to help reunite the folders with their contents. When my vision cleared, I saw that I was scooping stories of murder trials off of the Daily Planet front steps. I handed a fully stuffed folder up to Sam. "Are you bringing these out to - " I began, just to make conversation, but I was stopped by the name written on the top of the next disheveled folder. Goldman. A cold sweat broke out immediately along my spine and under my arms. The contents hadn't been disturbed too much; the only thing that was out of place was the edge of a glossy photograph. A picture ofthe farm, maybe, or of the staircase, or of - her. "Actually, Paul wanted me to take some of these upstairs. He's covering the Krzytof trial and wanted to see if anyone involved had been involved before. In that sort of thing." Sam took the Goldman folder from me and picked up the rest of the stack. "I just came out for a smoke on the way up." "Why would he think anyone involved with Krzytofwould have a history?" I forced myself to ask. 1 was aware of my cigarette, crushed and still unlit on the stair below me. Sam dropped his voice. "Remember the Packing Plant Slaughter last year? Apparently they found a slug in Krzytofthat matched one of the ones they found there. It looks like the mob is involved, but we're not sure. A lot of things have changed now. They got subtler since Big Al went south." 3 I swallowed. "Yeah," I said. Subtler." But the Goldman case didn't have anything to do with the mob. Maybe Sam had picked it up by accident. Maybe it wasn't any of my business. A flock of pigeons left the roof of the Times building and settled on our side of the street, picking at the mulch around the poor trees that were trying to survive in their city allotted, fenced in, three square feet of soil. "What are you working on today?" Sam asked. He had, apparently, given up the idea of smoking as he was holding the files to his chest. I turned from the pigeons and the street and walked in through the Planet's enormous arched front doors. Sam followed. "An odd little movie called The North Star," I said when the heavy oak and glass doors had sighed shut behind us. "It's a scream." I slid back into the hard chair behind my sharp metal desk and faced the typewriter again. I had nothing to say about The North Star and, as usual, nothing in the office offered me any inspiration. Clark was at his desk, across from mine, and he tossed something between a grimace and a smile my way before going back to whatever he was working, no doubt quite productively, on. I had a fleeting urge to get up and distract him - to spill some ink over the pages he had written or push his typewriter off of his desk - but I stayed where I was and looked at the almost completely blank sheet of paper in front of me. It was so hard to get started. But everything was hard, for me, on a day like this, where the sky held rain and the past crept up out of unexpected comers. 4 If! wrote more about the propaganda aspect of The North Star, the boss would say I was being too political and not patriotic enough. We can't let wartime slip by without supporting our boys in Germany, he would say. Limit your politics to that. If! speculated on why the director ofthe film had done some ofthe bizarre things he had done, or if! wrote about the photography or script, the boss would come up with some other reason why that wasn't acceptable. I found my eyes swiveling back to Clark. He was ignoring me again. Of course. Unless I wanted to work on another film, Farley Granger was my only option. Writing about leading actors was my least favorite out. It made me feellike I was writing for a fan magazine. I winced and typed, "Farley Granger, the leading man, is a promising young actor". Fabulous. Now he would be given a role in some other low-budget production because Lois Lane, Film Critic and Superman's Girlfriend, had said that he had promise. Five o'clock came and I had written a bad draft of a bad column. I resisted the urge to throwaway the day's work, pulled it out ofthe typewriter and threw it in my outbox for the evening crew to pick up and proof, and dug my hat and gloves out of one of the big drawers on the left side of my desk. Clark's shift was over at five, like mine. He was standing, busy running the brim of his hat through his fingers, around and around. He stood beside his desk, tense, in profile. More than anything he had the air of an animal, waiting, listening to something that was approaching but still unseen. "Are you doing anything tonight?" he asked tersely, without turning to face me. "You're asking me?" I said, even though I knew he was. I was the only one, other than Jimmy and the boss, he talked to. 5 He nodded and started towards the back exit, walking briskly, and still not truly acknowledging me. I pulled my hat on and followed him out and down the back stairway, through the maintenance corridor that let to the lobby, past the marble tiling, potted palms, and evening receptionist, and to the front steps ofthe Planet.

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