Fletch Won

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“I want to see you anyway.” Frank Jaffe, The Editor, refolded the competing newspaper, the Chronicle-Gazette, and put it under his elbow on the desk. “I have some tough things to say to you.”

“Little ol’ me?”

“How would you like lifting a shovel eight hours a day, every day, five days a week, maybe half-days Saturdays?”

Fletch looked at his sneakers on the rug of Frank’s office. Through the top of his left sneaker he saw the knuckles of three toes. Only the smallest toe showed through the top of his right sneaker. “It’s not what I see for myself in the parade of life, Frank.”

“That’s what I see for you. In the parade of life, what do you see yourself suited for?”

“Journalism.”

“And what’s journalism, young Fletcher?”

“Developing the skill of ending sentences with prepositions? Especially questions?”

“Did I just do that?” Behind his thick lenses, Frank’s watery eyes moved across the top of his messy desk. “I just did that.”

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