Free Love Always by Ann Beattie

crab. One more Amstel. One more wine.
    He was always amazed at how much people would tell writers. They probably
would
try to analyze their reactions for her. Wasn’t she amazed at what people would say, for the record?
    Yes. But that might have to do with the fact that she was a woman, and in spite of knowing that she was a reporter, they didn’t quite take her seriously.
    People had always told him things for the record when he had been a reporter. It was almost suicidal.
    She asked whether, apropos of his earlier remark about psychoanalysis, the column Analysts Say the Darndest Things was made up, or whether people sent in these howlers.
    It started as a made-up column, but the readers began to send in true stories that were better than the things the staff had been thinking up.
    The cooking column?
    That was made up. And he must say, the suggestions for preparing field mice …
    What magazines did he read?
    The New Yorker
, the
Atlantic, Time, Geo, Connoisseur, Paris Review
and
Architectural Digest
.
    What did he do when he wasn’t working on the magazine? He really worked very hard putting out the magazine. He had a wife, didn’t he? She enjoyed gardening. What about Cindi Coeur?
    Lucy? He had known her for fifteen years. Since college. An extended family, indeed. It was too bad Myra had missed the annual staff party. But she might want to come to the Friday meeting and see if she could line people up to talk to afterward.
    He picked up the check. She asked if she could go back to the office with him—try to get a feel for the place, keeping out of the way, of course—perhaps take a look at some of the mail if that wouldn’t be an inconvenience.
    Last sip of beer. He paid the bill in cash.
    Who put the pig on the desk?
    Instead of a water cooler, they had Bennie the Seltzer Man deliver. It wasn’t Madison Avenue, after all.
    Had he ever been tempted by that?
    Madison Avenue? Of course not.
    What if
Country Daze
hadn’t been a success?
    He’d probably be doing what she was doing: a reporter, somewhere.
    Who
did
put the pig there?
    Noonan. And from time to time he decorated it: a scarf in the winter. That was a merkin on its head right now.
    A what?
    You’re the reporter.
    Must be nice to work in a casual environment. Did he get along with Matt Smith?
    A great guy.
    He had sold the magazine at quite a profit.
    Yes, he had.
    Was there a new project on the horizon?
    He was very happy editing the magazine.
    He certainly did present himself as being complacent, happy, grateful—somebody who had just been very lucky.
    He had been.
    What about the other part?
    He hoped that he was a little more complicated than that.
    If the staff felt as grateful to be escaping Madison Avenue and the system in general as he did, they must be quite devoted to him.
    There were disagreements. No matter what business you’re in, there will be disagreements.
    It was an unusual success story. She didn’t mean to suggest that things were other than what he said—it was just a very untypical situation.
    He started the car.
    “Where are you from?” he said.
    “Washington, D.C. I grew up there and in Alexandria.”
    “My roommate at Yale came from Alexandria. His father owned some restaurants around Washington. Ever eat at La Toque?”
    “I took my mother there for her birthday!”
    “Still live there, huh?”
    “They’re divorced. My mother lives in Old Town. My father lives in Paris.”
    “Visit him in Paris?”
    “Once. In London, actually. I was in London for a week, and he flew there to see me.”
    “I spent a year in Europe when I got out of college. The dollar’s so strong now, I wish I had the time to go back there. Even Paris is cheap.”
    “At least you’re not a nine to fiver. You’ve got so much freedom. People must envy you.”
    “Some people think I’m a bum. They don’t understand that you’ve been awake all night on deadline night if they catch you out in a rowboat the next day.”
    “Lake