I just realized something. Lars smirks. A lot.
What’s a smirk? I had to look it up. I found it variously defined as “the half-smile of secret knowledge” or “smiling in a smug or condescending way”. Also “a disdainful grin.” Not a way to win many friends, one would think.
Unless they smirk, too.
I was at a social hour in Bar Zia with Lars and his fellow reporters. A smattering of others attended, insiders working in radio or public affairs. Bar Zia has replaced that venerable newspaper hangout, The Little Wagon. Demolished for parking, some old-timers can remember throwing back a few at the ‘Wagon before turning in their morning copy.
“Those were the days,” Phil Schmidt told me. A beat reporter turned editor, Phil stood at the mahogany bar and sipped a pineapple-mineral water. “Of course, we had to drink. With all the crap we wrote.”
I was curious. What crap?
“Oh, my,” Phil said. “It wasn’t like today. We had to quote the other side.”
You don’t quote them now?
“Of course not. We’re under no obligation to print lies. Not anymore.” Phil smirked. Happily.
It began to dawn on me. Winners smirk. It’s a gesture of superiority. Biden smirks. So does Bill Gates. Trump, Obama, and Dick Cheney are famous smirkers. So is Mark Zuckerberg. Jeff Bezos doesn’t have to smirk. It’s there in the Amazon logo, on every box he ships.
The smirk of victory.
I looked around the bar. Rather like a child with his nose pressed to the window of a toy store. These were the decision-makers, the winners. Somehow, they secured that most desired of jobs: Professional Journalist. Well-dressed, confident, united in thought and deed, half the men and women were actively smirking. The other half were getting ready to smirk.
I found Lars in a booth. He sat with his boss, Brad Pennock, who got up and left. It’s not that Brad doesn’t like me. I just make him uncomfortable. “Lars!” I said, sitting. “Whatever you do, don’t smile.”
“Why?” He smiled. It wasn’t a smirk, thank goodness.
“I’ve made a discovery.”
“What’s that?”
“How to spot a winner.”
“Please tell.”
“Look closely at them. It’s the way they smile.”
Lars sat back and stared at me. He didn’t check the room for winners. They were all winners. “You are an odd duck.”
Yes, Lars. Yes I am.
I went home. Using the bathroom mirror, I practiced smirking. It didn’t go too well. Wouldn’t you know it? It just wasn’t me.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com