They occupied a long dinner table draped in white. Having arrived in Manhattan, Lars Bjertle sat with ten or twelve other reporters sipping wine. Present were senior staff members of the New York Times, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Boston Globe.
Lars was comfortable, here among his peers. But also unsure. News-gathering does not originate in the Midwest. The New York Times sends articles to Minnesota. Not the other way around.
Still, he has nothing to apologize for. Minneapolis is a hotbed of progressive thought. For sheer ferocity, Lars and his newspaper, MN News, took a backseat to no one.
He proved it that day. Lars and the others attended a lecture at Columbia. Called ‘New Directions in Reporting: Fact Over Fiction’, the professor argued that reporters were the new arbiters of truth. Their main concern was no longer what to report. But how to report. For the good of democracy, right and wrong lay in the hands of the press.
The final ten minutes comprised a thundering indictment of Donald Trump. At the conclusion Lars was the first to jump to his feet. Others followed. The speaker received a standing ovation.
How wonderful to stand proudly among one’s equals!
Afterward, the reporters headed for Michael’s on Tenth, ready to flex their healthy per diems. Lars sat next to a pretty Boston reporter, Cammy Enderley. Intending to impress her, he would tell the table a favorite story.
The story was about the time he chased an embezzler across the country. A clerk stole millions from the Department of Human Services. It was a complicated fraud involving an extramarital affair with an insurance executive. Out of jealousy, the executive’s wife tipped Lars off. The pair were headed to Mexico via California in a 1968 Cadillac DeVille convertible. In the trunk was two million dollars. Their first stop would be the Omaha Hilton. Lars jumped in his own car, a lime green Prius, and hit the interstate.
Stories are all about timing, and Lars waited for the right moment. And waited. A raucous table, there were many competing tales, much ordering, shouted objections, plates clinking, and laughter. Lars exchanged regular glances with Cammy. Knowing glances.
A Philadelphia reporter told a story about a Boston politician. Fortuitously, that story also involved bags of cash. When the reporter finished, Lars cleared his throat, and began.
“When I was in Omaha…”
The table exploded in laughter. Glasses overturned. The Philadelphia reporter choked. Two others slapped him on the back. The Times men screamed. The waiters and busboys laughed. Even Lars laughed. He laughed harder than anyone.
As for his attractive table-mate, Cammy Enderley did not speak to him again. Instead she turned her attention to a New York Times editor, a bloated rake with the top three buttons of his shirt open. Wearing a beard, the black hair continued down his neck to his chest.
Lars had ample time to reflect on the flight home. He knew he would tell his story again. It was a good story. But unfortunately, not outside the Midwest.
What was wrong with Omaha? Nothing. Nothing at all. After all, it was a whole lot like Minneapolis.
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