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In another shot, he was sitting at his desk at work, surrounded by stacks of newspapers, file folders, and paper. By now, the waitstaff and bartenders knew me by name.
On his desk were a coffee mug and a pile of reporter’s notebooks along with two giant computer monitors. For the past few months, I’d been having drinks at Longshots with different men at least twice a week.
He explained that he sold 38 teas because eight was a lucky number in Chinese, and the three in front of it meant “triple prosperity.” And then Jay’s phone rang. Cupping his hand over the receiver, he whispered, “I’m really sorry. Journalists, especially those on a daily desk, were never really off the clock.
He’d been using a digital camera to take photos but thought the scanner was a much smarter idea.
As we talked, I noticed our voices overlapping and moving in cadence together. For that, I’d recommend double espresso, without any sugar if you’re able.
Longshots offered an extensive menu with pages of specialty drinks and, in the back, several more pages of coffee roasts and flavors. He’d just filed his story, and he wanted to be alert in case the copy desk called with questions. I loved how, in contrast, Jay was so genuinely, naturally inquisitive.
“I’m looking for something that has a rich flavor, maybe even nutty or chocolaty,” he said. At least at Longshots, he wasn’t making assumptions.
With his black pants, dark blue button-down shirt, black overcoat, and messenger bag slung across his chest, he looked like he’d walked right out of a J. He’d managed to get a coveted interview with one of the investigators, a primary source, which meant that he’d be able to go through documents together with the councilwoman and have her explain what the audit showed.