This One's For R.D. by labatt50 "I'm starting a quest," I announced, as we sipped coffee and enjoyed the Sunday doldrums. "Ummmmm," my girlfriend muttered into the Bee, which had just come between us. "I’m going to enter a writing contest." Her blue eyes appeared over the 'Kings Win A Thriller In OT' headline. She eclipsed the sun, shining through the window behind her, and I watched Bailey's Beads form in wisps of her blond hair. "Contest?" "Yes. Actually, there are two--short stories and poems. I think I'll enter the short story category." "Ummmm," she encouraged. She retreated behind the paper. Undaunted, I reminded her that I was, in fact, a former writer. Once, as a cub reporter, I explained to her shadow, now clouding the weather on the back section, I had four stories on the Local Page of the newspaper where I worked. A few minutes after first edition came off the press, the Managing Editor appeared, hull down on the horizon, and sailed like a man-o-war into the newsroom. A current of anticipation preceded him as he tacked around a large ornamental plant and bore down on the island of four desks, of which mine was one. His appearance had not gone unnoticed, for on the rare occasion that he came into the newsroom, it was usually a bad omen, an albatross for someone's neck. Everyone froze, breathless, until he was safely past their station. He luffed, hove to, and dropped anchor beside me. "Did you write these stories?" he boomed, waving the neatly folded paper like a tennis racket. The leads of my articles were circled in bright blue ink from the elegant fountain pen which stood at attention in the engraved holder on his desk. I could feel the eyes of my jackal colleagues tearing flesh from my carcass. "Yes, Sir." I tried to sound brave. "Well, let me congratulate you." The mournful echoes of The Last Post faded, and Queen burst into We Are The Champions. "Thank you, Sir," my voice deepened. A wave of disappointment eddied through the newsroom. "I wish more reporters displayed your writing ability." "Yes," I agreed, imagining the sullen faces around me returning to their own business. "Yes, I know," said my girlfriend, tossing aside the sports section and shuffling through the Weekend pile before unearthing the Scene."You told me. Your Editor was quite a guy." "The best," I said. "Did I tell you about the time he and two cronies left a bar and ended up buying a thoroughbred racehorse?" "Yes. They called it Lulubell." "Annabelle," I said. "Cost them a fortune. Fifth was the best she ever finished. But she did star in a beer commercial once." The paper curtain went up again. My thoughts turned to a fishing trip on which the M.E. and I found ourselves, in later years after we'd become friends. We were in a high-speed Navy yard boat, hunkered down behind the wheelhouse, guests of HMCS Cataraqui (a ship in name only, and in actual fact a cluster of buildings). But the sailors did own a sleek, gray lightning-bolt, and we had been fishing aboard it. There were many fat trophies on ice, and we'd consumed large quantities of free beer. For some inexplicable reason, as we raced across Lake Ontario for home, R.D. (short for Robert Derwin Owen...the first two names were rarely used) decided he would try one final cast into the screaming wake. There is no known freshwater fish species which feeds at 35 knots, but he cast out anyway. I watched the large spoon catch the wind, ripping off 150 feet of line before hitting the water. The lure dug in, and line continued to peel from his reel at a frightening rate. He set the bail. The force jerked the rod right out of his hands, and it disappeared into the foam well behind the boat. He didn't bat an eye. He turned to me and said something. The roar of the engine and the windstream were impossibly loud, but I made out two words..."another beer". I gingerly crabbed across the bucking deck to the tub and rescued a pair. I sipped my cooling coffee, and remembered another marvellous story, still told where newsmen gather, about R.D.'s 'swan' to several European NATO bases with a group of editors. R.D., in his cups at a briefing, and surrounded by maps covered with strange symbols and names, and with brass everywhere, arose and asked pointedly: "Who IS the enemy?" Despite his persistence, the soldiers wouldn't say, at least not for the record. Although taxpayers picked up the tab, R.D. still managed to spend a wad of the newspaper's money, most of which appeared on his expense account under the acronym "PACR". When asked to explain, he said regally : "Pissed Away, Can't Remember." He's a wonder, I thought at the time. He's a legend. Some day, someone will write a book about him. Many wonderful articles did appear when he passed away in the mid '90s, but few mentioned his humanity, kindness or professionalism. "Could I write something meaningful about R.D. in 1,000 words?" I wondered. "There's so much to say." "Sure you could," said the paper. I watched a convoy of quail skitter across the front lawn. "I'd really like to do something about him and win that contest. What a way to honor a great man." "Don't enter to win," said my girlfriend, crumpling the paper into her lap. "Enter so those who read your story will get to know your friend, and perhaps admire him as much as you do." She was right, of course. I glanced at the computer, but decided to have another coffee before writing anything. I watched her shadow play across the large furniture ad and marveled at her wisdom. (30)