The Black Chronicle (10 page)

“That’s really good to know actually,” she said and then blurted out, “Do you recognize me?”

Which made Jeremy suddenly very uncomfortable. Was this some sort of ambush? An old fling from college? That would be the perfect way to end this week, wouldn't it?
Jeremy we have a son together. His name is George and he’s ten. Normally I wouldn’t bother you with this. After all we both agreed it was just one night. The thing is, he’s mentally ill. I can no long support him on my own and you owe me ten years in back payments for child support… Don’t worry… I will accept any major credit card. 

              “Sorry, do we know each other?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Are you a model or something?” he asked sincerely but felt stupid for it immediately.

              “No! Definitely not!” She blushed despite herself and the discomfort of the situation. “I’m an actress. Not from anything you’re likely to have seen.” Then she saw the look in his eyes and added. “Not an
adult
entertainer either.  Slasher films. Horrors. Really B movie kind of stuff.”

              “Oh. Okay.” Jeremy said and folded his hands in front of him. “Why don’t we just start with why you are here?”

              “Okay… okay. I’m afraid if I tell you what I want to, that you’re going to go to the police – I haven’t done anything wrong or anything like that. But somebody very close to me is in danger. The worst kind of danger,” she spat out in a long string of connected syllables.

              “It’s okay Mary,” take your time.

              “I’m sorry. This… this is crazy.”

              He could see the tears beginning to form in her eyes and so retrieved a box of tissues from his desk.  

              “I’m sorry,” she said taking a tissue and dabbing the corners of her eyes with it.

              “Nothing to be sorry about,” He said, sitting down across from her and trying his best not to think about the bathroom in his dead brother’s apartment.

              “I just don’t want the police involved” she said for the second time.

              “Okay… Well I promise you whatever you tell me, will not leave this room. I give you my word.”

              Which was something he shouldn’t have promised. Who knows what the woman was caught up in. But at this point he didn’t care. He had enough on his plate.

              A long silence filled the room and space between them until she finally spat out “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I – I can’t.”

              “It’s okay. There’s no pressure here.”

              “I’m sorry for wasting your time,” she said standing up.

              “Mary wait,” He took his card and wrote his personal number on the back of it and handed it to her. “Listen, if you ever want to just talk. Please feel free to call.”

“Thank you Jeremy,” she said and left the office.

              Driving down front street on his way to work Richard couldn’t keep a ridiculous Viagra commercial grin from pulling his cheeks up high towards the beautifully blue Californian sky. He didn't want to. He tapped the steering wheel to the easy rock rhythm of good morning FM Classics and even hummed along at the really catchy parts.
Don't stop believin', hold on to that feelin' streetlight people, woaaah, wooaah
! He hadn’t felt this good since a string of colonic treatments four years prior.

It was not just that he had the subject for his mini-series, it was not just that he felt it was groundbreaking, and refreshing and important. It was more then anything, the fact that the information he had spent the weekend pouring over had genuinely encouraged him and made him feel more hopeful for the future of the world than he had in a long, long time. And that was exactly the point.
Exactly
the point! If what he learned caused him to feel this way surely it would for other people too. He couldn’t wait to share it at the production meeting later and then the world.

As pumped as he was to get to work his cheerful mood still wasn't quite as enabling as a strong cup of coffee would be. This time of day the Starbucks around the corner from the studio was forever under siege by a stream of sleepy eyed caffeine zombies which lead all the way from outside to the small team of overwhelmed, and what he imagined were grossly underpaid baristas. Normally he would rather take a punch to the mouth then stand through that line first thing in the morning but this was not a normal day and he felt no anxiety or frustration at all when he joined the back of the slow ambling line. And more than that he decided he was going to order the most shamefully embarrassing drink he could: A vente extra strong double sweet extra foam something-or-other latte - with whipped cream. Expensive foaming monstrosity in hand he proceeded to work sipping happily at it like a kid licking an ice cream cone.

Once in his office he had time to go over his notes with a highlighter so he would be sure to not pass over any of the key facts. It’s not as though he didn’t have more or less free reign on what to cover for his special but he wanted to really sell it so everyone else would be on board. He had learned that when people feel a sense of ownership for a particular project they tended to make more meaningful contributions. And if he was honest with himself he may have coveted the recognition and accolades in the past just a little bit but this project was different. This was something they could all be proud of and when the awards came, they would all feel like they won. 

   He passed Presley on the way to the meeting and even afforded him a warm and smile and a gracious- 

“Good morning.”

“What the hell is he so cheerful for all of the sudden?” Presley asked a fellow network minion, once Richard was out of earshot.

“Who knows. Maybe it's the Alzheimer’s”

              “I have it!” Richard exclaimed once everyone was seated. “I know what I want to do.”

              Jaded faces blinked and stared. Presley was the only one who seemed curious. It was disingenuous though of course.
Fine
Richard thought
. Let him play his games
. He was above that sort of thing  now.

              “Great news.” Presley said, sitting up straight and folding his hands on the table like a kiss ass at the front of the class.

              “What do you got for us?” The Head Honcho asked from behind a tablet.

              “Well. I have a lot really,” Richard said sifting through his papers. “Which is great, because that's sort of the point,” and then he took a dramatic pause and uttered a single word, hushed, like it was some magical arcane secret he was bestowing on them.

              “
Optimism
?”

              “Yes, we are all very optimistic. Don't leave us in suspense,” The Head Honcho pressed sarcastically.

              “No, no. That's the topic. Optimism! The topic is optimism!”

              “I don't get it,” Someone said.

              “Optimism,” Presley echoed.

              “Yes. Optimism.”

              “That seems kind of broad.”

              “Well there are plenty of very specific things I would like to talk about.”

              “Such as?” The Head Honcho asked finally placing he tablet down on the table, but clearly annoyed to have had to.

              “Well, for instance did you know that the technology to completely replace fossil fuels with clean green energy already exists?”

              “Everyone knows that,” one of the assistant producers said.

              “Yes, it's turning that into a viable economic reality that is the hard part,” another added.

              “Actually, governments all over the world are offering financial incentives to encourage green powered communities and development of green energy infrastructure.”

              “Okay, so you want to do a series on clean energy?”

              “No! I want it to be on all the various reasons we have in the world today to be optimistic about the future. Limiting our dependency on fossil fuels is just part of that.”

              The entire room just sat and waited for elaboration.

              “Look, it seems all we ever talk about is all the bad shit that is happening in the world. War, crimes, political bickering, foreign civil unrest. Jesus, a kid shoots up a school and it makes money for us. People tune in droves and we sell a bunch of ad time.”

              The Head Honcho flashed to acute discomfort and raised his rolexed liver spotted hand to stop him right there.

              “Since when do you have to be explained the financial and practical realities of this business?” He asked, with a look that said,
don't fucking push it kiddo
.

              “Hang on. I'm not saying we shouldn't talk about something like that when it happens. And I'm certainly not saying any of us are happy about a tragedy like that or hope for a tragedy like that, but the fact of the matter is, we make money from tragedy. We thrive on strife. And also, if I may be so bold, you know, a kid shoots up a school, and it's awful, and we report it because that's our job, but do we really need to talk about it for a month? Do we need to extract every last ounce of mileage from it? And that's what we do. You  know that’s what we do.”

              “So what do you want to talk about? Flower power and free range chicken?” The Head Honcho shot back. Everyone became a little stiffer because this not-for-everyone's-ears kind of conversation was clearly going down in front of everyone.

              “The point I' m trying to make is some people- a lot of people, get their news about the world almost exclusively from us. And it's always so damn bad. Let's talk about all the great things that are happening for once,” he said and ruffled through this notes for a moment before finding something he thought they might respond to. “A new drug called highly active antiretroviral therapy has been clinically proven to make people suffering form HIV and AIDS ninety-five percent less likely to sexually transmit the virus. In British Columbia where the treatment was originated, yearly known infections dropped astronomically since it had been put into use there.”

              Crickets. Was this a joke? Nobody else found this interesting?

              “It will put a major dent in the epidemic. Save thousands of lives...”

              “So it's not really a treatment or a cure. It just keeps people already infected from infecting others? Condoms already do that.”

              “Oh for Christ's sake people! Okay, okay,” he blurted, wiped sweat from his brow and thumbed his pages some more. “Mosquito born plagues, malaria, west Nile virus, dengue, kill more people than any other disease. Scientists have figured out how to create genetically modified sterile male mosquitoes. They created three million of them, released them to mate with the female population and it has resulted in an
eighty percent
drop in infections where it was tested in the Cayman islands!”

              “These are all interesting facts,” the Head Honcho agreed. I'm just not sure all of this all falls into a theme.”

              “The theme is optimism. I've already explained that. I'm talking about inspiring people. Framing the world in a better light if just for a couple hours.”

              “It just seems... I don't know. Better suited for someone else. People want the hard hitting expose kind of work from you,” Presley said, scrunching his stupid little features in what Richard guessed was supposed to be an expression of walking on egg shells sorry-to-have-to-say-it kind of face.

              “But this is important. Things are changing. That makes it news. People all over the world are spontaneously rising up against fascist regimes and dictators. Democracy, true democracy is taking root in new places.”

              “He's right,” Froshber agreed with Presley. “This is all a lot to digest and it's a little more ambitious than we have time for right now anyways.”

              “The hadron collider worked,” Richard muttered, suddenly feeling chocked. “The Higgs Boson field was positively identified. It was mankind's single greatest technological achievement. Some believe it points to an endless ocean of energy all around us that can be harnessed, providing free clean energy for the entire world...”

              “You, know Richard, I like what I'm hearing. But -”

             
“
But?! There's not but!”

              “
But
,” Forshber The Head Honcho raised his voice. “I think that maybe this is a little too much to tackle for our time frame. We have to start rolling on this immediately. Maybe we work on this throughout the year. Develop it properly and do it next year. Seriously, I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass. This would be great for next year.”

              Richard muttered something, nobody was listening to him though, not even himself. His collar felt tight, his skin was flushed. He leaned back in his chair. And then as if to hammer home the final nail in the coffin, Timothy added:

              “Me and Presley have really being looking at this Mister serial killer thing. I think that's the pony we should put our money on.”

              Presley' and Lansdown's eyes snapped to each other. The skin around the little twerps cheekbones and eyes tightened ever so slightly. It was the barely perceptible seedling of a smile.  Nobody else could read it of course but to Richard he might as well have got up on the table and danced a jig.

              “Uh, excuse me. I need to use the washroom.” Richard lied like a little boy trying to get out of class, and excused himself from the meeting. They didn't need him there anyways.

              Once in the bathroom he went to the sink to wash his face. He loosened his tie but his chest remained tight and it was difficult to breath. Leaning heavily against the counter he stared at his reflection and tried to take a deep breath but couldn't quite fill his lungs.
Where had it all gone wrong?
His heart began to beat faster and harder. Where had he lost control? When had he become so complacent? His heart beat faster and faster until it was painful. His neck and shoulders and diaphragm were on fire and by the time his arm went numb and he realized what was happening it was too late. Richard curled in on himself, clutching his chest, realizing that none of this mattered. A heart attack was taking him. Taking him away from the world and his wife... oh his wife. How he had neglected her. She should have come first. Before the career and certainly before his foolish ego. He wished more than anything that he could have just said goodbye to her and thanked her for all the love she had shown him. All the love he had ever known.             

              When he woke it was in the hospital. His wife Jill was beside him and though she was now as old and withered as him, she was, in that moment the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. She explained what happened. Explained how lucky he was to be discovered when he was. He lay there listening to her talk. Listening to her tell him how scared she was, how close he had been to death. He had never felt so weak and impotent in all his life. To think that his own organ- his own heart had turned against him. First his colleagues and now his own body on the same day. The years had taken their toll. He could see the exact figure of it now. When he got home he called The Head Honcho and told him that he was right. The Mister piece was the way to go. He asked him to get the team working on it immediately.

              He was foolish to take it so personally. It didn't matter. All that mattered was being happy. His life, his home. People would just have to figure it all out for themselves. He would just play his part. Be the guy people expected him to be. It had gotten him this far.