Page 10 of Spread Your Wings
“I was talking about the Leprechaun comment. His last name is Connelly. Where the fuck did you think he was from, Turkey?” Tol’s face was almost purple. “Greenie. Faggot. Leprechaun. Ginger. I should fire you on the spot.”
“Sam’s been patient as fuck with you,” Howard added. “Never raised his voice. Never swore at you for needing five takes to say one sentence. Never lost his patience, and I haven’t seen him eat a goddamn thing all day.”
“Don’t make this about, ‘Poor Sammy,’” Nicole said. She scrunched her face and the cake make-up cracked along both sides of her nose. “You’re all a bunch of faggots. You probably get together after work for a circle-jerk, don’t you? I’m left out because I’m a girl. Well, fuck you.”
She stormed out of the room in a swirl of papers. “You can’t fire me. I quit!”
Tol rolled his eyes. “Third time in three years. I hope it sticks, this time. If not, I’m sending her to South Africa for the rest of her career.”
“Sorry you had to hear that,” Howard said, coming over to pat Sammy’s shoulder.
“She’s been saying shit about me since we got here?”
Tol laughed. “She’s been saying shit about everyone she finds threatening, for her entire life. It’s not you. Don’t take it personally.”
Sammy blinked, still trying to process all the horrible words she’d used to destroy his truth.
“I mean it, kid,” Tol said, grabbing him in an awkward side hug. “It’s not about you. Not your fault. You’re writing concise copy, and you’re telling the truth about Sarajevo to our folks at home. That’s all we ask, and you’re doing it right.”
“And she’s still doing it wrong,” Howard said.
Tol handed Howard a twenty-dollar bill. “You were right. Third strike. I thought she would have learned her lesson last time. Time to call in Christiane.”
“Christiane Amanpour? She’s coming here?” Sammy had seen Christiane from across the room once during his internship, but he’d never met her.
“She may stay in London, for now,” Tol said. “We’ll wait and see what happens with the referendum.”
Sammy met Christiane over teleconference the next day. She posed a question similar to Nicole’s. “Why are the Serbs not talking on camera? We need to know what they want.”
Sammy and Howard hit the streets again. Sammy traded his Braves cap for a stocking hat. Even folded in half, it fell into his eyes every two minutes.
He borrowed a camouflage jacket from one of the UN troops who brought mail from the airport. The jacket completely covered his hands. The added warmth made it easier to hold the microphone in the frigid temperatures.
Howard drove the Jeep further into Serbian territory, northeast of the airport. Sammy began to recognize the Serbs on sight. When he left the hotel, he saw them. When he headed toward the bridge, he saw them. When he looked up at the tops of the surrounding buildings, he saw them watching through high-powered rifle scopes. Not shooting. Waiting. Stalking. One day, he caught one as he went out of a nearby building, head down, scurrying away.
“Please, may we ask you some questions about the upcoming referendum?”
“Go home, American. We don’t need your melting pot here.”
The glare the man gave him was so hostile, Sammy took a step back. The man pushed him aside and continued toward the alley with purpose.
Howard fared better. He interviewed a thirteen-year-old boy, too young to know to keep his mouth shut. The boy talked about destroying the Bosniaks. He even mentioned killing Croats, if they stood in their way. The rhetoric reminded Sammy of the Hitler Youth. He felt sick to his stomach after hearing the interpretation.
“I hate them. They bring dishonor to our nation. They do not belong here. Serbia was better before the Turks, and we will be stronger when they are eradicated.”
The boy reminded Sammy of his junior high bullies. “Go kill yourself, fag. The world will be better without you.”
The boy’s statements had one unexpected result, Christiane and Tol agreed. He provided the missing voice of the Serbian people. They took the rest of Friday off after the early morning broadcast. Sammy went back to bed.
He tossed and turned for two hours before he gave up and took a shower. He needed sleep, but the test results haunted his thoughts. Today was the day: he’d know one way or the other. Positive or negative. Death or life. Freddie Mercury or Elton John.
Sammy groaned at his own comparison. There was no comparison. Sure, Mister Elton John was in the glory days of a comeback, thanks to George Michael. Sammy liked his songs, but the man had no qualms about capitalizing on others’ tragedies. Ryan White. Marilyn Monroe. He was even on the list to perform at Freddie’s tribute concert. Sammy would do his best not to boo Elton John in his own country. If for no other reason, he’d do it for Freddie.
He straightened his cap and fixed his leather jacket in the mirrored elevator doors. When they opened, he saw Mustafa across the lobby at the front desk, assisting a group of new arrivals. He waved and then headed to the coffee bar.
Fifteen minutes later, Mustafa tapped him on the shoulder with an envelope addressed to him. This one was postmarked from London. “Another ‘Dear Sammy’ letter?”
“No. Queen tickets.”
