Page 9 of Good Days Bad Days
“Yeah, you.” She looks up at me from under her curled brown bangs. We’ve worked together on multiple projects; one took us out in the field to cover the aftermath of a tornado in Whitewater. The piece was nominated for a Midwest Broadcasters Association award, but not because of anything special on my part. I followed her directions and so did the reporter who was the face of the segment.
“I ... I’m not sure what good I’d be.”
“Well, Iamsure, so that’ll have to do.” She checks her watch. “Dang. I’ve gotta run to my next meeting, but let’s chat soon.”
“All right,” I say as she dashes up the stairs. I head in the opposite direction, stunned. I’ve never really aimed for a job outside of the safety of the camera. I mean, I have plenty of ideas, millions of them, really, but I gave up a long time ago on trying to say them aloud without having a heart attack.
Six hours later, her offer is still on my mind as I walk across the glossy marble floors of the lobby, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the old walls of the repurposed bank like they’re being released from the abandoned vaults. I have nearly nothing in my cupboards in my little apartment on Court Street, so I take a left toward the diner. I’ve been back to Ike’s nearly every day since my run-in with the pretty girl who lost her keys. It’s not like I’m hoping she’ll show up, or at least that’s what I tell myself.
The curbs are lined with parked cars, and the street is nearly as packed with moving vehicles filled with every type of worker, but mostly those from the General Motors factory anxious to get home to their families after a long shift. I have no such urgency. All that waits for me at home is a fern named Jerry and the Steinway upright piano that’s kept me company since I was a quiet child growing up in a loud family. My mom used to say the piano was my voice.
“Hey, Greg. Slow down, man,” Mark calls from behind me. I consider pretending I don’t hear him, but he’ll catch up with me as soon as we reach the diner anyway. Although we have plenty to discuss fromthe morning meeting, I was kind of hoping to avoid a conversation with my talkative friend tonight. Mark is a nice guy, but sometimes I appreciate being alone with my thoughts, especially when they involve things I’m not ready to share yet, like Martha’s pitch and her invitation to join her.
“Hi. Sorry.” I slow my pace, which is a challenge with my long stride.
“Damn, you walk fast.” Mark is huffing and puffing when he reaches my side.
“Guess I’m hungry.” I attempt a joke.
“Good. You could use a few dozen hearty meals. Put some meat on those scrawny bones.”
“Oof.” He pokes at my ribs, and I dodge his second jab. Mark isn’t exactly fit, but he’s healthy looking, with large shoulders. He plays basketball at the YMCA a few times a week, and his charm completes the image. On the other hand, I am awkwardly tall and lanky. As much as I wish to fade into the background, I stand out like a stooped and slender sore thumb.
“So, what do you think of the new boss man?” Mark asks, bringing up a topic adjacent to the one I’d like to avoid.
“He seems . . . motivated.”
“Motivated. Yes,” Mark says with a negative undertone. “Motivated to get rid of half of us at least.”
“Half?”
“Yeah, I mean, don’t spread it around, but EBN wants to cut as many of us as possible and bring in their own crew. I think that’s what those BS pitch things are about. It’s their way of assessing the talent pool here so they can make cuts.”
My mind immediately shifts to Martha and her hopeful eyes looking up at me.
“What if ... what if someone were to pitch and not get picked up?”
Mark hikes his thumb over his shoulder.
“Gone. No way am I gonna be stupid enough to put my neck on the line with one of those proposal things. Keep your head down and do your best. I’m sure you’ll be safe. That’s my plan at least.”
Keep my head down.
Usually, I’m good at that. My mom used to say, “Greg, stand up straight. You look like a candy cane all hunched over like that. You’re a handsome boy. Let everyone see it.” But what my mom never seemed to understand was, I didn’t want everyone to see me.
But—I can’t say no to Martha.
The door chimes as we walk in, and Lucy leads us to our regular table. I don’t need to look at the menu. It’s a Wednesday night so I’ll have the pea soup and a club sandwich. Mark flips through the plastic pages, reading every one like he’s a first-time patron. Eventually, he’ll decide on the pot roast and a bottle of Old Milwaukee, which is what he does when Lucy gets around to taking our orders. I join him in his choice of beverage for once.
We sip on our beers as we wait for our meals. The television is on in the corner, the volume turned all the way down. The national news is playing images of men in green uniforms, thick jungles, and helicopters.
“I can’t believe they’re showing that in here while people are eating,” Mark says, shaking his head. “It’s a total shit show over there, from what I’ve heard.”
“Yeah” is all I can say, knowing what it’s like to lose someone to that shit show.
“I’ve heard there’s a need for journalists and cameramen willing to be on the front lines. Pays real good, but you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to get me anywhere near that fiasco.”
Mark is an army vet who has strong opinions on the war in Vietnam, the draft, and the way the American media is covering the conflict. I learn a lot from him but mostly I listen. Though this time, I’m not sure I agree. The idea of being behind a camera, recording these horrific but significant scenes, standing as a voice for people likemy brother who didn’t get to come home, fascinates me in a way that frightens me almost as much as the rows of pinewood coffins shown on the screen. Anyway, I’d much rather hold a camera than a gun.
