Time and Chance (37 page)

Jay gave me one of
those looks people give you when a kid is killed in a freak accident. I wanted
to vomit on Berry's carpet, rip his sofa, break his window, stand on his desk,
kick him in the teeth, but I just sat there feeling numb and amazed like one
does at freaky things. The sound of the air conditioner purring in the
background, I began thinking: the bread is not to the wise nor is it to the
hungry. The bread is to the rich. So is the race and the battle and the favor.
Time and chance is what is left over for the poor. Doubting that, ponder the
universe.

Berry said, “What are
you mumbling about, Carr?”

“Nothing.”

Ugly stare, then Berry
turned to Jay, said, “Mr. Speaker, time is up, whata’ you got?”

Jay hesitated, looked
at me, looked back to Berry, said, “I still think a total news campaign is the
path to take, our entire on-air team in a reaching out to the community. I have
some sample copy.”

Berry paused then
calmly said, “Mr. Speaker, you're fired. Clean out your desk, get out of my
television station, now.”

Jay looked at Bobbi, Joe,
me, then Berry. He said, “I….”

”You're history! Get
out!” Berry said.

I could see Jay's jaw
muscles tense as he bit his molars. He closed his eyes and I swear I saw
something pouring out of him, thick, gathering in dark pools at his feet. I
looked back to his face. He folded his arms on the edge of Berry's desk, buried
his head, and began sobbing.

I heard hounds
barking, kids crying, women shrieking.

Shocked expression,
Berry stood. “Jesus Christ, quit that slobbering on my desk, you idiot.”

I watched the patch of
bright sunlight on the maroon carpet crawl across the floor.

Big Joe studied his
fingernails.

Bobbi placed her
calculator on the sofa.

Jay's sobs clung to
the wall.

Berry's mouth hung
open for a second then be spoke. “Speaker! Do you hear me? Stop that right now.
Stop it, right now!”

In the shuffle,
Berry's toupee got askew. He dashed to his bathroom and yelled, “One of you
guys do something … Carr, get off your dead ass and do something!”

In a moment, wig
straightened, he came back and charged toward the door. “Meeting is over.
Meeting is over.” He stopped at the door and said, “Come on Joe, Bobbi, let's
go to The Berry, get a cup of coffee, I'll buy.” He looked at me. “Take care of
this Carr, weather's in your department.”

Berry and Joe scurried
out; Bobbi, head down, followed and slammed the door behind her.

* * *

Them gone, thinking
about Berry's comment, listening to the sound coming out of Jay, a thought came
to mind: animals kill when they're hungry. People kill when they lose a fucking
marble match. Amazing.

I walked to the bar,
snatched a shot of Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and catalogues some
thoughts: time, chance, and 'what if' do not a leap year make, and truth is not
cheap, and time and chance is mixed up with a fickle free will thing and the
consequences are stuck on the smell of humanity forever, and sometimes an end
can be better than a beginning and if I'm wrong, fuck right.

I snatched another
shot and sat on a stool.

The room was surreal,
like a war movie, foxhole fear, and the air conditioner must have been set on
50.

I whispered, “For what
and who cares and why am I here because I should not be here because in the
end, when the people wise up, you will be hanged along with all the other
greedy power-grabbing sons a bitches.”

That thought into
reality, I noticed Jay's sobbing had turned to only a bleating … ONLY a
bleating!

 
I heard a tap on the office door.

I walked over and
opened it two inches. Judy looked at me. She said, “I noticed the others leave
and … is something the matter?”

“No, nothing, just Jay
and me having a little talk. Working out a weather related thing.”

“Is Jay….” She tried
to look in but I blocked the view.

“Nothing. Give us a
few minutes.”

“I … all right.”

I closed the door and
went back to the only thing I knew for sure, the bar. Then I felt a chill and
thought: in this room another time has crawled on the beach and you must move,
adapt, or die.

After some time the
swath of sun light, turned crimson red by the maroon carpet, had crawled a few
inches more.

Jay quieted and I
said, “Jay, you okay?”

He lifted his head and
looked at me.

His eyes were holes of
wasted nothing. Words are silly and trite most of the time. At a time like this
… I said nothing.

Jay wiped his eyes
with his hands, smiled, and looked around the room. “Where'd everybody go?”

“The Berry … cup a
coffee … you okay?”

Jay nodded, tried to
chuckle. “I don't know what got into me.”

“Let’s get out of
here, have a drink.”

“Too early for me.”

I watched him stand
and brace himself against Berry's desk.

“You sure?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Jay, I'll talk to
Berry, he didn't mean that.”

He smiled. “You're in
such good standing … it's been coming … I need to go home for a few minutes,
get something to pack my office stuff in … and Jack,” he looked toward the
office door, “do me a favor, Judy, I don't … could you … just until I can get
out of here, I don't want her to see me like this.”

I looked at him and
thought, see you like this. See me like this, see the whole fucking world like
this…. “Sure.”

He said, “I'll be back
in an hour or so … tell Berry … I'm sorry it didn't work out.”

I stepped out of the
office, closed the door behind me, told Judy that Jay had to work on fixing up
a report for Berry, invited her to the downstairs employee lounge for a cup of
coffee. I needed to ask her something about a birthday gift for Joy. She saw
through me, knew pretty much what was going on. Everybody seemed to know. I
said pretty please and she agreed to join me.

* * *

After Jay left the
station, I was thinking I need to get away. And when I needed to get away,
confess, talk to myself, that other, one hideaway loomed large on my most
favorite of all—The Coney Island.

I asked Sago if he
wanted to go. He had seen and heard a Greta video of this morning's infamous
promotion meeting, live, and said, “How about Vancouver, we could be there in a
day, stay a year.”

I said, “Meet you at
The Coney Island.”

* * *

Arrived the Coney
Island, the twelve foot wide tavern resembling a long oversize hallway, sat in
the middle of a massive cluster of decaying brick buildings amid the original
downtown of old Nashville. Down a narrow alley, waist high, a four by five foot
window proclaimed, in painted block red letters:
The Coney Island: Best
coneys in town.

Today, hot, a wood
framed screen door seemed to be keeping most of the flies out. A chalkboard sign
by the front door read:
lunch special, coney & kraut, $2.99.

Inside, bolted to worn
yellow linoleum, seated on ten red plastic top bar stools, three ragged older
guys glanced my way then readdressed the sweat-stained wooden bar. Behind the
bar on wood paneling, an old Schlitz beer sign hung between ancient photos of
Hank Williams Sr., Kitty Wells, and George Jones. To one end of the bar,
another guy was fishing, in a glass jar that contained a purple brine with
beats and boiled eggs, for one or the other. I waved to, at the grill, owner,
manager, bartender and cook Charlie Hertzog. An ex-Navy Seal, he stood six foot
two, shaved his head bald and had intense olive-green eyes. He wore his usual
white short sleeve shirt and white pants. A cigarette hanging from the corner
of his mouth, he nodded to me as he tended a dozen or so plump hot dogs
simmering on a flat iron grill next to a steaming pile of sauerkraut. He turned
the sauerkraut with a tarnished silver spatula.

I ambled my way
between the bar stools and eight wooden booths and sat in the last one. The
yellowed Formica table top held glass salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of
Heinz ketchup. An oscillating fan circulated the aromatic air of grilling hot
dog, sauerkraut, cigarette smoke, and I got a whiff of the one toilet's
stinging lime smell a few steps away.

 
Like I said, I like the place. Feel more
comfortable with the clientele, mostly from the Light House Mission.

 
Seated in the end booth, basking in the Coney
Island’s ripe ambience and toothless smiles, Charley came over and asked what I
was up to.

I told him I was
working on a book. He said he understood because he had read many books, had
been here and there, worked on his own book now and then.

Charley left and for
lunch I had a shot of Jack Daniels for an appetizer; then, for my main course,
another shot up with an order of Jack Daniels on the side; and, for dessert, a
Jack Daniels split.

Mid split, Sago
arrived and had a Heineken, and a coney and sauerkraut special.

Eating, he asked about
what transpired this morning in Berry's office. I didn't want to talk about it.
He didn't either except to say that he thought it sucked and segued into what
he knew to date about S-Stuff: “Here's how we think it works. Chuck is a
procurer. His contracts are, quote unquote, ‘chinchilla suppliers’.”

“Chinchilla
suppliers?”

“They do the dirty
work, kidnapping. Chuck's territory is the southeast United States … he gets
the chinchillas….”

”What a minute,
chinchillas?”

“That's the term for
the kids they kidnap, chinchillas. They deliver the chinchillas to Chuck, who
then delivers to his brokers. Snakebite is a broker.”

It’s like something
you heard but didn’t. “Snakebite, a broker?”

“Like a middleman,
uses the chinchillas for whatever fancies the libido. Kids are cleaned up,
tested. The broker even goes so far as to inventory parts, catalogue them,
computer database, DNA, blood type … kinda like Amazon. Sometimes a special
order comes in for a part, Chuck contacts a chinchilla supplier, bingo … cut
the spleen, so to speak, split the pie … and it's all under the guise of
chinchilla.”

“And to think, this is
all floating around in space somewhere, no wonder nobody wants to contact us.”

Driving back to TV12,
Sago borrowed my Binaca and said, “And get this, going price for a good liver,
around fifteen thousand bucks, they like younger ones … the world's own is
being sacrificed on the altar of the all together.”

“So much for the
family of man.”

“Thought it was
persons … that was a red light you just went through.”

First thing I noticed
upon entering Broadcast House was a quiet somberness. Sago did too. It started
in the lobby with Marcie, teary eyed, shaking her head, talking to somebody on
the phone, avoiding my eyes. Then, like haunted house eeriness, the mood
progressed down the hallway past production control to the news room where I
noticed heads down, a quick sick look, little eye contact. Sago went into the
newsroom. I went to my office and found a note from Joy:

Jack, gone with
Judy, will be in tomorrow. See P.J. for details. God is good.

Joy

I got a mug of coffee,
took Otis to the second floor and at Berry's office confirmed Joy's message—Judy
was not at her desk. Berry's door closed, I moved on to P.J.'s area. She sat
behind her desk, staring at her typewriter. Joe's door closed, I asked P.J.
what was going on.

 
She bit her lip. “Jack … Jay Speaker … he … he….”
She began to weep.

I knew it like you
know things, from deep in the primal recesses of whatever it is in our human
consciousness that starts thought that becomes words. I pinched my wrist … real-time.

P.J. said, “He ….” She
couldn't get it out. She put a tissue to her mouth.

I felt a sinking
feeling as water into sand.

P.J. recounted the
details. Jay's neighbor had heard a gunshot, called the apartment manager….

I didn't need any more
but she went on, “…the apartment manager found … manager called the police …
police called the station for Berry … Judy got Joy … they went to Jay's
apartment.”

Just then Joe opened
his door and came out of his office dog-faced. He said, “Fuck.”

I said, “You could say
that, big guy.”

“Watch it.”

“Fuck you.”

Berry walked out,
blotchy white. “What did you say to Speaker, Carr, make him do a thing like
that?”

I wanted to kiss Berry
on the lips, but I felt I might hurt him badly.

Berry asked Joe and me
to step to his office. His immediate concern was the station, adverse publicity
in the press, the pending sale to S&W, and ways to position his response to
the staff, the community, the media.