Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Seventy-Four

The broadcast interviews went well enough. I don't think I said anything revelatory.

The murder of innocents is intolerable. The murder of children kills part of a community's soul. Greed is a hell of a drug. And this drama underlined the need to reexamine the "War on Drugs" to see if society might be better served by educating drugs into oblivion rather than prosecuting users and small-time dealers into oblivion.

We then spent a few minutes discussing Tasha Stone's story and how she seemed stronger for her trials because of her newfound pride in her late mother's accomplishments.

All three networks introduced me as a "top-flight local reporter," an "urban life, race relations, and culture expert."

I've said it before: I don't take compliments well. Friends have told me I need a shrink. And they may be right for many reasons, but this is about my insecurity over people saying nice things to me, something I know is completely counterintuitive to a profession whose practitioners secretly crave public adoration.

Compliments make me guarded. I find compliment givers to be suspicious. I question their motives. I fear not being able to live up to expectations. Aaaaand, all of this is why I'm probably not in a meaningful relationship.

These things rushed through my mind over and over, as I listened to Anderson Cooper, Laura Trevelyan and Pierre Thomas hang on my every word and say things about me that I didn't think I deserved.

It's always an awkward situation when in a "live" moment you're compelled to reflect on how people perceive you.

Thankfully, I didn't have too much time to reflect because a small rumbling, like a herd of baby elephants, broke into my thoughts, and the unholy trinity of Barry Limpett, Rory Fleischmann, and Tim Kilgore entered the room, trailed a minute later by Calibretti, who was grinning ear to ear.

Turner stood, more reflexively than out of any old-fashioned sense of decorum, but Kilgore told her in a soothing tone to sit back down. She ignored his order and moved to a stiff seat in the far corner of the room, away from my bed.

I had to give the three power brokers credit for not pretending to care too much.

"So, uh, how's the food in here," Fleisch started.

He was the boss, after all.

After dutifully laughing just a little too hard, Kilgore went next, asking if anyone "got the number of the truck that hit me."

It was Limpett's turn to laugh just because, and he came through as expected.

But before he could utter his prepared line, Calibretti stepped up and without a word, nearly tackled me in an effort to give a modified bear hug.

It hurt like hell, and he probably should have considered that it might. But I was genuinely touched. When he pulled away, wild gray whiskers scraping my face, his eyes were damp with tears, and that smile had returned.

"You were great on TV, champ! You might have a new career on-air!"

While Fleisch stood poker-faced, Kilgore rolled his eyes, and Limpett glowered at his subordinate for a moment before scratching his fat head, clearing his throat, and lecturing me about the Daily Midway.

Limpett's blood must have been boiling because his face was beet red. And this was supposed to be his chill, conciliatory tone.

He sounded like a tour guide trying to convince me to take my first reporting job at the Midway. But the assembled group meant he was supposed to be welcoming me back to my old role...or maybe something better.