It was hot out. In October, nonetheless. Like an oven. You walked outside and got baked kind of hot. And I was not excited for this interview, mainly because it involved Gerard Williams, who was a complete ass.
I mean, he did write some good books, but this guy. He just didn't stop. I had to interview him two days ago, about his new book, "The Base." Spoiler: it's not about baseball. It's some fantasy shit about what really happened during the four days that those poor five hundred and some people dissapeared. According to him, they were in some sort of base, underground, where they were killed slowly.
By what? The mole people? I get that it was a tragedy and all, but no one really cared. I had just moved here for a job, and my family lived up north. Not in this shit-crazy town Fielding. Fielding, Pennsylvania. Where everyone thinks Lake Erie is some sort of ancient burial ground.
I stepped out of my car unwillingly, slamming the door. Gerard, as he insisted I call him, also insisted that I conduct interviews in his hotel room every other day.
"It's too dangerous for me to go out into the public eye without protection and proper press," he had said, the first time this little arrangement had occurred. Naturally, no one had ever heard of him because this town is ten years too slow.
He had also given me a room key, so that I would never have an excuse not to come to his room, I could just walk right in on him.
Did I mention he's creepy? He's got these little beady eyes. I can't really look at him straight in the face.
I knocked on his room's door, sweating through my shirt.
"Brian. Come in," he said, dryly. It took all of the self control in my body not to punch him right in his crooked nose. Even his voice irritated me.
He couldn't be more than ten years older than me, maybe thirty-five, but he acted like he was sixty. He also tried to have some sort of accent to hide the fact that he was born in Illinois to American parents.
"Gerard," I said, sitting down in a chair that sat right by the door, it was an easy escape.
"Well, what do the people want to hear?" He asked, his fingertips drumming on the table. This was just one of the many irritating habits he had.
I was tempted to tell him the truth, that no one really cared about his book or his thoughts on what happened.
The whole Affair seemed to cause some bad blood between Fielding and the rest of the world, mainly because no one in Fielding cared enough to figure out what really happened, regardless of if there was foul play or not. Maybe, they all got captured by aliens and then disappeared the next day. That's probably what happened. And then, they went to their base, underground.
But instead, I told him what he wanted to hear: the questions I had written up five minutes before I left the office. They don't call it a newsroom here in Fielding, they call it an office, because that's basically what it is. There are no headlines. The whole newspaper is on the internet because of low funding. Well, except the three hundred paper subscribers we have.
"What are your plans for your new book, 'The Base?'" I had already asked this question twice in previous interviews. I was just waiting for him to notice.
"Well, this book is meant to convey emotions to the people who were killed so," his voice broke as he kept speaking. "Mercilessly. Who would do such a thing? This book is their respect that they didn't get years ago when they died. This whole town didn't care. This whole country didn't care. In fact, the whole world didn't care."
