Wimbledon, Kentucky

by H. Claire Taylor

  He refocused on Eugene. “You. Get the hell out of here before I decide to give them some once-in-a-lifetime footage. And send the ginger over here.”

  Eugene and his cameraman sprinted down the walkway and out to the road where the vans were parked. Bret could see Eugene approach Malcolm and say something to the young reporter, who seemed to shrink three inches upon hearing it.

  Malcolm’s cameraman immediately switched to a larger lens and put a wireless lavaliere on Malcolm’s shirt. He then shoved Malcolm forward toward the front door while maintaining his safer position in the street.

  Malcolm was on his own.

  Bret, feeling strangely merciful, lowered the gun as Malcolm approached. But before the reporter could breath a sigh of relief, Bret had grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside his house, slamming the door shut and cutting off the both of them from any filming.

  “Are you bugged?” Bret asked.

  “Well, no, I mean I have this mic on my shirt.”

  “Take it off.”

  “Take my shirt off?”

  “No, just the mic.”

  Malcolm did as he was told, and as soon as Bret had chucked the gadget out of the window, the dynamic changed drastically. Bret was surprised to find he felt slightly congenial towards the young man.

  “You like coffee, Malcolm?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hammersmith, I like coffee just fine.”

  Bret led Malcolm into the kitchen and motioned for him to take a seat at the table.

  Malcolm did so as his weak knees buckled and he fell suddenly into his chair.

  “Sugar? Cream?”

  “Cream, Mr. Hammersmith. Please.”

  “Well, I don’t have any, but I have some powdered milk. Keeps longer. I never liked sugar myself.”

  Malcolm looked around the room as Bret made the coffee. The walls were cluttered with decorations, most of them yellowing with age. He wondered how old Bret was. He looked maybe in his late fifties, but these decorations seemed to date him a little older than that. The newest thing in the place seemed to be a These Colors Don’t Run! magnet on the fridge. It went nicely with the other patriotic décor scattered around: an old oil painting of a bald eagle flying over the Grand Canyon, a motorcycle jacket with Old Glory sewn on the back that was draped over a chair, and countless coin collections displayed on small shelves that seemed close to falling off the wall.

  “Go ahead,” said Bret, but Malcolm didn’t have a clue what to go ahead with.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Ask me some questions. You’re getting an exclusive, that should make you happy, right?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Hammersmith, very happy.”

  “Then go ahead.” Bret sat down at the table across from Malcolm.

  But the young reporter’s mind went blank. “I–I…”

  Bret cleared his throat. “Okay, how about I start by asking you a few things?”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “Question number one: why did Laurel Sapphire give you my name?”

  “She said you were invited to her dinner party.”

  “I don’t go to dinner parties for the exact reason why there are a bunch of liberal reporters running around here trying to glamorize and subsequently demonize everyone. When something interesting is actually said at a dinner party—and that’s a rarity in and of itself—it’s usually something that should’ve been left alone in the first place.”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “What time is the dinner party tonight?”

  Malcolm wracked his brain, until, by nothing short of a miracle, he remembered. “Five thirty.”

  Bret looked like it was actually considering it, but then, “Nah. There won’t be a single person at Sapphires’ house who isn’t completely full of shit. I really have no idea why she would want to invite me.”

  “Maybe that’s just it, sir,” Malcolm said, feeling a surge of courage only because he was about to dole out a compliment. “Maybe she wants someone around who isn’t full of shit.”

  Bret liked that. He actually chuckled. “I like you, Malcolm. It takes a real no-bullshitter to appreciate a no-bullshitter.”

  Malcolm didn’t know if that was true or even what it meant.

  Bret stood up from the table to go pour the coffee. “You know what, Malcolm? You’re about to get an exclusive.”

  “What exclusive is that, Mr. Hammersmith?”

  “You’re going to be the only reporter I talk to, and I’m going to tell you whatever you want to know. You see, I’ve come to hate the media with one exception: your network. You people are the only ones with the balls to tell it like it really is. And what do you get for it? The rest of the media tearing you apart, and the rest of the world believing that what ninety percent of American media says must be true. Never mind the liberal agendas that are in the best interest of said media, just this whole idea that if everybody’s saying it, it must be true. But not you, Malcolm. No, not my new official spokesman, Malcolm Goldman.”

  Malcolm’s mind flashed back to the day he got the call that the network had hired him, and how much he cared about getting a job and how little he cared about what political persuasion that job might require. He didn’t think there was a more politically apathetic reporter in the world than himself, but he sure wasn’t going to let Bret Hammersmith catch on to that. Not if he didn’t want a gun crammed up his nostrils, which he didn’t.

  “Okay, I’ll see about this Dinner Summit.” Bret set the cups down on the table, and went to the pantry to grab a large bag of powdered milk, which he set right in front of Malcolm. “That’s close enough to cream, anyway. I like it black myself, but I don’t begrudge you for taking cream. It took me years to wean myself off of it, but the day I could drink and actually enjoy a cup of black coffee was the day I knew I was officially a man. Don’t worry, boy”—Bret gripped Malcolm firmly on the shoulder and shook him playfully—“you’ll get there someday. Until then, you might as well embrace the cream.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EUGENE THORNTON WASN’T SURE WHERE to look next after he discovered that Jack Knowles wasn’t at home. He stood on the front porch for a minute, ignoring his hovering cameraman—Jim, maybe his name was, but who could keep track when he went through so many—and wondering for a moment if he’d gotten the right house or if he was going to need to fire his entire crew for the second time in two weeks. He rapped on the screen door once more, unwilling to admit that he’d braved the dense force field of vegetation surrounding Jack’s porch for no reason, before putting his hands on his hips and cursing. He approached the window and peeked through, and for a moment he thought maybe he was not only at the wrong house but at a greenhouse. He lifted an eyebrow and took a few steps back. The wooden paneling led him to believe this was a real house, as much as the vast plant life and various botanical tools he’d spied inside might beg to differ.

  He shielded his face with his forearms and made his way back through the vegetation barrier and out toward the News 5 van. But before he reached it, he spotted the next-door neighbor going out to check his mail.

  Without any further leads, Eugene approached Mr. Knowles’s neighbor and asked where Jack worked. The neighbor turned to look at him, then addressed the camera hovering just over Eugene’s shoulder. “Oh, well he works right down at… Hmm. Well, I swear I’ve seen him working somewhere. What was he doing? Maybe he’s an accountant. No, that doesn’t seem right. I saw him not too long ago and he was doing something with…regulations? I don’t actually know. In fact, I’m not even sure he has a job at all. But he definitely goes somewhere every morning.”

  Eugene thanked the neighbor for his time, and watched as the man returned back into his home.

  So there was really no choice, then. While Eugene wasn’t keen on the idea of breaking into Jack Knowles’s house, he knew there was a larger purpose to it all, and from what he’d heard around town about Jack, he thought the man might agree with that for-the-greater-good philosophy.

  The f
ront door was left unlocked, and with all the plants obscuring the view of any possible nosy neighbors, Eugene didn’t hesitate to let himself in. The message machine was where he went first. It was almost completely hidden by an overgrown fern that sat on the countertop next to it. There were two messages waiting for Mr. Knowles, and Eugene was sure they would lead him to where Jack may be.

  The first one was of no use. “Jack, it’s Laurel Sapphire. I have something of critical importance to…universal oneness…that I need to discuss with you. Call me back.”

  The second one was far more useful. “Hi, Jack, it’s Stephanie over at the faux-fur protest. I’m not sure if you’ve left the house yet, but if you haven’t, we’re going to need more red paint, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the sto—oh. You just got here. So…I guess never mind on the paint. I’ll talk to you later. Or. Now. Because you’re here. Bye.”

  It wasn’t hard after that for Eugene and his crew to track down Jack. Even with all the attention the weather crisis was getting, everyone in Wimbledon seemed to be aware of the protest that was scheduled, though no one seemed particularly thrilled with the idea.

  Once he arrived at the strip mall where the demonstration was being held, he only had to question a few protesters before he discovered which one was Jack.

  Jack was the one with the megaphone.

  Eugene made his way over, waited until Jack had finished his newest protest slogan (“Just say no to faux!”), and then politely tapped him on the shoulder.

  Jack turned around and immediately noticed Eugene’s clothes, his cheesy smile, and the microphone in his hand.

  “Oh!” Jack said, delighted. “I had no idea we would get media attention for this cause in which I believe so strongly. We never get any reporters to show up, though we’re always calling up the news stations, informing them—or I guess I should say, ‘informing you’—about our various acts of civil disobedience.”

  Although Eugene wasn’t expecting this misunderstanding, he smiled smugly and went with it, confident he could find a way to bend it to his advantage—he always did. “Oh yes, I take quite a personal interest in your protest of fur—”

  “Faux fur,” Jack corrected.

  “Faux…” One of Eugene’s bushy brows slowly lifted as his brain struggled futilely to comprehend Jack’s words. “You mean you’re pro-fur?”

  Jack chuckled. “No, no, no. People who are pro-fur would be the first to go to hell, were there such a thing outside of Christian mythology. No, we’re not pro-fur at all. We’re anti-fur, as well as anti-faux-fur.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Eugene lied. “Please explain that more to me.” He held out the mic that he hadn’t bothered to turn on yet.

  “Oh, of course! That’s why you’re here, right? To tell the world—or at least eastern Kentucky—about our anti-faux-fur agenda.”

  “Right, that’s exactly why I’m here,” Eugene lied again, moving the microphone closer to Jack’s mouth.

  Jack cleared his throat, waved at a fellow protester who also seemed quite excited about the press coverage, and then began explaining. “Let me use a simile to help explain. Say you’re a habitual smoker. Nowadays, everyone knows that smoking is bad and that it can kill you and damage your children. But some people still do it anyway. These smokers are like the people who buy fur; everyone knows it’s wrong, but some people still don’t care because they think it makes them look cool or hip or whatnot. Some smokers decide that they no longer want to smoke, so what do they do? They start chewing nicotine gum instead. It still gives them that fix, but it’s more socially acceptable because it says, ‘I’m recovering, I’m changing my ways!’ People who buy faux fur are like the people chewing gum to get their fix. You’re still consuming nicotine, and evil corporations are still getting your money, so in the end, it’s not a whole lot better than smoking, other than the fact that you’ve eliminated the secondhand smoke.

  “So, what we’re trying to do today is to say that nothing that even remotely resembles fur is good. It’s not stylish, it’s just evil. The only way to break people of their fur habit is to make them quit cold turkey, not give them an alternative—the nicotine gum, as it were—that allows them to promote the fashion of fur. Because even though baby seals aren’t getting clubbed to death to make their coat, they’re perpetuating the idea that fur looks cool.”

  Eugene thought that was probably one of the most pathetically constructed similes he’d ever heard. “That’s just fabulous!” he said.

  Jack grinned. “Isn’t it just?”

  Eugene nodded and discreetly turned on the mic. “You’re quite a man. First you fix the raging faux-fur problems of the world, then in the same day you go and tackle the global cooling problem of the world! Remarkable.”

  Jack’s smile quickly faded. “The what? The global cooling problem? I don’t pretend that I have any sort of power over that. That’s all because of the evil corporations.”

  “So, you have a few theories on the subject?”

  “Oh yes, but everyone should already know this by now. It’s all the fault of the greedy men at the top of all these major manufacturing corporations. They’re responsible for the global cooling, and anyone who says differently needs to open their eyes.”

  “What exactly have these corporations done to create this change?” Eugene asked. He was digging for a good sound bite, and he thought Jack might just be a gold mine for alarming phrases.

  “Well, they…they’ve just been irresponsible with their waste. The whole ‘global warming’ scare was just to pull our attention away from the real problem: global cooling. Everyone was so caught up in our fear of the temperature rising that when it started to cool, no one really noticed it for a while, and when people did, they didn’t think much of it because they were all just relieved to get a nice cold front, no matter how alarmingly long that front lasted. I can honestly say I’m proud to be a Wimbledonian, since it was our little town that first opened its eyes to the real problem.”

  Pin him down, Eugene coached himself. Now’s the time!

  “Ah, then I can see why you’ve been selected to join in the Dinner Summit this evening. You seem to have really cracked this case open. Well, I have faith in you, Mr. Knowles, and I would like to think the rest of the world does as well.”

  “Huh?”

  “Have faith in you.”

  “Huh?”

  “In solving the global cooling crisis.”

  “Come again?”

  “You are going to the Dinner Summit tonight, aren’t you?”

  “The what?”

  “Ah, yes, I suppose you’ve been so busy out here all day that you haven’t even received your formal invitation to what is being called the Dinner Summit, taking place at five thirty this evening over at the Sapphire residence.”

  Jack smiled, but this one was quite different from the ones before. His mouth curved like a regular smile should, but his eyes were those of a man who may or may not suddenly need to change his pants. “Well, that sounds just lovely, but…the faux fur. I’m totally booked today. I would love to, but…busy schedule, you know.”

  Eugene laughed. “Right. Like you would miss the most important political, economic, geological, and philosophical meeting of our lifetime for a faux-fur protest. You’re a funny guy, Mr. Knowles. And a poet, I understand. I can only imagine what sort of following your work will get once you help solve this global crisis.”

  Eugene was quite aware that he was about to have Jack eating out of the palm of his hand. He’d encountered his fair share of bleeding-heart artists in his years of reporting, and if there was one carrot that worked every time he dangled it in their faces, it was the idea of publicity for their work without the feeling of having “sold out.” He knew Jack would view any publicity that might follow his attendance at the Dinner Summit as genuine interest by the public, and even if Jack might not honestly believe it, he could pretend it until the day he died.

  “Yes, plenty of philosophical i
mportance,” Jack echoed, “and I am a man of philosophy. Studied it in college. I was a double major, you know. English and philosophy.”

  “The most valuable disciplines, in my opinion,” Eugene said. What he didn’t say was that he’d dated a girl in college who was a philosophy major, and quickly made up his mind that nothing could ruin a female sex drive like the ferocious study of Kierkegaard and Descartes. He’d always hated philosophy majors since, and thought the study of philosophy might be the second biggest waste of time, ranked only behind English.

  Eugene had also dated a girl who studied English. She worked the teleprompter at the station where he’d anchored a few years out of college. She always used too many commas, which confused him greatly and made him pause so often that he occasionally had viewers write him cards of condolence for the stroke that they assumed he’d suffered. He hadn’t snagged a spot at anchor since.

  But Eugene Thornton just smiled at Jack one last time and thanked him, before turning to face the camera. “Well, there you have it, one more guest has just confirmed that he will be attending the Dinner Summit, where we can only hope this horrible ordeal will finally be resolved.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  BY THE TIME MALCOLM GOLDMAN had made it out of Bret Hammersmith’s house, he was dehydrated from a combination of coffee and nervous sweating. He had shaken hands with Bret and left on what seemed to be jovial terms. Of course it was hard to be certain. He had walked calmly out of the front door and hollered over his shoulder a final farewell to Mr. Hammersmith, who then closed the door. But as soon as the front door was shut, Malcolm took off at a dead sprint towards the van.

  He dove through the door and slammed it shut behind him. “GO! GO! For Christ’s sake! Put this damn thing in drive and hit it!”

  The van screeched down the road.

  Malcolm’s cameraman, Lee, gave Malcolm the update. “It seems that that Thornton bastard has already covered the interview on Jack Knowles, but if we hurry, we can get the scoop on Frank Leinenkugel.”