by Tim Dorsey
“You were listening?”
“Not on purpose. He was talking pretty loud. I could almost hear him without putting my ear to the wall. I’ll bet he’s a big donor or maybe top dog at the Knights of Columbus.”
“The sanctity of the confessional! That’s a mortal sin!”
“There we go again. Mortal sin, the whole fear factor. That’s what my mom said when she caught me in the bedroom. Dragged my ass right out to the car and off to confession. Told me if I died with a mortal sin on my soul, it’s straight to hell, and I’d better pray she didn’t get in an accident before we got to the church. I’m screaming the whole way over, ‘Mom, you’re driving too fast!’ ‘Mom, watch out for that bus!’…”
Coleman tugged Serge’s shirt. “This is creeping me out.”
“I told you not to get high first.”
“Who’s that?” asked the priest.
“Just Coleman.”
A beer can popped. “Hey, Padre.”
“Someone else is in there with you?” asked the silhouette.
“It’s okay. Anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of him.”
“This is completely inappropriate!”
“I know he’s not Catholic. I’ve been trying to convert him, but he’s heard the rumors. Thought I’d let him experience it firsthand.”
“No, I mean there’s only supposed to be one person in the confessional at a time.”
“Let’s be honest,” said Serge. “Membership isn’t going anywhere but south. You want to fill those collection plates or not?”
“I’ll have to ask you to leave the confessional.”
“You can’t do that.”
The silhouette stood up. “It’s obvious you’re not here for the sacrament.”
“Yes I am. You didn’t let me get to my sins yet. I might have killed this guy the other day. He was still alive when I left him in that cooler, but I’m pretty sure…”
The silhouette sat back down. He was a good priest. Sheep return in many ways. A troubled soul could account for the shaky start. “My son, have you taken life?”
“Hate to admit it, but yeah.” Serge whistled. “And how!”
“Son, are you truly sorry for these horrible acts?”
It was quiet.
“Son?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You must be sorry, or you wouldn’t have come back to the church.”
“How about, ‘I’m sorry he was a real jerk’?”
“You must feel at least some remorse?”
“I’m not sure. Hold on….” Serge turned the Eight Ball over. “Sorry, Father. Put me down for a ‘probably not.’”
“But you won’t be absolved. You’ll go to hell.”
Another pause. “The Eight Ball begs to differ.”
“Eight ball?”
“Kids’ toy. Very big at birthday parties. Everyone’s all excited asking it lots of questions for five minutes until they lose interest and take suction cups off darts for eye injuries.”
“You’re putting your faith in a toy?”
Serge theatrically waved an arm in the air. “Like that’s any more far-fetched than invisible angels flying around preventing mishaps. No offense, Father, but the malarkey factor has been pushing me away ever since the nuns.”
“You were taught by nuns?”
“Yeah, I seem to remember a little teaching going on between all the whippings. It’s like they singled me out for persecution.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because nuns are messed up. Horribly sadistic to little kids and way too sensitive about the nicknames. My first-grade teacher really hated the one I gave her.”
“Which was?”
“Cunt.”
“What!”
“Beat me all the time for no reason.” Serge suddenly became quiet and leaned forward with a different voice. “Say, you’re not going to tell anyone about the dead guy. I mean, just because I ain’t sorry. Not making any threats, but I can’t be around all the time to stop every accident from happening, if you get my meaning….”
The priest began stuttering. He quickly got up and opened his door.
Serge opened his own door. They faced each other behind the last pew. The priest was ashen.
“Just joshin’ you. I’d never hurt a man of the cloth.” Serge poked him in the stomach with the Eight Ball. “But don’t forget the sanctity of the confessional. You’ll go to hell.”
The priest ran for the rectory, and Serge and Coleman walked out the back door into the sunshine.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JUSTIN WEEKS
Public-opinion polls consistently tout Walter Cronkite as the most trusted man in written history. Yet, curiously, those same polls place journalists, as a class, down with politicians, attorneys, used-car salesmen and ex-cons.
The media has no one to blame but themselves. They’re the media, after all. They’re in the image business. It’s like a chef dying from food poisoning.
Still, the burden is largely undeserved among rank-and-file beat reporters. They fulfill an indispensable civic function, casting light where the rich and powerful would prefer to transact by slippery feel. In a fair world, these journalists would be rewarded with parades or one of the minor holidays where everything stays open.
It was occasional bad apples, if you will, that made the going rough for everyone else. Pollsters weren’t altogether wrong about several questionable individuals at Gladstone Media. In one particular case, they were right on the money.
Journalists have many reasons to be called to the profession. Justin Weeks had his. He liked to inflict misery. He truly liked it.
Weeks began his journalistic career as a small child in his backyard. Interviewing lizards and frogs and bugs. No comment? I set you on fire!
As he moved through grade school, Justin embraced the roles of hall monitor, crossing guard and fascist. But it wasn’t until joining the high-school paper that he fully appreciated the joy of provoking from cowardly distance. This continued, more or less, through college and his early professional years bouncing around a series of entry-level community newspapers in the Florida Panhandle and south Georgia. The “community” part meant small town, which meant positive stories about the paper’s biggest advertisers. To Weeks, however, it wasn’t a real story unless there were fire-code violations, civil unrest, sexual perversion and hopefully all three. Unfortunately for Justin, small town also meant small-town power structure. Mayors and sheriffs and newspaper publishers getting drunk together. Weeks made the healthy decision to move on.
He headed south and got his big break. Three, in fact. The first two were with the Tampa Tribune and the St. Petersburg Times, very reputable papers on constant alert for the Justins of the profession. Their early-detection radar sounded both times; he was summarily fired for absence of accuracy and presence of malice. Justin took a short drive across town to Gladstone Tower, where the same stories that had gotten him dismissed prompted the hiring editor to remark, “Nice clips.”
A news style that had no place in the business found a home at “fair, unbalanced journalism.” The paper needed an attack dog, and they got a pit bull. All the biggest stories were his for the picking. Justin’s smirking face was featured prominently in TV ads and Florida Cable News special reports. He was getting famous, and he was getting laid. It wasn’t enough.
Weeks had to lord it over the rest of the newsroom. For important phone interviews, Justin not only used his loudest voice but actually stood on top of his desk. He harassed the female reporters and demeaned the males. But his best was saved for the path of least resistance. All day long humiliating McSwirley. Joke after belittling joke. Jeff just smiled and went back to work.
Nobody approved of what Justin was doing, but an interesting psychology started to develop. Many subconsciously began resenting McSwirley. His submission made them uncomfortable about something in themselves. Why didn’t he stand up for himself?
&nb
sp; One person, however, finally had heard enough. Metro Tom yanked Justin into a private office. Literally, by the arm.
“Leave McSwirley alone!”
“Fuck off, old man!”
“What’s he ever done to you?”
“I can have your job.” Weeks stormed out and slammed the door.
The editor steamed in silence. He knew that Justin was right. There was rank, and there was revenue. Weeks was untouchable.
Then two things happened. First the airport.
A Florida Cable News cameraman scrambled through the terminal to keep up with Justin, who raced past the grief counselors. “What’s your reaction to the plane crash?”
“Plane crash?”
An avalanche of complaints poured in. Phones rang nonstop. Even a viewing public responsible for the rise of tabloid TV couldn’t stomach this. Gladstone Media wasn’t sorry, but they said so anyway. They lowered Justin’s profile. They told him it was temporary.
Coincidentally, McSwirley picked this serendipitous time to nail his first big interview. Then another. And another. He hit his stride like Secretariat. Cards and letters poured in. Baked goods from a concerned public. Central Florida had a new media darling. More and more exclusive interviews, leading up to the seemingly impossible: a living room full of plane-crash relatives, whom McSwirley persuaded to accept the career-rehabilitating, on-air apology from Justin.
Ratings blew through the proverbial roof.
Gladstone Media was beside itself. The suits called both reporters into a pent house conference room for the big announcement. From now on, they were a team, good cop, bad cop. Weeks was clearly the better-looking, in a rugged way, almost to Hollywood standards. But McSwirley wasn’t to be written off. He countered with what they call intangibles. It was like pairing Russell Crowe with Tobey McGuire.
Weeks was an ass, but no dumb-ass. He smiled and shook McSwirley’s hand. “Sorry about the stuff I said before. Looking forward to working with you.”
“Thanks,” said McSwirley. “Really appreciate it.”
Weeks smiled again. I’m going to fuck you so bad.
He was still thinking that as he sat next to Jeff in the budget meeting. The next letter had just arrived, the one responding to the classified ad setting up a meeting with the serial killer. Weeks stared down at the evidence bag. How can I screw Jeff with this? He thought some more. An energy-saving lightbulb went on over his head.
“It’s all set,” said the maximum editor. “Midnight. Hillsborough River State Park.”
“Tactical team and sharpshooters standing by,” said Mahoney.
“He’s not going,” said Metro Tom.
“I’ll go,” said Justin.
“Shut up,” said Tom.
“Jeff,” said the maximum editor, “we wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think this was perfectly safe. But it’s your call. Could get you off the cop beat. Will you do it?”
“Don’t do it,” said Tom.
“I’ll…do it,” said McSwirley.
“That’s my boy,” said Max. “Now, just a few ground rules. You can promise him anonymity, but under no circumstances do we pay for an interview. Okay, we do, but if he asks, try getting him down from his original price. And make sure you bring your camcorder.”
“Except he’s not going,” said Tom. “I don’t care if you intimidated him into it—”
A news clerk approached the table and handed Tom a slip of paper. “Your three o’clock job interview. Already in your office.”
The editor checked his watch. “Shoot, we ran long.” He looked up. “I have to take this. I’ll be right back…. Jeff, no matter what they say, don’t go anywhere without talking to me first.”
Serge and Coleman sat side by side in a pair of chairs. The chairs faced a desk. The puzzled man on the other side read a single sheet of paper.
The metro editor took off his glasses and set the page down. “You do realize that job interviews are usually one-on-one.”
“Usually,” said Serge. “But Coleman and I are a team. Like Evans and Novak. I know people expect to start at the bottom, which is why the competition is most crowded down there. That’s why we’re shooting straight for the top! Our groundbreaking column demands your attention and begs for syndication. It’s all things to all people: poignant, humorous, informative, now! Give us ten minutes, we give you Tampa Bay! I’ll hit the road like Charles Kuralt, scavenging for strangeness and insider tips: The best time to view the Mennonite colony in Sarasota is at dusk when the air’s cooler and they wander out like miniature deer in the Keys. Did you know Sarasota High School actually has a circus team? Trapeze and everything, because John Ringling used to live there. I don’t know how they find other schools to compete against; must be national champs every year. Got a million like that trapped in my head and banging to get out.” Serge handed a photo across the desk. “This is our twin mug shot until you can take one of your own. Just crop those flames in the background. It wasn’t my fault.” Serge sat back and grinned.
Metro Tom hid his thoughts: How’d these guys get past security? He picked up the sheet of paper again. “This résumé just lists hobbies—and some other stuff that I’m guessing are hobbies. Photography, music, urban archaeology, historical loitering, guerilla raconteur, oil painting in the third person, nonmaterialist for-hire…”
“I’m very well rounded.”
“But where have you worked?”
“Self-employed. I help people. Unless you’re part of the problem. Then you won’t like it.”
“Yes, but do you have any actual journalism experience?”
“Absolutely none! That’s my strongest point: I’m completely free of bias.”
“Our classified ad said at least three years’ experience on a daily. Didn’t you read it?”
“I read between the lines,” said Serge. “You don’t want lemmings. You need people with practical life experience. Have I got some stories to tell you!”
“Look, I don’t want to waste your time—”
“And I don’t want to waste yours!” Serge shot back. “So what do you say? Let’s get started! I can take the desk right over there.”
“That’s our human-interest columnist.”
“He’s through,” said Serge. “Have you read his stuff lately? Sheesh! Seventeen inches on following his dog around the house. My psychiatrist says I need structure.”
“You’re under psychiatric care?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve stopped taking my medication. She objects, of course, but I’ll need a clear head to pound out the kind of timely insight your readers demand and deserve!”
The editor sniffed the air. “Do I smell beer?”
Serge pointed sideways with his thumb. “Coleman’s power lunch. I’ll be carrying him at first, until he completes your chemical-de pen den cy program. I hear you have great insurance.” Serge leaned forward and winked. “It’s not a preexisting condition if they don’t know about it, right?”
Coleman reached for the desk. “Are you going to finish that Danish?”
Serge slapped his hand. “The man might get hungry later. He’s very important.”
“I’m hungry now.”
“Don’t make me…!” He turned to the editor. “Sorry. He always does this in front of company.” Serge stretched out his right leg and struggled to retrieve something from the bottom of his hip pocket. He handed the editor small, thick squares of paper the size of matchbooks.
“What are these?”
“My first two columns.”
The editor began unfolding a sheet of paper that had been creased eight times. Tiny handwriting and coffee stains filled the page.
“Told you I know this business,” said Serge. “Applicants who want to be taken seriously come prepared with professional writing samples.”
“This looks…interesting.” The editor set it down. He pressed a secret button under his desk.
“You didn’t have time to get past the first sentence,” said Serge. “I wor
ked hard on those things. At least read the first one. It’s a transcript from a meeting I secretly recorded. You can either run it in the religion section or your annual income-tax supplement.”
The editor smiled awkwardly and began reading:
God Talk with Serge
Today, I’d like to chat about the people pushing Creationism. I know what you’re thinking: They must be fucking idiots! That’s what I thought, too, and boy was I wrong! Honest mistake. At first glance, teaching Creationism in science class makes as much sense as demanding that the school band include air guitar. Then the brilliance of it hit me like a baseball bat. You see, they’re not really serious. It’s all a super-intellectual satire on atheists. Because who’s dumber than atheists? (Although they made great Cold War foes. Remember the comfort of having an enemy with a theological self-interest not to blow themselves up?) Anyhoo, atheists are so dumb they say, “I believe in evolution instead of God.” So Creationist jokesters say, “I believe in God instead of evolution.” Get it? See how they turned the whole thing on its head to mock stupidity? It never dawned on me until I boiled their argument down to its essence: “We worship an omnipotent deity whose technique in creating the universe is limited to the level of my intelligence.” Even accounting for blunt trauma, no brain performs that badly. That’s how I realized it was all a put-on—that’s when I saw the genius! Because what thinking person can look out upon the infinite palette of churning life and not be blown away? I actually have to force myself to stop marveling at God’s work, or else I’m endlessly wandering fields, running fingers through blades of grass and tripping on the interrelationships all around: oak trees, flocks of crows, raccoons, yeast, telemarketers, and then it’s weeks later and I’m waking up in another state without identification. And at least once each winter I catch a cold and lose whole months contemplating viruses. Aren’t they ridiculous? So small, but a bitch. If there’s no receptive host organism, they just mutate and change their own DNA, like evolution’s drive-through window. Fuck that recombination! So before each flu season, I spend a few days in meditation changing my DNA. Why should the doctors get rich? Then I blinked and it was the new millennium, yet another of God’s wonders: time! One minute you’re at the prom, the next you haven’t filed tax returns for ten years. And that’s why I’m sitting in your office today, just a little nervous, because working for the IRS like you do, I’m sure you’ve heard every batshit excuse in the book. Normally ten years would be way out of line. Except in my case I’ve been booked solid working on Big Truths. But if I can comprehend it, it can’t be the answer, because God’s infinite. In other words, I have to comprehend something I can’t comprehend. Am I getting through? Stop writing in my folder and listen! Okay, let’s try this: About ten years ago, I started my own church, which I don’t need to point out is tax-deductible. It’s based upon intellectual curiosity and vigorous self-questioning—so much so, in fact, that you’re supposed to think it’s the stupidest religion in the world. It seems to be working too well, because I’m still the only member, and Coleman won’t let me baptize him. Despite his aggressive lifestyle of constant impairment, he’s a slippery fuck when you try dunking his head in the sink. Just keeps splashing and screaming crazy talk, like, “Why are you trying to kill me?” I tried explaining that I only wanted to make sure he went to heaven, but, looking back, this apparently just reinforced his initial misconception, and then he broke off the faucet and water’s gushing everywhere, which is how they found out the building’s fuse box was out of date, and the owner drives up right after the fire engines and screams, “My apartments!” I pat him on the shoulder: “God’s will.” And that’s why I haven’t been able to file those returns. So what do you say about an extension?