The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  A parade of ducks started quacking the instant they saw the trio. Roxanne tossed a handful of rice near the tulips and the ducks veered off, clearing a path to the bench. Sebastian waited until his father sat down before telling him about his recent stories.

  “So this cat is climbing out of the crater with a kitten in its mouth….” Sebastian stopped talking when he realized his father wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t even looking at him. He was leering at Roxanne.

  “Just checking out her ass,” said his father with a sly grin.

  “You’re not dead yet.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sebastian. I’m your son.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Roxanne and Sebastian exchanged knowing looks.

  “I’m a TV reporter.”

  His father harrumphed. “Yes, I remember. Vultures. Muckrakers. Preying on the innocent.”

  “The judge didn’t see it that way.”

  “Sebastian,” chided Roxanne.

  Sebastian rubbed his eyes. He knew better than to argue, but the words couldn’t be reeled back.

  “There were cameras everywhere. Microphones shoved in my face,” shouted his father. “You and your kind crucified me.”

  “Just relax, Dad. Everything is okay.”

  “My son—a reporter. What a disgrace. What an embarrassment. I knew you’d never amount to much.”

  “Time for us to go, Roxanne,” said Sebastian as he stood up. Roxanne tied a knot in the rice bag and slipped it into her pocket. Her flock of pecking ducks waddled back to the pond.

  “Come on, Dad, we’ll take you inside.” It was a command. The trip back was much faster than the one out. Sebastian never let go of his father’s elbow until Tobias was deposited in his recliner. The TV remote sat on the dresser, next to a box of chocolates and a photo of Sebastian. Sebastian brought the TV to life. The CBC news was on.

  “Change the channel,” ordered Tobias.

  [ three ]

  Sebastian put his feet up on his desk. Time for a quick game of Angry Birds. His finger stretched the virtual slingshot on his iPhone and released it with a boing. The wingless bird arced through the air, smashing into a fortress. Building-blocks tumbled, pigs’ heads rolled and Sebastian scored 500 points.

  “How goes the battle against the greedy pigs?” asked Janice over the wall dividing their cubicles.

  “Great. I’m making more pigs homeless than the Big Bad Wolf ever did.” Sebastian kept flinging birds. “Where are you coming from?”

  “The hospital. Peggy Brown made a triumphant return today.”

  “So it’s true, pigs do fly,” said Sebastian. “But they still make very unlikely birds.”

  “Peggy was floating on air. I’ve never seen a woman so happy. It’s amazing how a grovelling CEO can make you feel better.”

  “They should try that at the CBC.”

  “You can see the applause, the hugs and the tears this evening.”

  “He can do better than that,” said Evan after sidling up behind them. “He can even read the intro.”

  “What’s up?” asked Sebastian as he laid down his phone.

  “Samantha called in sick. I need you to co-anchor with Garrison.”

  Sebastian slouched in his chair. “This works so much better if I’m replacing Garrison rather than Samantha. The last time we both wore grey suits. We looked like a gay wedding cake.”

  “I can do it,” said Janice, eyes blinking. “I’ll wear something splashy and we’ll get a father-daughter vibe going.”

  Sebastian hopped to his feet. “No. I’ll sort out the suits with Garrison.”

  Evan nodded and moved to leave.

  “Evan, if you have a moment?” Sebastian craned his neck to check Garrison’s desk at the far end of the newsroom. The seat was empty. He turned his back to the sprawling cubicles. “I’m a little concerned about Garrison. People are starting to talk about his performance.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes, talk. This is awkward,” he shrouded his words despite the veil of the newsroom commotion, “but I was at a barbeque over the weekend and Garrison’s blunders were the main entertainment. People were imitating him.”

  “They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

  “Trust me, this was not flattery, it was mockery. Remember when he forgot his contacts and squinted through the entire newscast. I spent the whole evening fending off slit-eyed drunks saying, ‘I’m…,’ ” Sebastian scrunched his face and waited another second, “ ‘Garrison Hill.’ ”

  “Look, he’s fifty-six and doesn’t see as well as he used to. The teleprompter needed a bigger font. The problem’s been fixed.”

  Sebastian leaned forward. “You can’t fix his ongoing blunders.”

  “We all make flubs.”

  “He’s making an art form out of them. There’s no room for anyone else on the Christmas blooper tape. Do I have to remind you what he said instead of Funk Island?”

  Janice giggled. Evan rubbed his hands down his face. “That was a good one.”

  “People kept asking me, ‘Where’s Fuck Island? I want to go.’ I don’t like saying this, but he’s turning us into the Canadian Boob Corporation. He’s not first with the news; he’s first with the screw-ups.”

  “He still has flashes of brilliance.”

  “So do Alzheimer’s patients. But then again, Garrison is the only person on Here & Now who my father likes. What does that say?”

  “Maybe you should leave your father out of it,” suggested Evan.

  Sebastian didn’t break stride. “It’s like Father Time sitting next to Samantha. In twenty-five years there have been five Samanthas, but only one Garrison. She stays forever young while he gets old. Everyone calls him Garrison Over-the-Hill. We need a succession plan.”

  “We have your resume on file,” said Evan, pointing to a cabinet smothered in dust.

  “He could leave with honour. One of those special assignment jobs they give anchors who overstay their welcome. Something like—Sticking Point with Garrison Hill. A topical debate every week. Or how about—We Stand on Guard? Profiles of soldiers who served in Afghanistan and their struggle to reintegrate into Canadian society. No heavy lifting and a healthy dollop of fame.”

  “Garrison Hill is the senior anchor of Here & Now. He’s not going anywhere, at least not today. Now, I’ve got work to do and so do you.” Evan headed back to The Desk.

  “Your naked ambition knows no bounds,” warbled Janice. She tightened the knot in Sebastian’s tie. “I like that in a man.”

  “Only voodoo can get us out of this mess,” said Sebastian. “Maybe I could arrange a little heart attack.”

  He took a push pin from a corkboard and shoved it through a publicity postcard. A smiling Garrison Hill was impaled through the heart.

  •

  Sebastian steeled himself for the conversation. Ever since their blow-up in the newsroom, encounters with Garrison had been cool at best and testy at worst. Still, the discussion couldn’t be avoided. He strode past beige cubicles to Garrison’s green emporium. Garrison tipped a watering jug around a leafy plant.

  He must think we’re doing a gardening show. Tonight’s top story—Holland has a new tulip.

  “Hello, Sebastian,” said Garrison, as he reached up to the top shelf. Plants hid the entire partition. Water glugged; just a little in each pot. His plants’ thirst required daily excursions to the staff kitchen.

  “This is lemon balm. It can tolerate full sun or full shade. It’s always happy, no matter where it is. I find the scent calms me.”

  “That’s great,” said Sebastian, looking at the front page of the Globe and Mail lying on the desk. “Garrison, I was wondering what colour suit you’re wearing tonight?”

  Garrison wore smart casual pants and shirts most days, usually changing into a suit late in the afternoon. He concentrated on a plant with white leaves. “This is a peace lily. It really improves the air quality around my desk. The newsroom can
be so stifling. Would you hand me the spray bottle, please?”

  Sebastian passed a bottle with a blue handle. Garrison squeezed it vigorously below the air-conditioning vent. Mist wafted towards Sebastian. He grabbed the newspaper off Garrison’s desk and fanned.

  “If you’re finished preparing the set for British Gardens, could we discuss suits?” Sebastian tossed the newspaper aside.

  “You inquired about the colour of my suit.” Garrison held up the spray bottle. “This must be a sign.”

  “So, you’re wearing blue then?”

  “Sure,” said Garrison without conviction.

  “I’ll wear grey.”

  “Fine. We wouldn’t want to be the Bobbsey Twins.”

  “My worry exactly,” said Sebastian. “I’ll leave you to save the rain forest.”

  “By the way, Sebastian, when you’re writing your copy today, watch your verb-subject agreement.”

  The caution nailed Sebastian’s feet to the carpet. “Excuse me?”

  Garrison sat down. “I notice you sometimes have a little trouble sorting it out.” He clicked on a file. Sebastian circled back and leaned over Garrison’s shoulder. Garrison pointed to a line on the screen.

  “See, you say here ‘The legacy of Chief Bennett’s indiscretion are embarrassment and hypocrisy.’ It should have been ‘The legacy of Chief Bennett’s indiscretion is embarrassment and hypocrisy.’ The subject is legacy. Legacy is a singular noun.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you took from my report about a drunk police chief—one little mistake. Incredible.”

  Garrison leaned back in his chair, resting his intertwined fingers on his stomach.

  “If you’re going to crucify a man, you might as well use proper grammar.”

  •

  The landline phone on Sebastian’s desk rang for the first time in days. Call display told him it was Joan, the receptionist. The only other calls to that phone were wrong numbers for an electronics shop. Even if Sebastian answered with a forceful “Newsroom,” he might still hear, “I need a fifty-volt capacitor.” Sebastian had long given up saying, “You’ve dialled the wrong number.” That was usually greeted with skepticism and demands for proof. No, it was simply easier to take the order. Keep the shoppers happy. Occasionally, Sebastian would offer two-for-one specials. “Yes sir, slow-blow fuses are on sale today.”

  “Hi, Joanie.”

  “Sebastian, there’s a woman in the lobby waiting to see you.”

  He was wary of unexpected visitors. This woman in the lobby might spin a conspiracy theory and dump a box of documents on the front desk. Or she might moan about the power company cutting off her electricity, even though she hadn’t paid a bill in months. Scoops never walked in off the street unannounced. Only nuisances did.

  “Is she a crazy?”

  “No, I’ll offer her a coffee.” Joan’s all-clear code. It was safe to go downstairs. He had five minutes before Roxanne picked him up.

  Sebastian grabbed his trench coat. The morning sun had given way to drizzle. He bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, his footsteps amplified by the cavernous lobby. He rounded the corner at the bottom and turned to stone—caught in mid-run like a statue memorializing an Olympic athlete. The woman sat in a red chair, a flaming red that matched her hair. What was that hair doing here? What was she doing here? She sorted through her purse. She hadn’t seen him. Sebastian retraced his last step in a backwards, slow motion.

  “Here he is,” said Joan with her usual cheery voice.

  The woman tossed her hair. “Sebastian.” She vaulted out of the chair and rushed to hug him.

  “Lindsay,” said Sebastian feigning enthusiasm. “What a wonderful surprise. What are you doing here?”

  “I apologize for not calling, but this was a last-minute trip. I’m doing research at the university.”

  Sebastian shuddered imperceptibly. Roxanne worked at the university library.

  “I’m so close I thought I’d stop by. Do you have time for a coffee?”

  “Well, actually I was just on my way home. I have to pick up a suit,” said Sebastian touching his chest. “I’m hosting the show tonight.”

  “That’s fantastic,” she beamed. “I loved your drunken cop story, by the way. You are bad.”

  “How long are you in town?”

  “A few days. It depends on how much progress I make.” She moved closer. “I’d really like to see you.”

  “Sebastian, I think that’s your ride,” said Joan.

  Sebastian and Lindsay both peered through the all-glass porch. He recognized his Acura, Roxanne at the wheel.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  “How about lunch tomorrow?”

  Sebastian swept towards the door and put on his coat.

  “Not sure. I’ll text you. Bye.”

  “I have…” The click of the closing door lock drowned out, “a new number.”

  A hug and a hightailing in under a minute—a personal best. Sebastian’s unbuttoned coat flapped as he sprinted to the car.

  “Hi, honey,” said Sebastian, kissing her on the cheek.

  Roxanne pulled away from the curb. The CBC shrank in the rear-view mirror.

  “Who was that?”

  “The woman in the lobby?”

  “Yes, the woman who hugged you.”

  “I met her up in Paradise Point when the house fell over the cliff. She was friendly.”

  “Very friendly, apparently.”

  Sebastian lowered the window, just a crack, to let out the air of disapproval.

  “Appreciative, I think. I showed her around the satellite truck.”

  “Watched your report go up to the bird, did she?”

  “It was a big thrill for her. I said, ‘If you’re ever in town, look me up.’ ”

  “What’s her name?

  “Lindsay Moore.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She said research at the university.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for her.”

  The windshield wipers squeaked. Roxanne adjusted the timing after she stopped at a red light. A bus drove through the intersection. A jumbo CBC logo rolled past, followed by a colossal Garrison Hill and Samantha Cormier. Arms folded, faces stern.

  BREAKING NEWS and ALL THE RULES.

  “What a moronic slogan,” said Sebastian. “When did Garrison ever break the rules?”

  •

  Sebastian was late. He liked to be in the studio half an hour before newscast time to sort through the inevitable technical glitches and rehearse the headlines. But today mediocrity kept him at his desk.

  “Who writes this shit?” huffed Sebastian as he rewrote the intro to the lead story. The answer was someone on The Desk. Some producer who forgot that the intro is hype, like the huckster outside a Barnum & Bailey Circus tent shouting, “Come inside and see the bearded lady.”

  He pounded the keyboard with two fingers. The clatter filled his corner of the newsroom.

  “Sebastian,” shouted Evan from the horseshoe, “the clock is running, get downstairs.”

  Twenty minutes to air, Sebastian hit Print All Scripts, bringing the printer in the studio to life. He dashed to the stairwell and skipped down the steps, avoiding a somersault by sliding his hands along the parallel railings.

  “Look out below,” he called to the video librarian at the bottom. She pressed her back against the wall and Sebastian hustled by.

  Sebastian pushed open the heavy studio door. He stopped by a mirror and checked his tie—a royal blue tie that jumped off his cream-coloured shirt. They blended nicely with his grey suit. It was a prized possession from a vacation in Hong Kong. The camera would love the combination.

  The printer behind the Here & Now set furiously spit out pages. Sebastian grabbed an inch-high pile of scripts. They were a precaution in case the teleprompter failed, but they also allowed him to easily skip ahead to upcoming intros for one last read, something Garrison Hill never seemed to do given the frequency of
his bungles.

  The Here & Now set divided the studio the way the wall once divided Berlin. On one side: dreariness, a colourless world kept grim by dim lighting, black curtains, and unpainted plywood. On the other side: glamour, lights capable of guiding a plane through fog, and bold red letters shouting Here & Now. Splashes of blue, dissected by crimson lines, surrounded jumbo televisions. Robotic cameras spun in front of a glistening black-top desk with regal chairs. Just one step transported Sebastian into the magic kingdom.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Sebastian dropped his scripts on the anchor desk. A startled Garrison Hill peered over the reading glasses hanging on the tip of his nose. His look demanded an explanation for the jarring entrance.

  “Garrison, you said you’d wear a blue suit.”

  “I thought you were wearing the blue.”

  “No, remember up in the newsroom, you looked at the blue handle on your spray bottle and said, ‘This must be a sign.’ You were supposed to wear blue, not grey.”

  “Sorry, it slipped my mind.” Garrison examined his tie. “At least I got the right colour in the tie,” he chuckled. “We both have excellent taste in ties.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the Society for Unimaginatively Dressed Couples will give us an award.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” admonished Garrison. “People don’t care if men wear the same suits. It happens all the time. Women wearing the same clothes get all the catty comments. We get off easy.”

  Spoken like a man who has never heard of Twitter trolls.

  Sebastian visualized biting photo manipulations. Gay wedding cake toppers starring Garrison Hill and Sebastian Hunter: Dancing Garrison and Sebastian, Kissing Garrison and Sebastian, Crossing the threshold Garrison and Sebastian.

  Thankfully we’re not wearing top hats.

  Sebastian clipped tiny dual microphones on his lapel and plopped into the empty chair behind the desk. He adjusted the volume on his earpiece, his link to the director in the control room.

  “Don’t the two of you look sweet,” said the voice in Sebastian’s ear. “You make a handsome couple. I think I’m going to cry.”