The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  “Roddy,” said Sebastian, as he raised his middle finger to the camera, “don’t make me come in there.”

  Sebastian logged onto his laptop. Here & Now scripts are living creatures. Last minute changes happen daily. And occasionally, someone has the audacity to undo what he has done. Sebastian always gave himself enough time to change the words back. He glanced at Garrison’s screen. His co-host was playing Solitaire.

  “Red eight on black nine,” said Sebastian.

  Another newscast where I’ll have to carry him on my back.

  Sebastian and Garrison rehearsed the show-opening twice, the last run-through finishing just a minute to air. Sebastian and Garrison alternated the headlines with Sebastian going first. The lead story was his. Sebastian had uncovered yet another embarrassing example of government favouritism.

  “This is for real,” said Roddy in both men’s earpieces. He counted backwards from ten. The Here & Now theme poured into Sebastian’s ear. He kept time with his foot to the pounding drums, while swirling animation revealed video of a paving machine laying asphalt.

  “Tonight…It pays to have the blues. The Tory government will pave its own districts first.”

  Garrison’s voice jumped in behind.

  “Giving drive-thru a whole new meaning. A drunk driver takes out a Tim Hortons.”

  Sebastian watched security footage of a car crashing through a window and plowing into the counter, spraying donuts high and low. The video inspired Sebastian to create an unspoken, alternative headline.

  The cop and the cruller. Chief Bennett gets the late-night munchies.

  “Barely keeping their heads above water. Homes in Airport Heights are flooded.”

  A hose wriggling out of a basement window created a backyard brook next to a pile of waterlogged boxes and furniture.

  “Got to get his mousse. He tried to steal a hunting rifle. He ended up with hair gel.”

  The perp walk of shame: a sheriff escorted a handcuffed man in an orange jumpsuit past the media horde. The video ended with Here & Now swooshing across the screen. A camera gently narrowed the live shot of Sebastian and Garrison in the studio.

  “Good evening everyone and welcome to Here & Now. I’m Garrison Hill.”

  “And I’m Sebastian Hunter. Our top story tonight, the government is going on a paving spree, but only in its own districts. For every mile paved in Liberal districts, at least two will be paved in Conservative districts. And some Liberal districts won’t get any asphalt at all. The premier denies that it’s favouritism. But a Here & Now investigation has discovered that being on the right team means a smooth ride.”

  Sebastian watched his own report on the monitors. He smiled as the premier fumbled through an implausible explanation. Geology made roads in Liberal districts more expensive to pave than roads in Conservative districts, she explained, so the Liberals were getting their fair share after all. But Sebastian had uncovered an engineer’s report which showed the cost per kilometre was the same everywhere. The flummoxed premier promised to investigate.

  “Gotcha,” said Sebastian.

  Garrison ignored Sebastian’s self-congratulation and continued typing on his computer. The senior anchor didn’t look up until Roddy told both men, “Ten seconds.” Sebastian scowled off camera as Garrison read his first intro.

  “A drunk driver parked his car inside a Tim Hortons this morning. Police say when they arrived, the driver rolled down the window and asked for a double-double. Instead of coffee, he got a breathalyzer test. He blew double the legal limit….”

  Sebastian scrolled through Garrison’s upcoming scripts. There hadn’t been a Garrison gaffe in a couple of weeks. Perhaps he needed a nudge in the right direction. Sebastian read the kicker, the last news script in the block before the weather. The kicker signals a change in direction. Death and mayhem are temporarily suspended. Viewers are treated to an uplifting story. Better still, a funny story.

  This is not funny enough, thought Sebastian, it needs a screw-up. He typed one into the kicker.

  The newscast plodded along. Two dozen homes had their basements flooded when a contractor punctured a water main. A thief tried breaking into a gun shop, but accidentally dropped through the ceiling of a hair salon next door and landed on a case of mousse.

  Sebastian bounced with excitement as the kicker rolled up the teleprompter. Garrison’s face brightened to match the bright story.

  “City workers are busy uprooting flower beds. They’re planting more perennials this year. And the flower of choice is the concubine.”

  Garrison’s face flagged; perhaps he realized he had blundered yet again. Sebastian turned away and bit a knuckle to stop himself from laughing out loud. The audience saw video of a work crew pushing wheelbarrows full of blue and red flowers. Garrison paused the teleprompter using the control pad on the desk. His eyes oscillated between the paper script in his hands and the digital script in front of the camera. Sebastian relished the cock-up concentration.

  “A concubine flower bed. That really would be something wouldn’t it? That should have been columbine. Columbine is the city’s flower of choice this year.”

  Garrison’s adlib dovetailed into the written script.

  “Columbine flowers come in many colours. The plant tolerates drought well and it’s ideal for rock gardens. The city grew the plants from seed in greenhouses over the winter.”

  Camera two spun around, providing a wide shot of both Garrison and Sebastian. Garrison wore a self-deprecating smile.

  “Garrison, where exactly is the city getting those seeds? I think a lot of guys would like to buy some.”

  Both Sebastian and Garrison let out hearty laughs.

  “Let’s ask meteorologist Rhonda White if the columbine,” said Garrison emphasizing the last word, “will be getting any rain over the next few days.”

  “You boys,” said Rhonda squelching her laughter. “There’s no hope for either of you. Unfortunately, for the columbine,” Rhonda imitated Garrison’s emphasis, “we’re in a heat wave.”

  “It certainly feels like a heat wave inside the studio,” said Garrison.

  “That’s all the sultry talk,” said Sebastian, attempting to wring one more laugh out of the latest Garrisonism.

  Garrison grimaced. His forehead glistened. A bead of perspiration ran down his temple. He rubbed his chest.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well.”

  Sebastian dropped his smile. Rhonda stopped giggling. Garrison slumped in his chair.

  “Garrison, are you alright?” Sebastian touched his shoulder. Garrison didn’t move, didn’t speak. His chin rested on his tie knot.

  That was the last image viewers had of Garrison Hill. After that, they saw a Here & Now slide. Roddy had cut the cameras.

  “Call 9-1-1,” he shouted into Sebastian’s ear. “I’ll get the defibrillator.”

  Sebastian’s shaking finger dialled 8-1-1. He dialled 9-1-1 on the next try.

  “Emergency services,” said the voice.

  “Send an ambulance to the CBC. I think Garrison Hill is having a heart attack.”

  “It’s already on its way. We’ve had calls already.”

  Sebastian and Rhonda stared at the motionless Garrison. He looked like he was dozing.

  “Is he breathing?” asked Rhonda in a stressed octave.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know CPR?”

  Sebastian shook his head. He heard running behind the set. Roddy and a contingent from the newsroom scrambled past the cameras. Roddy bounded up on the riser, tossing the defibrillator on the desk, splaying Garrison’s neat pile of unread scripts. He put two fingers on Garrison’s neck, just beside his Adam’s apple.

  “I’m not getting a pulse,” said Roddy. “Help me lie him down.”

  Sebastian threw his chair off the riser to make space. The wheels clanged on the concrete floor.

  Roddy pulled Garrison’s chair away from the desk. Garrison tilted like a falling tree. A slew of arms
grabbed him amid shouts of “Watch his head.” They gently laid Garrison on the riser.

  “Sebastian, your jacket,” demanded Roddy. Sebastian hesitated. Roddy’s eyes implored speed. Sebastian slipped off his Hong Kong suit jacket. The one made by Sam’s Tailor on the Kowloon Peninsula. The same store where George W. Bush and Bill Clinton had bought suits. Sebastian carefully draped the jacket over an arm and passed it over. Roddy balled it up and stuffed it under Garrison’s head.

  Sebastian drifted behind Roddy. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that Roddy could do the work once done by fourteen people, thanks to computers and automation. He also knew how to save a life.

  “Begin by removing all clothing from the patient’s chest,” intoned the defibrillator’s electronic voice. Buttons flew as Roddy tore open Garrison’s shirt. His tie, turned noose, landed on Sebastian’s shoe.

  Roddy followed successive commands—attaching pads to Garrison’s bare skin, one on a collar bone and a second on a breast bone.

  “Shock advised,” said the machine. “Charging, stand clear.” Sebastian stepped back.

  Roddy pressed a button with a lightning-bolt symbol. Garrison’s body convulsed. No response, no breathing. Roddy tried chest compressions. He was blowing into Garrison’s mouth when the paramedics wheeled a stretcher into the studio. They whisked Garrison away with the newsroom crowd in tow, everyone except Sebastian.

  He waited until he heard the studio door close before bending over Garrison’s laptop. Sebastian maximized the tab for Here & Now’s lineup and chose the story slugged City Flowers. The script which Garrison tripped over appeared on screen. Sebastian erased concubine and typed columbine. He hit refresh. The Modified By box displayed hillg. Garrison’s fingerprints were the only ones on the script.

  Sebastian picked up his rumpled jacket off the riser. He hooked a finger under the collar and shook out the wrinkles before slinging the jacket over his shoulder. Worry and anxiety were spectators outside. He should join them.

  Red lights slashed across the parking lot. For the first time in his career, Sebastian wasn’t shooting a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. It would have been overkill. Garrison’s graceless exit was already being recorded from every conceivable angle on a legion of iPhones.

  Janice sidled over to Sebastian. “You’re the Grim Reaper,” she whispered.

  •

  Sebastian poured Ron Zacapa into a cognac glass. He coiled the rum as he read the headline.

  Here & Now Host Garrison Hill Dead at 56

  A publicity photo of a smiling Garrison standing by the Here & Now desk stretched across CBC’s webpage. The same desk where he had his last laugh, where he took his last breath. Sebastian raised his glass in salute and sipped.

  “Garrison, you give new meaning to the phrase dying on the air.”

  The story quoted Garrison’s moist-eyed wife outside the emergency department of the General Hospital.

  “The doctors declared Garrison dead on arrival. They said he didn’t suffer.”

  He died from an apparent heart attack, but there would be an autopsy just to be certain. His wife explained that Garrison had been battling high cholesterol for years.

  Television and Garrison had been married longer than Garrison and his grieving widow. After graduating from Ryerson University, Garrison landed a job with a television station in Barrie, Ontario. He never looked back; he only looked into the camera. In thirty-four years, he never once dirtied his hands with newspaper ink, never once suffered the faceless anonymity of radio.

  “I love the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd,” Garrison jokingly said in a 2014 interview.

  The crowd certainly roared its approval on this night. Tributes saturated the Comments section, but Sebastian didn’t bother reading them. He typed “anchor dies laughing” into Google. YouTube video of Garrison’s exit topped the results. The viewer tally sat at 84,324. And he was only dead two hours. Thumbs Up—2,445. Thumbs Down—135. Sebastian gave thumbs up to the computer screen.

  “If you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Even better if you die in high definition.”

  The front door opened.

  “I’m in the office, Roxanne,” yelled Sebastian. He returned to the CBC webpage and clicked on the link Your Condolences on the Passing of Garrison Hill. He heard footsteps on the hardwood behind him. Roxanne laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed with the gentleness of a concerned fiancée. Sebastian reached across his chest to hold her hand. Heavy sigh.

  “They loved him, Roxanne. We loved him.”

  “I know.” She kissed the top of his head. “How are you feeling?”

  “Numb. I did everything I could to save him. I rolled up my jacket and laid it under his head. Then I ripped open his shirt to let Roddy slap on the defibrillator pads. We couldn’t get a spark out of him. Roddy even tried CPR. I was just about to take over when the paramedics showed up.”

  A tear rolled down Roxanne’s cheek. Sebastian wiped it away with the same thumb used to endorse the YouTube video.

  “How awful, dying in such a public way.”

  “I know. There was no dignity, Roxanne. He was a good man and he deserved better—a longer career and an even longer life. It was all cut too short. No one can ever replace him.”

  “I’ll get a glass and we’ll toast Garrison together.”

  “I don’t know if he’d approve of rum,” said Sebastian. “Garrison didn’t drink. It was his only failing.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  Sebastian’s phone vibrated as Roxanne headed to the china cabinet—a text from Janice.

  Been thinking, Grim Reaper is boring.

  Stealer of Souls? Angel of Death? Ferryman of the Dead?

  Sebastian glanced at the photo on the desk. He and Roxanne laughing, their hair blown back, both listing to starboard behind the helm of her father’s sailboat.

  Ferryman of the Dead has a nice ring to it.

  •

  A bouquet of angelic white roses sat in the centre of Garrison’s desk. Sebastian smelled the flowers. Fragrance free.

  All show, no substance. Typical Garrison.

  Sebastian sensed he was being watched. Janice and Rhonda walked toward him, heads down.

  “Don’t look at the eyes,” said Janice. “Don’t look at the eyes.” Her second caution was louder. The two women giggled and shielded their eyes with upright hands.

  “Don’t make me kill again,” threatened Sebastian as they passed by.

  “Sebastian, do you have a minute?” Evan stood in his office doorway.

  “Well at least you’re brave enough to look me in the eye.”

  “Ah yes, the evil eye. I’ve heard all about it.”

  “So far today a husband asked me to dispatch his wife, and a wife asked me to dispatch her husband. Get this—they’re married to each other. I warned them—no two-for-one deals.”

  Evan laughed.

  Sebastian picked a push pin off Evan’s desk and pointed the tip at a staff photo. “Is there anyone you need to have a heart attack?”

  “No, that’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to bury anyone. And neither should you. Instead, I need you to praise Caesar.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I was talking to Sharon Hill. Garrison’s funeral is on Saturday. Sharon asked if someone from the newsroom would give a eulogy. I was just drawing in the breath to say, ‘I’d be honoured’ when she suggested you.”

  “Me.” Sebastian wore a startled face.

  “Exactly what I thought. Apparently, Garrison was talking about retiring. Told her the torch had been passed to the next generation. He mentioned you as a likely successor, despite the fact he considered you an arrogant SOB. Sharon wants you to represent the newsroom. What was I going to say? ‘I think that’s a bad idea because Sebastian may have willed your husband’s death.’ ”

  “I only wished for a mild heart attack, not a fatal one.”

  “Garrison wasn’t close to
anyone in the newsroom. I couldn’t offer Sharon an alternative. If you don’t want to do it, you’re going to have to tell her yourself.”

  Sebastian leaned back in the chair.

  An audience for the taking.

  “I’ll do it for Sharon. I truly admired Garrison.”

  “Right. You keep that up.”

  “Don’t worry; they’ll laugh, they’ll cry, it’ll be better than CATS.”

  •

  Sebastian drove around the parking lot at Carnell’s Funeral Home three times. Every spot was taken. He parked his Acura on the grass underneath a No Parking sign and headed for the door. Janice walked out wearing a yellow skirt.

  “It’s great for TV, but I don’t think of yellow as a funeral colour,” said Sebastian.

  “I’m wearing black unmentionables.”

  Sebastian feigned shock and fanned himself.

  “Have you finished writing the eulogy?” asked Janice.

  “Not completely. I want to run a few things by Sharon, but I’ll have Garrison Hill canonized before I’m done. A lover of mankind and God’s gift to journalism.”

  “There’s a crush of people inside. You’d better go or you won’t see her before midnight.”

  Garrison Hill—Salon A. Sebastian obeyed the arrow and turned right towards the din. But he didn’t recognize anyone standing in the hallway. He passed through a gauntlet of boisterous conversations before pausing to sign the guest book. Sebastian scanned the salon from the doorway, but couldn’t see Sharon through the cracks in the throng. He weaved his way towards the casket, occasionally getting a flicker of recognition from the mourners.

  Let’s see if the mortician is any better at applying makeup than Garrison.

  Sebastian ignored the kaleidoscope of photos on the picture boards. He laid a hand on the open casket.

  He’s a dead ringer for somebody, but not Garrison Hill.

  Sebastian read the brass plate on the casket—Alistair O’Keefe.

  Garrison’s cock-ups are contagious.

  “Mr. Hunter, thank you so much for coming,” said a voice.

  Sebastian turned to see a twenty-something brunette. She wore a fetching black dress and a necklace with a teardrop pearl. Her puffy eyes were enchanting.