by Glenn Dier
The piano man stood up and gestured for Tobias to take the piano seat.
“Come on, Dad. I’ll help.” Sebastian held his father’s arm as they picked their way through wheelchairs and walkers.
Sebastian placed his father’s hands on the keys, moving his fingers to the right chords. He covered his father’s hands and pressed.
“First G, then D. You remember.” Sebastian played more chords then eased his hands away. Tobias continued the tune. He knew it now. His confidence grew with each stanza. His fingers flogged the keys. The back of his hand ran down the black and whites.
His mouth opened. His faced contorted. “I can’t remember the words.”
“Here we go,” said Sebastian.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Memory gaps filled. Tobias sang along. A father and son duet.
These young girls won’t let me be.
Sebastian flashed a smile at Roxanne. He clapped his hands over his head.
Lord have mercy on me.
Woe woe is me.
Tobias and Sebastian romped through the song. Alzheimer’s and animosity watched from the wings. Tobias finished with arms flaying. Sebastian grabbed the song sheets off the piano and threw them in the air. “Wahoo.” Pages fluttered to the floor.
There was a smattering of applause. Mostly, there were stunned faces. The man with the foot-powered wheelchair arrived. “What’s all the fuss about?”
Tobias looked bewildered. “Who are you?”
“Sebastian, your son.”
“Oh.”
Roxanne held Sebastian’s hand. “You brought him back for a couple minutes. It was wonderful. I had no idea you and your father shared a love of Warren Zevon.”
“It’s the only love my father ever gave me.”
[ five ]
Sebastian felt chuffed. Twitter was effusive with praise. Tweet after tweet loved him. Just one week in the anchor chair and he owned it.
@newswench You’re a natural. So relaxed and smart. Easy on the eyes too.
@stompin’dave Garrison who? Here & Now has found its new anchor.
@cbcfan The king is dead. Long live King Sebastian.
“Ten seconds,” said the director in Sebastian’s ear.
So much exultation, so little time to scroll. The business of reading the news kept getting in the way. Sebastian sat upright and hid his phone. Camera two’s red light came on. He delivered clarity and calm.
They are women who have done bad, but now are trying to do good.
Inmates at the Women’s Correctional Centre are knitting teddy bears for children traumatized by natural disasters.
The program is called Teddies for Tragedies.
Here & Now’s Janice Stone went behind bars to report on these special gifts.
The clicking of needles filled Sebastian’s earpiece. The monitor showed hands knitting a teddy bear’s ear. Janice’s voice sailed over the video.
She once stabbed a man with a knitting needle. That got her jail time.
Stabbing a ball of wool makes the time pass.
She does so much knitting that she has a nickname—Purl, as in purl stitch.
“I bet they have great stitch-and-bitch sessions,” said Sebastian to his co-host. Samantha Cormier laughed.
Purl was on camera. “These kids have nothing. I can knit them a toy. Making kids happy makes me feel better about myself.”
Photos of shoeless children hugging teddy bears drifted through the monitor. Both bears and kids had smiley faces.
They live in Peru, Bangladesh, Sudan—wherever misery lives.
“The justice minister is such a hypocrite,” said Sebastian. “If we want to do a story about drugs in prison, overcrowding, prisoners shanking prisoners, we can’t get anywhere near an inmate. Privacy concerns, my ass. Somebody knits Winnie the Pooh, and they’re pushing the cons toward the camera. We should tell the justice minister to go shove it sometimes.”
Samantha checked her watch. “Just ten minutes since your last rant. Could we have a rule, please, that you’re limited to just one rant per newscast?”
“You’re gagging my creativity. It’s your loss.”
Sebastian texted Janice.
Nice story. I’m free tonight. You?
He was in the mood for a tryst. His phone vibrated.
Yes. You bring the Chianti. I’ll bring the garter…stitch.
“Here we go,” said the director. “Outcue is Lakehead Prison.”
Janice Stone, CBC News, Lakehead Prison.
Sebastian moseyed into the bumper, the teaser before commercials which promotes what’s ahead on Here & Now.
After the break, we’ll see who’s celebrating a special day. Your birthdays and anniversaries are next.
Long-retired reporters had christened birthdays and anniversaries as The Happy Happies. The impish derision passed from generation to generation. The ride to the end of the show would be a coast. The Happy Happies were already on tape.
“The Happy Happies are Pablum,” said Sebastian. “When will we kill them?”
“When you’re eating Pablum,” said Samantha.
The commercials babbled on. It was a convenient time to razz. Sebastian pressed the intercom button to the control room. “Hey Roddy, need any help getting The Happy Happies to air.”
“I’m good,” said the voice in Sebastian’s ear. “But if I ever need a megalomaniac with a potty mouth, you’re first on the list.”
“Roddy, a trained monkey could do your job.” Sebastian slapped the desk. “Space bar.”
Tapping the space bar on Roddy’s properly-coded computer would indeed roll The Happy Happies. But that code and the hundreds of others which synchronized cameras, microphones, lights, graphics and anchors with the live and taped reports took four hours of Roddy’s time.
“It only takes one hand to eat a banana,” said Roddy. “Try not to slip on the peel. You’ve fallen on your ass enough today.”
The Happy Happies rolled the moment the commercials finished.
“Space bar,” said Sebastian to his pre-recorded self.
Bring on the cake. Bertha MacDonald turned ninety-four yesterday. Bill and Edna Conley celebrate their sixty-first anniversary on Saturday.
“Which one is Bill and which one is Edna?” asked Sebastian. “Why do old couples look like each other?”
Ralph and Blanche Hayward celebrated their fifty-seventh wedding anniversary on Tuesday.
The photo showed an effervescent Blanche and a forlorn Ralph.
“Couldn’t even muster a smile,” said Sebastian. “He’s a broken man. That’s what 57 years with the same woman does to you.”
“You think she’s happy being married to a sourpuss,” said Samantha. “Women are just better actors.”
Sebastian’s taped voice trudged through an interminable list. The Happy Happies always devoured the last block of the show. Sebastian fired up the Angry Birds app on his iPhone.
Coleen… Colene… JesusH. Christ…Collena Snowisninety-eighttoday.
Sebastian dropped his phone; his eyes crashed-landed on the monitor. They saw a photo of a bubbly Collena Snow, but Sebastian’s taped voice no longer glorified her longevity.
God damn it.
“Roddy, it’s the wrong tape,” Sebastian screamed into the intercom.
I’ve got to do the whole fucking thing over.
“RODDY.”
The screen went black.
“What was that?” Samantha’s face blended shock and disgust.
“Somebody fucked up,” bellowed Sebastian.
Sebastian imagined bedlam in the control room. Likely harried intercom snippets between Roddy and the media centre, trying to figure out what the hell happened and what to do about it.
Five seconds of black.
Ten seconds of black.
Fifteen seconds of black.
“We’ve got to do them live,” said Roddy. “Apologize, then go.”
Sebastian sat ramrod. The list of birthdays and annive
rsaries rolled up the teleprompter. The monitor dissolved out of black to the studio.
Obviously, we’re having some technical difficulties and we apologize, especially to Mrs. Snow. Sebastian sounded uncharacteristically contrite. We’ll start over.
Take two. Bertha MacDonald and her birthday cake materialized on the screen. Sebastian couldn’t shake the tension out of his voice until after Collena Snow’s birthday. Three minutes and thirty seconds of special days, punctuated with off camera dabs to his forehead. Sebastian reappeared on camera with just twenty seconds left in the show.
Once again, I’d like to apologize for the unacceptable language you heard earlier in our newscast. We’re truly sorry. Goodnight and have a safe weekend.
Samantha’s eyes stayed glued to her laptop during the closing wide shot. No benign chitchat or orthodontic smiles between the co-hosts as the Here & Now theme played. Sebastian shuffled his scripts. Ten agonizing seconds to seven o’clock. The instant the screen faded to black Sebastian tore off his microphone, flung it over the desk and stormed upstairs.
“Not my fault,” snarled Sebastian as he blew into Evan’s office. Evan’s elbows rested on his desk, his hands in the praying position, fingertips touching his lips.
“There’s an idiot down there,” spewed Sebastian. “That tape was supposed to be wiped. I’ve been set up. Someone is out to get me.”
Evan curled his hands under his chin. “The only idiot is you. And the only person out to get you is you.”
Evan pointed to an empty chair. Sebastian sat down.
“The first rule of TV news is never swear into a microphone. The second rule of TV news is NEVER SWEAR INTO A MICROPHONE. Now get out.”
Sebastian slinked to the door.
“By the way,” said Evan, “the Twitterites are wondering if Jesus H. Christ is celebrating a birthday too.”
•
Sebastian sat alone in the newsroom. His only company was a muted News Network anchor. Her lips flapped silently; her words trapped in the monitor hanging over The Desk. His phone rang. Roxanne was on the other end of a video call. He had his spin ready.
“Hi, honey.”
“Please tell me,” said Roxanne, “that I dreamt hearing you swear on the air.”
“Wish I could.”
“What happened?”
“The tech was supposed to wipe the first tape and record the clean version, but he didn’t. Brain dead, I suppose. Evan fired him on the spot.”
“Oh no,” said Roxanne.
Sebastian’s explanation was a half-truth. Incompetence never got anyone fired at the CBC.
“Why did so much get to air?”
“Roddy was nowhere near the switcher. I think he wandered off to get a banana. The guy is addicted to them. I can’t believe he abandoned his post.”
Another blending of fact and falsehood. Roddy stepped away from the switcher not to pursue fruit, but to replace a burned-out bulb in the control room. The perils of being a conscientious one-man band.
“Why were you swearing in the first place?”
Sebastian played turtle with a retractable flash drive, the head ducking in and out of the shell with increasing speed. He disliked the role reversal—the reporter under fire with his own weapons. He had shared too many trade secrets with Roxanne over bottomless glasses of Bordeaux. She employed open-ended questions, questions which couldn’t be answered with a simple yes or no. What and Why always extract more. Even outright lies.
“It was a dare. Samantha threw down the gauntlet. Bet me a beer I couldn’t get through The Happy Happies in three minutes. I hate losing. I just forgot where I was.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Evan wants to wash out my mouth with soap and water, but I’m okay otherwise.”
“Sebastian, I’m worried. You haven’t been yourself since Garrison died and now this—machine-gun swearing on the very spot where he went down. Something is wrong.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Maybe sitting in his chair triggered something.”
“It was a lapse in judgment. Nothing more.”
“CBC has employee-assistance programs. Perhaps you should talk to a professional.”
Sebastian laid the flash drive down. “Are you suggesting I should join the ne’er-do-wells around here who spend all their time talking to psychologists instead of actually working? I don’t need anyone to hold my hand. That would be a career killer.”
Roxanne rebounded from the screen. “There’s no need to be snippy. I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m sorry. I appreciate the concern, but you don’t understand. This place exiles damaged goods. Even a whiff of mental illness and it’s anchor aweigh.”
“It’s all confidential, Sebastian. No one would ever know.”
“Roxanne, we report on privacy breaches every other day.”
“Reaching for a helping hand doesn’t carry the stigma it once did.”
“Everybody says that. Nobody believes it.”
“I give up.” Roxanne checked her watch. “I should go. There’s a session in ten minutes.”
“Enjoy the conference,” said Sebastian, trying to sound conciliatory. “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Thanks. You’ve had a tough day. What are you doing tonight?”
“I think I’ll go to bed early.”
•
Sebastian propped himself against the headboard, reading a brochure entitled Teddies for Tragedies. “You know, you should have asked those women to knit a teddy for me.”
“I don’t think an anchor gone ballistic is the kind of tragedy they had in mind,” said Janice from inside the walk-in closet.
Sebastian sipped a glass of Chianti. “Sure it is. It says so right here in the brochure. ‘Whenever catastrophe strikes somewhere in the broadcast world, the first journalist to suffer is the innocent host. But you can alleviate his pain with a simple gift—a hand-knitted teddy bear.’ ”
Janice laughed. “They’re for children in natural disasters, not anchors in career disasters.”
“ ‘A teddy comforts these broken men,’ ” read Sebastian from the bogus blurb. “ ‘They are brought down by the ineptitude of others. They deserve admiration, not scorn.’ ”
“Sebastian, you are bad to the bone.”
He turned off the night-table light and skulked through the darkness to the window. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the shadows before opening the curtain, just a crack. The covert reconnaissance found no spy in the bushes. He picked his way back to bed.
Janice opened the closet door and breezed into the blackness. “Since when did you get shy?”
“Since I acquired a stalker.”
“Forget him. You’re safe here. But what’s done in the dark needs a little light."
Janice pawed through her dresser. A match flared. She lit a candle.
“Now, what were you saying about a teddy?”
The candle’s luster revealed a red, lace teddy with a plunging neckline and thong bottom. Little bows decorated the straps. Janice posed like a Victoria’s Secret model—one hand on her hip, the other on her thigh. She spun around to reveal a lace-up back.
“Now that’s a Teddy for Tragedies,” said Sebastian. “I need consoling. I need a teddy.” He lifted the duvet and Janice slid underneath.
•
Sebastian swiped his security card over the sensor. The lock clicked open.
“I’m still working for the CBC, Joanie,” said Sebastian as he entered the lobby. Making the receptionist smile was a routine part of his grand entrance, though today’s smile was smaller than usual.
“The feedback around your Jesus Christ tirade is ninety to ten in your favour,” said Joan. “Only the bible thumpers want you fired.”
Sebastian looked around. There was no one else in the lobby. No one coming down the stairs. “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” whispered Sebastian. Joan laughed.
“There’s a buzz upstairs, Sebastian. This
could be the day.”
“Destiny calls, Joanie.”
Sebastian grabbed both handrails and propelled himself up the stairs. “Morning, Zoe,” he said, passing The Desk.
“It wasn’t me,” she said.
Sebastian stopped. “What wasn’t you?” Zoe pointed to his cubicle. He wandered over.
A banner exclaimed Happy Birthday Jesus. Tacked above—a refashioned copy of The Last Supper. Christ’s outstretched arms framed a birthday cake with lit candles in the shape of a cross. One hand clutched a cake knife, the other a server. The disciples wore pointy party hats. Several blew noise makers. The bubble above Judas’s head said, “That cake cost me thirty pieces of silver.”
“I’ll get you back,” yelled Sebastian to no one in particular, but to everyone within earshot. No doubt his tormentors smirked.
The Last Supper reeked of Janice Stone. How dare she repay virility with lampoon. How dare she reward an orgasm with ridicule. Next time, Janice, thy kingdom will not come. Where is the Judas hiding?
Sebastian’s eyes lay siege to the newsroom, like a centurion scouting an enemy of Rome to crucify. He found her. The traitor was in Evan’s office. The door was closed, but a slight head-tilt let Sebastian see through a window running the entire length of the doorframe. When Janice was agitated, she talked with her hands and right now her hands shouted.
No more musical chairs for Here & Now, perhaps?
Janice’s tantrum gave way to a sulk. Her hands fell silent.
Hunter comes out on top in jobs, as well as sex.
Janice stomped out of Evan’s office and stopped by Zoe’s desk, her hands in full rail again. Zoe laid a frog stress toy on the counter. Janice smashed it with a fist. The frog’s eyes bulged.
“Sebastian, can I see you for a few minutes?” Evan stood in his doorway.
News anchor walking.
Sebastian felt taller, more handsome. He could feel Janice’s gaze. It followed him into Evan’s office. He would go in a peon; he would come out a star.
“First of all, I want to say you’ve been doing a great job filling in for Garrison,” said Evan. “This hasn’t been the easiest of circumstances. The man was an icon and never more so than after his death. My mother still tears up and asks how his wife and kids are doing. Never how my wife and kids are doing.”