by Glenn Dier
“I’m sure he’s not referring to you,” said Sebastian. Nikki scurried away.
All typing stopped, all necks craned. Everyone in the newsroom was transfixed on the window of rage. Ethan jabbed his finger at the frozen image of the scornful Lily Chin. His voice boomed, “Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her.”
The bridge of Ethan’s nose scrunched into furrows. His capped teeth clenched. He snatched the Gemini off Evan’s desk, his fingers warped around its golden throat. He drove the spiky statuette through the computer screen. Lily Chin was impaled; her face resembled a shattered windshield. Ethan rampaged out of Evan’s office.
This called for a celebratory tune: “Werewolves of London.” Sebastian put on his headphones.
Aaaooo! Werewolves of London.
Aaaooo!
•
The neighbourhood was the sort that reporters only visit, never live in. BMWs, backyard pools, Japanese rock gardens.
“We are definitely in the wrong business,” said Janice.
“You can always marry rich,” said Teddy. He stopped the van at the intersection. “Left or right?”
Janice checked her notes. “Left.”
“I saw Ethan skulking around this morning,” said Teddy. “He was headed to The Executioner’s office.”
“Really,” exclaimed Janice. “We haven’t laid eyes on him since he put Lily Chin’s head on a pike.”
“Will he survive?”
“Turn right. I think so.”
“What makes you think that?”
“They can’t fire him without firing the brass who made the deal. They’d have to admit they made a mistake. That’s not going to happen.”
“You’re right,” said Teddy. “He’d take them all down in flames.”
“127. This is it.”
The house was as smart-looking as a police officer’s dress uniform: blue Cape Cod siding with white trim, a two-car garage and a large oak tree on a weed-free lawn. There was a minivan parked in the driveway and an orange bike with white streamers on the handle grips rested against the house.
“250,000 dollars a year certainly buys you a nice place,” said Janice.
“The real-estate ad would say, ‘Spectacular executive bungalow on mature lot,’ ” said Teddy, as he lifted the camera out of its padded travelling case.
Janice slung the pouch containing the microphones over her shoulder. “Now this is travelling light. Bruce insists on taking something the size of a hockey bag. Sometimes I think there’s a body in it.”
“Not quite a body,” said Teddy with a mischievous grin. He picked up the tripod.
“What do you mean?” asked Janice, also carrying the lighting kit.
“Bruce took out a bunch of stuff after your last bitch session.”
“Go on.” They headed up the walk.
“When he left the room, we buried a ten kilo weight in the bag.”
“You bastards,” said Janice laughing.
“Bruce hasn’t found it yet. It’s under a dozen cables.”
Janice pressed the doorbell. She listened for the ding dong, a habit she acquired years before when a politician who “borrowed” government-owned paintings weaselled out of an interview by claiming his doorbell was broken.
“The best part was listening to Bruce boast to Sebastian about the new lightweight bag,” continued Teddy. “The moment Sebastian picked it up he complained that it was just as heavy as ever.”
“You’re evil. I like that in a man.”
“So I hear,” said Teddy.
The door opened. “Hello, Chief,” said Janice.
“Good day, Janice,” said Paul Bennett. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. I had a moment of doubt, but my little girl squeezed my hand and said, ‘Everything is going to be okay.’ Come in.”
“Chief, this is Ted. He’s the cameraman.” Bennett smiled as they shook hands.
“My wife and daughter are in the kitchen.”
Janice spied a woman and girl at a table sorting through crayons. Mom stood up as the trio approached. “Marie, this is Janice and this is Ted.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Marie, initiating another round of handshakes.
The chief touched the girl’s head. She wore a red beret covered in sequins. It was pulled down to her ears. “And this munchkin right here is our daughter, Clare.” She ignored the adults and continued colouring.
“Hi Clare,” said Janice. “I like your hat.”
Clare sparkled like her sequins. “I like your hair. I used to have long hair too. Now I don’t have any.”
The chief coughed and turned away.
“I’m sure it will grow back and be as beautiful as ever,” said Janice. She walked behind Clare and peeked over her shoulder. Clare coloured a dragon orange.
“Sometimes I wish I could breathe fire,” said Janice.
“Do you like hotdogs?” asked Clare.
“I sure do. Wouldn’t it be great to be like that dragon? Roasting hotdogs in seconds.” Janice imitated a dragon’s roar. Clare giggled.
“Why did you pick a dragon?”
“Because Daddy said a dragon lady was coming over.”
“Clare,” admonished Marie with the tone that mothers have whenever their children embarrass.
Janice laughed. “Your daddy’s right. I can be a dragon lady, but not today.”
“I’m going to pretend this dragon is you,” said Clare. She looked at Janice’s hair, picked up a yellow crayon and filled in the dragon’s horns.
“Do you ever have horns?” asked Clare. Marie’s jaw dropped.
Janice curled index fingers on the crown of her head. “They only come out at night.” Clare cracked up.
“Where do you want to do this?” interrupted the Chief.
“You have a beautiful kitchen. What do you think, Teddy?”
“There’s lots of natural light. And the family room is a nice background. Let’s do it here.”
“Janice, I have the photos you asked for.” He opened the laptop on the breakfast nook.
Janice scanned the thumbnails. “That one,” she said, touching the screen. “Blow that one up, please.” The Chief double clicked the photo. Janice subtly looked at Teddy. He nodded.
“It’s a beautiful shot,” said Janice.
“It was taken about six months ago, before…” The chief’s voice cracked.
The Clare on the screen showed off her gapped teeth; her blond hair tied in a ponytail. She saluted the camera with her father’s police hat perched on her head.
•
The prurient and the political boiled together in the comments section of CBC’s webpages. Sebastian was thrilled because all of it swirled around the exploits of the dethroned Ethan Tremblay. Sebastian finger-kicked the scroll button on his mouse.
Devine Law
He hates Jews. Fire him.
Fair Shake
He’s a great reporter. Write on.
Bird Watcher
If Bill Clinton can sleep around and still be a president, Ethan Tremblay can sleep around and still be a reporter.
CBC Fan
He’s a disgrace to his profession. And he has the morals of an alley cat.
Brainiac
What’s in his head is more important than who’s giving him head.
Kosher Dude
He’s a schmuck.
Sebastian felt the urge to pee. Three coffees in a morning were definitely too many. There was an espresso with breakfast, a cup of dark roast from the canteen during the morning meeting and a latté from a downtown café after his shoot. Time to pay the piper.
He hopped up from his desk. The hallway to the left offered the more direct route to the washroom, but the chatty intern approached. This was no time for conversation, so Sebastian sprinted right. The route covered the same distance, but was more perilous. He would pass five edit suites. Delay could be lurking behind any and all doors.
Door number one. Safely navigated.
Door number two. Passage gran
ted…no, passage revoked. An editor must have seen Sebastian’s blur, opened the door and chased after him.
“Sebastian, are you playing golf on Saturday?”
“Can’t think,” said Sebastian. “I’ve got to whiz.” He squeezed his sphincter muscles.
“Come on, yes or no. I need an answer. I’m doing up teams.”
“No…Yes. Yes.”
Sebastian raced past the three remaining edit suites into the home stretch. A hard right where the bathroom routes converged, then a sharp left past the photocopier brought him face to face with the male bathroom symbol.
He pushed through the outer door, the inner door, and spun towards the urinals. He froze.
“Ethan,” said Sebastian, “you’re back.”
Ethan Tremblay glanced over his shoulder. “That one is free,” he said, tilting his head at the urinal next to him, “unless you’re waiting for mine.”
“Welcome back,” said Sebastian, sallying to the urinal. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake your hand.”
“Your hands are dirty enough as it is.”
Sebastian ignored the poke. He couldn’t think straight; he was bursting and fumbling with his zipper. Damn these pants, he thought, were they designed for eunuchs? He pulled up the waistband to straighten the fly. Zip—a highly underrated sound. He felt sweet relief.
“No one told us when you were coming back or if you were ever coming back,” said Sebastian. “We were all wondering.”
“Your concern is touching.”
Sebastian stared at the wall. Ethan stared at an equally blank spot. Standard urinal etiquette—eyes straight ahead.
“A friend at the Toronto Sun told me that Lily Chin got her story from a leak inside the CBC,” said Ethan.
“This is the only leak I know about,” said Sebastian. He heard his urinal companion hit the plastic deodorizer.
Penis or prosthesis? What has Mr. Shot Off Balls got?
Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Look down.
Sebastian twisted his head a fraction and peeked below Ethan’s belt. He raised his eyes and met Ethan’s.
“Looking for something?” asked Ethan.
“I heard this cock-and-bull story about you. I’m simply trying to determine whether you have more cock than bull.”
“And?”
“You have plenty of bull. As for cock, the legend is much, much bigger than the man.”
“Sebastian, I should tell you to piss off. But I think it would be way more fun to piss on you.” Ethan sidestepped and sprayed Sebastian’s shoes.
Sebastian jumped back. “Jesus,” he shouted.
“Sorry about that. I really need to improve my aim.”
“Don’t worry about it,” snarled Sebastian, “I’m full of piss and vinegar.” He arced urine at his antagonist. The stream ricocheted off the floor tiles in front of Ethan and despite his skipping maneuver, it splattered his shoes.
“Go piss up a rope,” counterattacked Ethan. His salvo raked across Sebastian’s pants.
Sebastian raised the artillery angle and scored direct hits on Ethan’s shins.
The dueling flows crossed with symmetry so perfect they deserved a geometric designation. The Elliptical X was created during a CBC pissing match.
Ethan corralled the corporation’s most gossiped-about genitalia back inside his pants and ducked out the door.
Sebastian holstered his weapon, pulled up his zipper with an angry tug and assessed the damage. His pants and Oxfords sported speckled patterns. He ripped off a paper towel and propped up a foot on the vanity. Pee dripped off the sole. He was just about to dab the brown suede when the bathroom door opened.
“Sebastian,” said a startled Dan. “Polishing your shoes?”
“Not exactly.” Sebastian lightly pressed his toes. “I had a little accident.”
Dan moved in for closer inspection; the closer he got, the higher he raised his eyebrows.
“Your pants need a squeeze too.”
“I got a hair caught across the tip,” explained Sebastian.
“Ah, the perils of peeing standing up. Still, it beats the indignity of peeing sitting down.” They both laughed. Dan gave Sebastian’s shoulder a reassuring pat before veering off to the urinals.
Dan’s stride locked. His front foot dangled in midair. It was as if he realized he were about to step on a landmine. The floor was awash. Dan’s front foot retreated. There was no bridge over this troubled water. He lifted his pants legs and tiptoed back from the pool.
“I think I’ll use the bathroom downstairs,” said Dan.
“I had three coffees this morning,” said Sebastian, hoping that would justify the deluge.
“Super-sized?” asked Dan.
“You know what they say, go big or go home.”
Dan gave a half-hearted laugh.
“Drinks this evening?” asked Sebastian.
“I can’t. I’m still cleaning up my own mess, so to speak.”
Dan pulled a paper towel and took a giant step to the door. “Bye,” he said, using the towel to shield his hand from any errant pee on the handle.
Sebastian finished squeezing the blotches and washed his hands, twice. He throttled his paper towels before pitching them into the bin.
He passed Evan’s office on the way back to his desk. “Sebastian,” called Evan. “There’s news about Ethan.”
“No need,” said Sebastian. “Some prick in the can just told me all about it.”
•
Sebastian made a beeline for The Desk. Evan leaned over Zoe’s shoulder, pointing at something on her computer.
“Tell me it’s not true,” Sebastian bellowed to the producers.
“Yes it’s true. Ethan is back in the anchor chair tonight,” said Evan.
“As misguided as that is, that’s not what I was talking about.” Sebastian snatched a lineup off the counter and pummelled the top story with his finger. “Look at this slug—Chief Speaks. My story with Janice Stone’s name attached to it. Incredible! Paul Bennett is finally ready to spill his guts, but I’m not assigned. Excuse my French, but what the fuck is going on?”
Evan released an exasperated breath. “Sebastian, does every perceived grievance have to be a typhoon?”
“I’m doing my bit for king and country here. Digging in the trenches, going over the top, trying to prove that the premier is a cokehead. Endless hours of pounding the phones. And when my back is turned, you give away my story. You hand it out like Halloween candy.”
Sebastian mimed dropping a treat into a bag. “There you go little Janice.” He rubbed an imaginary head. “You enjoy that. Never mind that it belongs to Sebastian.”
He took a pen and scratched out Stone on the lineup, wrote Hunter next to Chief Speaks and circled his name several times. He waggled the revamped lineup under the producers’ noses. “I own that story—paid for it with blood, sweat, and tears.”
“Spare me the melodrama,” said Evan.
“We’re long past the point of a rational discussion. My story was pilfered, purloined, and pinched.”
Sebastian’s rant bewitched his colleagues. Even the Twitter addicts laid down their phones. His diatribes had a reputation for being quite entertaining, and no one wanted to miss a millisecond. Samantha Cormier watched from her desk. She threw the back of her hand up to her forehead and lounged in drama-queen fashion.
“Sebastian, nobody owns stories at the CBC,” lectured Evan. “You had your shot and came up short. Apparently, he likes Janice more than he likes you. It was her, or nobody. And I chose her. I should have brought you into the loop sooner. You shouldn’t find out by reading an outlook. For that, I apologize, but I’m not sorry for reassigning the story.”
“I should have been asked,” Sebastian fired back. “You don’t steal another reporter’s story.”
“When I last looked there was no copyright on the story Chief Speaks. You work for the CBC; the CBC doesn’t work for you. Sometimes we have to do things in the best interes
ts of the newsroom, not one reporter. And as long as I run the newsroom, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“All hands on deck for the flogging, Mr. Christian,” thundered Sebastian in a haughty Capt. Bligh impersonation. “By god, we will have discipline on this ship. Orders will be obeyed without question. Put Hunter in irons and take him below. He’ll feel the lash during the newscast.”
Zoe jumped from her chair. “The Oscar for Best Impersonation of an Aggrieved Reporter goes to…,” she said in award-show hype while unfolding a piece of scrap paper, “Sebastian Hunter.”
The newsroom exploded in applause. Zoe offered Sebastian her karate statuette. She won it during her university days and always kept it on her desk, just to remind reporters that she could kick the crap out of them if she wanted.
Sebastian waved off the award. “Just remember, Capt. Bligh’s crew mutinied and set him adrift when they couldn’t stand his bullying any longer.”
He strode to his desk to wait for the debut of Janice’s ill-gotten gains.
[ seven ]
Sebastian mused about life as a CBC reporter. It’s a lot like riding a Ferris wheel. One day you’re on top of the world, the envy of all the philistines below. The next day you’re dragged through their shit and you’re looking up at their asses.
He had done everything right and it still turned out wrong. He concocted Ethan Tremblay’s downfall and positioned himself as the heir apparent to the crown. But the son of a bitch survived and usurped his ascendancy to the throne for a second time. To add insult to the larceny, Ethan would introduce Sebastian’s paramour and her illicit story.
“Good evening. Our top story tonight—the chief breaks his silence.”
Sebastian smacked the Bobblehead Ethan sitting on his desk, jolting it into spastic movement. Not the sort of fun the communications department had in mind when it came up with the promotional toy, but what did they know? The real Ethan turned to a different camera as the chief’s mug shot appeared in a monitor.
“Three months ago, Police Chief Paul Bennett was arrested for drunk driving. He hasn’t said a word about it since. That is until now. In an exclusive interview with our Janice Stone, Paul Bennett reveals how he went from a man who arrested drunk drivers to becoming one.”