Fake News

by G L Rockey

  “Free parking, worth at least a hundred bucks a month.”

  Stepping to the sidewalk, he noted again the winsome evening, the quietness of the mall and the eerie stillness of the sky. He smelled the palms, hibiscus, fresh-cut Bermuda grass. The entire scene, sketched in the air, seemed like the artist had forgotten it, had no place to hang it, no home to show it. Also, lingering in his thoughts: his dinner conversation with Joe Case—working on a fixing a glitch in a recording he had, wouldn’t talk about; the love/hate, order/chaos, blackness/light, give/take, how many steaks can you eat a week, profit has no home.

  Why is that last so strange to you? Zack thought. Maybe because it’s so simpleone thing I know, something is strange in this evening.

  At The Boca’s front door, he unlocked it and entered the stuffy building. Scanning the cramped reception desk for notes, mail, whatever, he picked up a pink phone message and he read it:

  TO: Zackary URGENT: Always

  DATE: Friday TIME: 5:00 p.m

  WHILE YOU WERE OUT

  MS/MR: O’Brien

  OF: You know

  PHONE #: You know

  MESSAGE: Boca, Need an answer

  He mumbled to himself, “I wish Ms. O’Brien would quite calling me ‘Boca,’ and she has to stop leaving these ‘you know, you know’ notes all over the place. I don’t know but everybody else seems to know and she knows everybody knows.”

  He remembered when he’d avoided Mary last Friday. He had worked half a day, took Veracity out, spent the weekend fishing, reading, thinking, enjoying a few cold Bohemia’s, did a little writing. Holding the pink phone message in his hand, he read “Need an answer,” again.

  “So does everybody.” he said aloud.

  Young enough to be your daughter, playing with his thoughts, he stuffed the message in his front pants pocket.

  “I’ll call her later,” he mumbled.

  Sacking a tinge of something akin to his former life’s contrition, wondering why, knowing answers were not forthcoming (good ones, anyway), he walked down the hall past the press room (formerly Oscar’s weightlifting area), and waved to two weekend part-timers. Around a corner, he ambled up a narrow wooden staircase that led to his second floor shoe-box office. He looked forward to going there, something about something, never understood why, but his thoughts were more unencumbered when surrounded by the cozy imitation maple paneling, the way the nails showed, other-side-of-the-tracks ease.

  He opened the office door and, through a small curtain less window, late-afternoon sunlight filtered a thousand specks of dust. He flipped on the overhead fluorescent light, tugged the ceiling-fan chain, went to the window air-conditioner and punched it to high. As the vintage machine rattled to life, he paused to wipe some dust from his makeshift bookshelves which displayed hundreds of book from Homer to Aquinas, Freud to Harry Stack Sullivan, musings of McLuhan to the fiction of Sinclair Lewis, Ferber, and Faulkner. Also present was the Bible his mother Martha had given him at his twelfth birthday. And on the bottom shelf a fat book titled Great Religions of the World—Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism.

  He sat behind his desk in the wooden swivel chair he had purchased at an Army surplus store. The chair matched the wood Army surplus desk. He studied, which for Zack was the entire top of the desk, his cluttered in-basket, then, turning his computer-video phone on, he checked his audio messages.

  (Beep) “Zack, Jim. Got a plum story for Wednesday’s front page.”

  (Beep) “Boca, Mary. I tried to call you”

  He turned the volume down and checked his email. There it was. Same while-you-were-out message from O’Brien, this one with more detail:

  Boca, I tried to reach you at the office Friday, but you had gone early. Left a message…we simply have to get you to answer your phone…up to speed updated something, there’s a whole new world out there, textingeverythingand a pager, call messaging, forwarding—it’s A.D. for heaven’s sake!

  He thought about calling her, started to punch in her phone number, stopped, thought: Get hold of yourself, she’s young enough to be your daughter, on your payroll, too good to be true, it wouldn’t last six months.

  He sent her an email reply.

  Ms. O’Brien, Got your message. Will talk to you tomorrow. Please bring notes on President’s speech. Thanks, Zackary Stearn.

  He leaned back. The ceiling fan stirred smells of musty newsprint, peeling paint, decaying floor tile and day-old coffee.

  He checked the time—six-twenty-five—then glanced to an olive-green file cabinet next to the entrance. The cabinet served as a resting place for a vintage nineteen-inch television Zack had picked up at a flea market. He had forgone the newer flat-wide-screen-HD-3D razzle dazzle. Enough is enough, he had thought and besides, he despised TV in general. McLuhan was right, he often thought, the medium is the messageand with TV, the message is Meat Loaf.

  Anyway, he would watch the President on the proper forum for a former Meat Loaf TV sitcom star turned preacher turned politician turned Commander-in-Chief—a nineteen-inch TV. How far we have come, he thought.

  His attention meandered over his desktop clutter to, opposite the desk three feet away, a worn leather sofa. It was there that Mary lounged when visiting his office. Too often, he thought.

  “Nuts.” He stood and went to a used end table that was home to a yellowing coffeemaker. He looked at the remains of yesterday’s coffee, thought about it, paused, said, “Long night any way you look at it—make a fresh pot.”

  He took the pot in hand and went downstairs to the employee kitchen for water. When he returned, he prepared his special seven-scoop brew.

  Coffee machine gurgling, fresh brew aroma beginning to fill the office, he sat and studied the slow-turning ceiling fan. The blades a gentle blur, he talked to the self he called Jocko:

  Your blades were supposed to have been smooth, balanced, wafting a steady stream of wisdom and advice, administering sacraments to unwashed sinners.

  “Fat chance, Jocko,” he sighed and, as usual when this particular replay button got pushed, he kicked around the way he became involved with the Church of Rome.

  Born into an Irish Catholic family, faith by genetic infusion, somewhere around seven, visiting the funeral parlor where his father had been waxed, suited and laid out, mother grieving, some uncle said about his father, he was a good man.

  “And around that moment I realized two truths—everybody dies, good, bad or indifferent, including you, Jocko. Problem is the who, what and why-are-we-here and why is what happens after death such a big secret.”

  The nagging secret that began that day, persisting to the now, he recalled his parish priest, Father Alfonso’s explanation: “That nagging, son, is the Holy Spirit wooing youa calling.”

  Agreeing with Alfonso, Zackary’s mother saw a dreamlike vision of Zack in white collar, with water, blood, and stained wooden crosses all around him. Then came the clincher. Zack, failing tenth-grade Catholic Catechism class weekly quizzes, on the final test he got an A. Handing out the grades, Sister Ursula kissed his head, said, “Lead-pipe cinch, a sign, you have been chosen, Zackary, called to do God’s work.”

  But he knew he had stolen a copy of the final test.

  Nevertheless, twenty years later Bishop Riley ordained him a Jesuit priest. Things went along fine for two weeks. Then, third week on the job, he remembered thinking, “This is not going to work.”

  That nagging had grown stronger, becoming a nightmare on some dead-end street, he thought.

  He put his hands behind his head, said, “Nothing fell the way it was supposed to, Jocko, and how do you know if the nagging is Father Alfonso’s priestly hope, a mother’s white-collar vision, or Sister Ursula’s lead-pipe cinch?”

  That lead-pipe cinch always brought to mind two annoying conundrums: if God is omniscient, knows all, past present and future, how can an individual have free will? And secondly, how can a person, born into a family of a non-Christian faith, brought up that w
ay, be condemned to hell for eternity by a loving Hebrew God?

  He glanced at the sputtering coffeepot. “And then came Widow Elizabeth and the tryst a torrid novel writer could not imagine.”

  Memory of the brief encounter would never go away–Elizabeth Stayelmyer…husband Stanley, thirty-six, died unexpectedly…said Mass at his funeral…distraught, Elizabeth sought counseling…lunch…dinner at her home…led to…

  The coffeepot sputtered a last gasp; he took his black stein, poured a cup, sat again at his desk and sipped. So here we are, he thought, having struggled for too many years with beliefs, organized religion, and the flesh, you come to realize that the struggling in itself is a sign.

  Kierkegaard came to mind, I must find a truth that is true for me. The idea for which I can live or die.

  What did he know? Crazy eggheads, him, Nietzsche—all of them were screwy, one way or another. There is no sign. Aquinas came up with quinque viae, five ways to know, that generated still more uncertainty. Five ways to know but fifty ways to doubt. The gut that says yes, the mind that says no. He looked up, “And why all the secrecy from the Sign-Maker?”

  He wiped his face with his hand. In boxing it was simple. Knock the opponent down before he nailed you. Cut and dried, no signs. But this spiritual combat is all left hooks in a ring with no ropes.

  The video phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. O’Brien. His mouth drying, he thought about answering. After the fifth ring he picked up. “Boca, Zack.”

  Toying with her hair, Mary appeared on his screen. “Zackary, I’ve been trying to call you all over the place.”

  “I—”

  “Did you get my message at the Bimini Road?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t go there? You always go there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “I was there.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yes, ah, later, after you called—”

  “I called twice, when were you there?”

  “After you called, Case told—”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I”

  “Did you get the note I left on the office front desk?”

  “Yes, the email too, and the—”

  “I saw your reply—breathtaking. Where did you take off to Friday?”

  “I went out fishing.”

  “Something new, huhhow was it?”

  “Okay, I”

  “So, what’s the answer?”

  “About what?”

  “You know what?”

  “Mary, I”

  “I’m coming down there.”

  “Don’t do that. I’m going to catch the President’s speech, do some homework.”

  “Work, work, work—what time you think you’ll be going back to Veracity?”

  “I have a lot to do.”

  “I could meet you there.”

  “I’ll be here all night.”

  “Bull. So when are we going for a ride on that boat of yours?”

  “One of these days.”

  “What did you eat for dinner?”

  “Mary, I”

  “I know, you have to work. What are you doing later?”

  “I’ll take notes on Armstrong’s speech, then...”

  “Okay. Let’s go over them tonight, your boat.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mary’s presence persisting, Zack refilled his coffee stein, sat, sipped, tried to think but O’Brien thoughts wouldn’t go away.

  “We’ve been over this, Jocko, damn it.”

  He shook it off, picked up a stubby number-two wood pencil and flipped the pages of a yellow legal pad to that draft editorial he had begun last Friday for Wednesday’s Boca. He read:

  To listen to President Armstrong, the Second Coming already happened and somehow we all—or most of us, anyway (not him)—missed it. Turns out, J.C. is back and residing as a guest at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Two things about Armstrong that must be flushed out. One, his subtle references to innate racial behavioral patterns in the world’s gene pool and what he calls, their relation to the spreading violence that is hemorrhaging America to death. The other thing, most troubling, is his references to a Divine hallowed voice that he alone is privy to.

  He made a note between lines— more on this after tonight’s speech —and continued to read:

  Benny should spend more time talking to a psychiatrist and less to God. Start a grassroots fund for his mental treatment. Of course, being so close to the Almighty, he could skip the latter. Nothing is an accident with this President, especially when it comes to the media. Count on it, he plays television news like a Stradivarius, smiling all the way to the next election. Mary O’Brien.

  He stopped. How the hell did she get in there? He put his pencil down. Concentration lost, thoughts of Mary bouncing like dropped ping-pong balls on a cement floor, he had learned over many years, when his concentration was lost to do something else. It was that time. He looked at his watch—6:50 p.m. Ten minutes to Armstrong’s speech.

  He thought he might as well get a head start on Monday’s desk cleaning. He pushed around a pile of overdue invoices, read a dozen letters-to-the-editor, threw away gobs of junk mail, looked at his confused date book, savored the pictures of cigars in an old cigar catalog, and generally arranged things into different mounds on top of his desk.

  Nearing the end of his procrastination rituals, he glanced at his watch—6:59 p.m. “The divined moment is upon us.”

  He picked up his remote, turned the TV on and, to avoid the commercial network’s gibberish, clicked to cable’s C-SPAN 4.

  Seeing a wide shot of Armstrong behind his White House Press Room desk, he said, “And there he is. Looking more and more like a TV news show, Benny.”

  Zack leaned back, sipped some coffee and watched a slow zoom-in to the President’s seasoned leading-man face. “Hair’s a little less gray, Ben. Grecian Formula or Just For Men?”

  The camera zoom stopped at a medium TV shot of Armstrong. Dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie, the President flashed what reminded Zack of a “tent-crusade smile” then, as always before speaking to America in his soft up-from-the-Piedmont South Carolina baritone, said, “May we have a moment of silent prayer?”

  Zack shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  Armstrong bowed his head and clasped his hands on top of the TV-style news anchor desk. The desk fronting the White House’s version of a TV news set, in the background, twenty silent television monitors flickered video from around the world, round clocks displayed earth’s twenty-four time zones, and a four-by-eight red-white-and-blue sign, dominating all, proclaimed WHITE HOUSE NEWS CENTER.

  “White House News Center,” Zack shook his head, “is that a joke or what.”

  Armstrong ended his silent prayer, looked up, smiled at the camera, said, “Amen and amen.”

  “Me, too.” Zack popped a stick of Juicy Fruit in his mouth.

  In a medium TV close-up, Armstrong began: “My brothers and sisters in democracy, a pleasant good evening to you. Well, here we are, another anniversary of our declaration of independence, on what should be a proud and continuing celebration of America’s two and a half centuries of service as a good and decent world citizen. I am especially pleased with the achievements we have made in the little time of my administration. (Pauses, wipes upper lip, then continues).

  “But on the other hand I am chagrined. Chagrined by the cowardly acts of terrorism especially of the past few months. You know of what I speak. The senseless attack on the citizens of Paris was bully cowardice. Shame, shame. As to the French leadership, we must lead them into the light of the twenty-first century. But that aside, tonight I am grieved to tell you we have classified reports that this senseless terrorism, feared to happen, is about to strike again at the very heart of America.”

  Zack, moving his Juicy Fruit gum between molars and cheek, drank some coffee
and observed that the famous Armstrong smile was turning ominous. “Uh-oh.”

  The President continued. “Fellow citizens, America, not of her own choosing but by the weight of her being the most blessed nation on earth, has truly been ordained the trusted architect of mankind’s future. It is not a role that we cherish but one that has been thrust upon us by a divine providence.”

  At Armstrong’s pause for a drink of water, Zack made a note thrust upon us by a divine providence “Hummm.”

  Armstrong went on. “Fellow Americans, there are evil forces in the world who would see our great America destroyed. Yes, my dear friends, these dark forces would rob us of our God-given destiny.”

  The President paused to wipe his upper lip, Zack jotted God-given destiny!

  The TV video tightened to a close-up of Armstrong. “These beasts are driven by one thing—America’s destruction. But I want to remind them tonight, all you nations who harbor terrorists (wags finger)—and you know who you are. I remind you, freedom is absolute and equality is certainly not true of everyone. Democracy is a divine right, and America will guarantee that that divine right (thumps desk) shall prevail.”

  “Hell you say.” Zack scrawled a note America guarantees divine right, spit his gum in the wastebasket.

  Armstrong proceeded. “Let me explain. In the annals of humankind there have been many forms of governing, from kings and queens to fascism to communism to democracy. And they all have failed but one. One, dear friends. And that hallowed one is democracy. And why do you think democracy has buried the others?”

  Zack frowned, “I have a feeling you’re going to tell us,” and popped a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit.

  Armstrong finished a drink of water and smiled. “But of course. A free market. Yes, a free market, bathed in democracy, guarantees freedom. America, democracy and the free market, they are one and the same.”

  “That’s news to me,” Zack said.

  The President went on. “We Americans, you and I, in all modesty, blessed of God beyond millions of other human beings to be born on mother earth, are a chosen few. And let me humbly say as your leader, I am myself assuredly divinely destined to help my fellow man.”