Runaway Train
Page 27
Stacy grabbed a cart, filling it with junk food. “Is that the man on TV?” a toddler asked. His mother shielded his eyes and ushered him away.
Apparently, they’d seen his final report.
As shoppers stared, he reached for a bag of Bugles, Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way playing over the Muzak. He couldn’t wait to be ‘invisible’ again. Fame, even on a small scale, had its price. He knew that now.
“Y’all ready to go?” a checker spoke up.
He steered the cart to her register, noticing how cheery everything seemed. It was hard to imagine the scene he’d covered here just fifteen months before.
“Twenty-three-fifty.”
Stacy reached for his wallet. “Oh…do you have maps?”
“Every state in the union.” She pointed to the rack behind him. He grabbed one, handing it over. “Alrightee…” She punched a few more keys. “…twenty-four even.”
He paid in cash, the checker thanking him. As he wheeled his cart to the Celica, he heard a siren, the noise growing louder as he loaded the groceries and climbed inside. A fire truck passed, followed by two police cars. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t care where they were going.
“Good afternoon, Avalon. This is Nigel Henry with a KAVN news up—” Stacy killed the radio. As he drove out of the lot, he saw the Ferndale Apartments up ahead. He pulled over and stared. Same nondescript units. Same empty lots on both sides. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. He looked to the last unit on the left, the place he’d called home for nearly eight months. He’d watched himself on TV here. Made love to Katie. Drank beer with Julius.
He’d come of age in this place. And he’d never forget it.
After a long pause, he drove away, wanting to see the station one last time. Stacy slowed as he approached, the place looking as harmless as it always did—but he knew better now. He wondered who’d arrived to take his place.
Good luck, kid. You’re going to need it.
He drove to the interstate and headed north. In no time at all, he was passing the Arbuckles. Katie and Bub were right. There was a certain beauty to the timeworn range, a quiet dignity. It was a dignity he’d take with him on the journey, one that would complement the memories —good and bad—of his life-altering experiences here.
As the road straightened, he glanced in the backseat. Both Underwoods were strapped down safely, Julius’ guitar between them. He’d never part with any of these things. They were as much a part of him as the heart in his chest, the blood in his veins.
Turning back to the horizon, he heard something, indiscernible at first, then clear as the road ahead. In one ear, his mother’s voice— “Follow your heart, Stacy”—in the other, his uncle’s— “Tell the truth. Always.”
He smiled, then reached for the map in the passenger seat, reading the lone word on the cover. ALASKA.
Epilogue
He stared at the screen, needing an ending. The right words would come, he told himself, if he just stayed out of the way. And listened.
“Two minutes,” he heard in his IFB. He glanced at the camera and nodded. He was used to multitasking—writing, researching, doing radio and television interviews. He’d devoted his life to such things.
A knock came at the door, a twelve-year-old boy invading his home office. “How much longer, Dad?”
Stacy smiled, his son’s face a mirror image of Helen Zwardowski’s. “Few more minutes, bud.” The boy sighed and left. Billy Zwardowski was so much like his father, stubborn, persistent, his sister the polar opposite.
Stacy had waited a long time to start a family. Truth is, he wasn’t sure he wanted one. Not with the job occupying so much of his time. Of course, he had no one to blame but himself. When he started the business in 1990, it was the only one of its kind.
‘The Naked Truth’ provided fact-checking services for media outlets all over the world. Based in Kodiak, Alaska, Stacy—as an initial army of one—launched a Web site a year later, the precursor of companies like Snopes and Politifact. Since then, he and his employees had worked diligently to expose every distortion, fabrication, and falsehood out there, the company motto—Tell the Truth. Always.
“Last segment, Mr. Zwardowski,” the voice came again.
Stacy cleared his throat, glancing at his mother’s photo, the typewriters on the shelf, Julius’ guitar against the wall. CNN’s bumper music filled his ear, followed by the voice of a cheeky late-night anchor. “If you’re just joining us, Stacy Zwardowski is here to discuss the state of journalism today.”
On the monitor, a C.G. listed his titles—Author & “Fact” Checker.
“Before the break, you said you had a warning for us.”
“That isn’t—”
“I certainly hope you’re not here to defend the ex-President.”
Stacy smiled—a Fox News anchor had asked him the same thing when the last President took over.
“I’m here to defend the truth.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“I don’t necessarily like the term ‘fake news’, but we in the media—”
“We?” the man interrupted again, sneering.
“—have certainly earned it. We’ve swapped objectivity for opinion.” A ticker ran below his face—APPEARED NUDE ON LIVE TV. “Injected bias into our stories.” It continued to roll—ONCE ACCUSED OF ARSON. “Taken sides on every issue. And if things don’t change—”
“Out of time,” the man cut him off. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Zwardowski. And good luck with the new book.”
“Clear.”
Stacy shook his head. Another interview. Another ‘journalist’ trying to quash the message. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it. He glanced at his watch—11:00 p.m. His family had waited long enough.
“Surprise!” Stacy froze as he left his office, the living room packed with friends and neighbors. He found his wife among them, hoisting two Molsons.
“I thought I said no surprises.”
Celia Zwardowski passed him a bottle. “Since when do I listen to you?”
She had a point. “Despite all this…” He took a sip. “…I still love you.”
And he did. They’d met in ‘89. A grad student at the University of Alaska, Celia was working on her thesis, ‘Crab Fishing and the Environment’, having pissed off every fisherman in the Aleutians. They didn’t like her questions, but she was sure easy on the eyes. And she could hold her own in a drinking contest, too.
Stacy fell in love with her instantly.
At the time, he’d given up all hope of a news career. But Celia forced him to see things differently. She was the one who suggested a fact-checking service. “What better way to fight for truth?” she’d asked. Two years later, with the business flourishing, they married in a traditional Silesian ceremony.
“Happy Birthday, Daddy!” Ala Zwardowski hugged her father’s leg, eyes as blue as the nearby Gulf. She wasn’t used to staying up late.
“Why, thank you, Alie.” He picked her up and held her, surveying the room. The Nielsens were there—not the ratings family, but his neighbors up the street. So were the Kjensruds, Murphys, and Changs, the island a diverse collection of locals and transplants.
It was one of the things Stacy loved about it. His father was another.
“Happy Birthday, old man.” Stacy stared at William Zwardowski, his hair a gray mop. Like his son, he was a survivor, having lived through arctic storms and financial busts. He’d even survived the return of a son, a son he’d lost but never forgotten. Their relationship was solid now, but putting it together took time. There were tough questions and difficult answers, their reunion unlike the ones on TV. But in the end, they came to a conclusion—the future was more important than the past.
“Old man?” Stacy shook his head. “You’ll notice I don’t have any gray hair.”
The elder Zwardowski glanced at his grandchildren. “You will.”
“Great party, Stace.” Stacy flinched—he’d never get used to th
at voice. It was so much like Julius’ it hurt. It also nourished his soul.
“Glad you could make it, Jaron.” Julius Candelle’s younger brother had come to Kodiak thirty years ago—and never left. Stacy had managed to get Jaron and Jessie away from their father, offering a fresh start in Alaska. Jaron went to work for Stacy’s dad, eventually buying his own crab boat, the Jewel. He made a good living, owned a house, and was waiting for the right woman to come along. His sister ran the Sea Life Center in Seward, having earned a Marine Biology degree. She and her husband visited often.
“Where’s the remote?” Irv Nielsen barked, staring at a wall of TVs. “I wanna watch Seacrest!”
Stacy hit the power button, all nine units leaping to life. For a guy who once smashed his only television, it was strange to own a medley. But it came with the job. Over the years, he’d watched good and bad coverage of every news event, from the fall of Communism and 9/11 to the election of Donald Trump. Along the way, he’d witnessed such televised sludge as Jerry Springer, Survivor, and Real Housewives. While doing so, he thought of just one thing—Dick Wilhelm was right. He knew exactly where TV was headed.
“Time to open gifts!” Celia led her husband to the couch, Stacy having a pretty good idea what was coming. The first present was a bottle of Geritol, the next a pack of Depends, the last an aluminum walker with tennis balls for feet.
“Gee, thanks, everyone.” Laughter caressed his ears, warmth from the fireplace filling the house. There was no place he’d rather be.
“I almost forgot, you got some cards.” The first was addressed to The Old Geezer in AK. Marv Bridges had retired and moved to Missouri, where he lived on Table Rock Lake with his wife, Kaye, and two bird dogs. The next came from Roy Maghee, who still lived in Avalon, still worked as a fire investigator—and still smoked. The last card was straightforward and simple, just like the man who sent it—Happy Birthday on the cover, Love, Uncle Robert inside.
“Turn it up!” Jaron pointed to the stereo, Billy hiking the volume. As The Gap Band played Party Train, Celia danced with her daughter, Stacy watching in amusement.
Till an idea blossomed.
He slipped back in his office and closed the door. His other books had all been essays, ranging in topic from media ethics to not-so-hidden bias. But this one was different. When Trump took office, ‘fake news’ became part of the American lexicon. The term—often used but loosely defined—pointed to everything from Internet fluff to political attack. But where did it all begin?
Stacy knew.
It began in Avalon, Oklahoma. Biloxi, Mississippi. Rockford, Illinois. Like a Phoenix, it rose from the ashes of the Fairness Doctrine, growing on television, exploding on the Internet. Along the way, news agencies like MSNBC and Fox took clear positions on the left and right, while CNN and other networks followed suit. The result? Unbiased reporting was dead, or at least on life support. And worst of all, no one seemed to care.
Stacy leaned forward, reading the last few lines of text.
In one ear, his mother’s voice— ‘Follow your heart, Stacy’—in the other, his uncle’s— ‘Tell the truth. Always.’
He smiled, then reached for the map in the passenger seat, reading the lone word on the cover. ALASKA.
He paused, organizing his thoughts. This book was different. It was a memoir of sorts, a look back as a means of looking forward. And a caution to us all.
He took a breath, then began to type.
As he looked up, he saw something. Smoke. From a freight train. Its engine chugging tirelessly for the sun. He thought about Trevor Carson. Of the train he sang about. And the truth it stood for.
He smiled, hitting the gas.
After all this time, Stacy had found the elusive train.
And he was gaining on it.
He reached for the mouse and hit SAVE, then hurried back to the party.
About the Author
S.W. Capps is a former TV news reporter. Since leaving the world of glitzy sets and pompous anchors, he’s spent much of his time on two wheels, exploring the country via motorcycle and writing about it. His features have appeared in Rider, RoadBike, and H.O.G. magazines. He lives with his wife and ‘investigative’ dog in the Pacific Northwest, currently at work on a new novel.
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