by Adam Sommers
“My son, he’s a fighter. His whole life he’s never had nothing easy. Never had soft. He fights at soccer, at work. He fights. He’s strong. Always.”
“I’d like to tell my readers about that. About how strong Julio is, if that’s okay?”
The man looked briefly at the woman. “It is okay.”
“Do you think I might ask him a question. I mean, if the doctor says it’s okay, of course?”
“He can’t talk.”
“I know, but I could ask him a yes or no question.”
“I don’t understand,” said the man.
“I would ask him does he plan on scoring more goals,” for example.
The man smiled. It was the first time and it revealed a mouth of big crooked teeth, but it was a warm smile nonetheless. A smile of joy.
“Maybe it will give him inspiration, make him try to get better faster.”
The doctor, Eric saw out of the corner of his eye, was giving him a very subtle look of disapproval, but it was hard to tell how much she was bothered by his obvious manipulation. She was in the clear, had done nothing wrong, and the suit had given her the okay.
“If the doctor thinks it’s all right.”
“And we’d like to take a photograph?”
Now, the doctor stood up to her full height. She was willing to let Eric run his game to a point, but she could not have a picture of her patient in the newspaper and expect there would be no repercussions.
“Like he is now. In his bed, swollen?” the lady asked.
“Yes,” Eric said. “And, if you have one, a picture of him before the accident. If we run the pictures, readers may feel bad for what happened, they may send money in to the paper to help with expenses.”
“Really?” said the woman. “They would do that?”
“I can’t say they will or they won’t, but it has happened in other cases with stories we’ve done, with people who are hurt or children who are sick and their families are struggling. People have big hearts.”
“If the doctor says it’s okay, then we will say okay, esta bien,” Calypso said.
Dr. Rachael pursed her lips together, clearly unhappy now. “Two minutes, Mr. …”
“Berger. Eric.”
“Two minutes, Mr. Berger.”
Eric gently rose from the couch and said, “I’ll be right back. The photographer is in the lobby.”
Once clear of the waiting room he bolted and waved over Kathy Drass. She got it right away. “You have two minutes,” he told her.
“That’s all I need.”
Inside the ICU, Eric saw that Julio Nieto was barely recognizable as a human being. Rather, he looked like a side of beef the butcher left half-finished. The idea that he would live, never mind one day walk out of the hospital, seemed, to put it mildly, ridiculous.
Eric didn’t get his two minutes right away. Julio Nieto’s mom, his dad, and the doctor all looked in first. Kathy coolly and casually took pictures with some small camera that made almost no noise at all. Click, click, click behind him, to the side, standing on a chair.
The mom motioned him over. The doctor and Calypso took a step back in the congested room.
“I’ll just whisper to him,” Eric told the man’s mother.
“Si,” said the woman. “One squeeze yes. Two squeezes, no.”
For Eric to lean close enough for Julio to hear, the mom had to step back one more foot. Eric bent down until his mouth was only an inch from Julio’s ear. “Hi, I’m a newspaper reporter. You understand me?”
Squeeze.
“I’m so happy you have survived. Your mom and dad are strong. They say you are a good and honest man. Can I ask you a question?”
Squeeze.
“Were you drinking before the crash?” Eric hoped he had whispered softly enough to avoid being heard by his mother. Julio’s heart rate jumped ten beats a minute—Eric could hear the monitor—as Julio’s body stiffened then sagged back down.
Squeeze.
“Are you sorry you did that?”
The monitor beeped more and more quickly.
“That will do,” said the doctor, still calm but insistent.
“Okay,” said Eric. As he straightened he felt Julio squeeze his hand one more time.
Chapter 9
Nothing like getting your first story on the front of the Metro Section to get the attention of… well… everyone. The bearded and bald John Williams got a feather in his cap as well for making a good hire, and Debbie Harrison was recognized for the actual editing of the piece.
Not to mention he had a new friend in the newsroom, Kathy Drass, whose photo of Julio in his hospital bed (with one of him in better days) wound up across four columns and was expected to be entered for the Washington Press Association Award.
When Eric came in that day, he half expected to be glared at with jealousy and animosity from the reporters whose beats he might have accidentally encroached on. That was how he’d be treated in New Jersey. What happened instead was when he got to his desk, Mitch Lozatti leapt up, came around and held both arms up for a sky-high double high-five. Others soon came over, introducing themselves and congratulating him at the same time.
John Williams would never engage in such a display. And Debbie Harrison, appearing to be in some pain, worked her way over and said, “Nice job.”
“Thanks,” Eric allowed.
Then she went right back to business: “You folks all done?” Debbie asked, turning to the group clustered at Eric’s desk.
“Don’t look at me,” said Eric, indicating the three or four others who were chatting and catching details that Eric hadn’t been able to put into print. (Of most interest was the enormous and zen-like emergency room doctor.)
They all nodded and muttered, patted Eric on the shoulder and began to shuffle away.
“There’s a shooting on Capitol Hill,” she offered to Eric.
“Okay, I’m on the way.”
As he turned back to his desk to get his notebooks, Eric’s ankles began to itch again. There had been another night in the flea-infested apartment of Janon Masterson, and Eric was not sure how much more of that he could take.
“What’s with the scratching?” Mitch Lozatti asked as Eric dug away.
“Roommate’s dog has fleas. I can’t wait to get the hell out of there.”
“Fuck, move in with me.”
“I don’t think I know you well enough,” Eric joked, then, doing a poor imitation of a woman’s voice, “Dinner first, a movie, flowers. I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am.”
“Hah ha hamm mu ahah.” Mitch had a laugh that was hearty and genuine and easy to produce. He laughed at almost anything, especially at life. This was a major upgrade from Janon Masterson, who walked through the world searching for his next fight with cat crap stuck to his shoe.
“I’m serious,” said Mitch. “I have an apartment with three bedrooms and one of the guys is moving out.”
“Yeah, I’m in. When’s the other guy moving out?”
“Next month, but you can have the couch until then, if you want. They won’t care.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, the one guy, Dennis, is never there, anyway. Neither is the other one. The guy who’s moving out.”
“Okay. I’ll bring my clothes over this weekend?”
“Shwing!”
Mitch’s place was a garden apartment much like Janon Masterson’s, but it was much better because instead of cats and dogs it contained only one kind of filthy creature—people. The buildings were three stories tall, with the units stacked symmetrically on top of each other. The whole thing had a very industrial, almost military feel to it, as if it could all be turned into a prison with a few quick modifications. The front door was made of steel thick enough to stop an anti-tank round.
Inside
Mitch’s apartment, the furniture was just as sturdy, obviously designed to take abuse and provide a bare minimum of comfort. Heavy pillars of wood supported the dining room table, the couch, even the end tables. While the couch’s frame looked to be in good shape, the threadbare, smashed down, lumpy things they called cushions should long ago have been put out of their misery.
Later, Eric learned that Mitch didn’t actually own any of the furniture. He had moved in nearly seven years ago and didn’t have enough to buy anything so he rented it and paid seventy-five dollars a month. He had paid the same amount every month for the past seven years. Eric’s mind boggled at the math. However, Mitch was happily oblivious and continued his life unruffled by the fact he overpaid for furniture to the tune of several thousand dollars.
Mitch had the back room, where there was no dresser, no chair, no chest of any kind. Covering almost every inch of the floor were stacks of CDs that rose to shoulder height and in some cases higher, many of them seeming to defy gravity. It was like being in the woods. There were stacks along the walls, stacks on the window sills. He had made a small network of paths that he used to reach the massive stereo on the floor in the far corner. Another path led to the closet. In there were all of Mitch Lozatti’s clothes, arranged neatly, either hanging on hooks or folded in milk crates.
“I’m into music,” Mitch said. “Muh haa haha.”
“How…?”
“What?
“I see.” That was all Eric could get out. He was going to ask the obvious question: How many, but decided that wasn’t the thing that was most on his mind at that moment. What he most wanted to know was, “What if there’s, like, even a tiny, little, itsy-bitsy earthquake?”
“Muh haa mu haa haha! Not likely. Maryland doesn’t get a lot of earthquakes.”
“Mmm, well, okay. What uh, if you get some girl in here…you know….”
“And we’re doin it?” Mitch helped, putting extra emphasis on “doin’.”
“Yeah, and you’re doin’ it, and she’s like, I don’t know, energetic…enthusiastic?”
“Girl knocks even one of my CDs down, that girl is history.”
“With rules like that, I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of action.”
Mitch farted. “Do, but their place mostly. Wanna see Douche-Face’s room? He’s the guy who’s moving out.”
“Douche-Face?”
“Think his real name is Michael De Frackes or something weird like that. Who gives a fuck? Pays the rent and I never see him. He’s perfect.”
“Is the Douche-Face hyphenated or two words?”
Mitch looked at him weird and then realized it was a joke and laughed. “Hyphenated. His mom was Douche, his dad was Face.”
Then Eric laughed.
Michael Douche-Face’s room was just as odd as Matt’s but in a completely different way. There was actual furniture, all chrome and glass and spotless.
“Nice,” said Eric, wondering if he could get rid of Douche-Face but keep the sweet furniture.
“Wait till you see this,” Mitch said and moved to open the walk-in closet. At first Eric thought it was a linen closet. Everything was white. Then he realized he was looking at racks lined end to end with white shirts, pressed so perfectly they looked like little soldiers waiting for orders. There had to be 200 of them. All stiff with starch and no trace of wrinkles.
The bottom rack contained pants. But here there was some variation. Along one wall there were black slacks, again all perfectly aligned and pressed. The back wall was the same except the pants were gray; along the right-hand wall the pants were navy blue.
“How long has this guy been living here?”
“’Bout eight or nine months,” Mitch answered.
“This is some serious psycho wooju,” Eric said. “Like when the film crew comes after the murders, they film this then talk to the expert. ‘Ya you zee hee-a, ze vay hiz mind ist zo ordered zot nuzzing can dishturb it. If zot hoppens, zen hiz mind schnaps like ze tvig and he kills ze roommates first.’ ”
“Zhank you, Dr. Freud,” said Mitch, trying but failing to copy Eric’s bad German accent. “But he’s harmless. Weird, but, like, he is never here, and when he is, he’s in his room. I think all he does in there is spend a couple of hours staring at his clothes, then he sighs and goes to bed.”
“You’re sure he won’t care if I stay?”
“He can be pissed if he wants to, but it doesn’t matter, anyway; I think he said his mommy is coming with the movers Monday.”
Chapter 10
“Are you working on anything?”
It was the bearded and bald head of the shortish John Williams standing at Eric’s desk two days after Eric moved in to Mitch’s apartment. The first day, just for his own sanity, he cleaned all the dishes in the sink (the dishwasher had not worked in months), scrubbed the floor, de-slimed the refrigerator and did as best he could to make the oven and stove fit for cooking. It didn’t bother Eric that he was cleaning up someone else’s mess. He wanted to be on good relations with Mitch, the soon-to-be-departed Douche-Face and the other guy, Dennis, who was never there. Eric Berger hoped that he could lead by example how humans were supposed to live.
It was unusual for John Williams to deign to come to Eric’s desk, or to anyone’s desk, for that matter. John was a kind of mythical figure, revered in the newsroom and respected for his ability to cut a story to its core and fashion a reporter’s crap into an article fit for public consumption in less time than it takes most people to tie their shoes.
Eric answered his question with a lame sounding: “Following up on some things the cops told me. Seeing how Julio is doing.”
“How is he doing, by the way?” Williams wasn’t just asking, he was concerned. There was no bullshit in John Williams. If he asked a question, it was because he was interested in the answer, not because he was being polite.
“Still has just the one working leg, but they’re working on it. Not likely I’ll get much more cooperation from Dr. Rachael on that. She was pretty pissed.”
“That won’t matter much as long as the Nietos are still with us.”
“Oh yeah, they are. I talk to Calypso every other day or so. Kathy is good friends now with the wife, Marisol.”
“I did talk to Kathy. She is thrilled. When they are up to it, we’re going to run a whole photo essay, start to finish, on the reconstruction process. I’m planning a special section on it. Then we’ll see if Dr. Rachael can be brought back into the fold.”
Eric’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
“Keep your notes in order. There will be a series of stories with it.”
“Got it. No problem.” Eric’s thoughts soared. A takeout section! His stories. Kathy Drass’ pictures. That was pretty big.
“Meantime, there’s a firehouse opening in Charleston.”
“A firehouse?” Eric’s balloon burst into a million pieces. “Really?”
“Really,” said the irritated John Williams.
“Sounds good,” muttered Eric.
John Williams gave him a slip of paper with the address and contact and stomped off.
Two hours later, near the end of his tolerance for speeches from the mayor, the union reps and fire commissioner, not to mention the district council leader and even the white-haired lady complaining about the smelly engines, Eric was desperately looking for a way out. He didn’t even care if he wrote anything. He had enough going. He just wanted it to be over so he could leave without being rude.
His mind wandered as the fire commissioner held court with a local paper called The Buzz. Skimming faces in the crowd, looking for any sign of a pulse, Eric caught the eye of one of the uniformed guys who just rolled his eyes and smiled.
If he were back in Paterson, there would be no hesitation. Eric would have called in a fifty-word brief and gone on with his life. But here,
in this big city, under the banner of The Washington Standard, it was different. If John Williams wanted him to cover a firehouse opening, he was going to cover the shit out of it. That meant quotes from the firefighters who would work there, quotes from the commissioner about how vitally important it was to the community, and even quotes from the neighbor whose dog would pee on the cornerstone twice a day every day for the next ten years.
As he filled his notebooks with quotes from these people, Eric fantasized about writing an epic novel about the firehouse, creating a three-part trilogy. “What Was Here Before?” (dirt); “What is Here Now?” (the firehouse); “What Will Be Here Later?” (dirt). Maybe they’ll turn it into a movie and they’ll call it the “Firehouse Franchise,” and I’ll be rich. They’ll say only Eric Berger of New Jersey could create such genius out of a small firehouse in northwest Washington, D.C., where nothing ever happens and no one ever burns to death.
The commissioner got back in his SUV and was driven off. The dogwalker went back to his own home. And that left only Eric Berger, scribbling his last few quotes, getting ready to leave after three hours. Thank God.
“Hey, I’m Tark.”
Eric looked up. “Tank?”
“No, Tark.” It was the firefighter who had rolled his eyes at Eric before. “My name, Tark. Short for Tarkanian. My folks are from Uzbekistan, came here in 1945 on a boat.”
“Oh, happy to meet you, Tark,” Eric began, not sure what was up with the big and affable Tark from Uzbekistan. “I’m Eric Berger from The Washington Standard.”
“Where you from?”
I just said it four-point-eight seconds ago, thought Eric, “The Washington Standard,” he repeated.
“No, I mean where you from, like come from?”
“Oh, Greenbelt.”
Slightly exasperated, Tark said, “Like where did you grow up?”
“Oh, Jersey.”
Tark pondered that for a moment but apparently was still not satisfied: “And before Jersey?”
This made Eric wonder why so many of the guys in uniform were so interested in where he had come from. It was like they needed to know he was an outsider and interloper. The other guy, Ollie Lynch, had made fun of him being from New Jersey. Now, this Tark was at him for the same thing. Either Washingtonians had a particular jones for New Jersey or they were just fascinated that anyone from there would come to live in this swamp on purpose. He wasn’t sure whether it was malice or mere curiosity, so for the time being he played along.
