Nathan’s Run

by John Gilstrap

The carpet in the hallway was every bit as lush as it was in the master bedroom, and it showed very little sign of wear. These people must never wear shoes. As Nathan stepped out into the hall, he felt suddenly self-conscious and covered his privates with his hand. Wouldn’t this make an interesting picture for TV?

  The first door to the left of the master suite opened into a little girl’s room, adorned in pink and lined with shelf after shelf of Barbie paraphernalia.

  Okay, he conceded silently, there was at least one thing worse than being captured naked, and that would be getting captured in girl’s clothes. He pressed on.

  Nathan found what he was looking for behind the third door. The interior was smaller than the first two, denoting the occupant’s rank within the family. Decorations on the wall included posters of Michael Jordan—back where he belonged, in a Bulls uniform; the Navy Blue Angels flying in tight formation and spewing red, white and blue smoke; and two versions of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: cartoon and real. Before he went to live with Uncle Mark, Nathan had had the cartoon poster on the wall of his own bedroom. Sad memories again tried to sneak into his mind as he stood there, but he shoved them out of the way. He laughed aloud at the stuffed Garfield that was hung by a perfectly tied noose from the cord to the venetian blinds.

  Relieved that the regular occupant of the room was clearly a boy about his age, Nathan rummaged through the heavy pine dresser, selecting underwear, socks, a Chicago Bulls T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Everything was two sizes too big, but they all fit better than the monkey suit from the JDC, and they would certainly cover what needed to be covered. The only real problem was the shorts, which were size Nathan-and-a-half. “This kid needs to go on a diet,” he mumbled.

  “Let’s see if Tubbo owns a belt,” Nathan said. The first belt was still too loose, even on the tightest setting. Little Nathan No-bottom. My razor-butted son. Finally, in the very back of the top drawer, he found a green Boy Scout belt that was infinitely adjustable. By cinching the waistband tight, the pants felt like they almost fit, even though the material scalloped up in several places. Keep the shirttail out, and no one would notice.

  For shoes, Nathan went to the closet, a huge walk-in with cubby holes built in all along one wall. They were stacked full of shirts, pants, sweaters, linens. And shoes; all manner and sizes of shoes. Bedroom slippers, soccer shoes, baseball shoes, dress shoes and tennis shoes. Nathan concentrated on the tennis shoe collection. Judging from the number and condition, this kid must have kept every pair he ever owned. The newer ones were clearly too big for Nathan.

  Tubbo has fat feet, too.

  Before long, Nathan had his hands on a pair of ancient Reeboks that were the right size, but looked like they had been hiked from coast to coast. The laces on one shoe had been broken and retied, the tread was almost gone, and the leather was severely scuffed. But by God, they looked comfortable, and that was his primary concern.

  When he was completely dressed, Nathan returned to the master bedroom and ventured a look in the full-length bathroom mirror. A little scrawny and pale, maybe, but the boy he knew to be himself had returned. No blood this time. His hair was blond again, with a wispy, freshly shampooed look that needed some assistance from a comb. The bruise on his eye had gone down considerably, and was already beginning to turn shades of orange-yellow around the edges. All in all, he approved of what he saw.

  Nathan could feel his confidence growing, born of a hope for himself and his future that he hadn’t felt in nearly a year; not since Uncle Mark had him thrown in jail.

  There he went thinking about that stuff again! He had to stop doing that. Dark thoughts and painful memories only made him feel frightened and confused, neither of which could he afford.

  There was a spring in his step as he reentered the master suite. It lasted just long enough for him to realize that the clock radio had cycled back on, blaring a new talk show. It took Nathan five seconds to realize that the people on the radio were talking about him, which was pretty cool at first. Then he heard what they were saying.

  Chapter 9

  Denise Carpenter, single mother of twin girls, had been “The Bitch” on NewsTalk 990 for nearly five years, a transformation that was so accidental it somehow seemed ordained that the show would become a success.

  In October, four and three-quarter years before, she had been a traffic reporter, granted thirty seconds of airtime every half hour. The regular late-morning talent, Bos’s Johnny, called in that morning from the D. C. jail, where he’d been offered a guest room in return for seven outstanding warrants for offenses ranging from failure to pay child support to assault with intent to murder, the latter being the result of too much Jack Daniel’s and too little temper. With only twenty minutes’ advance notice, Denise was told that she would get her big chance in major-market radio. The news should have thrilled her, but at the time she was not looking for work in front as a deejay. She was perfectly content to monitor the police scanners for accidents and devise alternative routes for frustrated commuters.

  But she was smart enough to realize an opportunity when she saw it. At the time, her daughters, Laura and Erin, were only five, and between day care and rent, there was barely enough cash left in any given week for food. A social worker friend of hers had told her that she qualified for food stamps, but Denise refused. She wasn’t about to give Bernie the satisfaction of seeing her take charity. She had wanted the divorce, and she had wanted sole custody, and she had let him off the hook for even the tiniest amount of child support, against the vehement objections of the judge. The last thing “Bernie the Bastard” said to her as they left the courthouse was, “You’re gonna starve without me.” Over the ensuing six years, she’d come to think of those words as her good luck charm.

  With no notice, and facing a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make an impression, Denise had walked into the booth briskly and confidently. Years later, her then-engineer and current producer Enrique Zamora confided in her that he’d lost twenty dollars that day by betting that Denise would leave in tears before the end of the first commercial.

  Far from tearful, Denise came out of the theme song swinging.

  “I’m not the voice you were expecting to hear this morning,” she’d said, her first words ever as a disc jockey. “That voice is learning to sing the song of the jailbird. It seems that Boss Johnny had more mouth than he had heart. Right now, he’s in jail downtown on a number of charges, one of which is failure to pay child support. If he’s innocent, I can’t wait to see his smiling face back in the booth. If he’s guilty, I hope he rots in a cell with Bubba the Love Muffin teaching him things he never knew about sex.”

  For the next four hours, Denise railed on about what was wrong with the social fabric of America, not hesitating to traipse on territory normally considered forbidden. She established her position in favor of a woman’s right to choose abortion when the circumstances warranted it, but suggested that murder charges be brought against anyone and everyone who participated in an abortion—including fathers and doctors—when the procedure was used solely as a means of birth control. When she was asked how she could justify such a self-contradictory position, she answered, “I don’t have to justify anything to you. I’m just telling you how I feel. If it upsets you, find that little knob on the bottom of your radio and turn it till I go away.”

  Through her entire first show, the telephone lines remained jammed with callers trying to assail her positions. Denise’s defining moment came when Barbara from Arlington, Virginia, called in to tell her, “No offense, Denise, but you’re really coming across as a bitch on the radio.”

  Denise responded, “Why, thank you very much Barbara, because you’re right. But I’m not just a bitch; I’m the bitch of Washington, D. C.” In an industry where a marketable identity means everything, Denise had stumbled upon a winner.

  By the time Boss Johnny was able to scrape together bail money, two days after his arrest, his job had been given away to an upstart bitch from the new
s staff.

  Within a week after she’d started her new career, Denise’s salary had been quintupled, in return for her signature on an unheard-of three-year exclusive contract. The Bitch represented everything that is supposed to fail in radio: a black female who speaks openly and evenly about everything from racism to child-rearing. Politically, she was more conservative than liberal, but she didn’t hesitate to torpedo anyone who stepped out of line.

  Three weeks after her first show, NewsTalk 990 had picked up a full six percentage points in the ratings during the coveted morning slot. Denise the Bitch had been featured in both Washington, D. C. newspapers, and thoroughly dominated the trade press. According to her fans, The Bitch offered a real person’s view on life. Like most Americans, Denise had no political ax to grind, and she certainly had no political ambitions, so when she said what she thought, it had the ring of truth with which her audience could identify.

  One month after her first anniversary as a talk-show host, Enrique Zamora sat her down in his office, looking like a little kid who was going to burst if he didn’t reveal a secret. “I overheard the station manager talking with some guy on the phone today. They’re going to syndicate us!”

  Even as Denise heard the words, she didn’t understand his enthusiasm. “So?”

  “So! Don’t you get it? Syndication means we’ll be on the radio in every major market in the country. A nationwide audience.”

  For a long moment, Denise had just stared in disbelief, her hand frozen over her gaping mouth. “Oh, my God, Rick. Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious! Think of it. Millions of people listening to you from coast to coast. Millions of dollars in your pocket.”

  Enrique’s last comment took Denise’s breath away, making her feel light-headed. “No,” she commanded, mostly to herself. “We’re not going to get all excited over something you think you heard other people talking about. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me.”

  “I don’t think I overheard it,” Enrique protested. “I know what I heard, and they were talking about you.”

  “And they said we were going into syndication?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  Enrique laughed. “I am not a liar. I’m a busybody and an eavesdropper, but I am not a liar.”

  Sure enough, later that day, the station manager approached Denise with the official news. Their initial syndication would be in twelve markets, from Tampa to Bloomington, Illinois. Her already comfortable salary would double once again. Within a year, there were thirty-four stations on the network, prompting another doubling of her salary.

  By the time Nathan listened to her for the first time in the bedroom of a strange house, Denise was being heard on 327 stations across the country, and was earning well into seven figures.

  During her monologue at the beginning of the show that morning, The Bitch had railed against the state of the youth of America, citing as an example of the decaying moral fabric the local Washington story of a twelve-year-old boy who’d escaped from prison after killing a guard.

  “The prosecutor on this case says he’s going to try this kid as an adult, and I think that’s great. How many times do you hear stories of gang killings, and drive-by killings and robbery killings, only to find out that the killing is being done by pint-sized monsters? Twelve-, thirteen-, fourteen-year-olds who have so little to live for that they take the most precious possession from others—their very lives.

  “I for one am tired of hearing it. I for one am prepared to stand up and say, man or woman, underage or not, if you intentionally take the life of another human being, I don’t want you as a part of my society. I want you in prison for the rest of your life, or certainly until you’re old enough to be strapped down in one of those nice little electric chairs they have collecting dust across the country, where you can be zapped straight to hell, and spend all eternity considering just how cool and courageous murder really is.”

  The phones went nuts, every light blinking urgently by the time she was done with her tirade. Promising to talk to the listeners on hold as soon as she came back, The Bitch went into commercials.

  “Half the calls want to hang the kid, and the other half want to hang you,” Enrique said into Denise’s headset. She smiled stunningly. To Enrique, everything that Denise did was stunning. Always well dressed and always wearing makeup, Denise was a sharp contrast to the rest of the on-air talent, whose sense of fashion focused mainly on using a napkin rather than their sleeves to wipe their mouths during lunch. Fans who knew Denise only from her voice invariably commented, when they met her, on how beautiful she was, and, privately, how surprised they were.

  Denise raised her onyx eyes from her notes to stare through the glass at Enrique. “Listen, Rick,” she said. “Screen out the callers who want to tell me that the kid is innocent, okay?” Enrique nodded and gave a thumbs-up. “And I don’t want to talk to anyone who’s going to tell me that I’m a bad mother. I just want to discuss the pros and cons of trying kids as adults, and proposed solutions to the juvenile crime problem.”

  “You got it, Denise,” Enrique told her. “We’re coming out of commercial in twenty seconds. Your first call is Robert on line four. I think he wants to agree with you.”

  Denise nodded with mock enthusiasm. “That sounds like a perfect place to start.”

  Enrique used his fingers to count down from five, and then gave Denise her cue.

  “And you’re back in the room with The Bitch. Not much trouble collecting phone calls this morning.” She stabbed the blinking line four. “Hello, Robert, this is The Bitch. What’s on your mind?”

  “Hello, Bitch.” Robert’s voice had the gravelly sound of a smoker, maybe forty-five years old. “I’m calling to agree with you, believe it or not.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe that? Since I’m always right, I always expect people to agree with me.”

  Robert laughed, initiating a juicy cough. “But this is the first time I’ve ever agreed with you.”

  Denise laughed, too. “Well, tell me, Robert, what have I said to deserve such an honor?”

  “I say the youth of America are going down the toilet. I get sick and tired of hearing that abusive families and racial strife are responsible for kids’ actions. It’s the kids themselves. They don’t respect anybody or anything; they just look at everybody as their next potential victim:’

  “You keep referring to ‘they’, Robert. Who exactly are ‘they?’”

  “The juvenile delinquents out on the street. The courts are afraid to do anything about them. If they throw them in prison, the ACLU screams that they’re not being treated fairly, and the media paints this picture of an innocent who’s been victimized by his surroundings. On the other hand, if the judges don’t put them in jail, that means they just come back out onto the street.”

  Denise tried to interrupt, but Robert was on a roll.

  “I read a story in the paper just a few months ago about some kid in Chicago, eleven years old, who killed a girl in a drive-by shooting. I was in Chicago at the time, and all we heard was how they were looking for this kid, who had an arrest record as long as my arm. Two days later, the kid showed up dead in some drainage ditch, shot in the head. Then the local media cried all over themselves, showing the kid’s smiling face on the news and interviewing his relatives about what a wonderful kid he was!”

  “And you don’t believe he was a wonderful kid?”

  “Hell, no. He was scum. Let’s call it as it is. He might have been young scum, but he was scum. We’ve got no place for people like that on the streets.”

  Denise made the “okay” signal to Enrique through the window. Robert was a live one.

  “So where does that leave us with this kid, Nathan Bailey? What should we do with him?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course. Nothing but the truth on my show. That’s the first rule?’

  “Honestly, I don’t have a problem executing him. He kille
d a prison guard, for crying out loud. If he’s tried as a juvenile, he’ll be out in nine years, if not before, but that guard’ll still be dead. That doesn’t seem fair to me?’

  Enrique’s voice in Denise’s headphones told her it was time to move on to Barb on line six.

  “Thank you, Robert, I have to say I agree with you. Now it’s on to Barb, who’s live on the air with The Bitch. What’s on your mind, Barb?”

  The voice was timid, maybe twenty-two. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Barb, you’re on the air with The Bitch.”

  “Oh, hi. This is Barb. Thanks for taking my call, B—” Her hesitation in saying the word was not uncommon among young women.

  “It’s The Bitch, honey. Come on, you can say it. If I can be it, you can say it.”

  Barb giggled on the other end. “Anyway, thanks for taking my call…”

  Denise interrupted again. “No, you’ve got to say it, or I’ll hang up on you. Say, Hello, Bitch.”

  Barb giggled nervously. “I… I don’t want to.”

  “Sure you do. It should be easy, the way I’m treating you right now in front of millions of listeners. Just say bitch.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. I’ll give you a running start at it. You just complete the sentence: Jeeze, you’re a…”

  “Bitch.” Barb said it so softly, it was barely audible.

  “Okay, Barb, that was a good start. Now, try it again with feeling. Son of a…”

  “Bitch.”

  “Okay, that was much better. Now let’s go for the gold. Say, Hello, Bitch.”

  “Hello, Bitch.” Barb was laughing.

  “Howya doin, Bitch.”

  “Howya doin, Bitch.”

  “Son of a bitch. You’re a real bitch, Bitch.”

  Barb was laughing hard now. “Son of a bitch. You’re a real bitch, Bitch.”

  Denise slapped the table triumphantly. “By George, we did it. Don’t you feel better now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And aren’t you glad that my radio name isn’t Vagina?” Hard laughter from the other end of the phone.