EAGER

“You’re the naked cameraman from TV!” She screeched with sudden recognition, and shrank behind a rack of novelty bumper stickers, then peeked out. “Did I really say that out loud?”

“Yes, I am, and you did.” I punched the price of her cold drink and newspaper into the cash register. “One twenty-seven.”

Her eyes shifted nervously from the bumper stickers to my belt buckle to the front page photo. There I was, in all my black and white glory, hands raised like a suspect at gunpoint, but it was a fireman’s hose holding me at bay. Water droplets glistened in the tight curls of my frizzy mullet. No shirt, no pants, and a scrap of sheet stretched in front of the good parts. Emergency lights behind me created a halo-effect around my torso and projected a shadow of my twig and berries on the small sheet. A strategically placed black bar made the picture fit to print in a family publication.

She handed me two dollars and strained at a shy grin. “Must have been pretty cold.”

I nodded.

It had been that way since I’d arrived at work that morning. Just forty-five minutes into my shift and I was ready to crawl under a rock. I could handle the men; a bawdy comment about shrinkage was usually enough. But how do you answer a grandmother or co-ed?

“Yeah,” was all I could muster. I dropped seventy three cents into her hand.

“It must be fascinating being a cameraman. Running to wrecks and murders and meeting all those interesting people.” Gold flecks sparkled in her big brown eyes.
She was trying to flirt, but I just wanted her to leave. “I wouldn’t know. KELC fired me. And they had never actually hired me in the first place.”

“That sucks.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Nobody else would even answer the radio. I lugged all that gear three blocks, to get shots of that damned overturned tanker. Then, that bastard Weaver from the competition shows up, grinning like a possum eating shit and shoots my little striptease.”

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Nah, I’m sorry. You didn’t come in here to listen to a minimum-wage cashier bitch and moan. It’s just that bastard Weaver took my gear when they packed me in the ambulance. Then, he uses my shots in his story. That son-of-a-bitch.”

“I thought he was a bastard.” She joked putting the change into her purse.

“He’s both. I wouldn’t piss on his guts if they were on fire. I’m sorry. Bitching again.”

“That’s okay. It sounds like you got hosed . . . Sorry, bad pun.” Her lips hitched between a wince and a smile.

“Yeah, really bad.” I shook my head and tried to disguise a smile. “But look, it’s my first smile of the day. Thanks.”

“If you need some cheering up, there’s a big party tonight.”

“I think I’ll stew in my own juices for a while.”

“If you change your mind, it’s at The Cotton Gin. You should come – it’s dark in there. Nobody will recognize you.” She dropped the change in her purse and bounced out of the store.

The slap of another newspaper on my counter dragged my attention back from the door.
“Good thing I’m not on fire.” Jim Weaver laughed from the other side of my counter. “You got balls.” He set his cold drink counter. “Not that I could see ‘em.”

I had met Weaver once before he made my privates public. He was a round man with round eyes, an uneven mustache, and bristly gray hair half way around head. His right shoulder sagged a little lower than his left, and his left eye squeezed into a permanent half-wink from years peering through the lens of a television camera.

“Really, I looked at your video last night.”

“Looked at it? It was all over your story.”

“You expected me to just hand it over to KELC? You needed a tripod, but it was good for a rookie. You’ve got a good eye – too good to be ringing-up newspapers in a shop-n-rob. You might make it in this business.”

“Tell that to Cranch. He fired me for the ‘over exposure.’”

“Yeah, I feel pretty bad about that, but I couldn’t not shoot it.” Weaver dug his hands in his pocket and shifted from one foot to the other. “Hell, you even shot it yourself. Or tried to.”

I had almost forgotten that I had rolled tape too.

“The focus was soft, and it was a little dark, but I used it in the story for the morning show, just to piss off Cranch.” Weaver grinned slyly. “Like I said, you got balls, kid.”

I wanted to jump across the counter and beat the crap out of him, but it was hard not to like Weaver.

“How’d you like to rub his face in it?”

“What do you mean?”

“One of my guys walked off the job two weeks ago. The News Director wants me to hire some hot-shot college grad who thinks he’s Edward R. Murrow and Cecil B. DeMille all rolled into one. I want you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been doing this long enough to know that hiring a photog is like looking to score at The Cotton Gin – eager beats pretty, every time." He laughed at his own joke. “Anybody can point a lens and hit record. But you’ve got an eye, and what you did to get those shots – taking your own car, hiking in with all that gear, sneaking out of the command post – that tells me you’ve got the fire that makes a good photog.”

“How do you know about all of that?”

“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you. You want the job or not?”

“When do I start?” I practically jumped over the counter, this time to hug him.

“Don’t be too eager. We ain’t talked money.”

“Look around. It would be illegal to pay me less than I get here.”

Weaver laughed again and shook my hand. “When do you get off?”

“I can be off now.”

He shook his head. “No, no. Come see me tomorrow.” Weaver headed for the door.

“Eager, I like that,” he called over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.

BLAME AND FOGIVENESS 3

Gerald bolted upright in his bed.

Reverend Rob was reading again. "When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!”

“What time is it?”

“You’re awake. Just in time for the best part.” Reverend Rob had not moved from his spot outside the cell door.

“It’s dark. What time is it?” Beads of sweat ran from Gerald’s forehead into his eyes making it look like he’d been crying.

“Quarter after eight.”

Gerald squinted to see the clock across the visitation room. “Clock over there says 8:13. Don’t cheat a condemn’ man outta two minutes.”

“You look like hell.”

“What the fuck you expec’? They gonna hook me up to the needle and juice me.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothin’.”

“It was her again.”

“She was scared. I told her I wasn’t gonna hurt her. But she was scared.”

“If you ask me, you’re the one who’s looking scared. You don’t have to be.” Reverend Rob rolled out his reconciliation sermon. “God’s mercy is a wonderful thing. If he can forgive me for molesting boys and help me find peace, he can do the same for you. That’s what the parable I was reading you is all about.”

“Save your breath.”

Reverend Rob went on undeterred. “This son had squandered his inheritance on loose women and was living in squalor. When he came to his senses and asked for forgiveness, his father killed the fatted calf and threw a huge party. It can be the same for you.”

“Only calf they gonna kill is me.” Gerald smirked.

“God wants to forgive you, all you have to do is ask.” Nineteen years of subtlety hadn’t worked; Reverend Rob tried a more direct approach. He turned to the Gospel of Luke and read a passage highlighted in yellow, “See, it says here, ‘I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.’ I can’t do it for you, Gerry.”

Gerald clasped his lips tight around another Marlboro. His lips trembled as he fought the urge to speak. He could see the tall grass dancing on the banks of the Amite River. He was on top of her staring down into those bright blue eyes, her ponytail fanned out in the grass beneath her head. The muscles in her throat quivered. She was so damn sexy. He leaned in and kissed her. She clenched her lips tight. She wanted to fight.

He pinned her wrists to the ground above her head with one hand and wrestled her shorts down with the other. Her eyes were wild, her breaths shallow and hot on his neck. She wiggled and kicked to get away.

He clawed and ripped at her shorts with his free hand. The button gave way. He pushed her shorts to her ankles and off one foot; he released her hands and went for his zipper to release his fury.

She screamed.

“My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear.” Father Rob read from Job. “I confess my iniquity; I am troubled by my sin.” He stopped to look at Gerald. “Your eyes look troubled, Gerald.”

“No. No trouble,” his voice faded. “I didn’t do anythin’ she didn’t want.”

Father Rob shook his head. He was obviously angry, but he never raised his voice. “Is that what you’re going to tell the Almighty when you meet him in four hours? You can’t rationalize sin away, Gerry. I tried it on D-Block, but it chased me down, just like yours is haunting you tonight.”

“Nothin’ hauntin’ me but you an’ your Bible verses.” Gerald threw himself to his feet and stormed out the open cell door. “Let’s do it! Let’s do it! NOW!” His eyes darted around the visitation room. “Guard! Guard! Damn it, let’s get this over with!” He tore off his shirt and ran for the solid steel door hiding the injection table. “Guard! Guard!” Gerald ricocheted off the door.

Reverend Rob dropped his Bible and ran after him. He wrapped his arms around Gerald in a bear hug. Gerald’s chest and back were slick with sweat. Reverend Rob wrestled him to the ground and wrapped his own legs around Gerald’s flailing limbs.

“There’s a deep trench between blame and forgiveness, Gerald,” Reverend Rob panted. “It’s time for you to step across to the other side.”

to be continued

Part one
Part two

IT'S OFFICIAL . . .

. . . I suck. At least at this blogging thing lately. Hopefully today, I will suck a little bit less.Ya see, I haven't been resting on my ever-expanding laurels. I've been busy. For the last 353 days I've been getting up early -- 5:30am early. And pounding the keys. Most days it came out jibberish. Occasionally, the monkeys in my brain were able to string together enough syllables, and I gave birth.Okay, a manifesto it ain't. But earth-shaking revelations aside, it's more than 200 pages of bluster and 'tude from a custy photog with a really cool handle.

I ain't telling you all this to so that you'll rush out and order these slick sheets of bathroom stationary. (Hell, I still gotta find someone who thinks it's worth the trouble of wasting all that ink to mass produce this turd.) It's more an explanation and an apology for leaving you in a lurch without your recommended daily allowance of fecal matter.Wish I had better news. Now it's time to edit this bitch. Probably gonna have to throw it away and start over. Shit!