That Other Guy
by Brian Clark
In a switch on the Jekyll and Hyde story, journalist Richard Callaghan transforms from an arrogant, insensitive and stingy man into an easygoing, kind and generous guy who likes to be called Ricky (a nickname that Richard detests). The answer to the mystery of the alternate personality will be found deep inside Richard’s brain, but not before Ricky turns his life upside down.
|
Table of Contents, chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 |
Chapter 3
It was 9:00 pm and, for the moment, Richard found himself alone in the newsroom. The other copy editors were away from their desks, and the night reporter, Vivian Sharpley, was out covering City Council.
He was washing down his fourth Extra-Strength Tylenol of the shift when the phone rang. He checked his phone’s console and saw the general newsroom line flashing.
Probably just a complaining reader. Let it go to voicemail, he told himself. Then, thinking it could be Vivian checking in, Richard stabbed the button and picked up the receiver. “Express newsroom!” he barked.
At first he thought no one was there.
“Express newsroom!” he repeated. “Hello!”
“Yes, is this the Express?”
Hearing the thin, tremulous voice of an old man, Richard groaned.
“Sorry, I didn’t get that,” the caller said. “Could you please speak up?”
“Yes, it’s the Express newsroom.”
“And is this the newsroom?”
“Yes! It’s the newsroom!”
“Well, I’ve been an Express subscriber for 53 years, and I just wanted to say that I have never seen so many mistakes in the paper as I’ve seen over the past few months. Spelling mistakes, grammar mistakes, punctuation mistakes, typos, factual errors. It is outrageous. And it just seems to me—”
Richard placed the receiver on his desk, removed his glasses and cupped his face in his hands. An indistinct chatter poured out of the earpiece.
Richard sighed. Why didn’t I trust my instincts and just let it ring? He put his glasses back on and picked up the phone. The old man was still babbling.
“And it just makes me wonder what kind of people you have working down there. Are they all stupid or something?”
Richard exhaled slowly, then said, “Well, aren’t you a pestiferous smellfungus.”
“What did you say, young man?”
“To answer your question, sir, no, not everyone working here is stupid. But some are. And we’re quite proud of that.”
“What? Did you say ‘proud’?”
“Sir, we at the Express believe strongly in having a diverse workforce. When it comes to hiring, we refuse to discriminate on the basis of intellectual ability. And we take great pride in that.”
“Well, that’s just stupid.”
“Now you’re getting it. Thanks for calling,” Richard said before hanging up.
“Was that Viv?”
Richard looked up to see his boss, news editor Kathy Mulhearn, returning to her desk.
“No.”
“Well, who was it?”
“Just a reader.”
“Oh, God. What did you say, Richard?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Merely being helpful.”
“Helpful? Really? Like the time you asked that old lady what the last ice age was like?”
Richard choked back a laugh, turning it into cough. “Well, in my defense, I was pretty sure she was deaf.”
“That’s no defense, Richard! For Chrissake, you almost got fired. If you weren’t our best copy editor, you would’ve been.”
Mulhearn planted her hands on his desk, leaned down and fixed her green eyes on Richard. Symmetrical sweeps of brown hair bracketed her pretty face.
“Unless it’s your line, don’t answer the goddam phone!”
* * *
The paper had been put to bed, and the news-deskers were engaged in a little post-deadline chitchat when Vivian Sharpley approached, carrying a small cardboard box.
“Excuse me, Richard? My son is selling chocolate bars to raise money for his soccer team. I told him I’d help him out. They’re four bucks each. Interested?”
Richard sat back in his chair, laced his fingers together and stared up at the tall, wiry redhead. “Hmmm. Well, let me tell you Vivian, you see—”
“Oh boy, here we go,” Mulhearn jumped in. She stood up and walked over to Richard’s desk.
“You’re new here, Vivian, so let me clue you in. Richard doesn’t give money to charity.”
“What? I do too, Kathy.”
“Who? Name one charity you’ve given money to, Richard.”
“That’s between me and the taxman. And besides, what I was going to say is that this is not giving money to charity. These chocolate bar sales are scams. Most of the money goes to profit-making fundraising companies.”
“Come on, Richard,” Mulhearn said, perching herself on the edge of his desk. “You think everything’s a scam. What was it you said to Bridget when she was collecting for the United Way last year? It was something about—”
“I never said the United Way was a scam,” Richard said. “I merely said I wanted to check on their administrative costs before I donated any money, make sure they weren’t too high.”
“Right. But then you never did give anything. Did you?”
“Of course, I—”
“And then there was the food bank,” Mulhearn said. “You wouldn’t donate to the food bank because you saw Jill Henson driving around in a Chevy Malibu.”
Richard shifted uneasily in his chair. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate for the manager of a food bank to drive a luxury car.”
“Oh for Chrissake, Richard, a Malibu is not a luxury car.”
“Well, it is a pretty nice car. They go for about $25,000. I checked.”
Mulhearn formed a megaphone with her hands. “Hello! That’s what cars cost these days! What do want her to do, Richard, take the bus? Just ’cause she runs a charity?”
She hopped off Richard’s desk and turned to Vivian. “I’ll take two,” she said, digging money out of her slacks pocket.
“Me, too,” Blair Larrabee called from his desk.
Richard stood up to leave. “Sure, go ahead,” he said. “Pad some greedy company’s bottom line. I refuse to do it.”
Copyright © 2021 by Brian Clark
