That Other Guy
by Brian Clark
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Table of Contents, chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 |
Chapter 4
“So, who’s on the hot seat today?”
The question came from Blair Larrabee. Richard turned to see his neighbor take a giant bite of a meatball sub. Mustard dribbled down his chin towards the fleshy expanse of his neck.
Richard waggled his right index finger towards his own chin, and Larrabee took the hint, mopping up the trickling condiment with a paper napkin.
“It’s Ryan Doyle,” Richard said. “I’ve never met him. Have you?”
“No,” Larrabee said, chomping down again on the sandwich, expelling another yellow runnel down his face. “Guess we can look forward to a lecture on Dalesford’s homeless problem, eh?”
Richard nodded, choosing to ignore the mustard leakage this time. He looked up at the newsroom clock: 3:45 pm Doyle was scheduled to appear before the editorial board in 15 minutes.
“Editorial board” was the grandiose title for an ad hoc group composed of newspaper staffers. Its only function was to interview visiting VIPs. Once a month, some public figure dropped by the Express newsroom to spout off about something or other and answer questions. A reporter took notes and wrote a story for the next issue.
Richard was probably the only one in the newsroom who liked editorial board meetings; that is, not counting Managing Editor Glenda Stone, whose job it was to be gung-ho about everything. Pretty much everybody else thought they were a tedious waste of time. As a result, most participants spent the hour-long sessions pretending to pay attention while doodling in notebooks or not-so-subtly checking their phones. A few asked the odd question, but most of their queries were innocuous, slow-pitch lobs.
But Richard knew only fastball. He would grill anyone about anything. He once demanded to see City Councilor Greg Rossman’s tax return when the politician refused to name his other sources of income. He challenged Cardinal Brendan O’Connor to produce scientific proof of the existence of God. And he accused Eugene Farnsworth, the president of Dalesford Power and Light, of gouging his customers and padding his expense account.
Richard had no intention of taking it easy on Ryan Doyle, even if he did operate a charity.
“Oh, there he is,” Larrabee mumbled as he finished off his sub. “Looks just like he does on TV.”
Richard glanced up from his computer to see the Managing Editor escorting Doyle through the newsroom. The visitor was a solidly built six-footer who was wearing worn jeans, a denim shirt, a severely distressed leather jacket and a grimy Dalesford Tigers baseball cap pulled tight over a riot of red curls. He needed a shave.
“My God, look at him,” Richard said. “Just because he runs a homeless shelter doesn’t mean he has to look like a vagrant.”
“Jeez, Richard, people can’t win with you,” Larrabee said. “You criticize Jill Henson for driving an expensive car, and then you criticize Ryan Doyle because he’s a little ragged around the edges.”
“Ragged around the edges? The man’s a mumblecrust. I mean, just look at—”
Richard stopped. Doyle was waving at him and making his way through the newsroom maze towards his desk, Glenda Stone trailing behind. A silly grin lit up his face.
“Well, look who it is! It’s my old pal!” Doyle trumpeted in a thick Irish accent as he arrived at Richard’s workstation. “You work at the Express, do ya? Cool!”
For a moment Richard couldn’t speak, his mouth hanging unhinged. A crowd started to gather around his desk.
“There’s something I want you people to know,” Doyle said, addressing the throng. He pointed at Richard and beamed. “Your colleague here is probably the best volunteer we have down at the shelter.”
In responses that were comically simultaneous, Richard said, “I am?” just as at least two of his co-workers said, “He is?”
Apparently not hearing Richard’s comment, Doyle pressed on. “Oh yeah, he’s great. A bit of a mystery man, but really great. He cooks, he cleans, he does everything. He’s just so laid-back and easygoing. The guys call him Mr. Cool.”
A few people tittered.
“No, I’m absolutely serious,” Doyle said. “He is Mr. Cool. I mean, he’s got to be the serenest dude I’ve ever met. Serenest? Hey, is that a word. I guess you people would know, eh?”
The copy editor in Richard finally compelled him to speak up. “Yes, ‘serenest’ is an acceptable superlative for ‘serene’, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s too awkward. I’d suggest most serene. For one thing—”
Richard looked up at the faces in the crowd around his desk. They were all staring at him. Mark Reynolds stood at the back, a heavily gnawed pen clamped in his mouth.
“Anyway,” Richard said, “I think you have me confused with someone else, Mr. Doyle. I mean, I don’t believe we’ve ever actually met before. And I know I’ve never been to your shelter.”
Doyle’s smile faded slightly and his eyes narrowed. “Isn’t your name Ricky?”
“No, it’s Richard.”
“Well, same thing.”
Richard bristled. “No it is not the—” He checked himself. “I just prefer Richard, that’s all.”
Doyle let out a short laugh and folded his arms. “Well, sir, all I know is there’s a guy who calls himself Ricky who has been helping out down at the shelter for the last little while. And you’re a dead ringer for him. Never did catch his last name. We don’t even have a phone number for him. We usually keep contact information on our volunteers, but like I said, this guy’s a bit of a mystery man.”
He shook his head and slapped Richard playfully on the shoulder. “All right, so it’s not you then. I guess you oughta know, eh? Tell you one thing, though. I’d say you’ve got a twin walking around town.”
Richard heard someone in the crowd whisper: “This one must be the evil twin.”
It sounded like Mark Reynolds.
Copyright © 2021 by Brian Clark
