That Other Guy

by Brian Clark

Table of Contents

Table of Contents, chapters:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Chapter 6

“Mark, a word please!”

Like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, Mark Reynolds shuffled his way through the newsroom labyrinth to Richard’s desk, pen stuck between his teeth. “What is it, Richard?” he said wearily, removing the pen.

“Yes, Mark, about your piece. So, here we have a story about a little old lady. Let’s see, she’s 88 years old. So she decides to go out for a walk. She’s crossing the street and along comes this transport truck and runs her down. Kills her. Right so far?”

“Yes, Richard.”

“Now, you might be interested to know that a tractor-trailer weighs in somewhere around 40 tons. I looked it up.”

Reynolds shifted uneasily on his feet. “OK.”

“And judging by the picture you got of the little old lady, I would say she weighed in at around 90 pounds.”

“Sounds right.”

“Plus maybe another 10 pounds for her walker,” Richard said.

“All right.”

“So, 40-ton truck vs. 90-pound granny. All in all, a real tragedy. Wouldn’t you agree, Mark?”

Reynolds pursed his lips and nodded.

“So, given all that, Mark, I can only assume that you were going for some kind of comic relief when you wrote in paragraph six: ‘The truck driver was not injured.’ ”

“It was in the press release from the cops, Richard.”

“Oh, I see. It was in the press release. Well, tell you what, why don’t we put that in the lead. How about: A truck driver escaped injury Wednesday when he plowed his 18-wheeler into an 88-year-old grandmother.” Richard peered at Reynolds over the top of his glasses. “Would that work?”

Reynolds drew a seething, sibilant breath and slowly let it out. “You could have just deleted that sentence, Richard.”

“Yes, I could have done that, Mark. But I would have missed this teachable moment. And by the way” — he stabbed the delete button rapidly — “consider it gone.”

Reynolds planted the pen back in his mouth and plodded back to his desk. “Ash’ole,” he muttered.

It was faint, but Richard heard it.

Maybe I was a tad harsh, he thought.

Richard closed his eyes, let his head droop and gave his forehead a fingertip massage. The old wooden floorboards of the newsroom began to shift and shake, and Richard opened his eyes to see Blair Larrabee steering his bulky form through the rabbit warren of partitions.

“Sorry I’m late, guys,” he said, slumping into his saggy chair. “Accident on Westchester. Rossi’s there.”

He turned to face Richard. “How ya doin’?”

“I’m fine,” Richard said as he checked the story queue on his computer for something else to edit. After a moment, he realized the inquiry was more than a conversational icebreaker. He turned to see that his neighbor was still looking at him and had a concerned expression on his face.

“Something on your mind, Blair?”

“No, I just wanted to see how you were feeling.”

“Well, like I said, fine.”

“Good. Very good.” Larrabee nodded his head slowly. “It’s just that you weren’t... well... you weren’t really yourself last night.”

“No? Who was I then?”

Larrabee shifted in his chair, which creaked in protest. “Well, it was after deadline and we were all shootin’ the breeze. You started to get this dreamy, spacey look on your face. Your eyes were kinda glazed, and you had this really loopy grin. You were moving and responding to things in this kinda slow-motion way. There’s a word for that. Um... let’s see... ah... never mind. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, you offered to treat everybody to beer and nachos at Sheahan’s. None of us could make it, but...” He leaned forward and tilted his head to the side. “You remember that, don’t you?”

For a moment Richard couldn’t respond. His scalp prickled, and he broke out in a clammy sweat.

Jesus, I don’t remember any of that. He cleared his throat. “Of course I do. I was just feeling a little tired, I guess. You know what it’s like sometimes after a long shift. You get a little bit punch-drunk, a little goofy.”

Larrabee scratched his chin and considered this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess. But you know, when you mentioned the beer and nachos, you kept saying, ‘It’s on Ricky. Everything’s on Ricky. Ricky’s picking up the bill tonight.’ Remember?”

Richard swallowed hard and choked out, “Yes.”

“I once called you Ricky — I think it was my first week here — and you took my head off.”

“I’m... I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Blair.”

“Nope. You took my head clear off. I had to get my mother to sew it back on.”

Larrabee laughed awkwardly.

Richard just stared at him. He said, “I was just kidding around — with the Ricky thing. That’s all. I still prefer Richard. If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem. Funny thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, remember that volunteer that Ryan Doyle was talking about, the guy who looks like you? He was called Ricky.”

“Yes, Blair, it’s funny all right.”

“Anyway, you seem to be your old self again, eh?”

Larrabee turned to face his computer and booted it up.

Richard felt like his tingling scalp had set his head on fire. Sweat trickled down his back, and his tongue had turned into a dusty mat. He stood up and navigated his way through the maze to a water cooler, where he quickly downed four paper cups’ worth and splashed a little on his face.

By the time he got back to his desk, he felt a little better.

“Blair?”

“Yeah?”

“Phlegmatic.”

“Pardon?”

“Phlegmatic. That’s the word you were looking for. Or perhaps languid.”

To be continued...