lunchroom. She was one of a few different two-hundred-pound assistants who seemed to roam the building. He found her unpleasant to look at. Her hair dye was so black it was blue. She wore too much blush, too much lipstick, and too colorful an outfit for her amorphous frame.
But he made a point of being pleasant, even to his most disgusting coworkers.
“Hey, Gail.”
Gail glanced up from her fashion magazine, grunted a hello, and removed her second Twix bar from the wrapper. The idea of a woman like Gail using her break to focus on fashion and beauty tips struck him as pathetic. Here’s a tip on self-improvement: Walk around the block and stop eating candy bars.
The man fed a dollar into one of two side-by-side vending machines. It took three attempts before the machine registered his credit. He pushed the buttons B and 3 and watched the black metal spiral spin on the second row of the machine, releasing a bag of peanut M&Ms. He retrieved the candy and his quarter of change from the machine.
On the muted television that hung on the wall next to the vending machine, the credits were rolling on The Oprah Winfrey Show . The man watched as Oprah peacocked across the set of her talk show in a red turtleneck and black pants, alternately pointing at the guests in their comfortable chairs and pumping her flattened palms robustly above her head. He could imagine her voice, imploring her audience to “give it up” for the earnest speakers.
“I just love her,” Gail said.
“Doesn’t everyone?” the man said in agreement.
He made his way back to his office and sat in his black leather desk chair. Using the remote control on his desk, he turned up the volume on his flat-screen TV. He pulled on the sides of his M&Ms bag to open it, then shook a couple of the colored candies directly into his mouth.
The chipper music on the television changed to a lower, more staccato tune, and Oprah’s designer set was replaced by an image of the station’s talking-heads duo sitting behind a desk. As seemed to be the case at least twice a week in New York, the top story was a fire, this time at a home in Long Island. Cause? Most likely an electrical problem, although police were investigating reported connections between the homeowner and the Mafia. The flames made good film from the helicopter hovering above. More at eleven.
Up in the Boogie Down Bronx, police exchanged bullets with a car full of teenagers outside the Morris housing projects in a late-night shootout. One suspect was in custody, and police continued the search for four more.
Only two stories, then straight to commercials. A freckle-faced imp fed his oatmeal to the family DV D machine; it was time for a visit to the appliance store. He flipped to another network. A dog rubbed his backside on the carpet; time to buy rug cleaner. Flip. A smiling brunette trying to convince him he needed pore-cleansing facial strips.
Back to AB C.
One more advertisement—another canine, this time selling him on light beer—and then the talking heads returned. The attractive Latina woman on the right side of the screen broke the story:
It was supposed to be the spring break of a lifetime, the trip that a young midwestern woman would always remember. But after the body of an Indiana college student was found early this morning in Manhattan’s East River Park, the police are now searching for her killer.
Sources tell WABC that the victim is nineteen-year-old Chelsea Hart, a freshman at Indiana University in Bloomington. She was visiting New York City this week for spring break. Friends who accompanied Hart to a nightclub last night in the Meatpacking District say they tried to persuade her to leave earlier in the evening, but Hart chose to stay behind for one last drink. That decision proved deadly.
The frame cut to the face of a young woman with cropped black hair. The bottom of the television screen read, “Jordan McLaughlin, friend of victim.” A reporter held a W AB C microphone
But he made a point of being pleasant, even to his most disgusting coworkers.
“Hey, Gail.”
Gail glanced up from her fashion magazine, grunted a hello, and removed her second Twix bar from the wrapper. The idea of a woman like Gail using her break to focus on fashion and beauty tips struck him as pathetic. Here’s a tip on self-improvement: Walk around the block and stop eating candy bars.
The man fed a dollar into one of two side-by-side vending machines. It took three attempts before the machine registered his credit. He pushed the buttons B and 3 and watched the black metal spiral spin on the second row of the machine, releasing a bag of peanut M&Ms. He retrieved the candy and his quarter of change from the machine.
On the muted television that hung on the wall next to the vending machine, the credits were rolling on The Oprah Winfrey Show . The man watched as Oprah peacocked across the set of her talk show in a red turtleneck and black pants, alternately pointing at the guests in their comfortable chairs and pumping her flattened palms robustly above her head. He could imagine her voice, imploring her audience to “give it up” for the earnest speakers.
“I just love her,” Gail said.
“Doesn’t everyone?” the man said in agreement.
He made his way back to his office and sat in his black leather desk chair. Using the remote control on his desk, he turned up the volume on his flat-screen TV. He pulled on the sides of his M&Ms bag to open it, then shook a couple of the colored candies directly into his mouth.
The chipper music on the television changed to a lower, more staccato tune, and Oprah’s designer set was replaced by an image of the station’s talking-heads duo sitting behind a desk. As seemed to be the case at least twice a week in New York, the top story was a fire, this time at a home in Long Island. Cause? Most likely an electrical problem, although police were investigating reported connections between the homeowner and the Mafia. The flames made good film from the helicopter hovering above. More at eleven.
Up in the Boogie Down Bronx, police exchanged bullets with a car full of teenagers outside the Morris housing projects in a late-night shootout. One suspect was in custody, and police continued the search for four more.
Only two stories, then straight to commercials. A freckle-faced imp fed his oatmeal to the family DV D machine; it was time for a visit to the appliance store. He flipped to another network. A dog rubbed his backside on the carpet; time to buy rug cleaner. Flip. A smiling brunette trying to convince him he needed pore-cleansing facial strips.
Back to AB C.
One more advertisement—another canine, this time selling him on light beer—and then the talking heads returned. The attractive Latina woman on the right side of the screen broke the story:
It was supposed to be the spring break of a lifetime, the trip that a young midwestern woman would always remember. But after the body of an Indiana college student was found early this morning in Manhattan’s East River Park, the police are now searching for her killer.
Sources tell WABC that the victim is nineteen-year-old Chelsea Hart, a freshman at Indiana University in Bloomington. She was visiting New York City this week for spring break. Friends who accompanied Hart to a nightclub last night in the Meatpacking District say they tried to persuade her to leave earlier in the evening, but Hart chose to stay behind for one last drink. That decision proved deadly.
The frame cut to the face of a young woman with cropped black hair. The bottom of the television screen read, “Jordan McLaughlin, friend of victim.” A reporter held a W AB C microphone
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