justice and the reporter who sought truth struggled to establish who and which was more important.
Somewhat surprisingly, Todd was only just coming to the realization that the world didn't spin according to him. For so long he'd fought his sexuality, did everything he could to deny it, to prove he wasn't a fag and therefore a despicable deviant, an incompetent ninny unworthy of love, a fairy who couldn't do anything but swish about. Ever since he could remember, he battled all this self-hatred by becoming the best goddamn investigative reporter there was, fighting to prove his worth to others as if his life depended on it, which he believed it had, and going at it so obsessively that he now had trouble stepping back. To further complicate things, Todd had learned by example—that of his father, the Polish immigrant, who demanded support and nurturing but never returned it to his partner, his unwavering wife, Todd's mother. Yes, rightly or wrongly, Todd had adopted this most “guy” of characteristics, following in his father's footsteps, always taking more than giving. And never had Todd been so fully and absolutely challenged as he had been not only by Rawlins but, in particular, by Rawlins's health status. Which meant that for the first time in his life Todd found himself in the position of wanting to give more than get.
Todd heard steps behind him and quickly turned, hoping more than anything that it was him, Rawlins. It took but a mere second for Todd to fantasize Rawlins rushing out, the two of them embracing, Todd pulling the shorter but thicker and stronger man into his arms. Instead of the chance to take this all back to square one, however, Todd saw not Rawlins but some other man, a tall skinny guy with a cigarette perched between his lips, hurrying down the sidewalk.
So what should Todd do?
Go back, he told himself. He should just return to the restaurant, apologize. Tell Rawlins how much he loved him, that this was a blip, nothing more. That Todd was just trying to do his job. That he'd do just as Rawlins wanted, whatever that might be. That …
He took a step back toward Bobino's, at the same instant glancing at his watch.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, stopping just as quickly.
He had a job to do, and all of this was, first and foremost, about work. And if, in light of the mysterious call from the killer, Todd was now going to change what he was going to say on the 10:00 P.M. news, if he was going to come at this thing from a different angle, then he'd better hightail it out to WLAK right this second. Time was of the essence. Absolutely, he thought, turning around and again heading for his vehicle.
After all, later on there'd be plenty of time to sort through all this with Rawlins, right?
Everyone at WLAK received the news of the threat against Todd as if it were the best of Christmas presents.
“This is too great,” exclaimed Craig, the late-news producer, a young guy with light hair, big glasses, and a permanent smile affixed to his face, as he paced back and forth in Todd's small office. “I mean, not only are you and WLAK in all the newspapers, but now you're part of the story. This is so cool!”
“Glad you think so,” Todd muttered, seated in front of his computer and seeing the perversity of all this more clearly than ever.
“I mean, the killer really called you?”
“Scout's honor.”
“This is just going to keep the whole thing right on the front burner. The viewers are going to love this. I mean, you're a potential victim, you realize that, don't you, Todd?”
“Yes, thank you very much.” Todd was reluctant to add, “There's one more thing—Mark Forrest was gay.”
It was like throwing gas on an open fire, and Craig said, “Oh, this is so unbelievably hot! This is so perfect! Man, oh, man, what a story!”
Todd's journalistic instincts—which ran so completely opposite to Rawlins's procedures—were precisely the ones Craig wanted to go with. And for good reasons.
Somewhat surprisingly, Todd was only just coming to the realization that the world didn't spin according to him. For so long he'd fought his sexuality, did everything he could to deny it, to prove he wasn't a fag and therefore a despicable deviant, an incompetent ninny unworthy of love, a fairy who couldn't do anything but swish about. Ever since he could remember, he battled all this self-hatred by becoming the best goddamn investigative reporter there was, fighting to prove his worth to others as if his life depended on it, which he believed it had, and going at it so obsessively that he now had trouble stepping back. To further complicate things, Todd had learned by example—that of his father, the Polish immigrant, who demanded support and nurturing but never returned it to his partner, his unwavering wife, Todd's mother. Yes, rightly or wrongly, Todd had adopted this most “guy” of characteristics, following in his father's footsteps, always taking more than giving. And never had Todd been so fully and absolutely challenged as he had been not only by Rawlins but, in particular, by Rawlins's health status. Which meant that for the first time in his life Todd found himself in the position of wanting to give more than get.
Todd heard steps behind him and quickly turned, hoping more than anything that it was him, Rawlins. It took but a mere second for Todd to fantasize Rawlins rushing out, the two of them embracing, Todd pulling the shorter but thicker and stronger man into his arms. Instead of the chance to take this all back to square one, however, Todd saw not Rawlins but some other man, a tall skinny guy with a cigarette perched between his lips, hurrying down the sidewalk.
So what should Todd do?
Go back, he told himself. He should just return to the restaurant, apologize. Tell Rawlins how much he loved him, that this was a blip, nothing more. That Todd was just trying to do his job. That he'd do just as Rawlins wanted, whatever that might be. That …
He took a step back toward Bobino's, at the same instant glancing at his watch.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, stopping just as quickly.
He had a job to do, and all of this was, first and foremost, about work. And if, in light of the mysterious call from the killer, Todd was now going to change what he was going to say on the 10:00 P.M. news, if he was going to come at this thing from a different angle, then he'd better hightail it out to WLAK right this second. Time was of the essence. Absolutely, he thought, turning around and again heading for his vehicle.
After all, later on there'd be plenty of time to sort through all this with Rawlins, right?
Everyone at WLAK received the news of the threat against Todd as if it were the best of Christmas presents.
“This is too great,” exclaimed Craig, the late-news producer, a young guy with light hair, big glasses, and a permanent smile affixed to his face, as he paced back and forth in Todd's small office. “I mean, not only are you and WLAK in all the newspapers, but now you're part of the story. This is so cool!”
“Glad you think so,” Todd muttered, seated in front of his computer and seeing the perversity of all this more clearly than ever.
“I mean, the killer really called you?”
“Scout's honor.”
“This is just going to keep the whole thing right on the front burner. The viewers are going to love this. I mean, you're a potential victim, you realize that, don't you, Todd?”
“Yes, thank you very much.” Todd was reluctant to add, “There's one more thing—Mark Forrest was gay.”
It was like throwing gas on an open fire, and Craig said, “Oh, this is so unbelievably hot! This is so perfect! Man, oh, man, what a story!”
Todd's journalistic instincts—which ran so completely opposite to Rawlins's procedures—were precisely the ones Craig wanted to go with. And for good reasons.
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