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Consequences
Apr. 1st, 2016 08:23 amLJ Idol, Week 16
Topics: A blanket that leaves your feet cold
“When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it."
“Truth like – like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.”
Todd Anderson, from Dead Poets Society.
As a newspaper writer, Michael L. Simmons fell short of the mark. Sure, he had ink for blood, a dedication to his craft, and the ability to turn out crisp, exciting articles overnight. Unfortunately, as his career had progressed, his commitment to the truth had become a little lax.
Mike blamed the alcohol. His nightly two fingers of Scotch had become “one more won’t hurt” and had slowly progressed to “where’s that other bottle?” But a certain amount of booze was just part of the job – it helped lubricate his writing, and he could still type without too many mistakes. As long as he had kept churning out those hard-hitting exposés of corruption, power and greed, his editors hadn’t cared. Newspapers were not for choirboys.
But really, the problem wasn’t the drinking, it was simply laziness combined with his relaxed dedication to the truth. Mike used to tell himself that he had spent too much time staring into the abyss, until the abyss finally won. It sounded romantic and he could console himself with it while deep into another bottle of scotch—no longer the good kind. Mike had long since gone from drinking single malt to the bottom shelf.
Mike had started his career near the top, with the Daily Ledger, and a job at the prestigious Daily Journal was in sight, but Mike had been his own undoing. His sloppy work had caused more and more retractions and corrections over the years, until he had finally been shown the sidewalk.
Mike had bounced from paper to paper, from the Tribune to the Examiner, until finally not even the Weekly Times would have him, and he had become a “freelance” reporter. Mike had gone from “Senator Buys Election” to “Mayor’s Love Nest,” and finally to lost pets and obits. Now, he was lucky if he could sell a puff piece on the best pizza joint in town.
Mike bottomed out when he quit caring about the truth at all. He let his imagination loose and started selling to the National Inquirer, which managed to rank below its closely spelled namesake. Truth was optional, accuracy was dead, and only the sensational was fit to print. The Inquirer was Mike’s kind of rag.
“Illuminati Hiding Area 51 Aliens?” screamed the headline. “Dogboy Expelled For Biting Principal?” “Malaysian Flight 370 Crashed on Gilligan’s Island?” “Elvis Had Love Child With Marilyn Monroe?” “Putin Poses Nude for GQ?” Mike even wrote tactful advice on romance: “Why Can’t Hot Women Resist Clown Noses?”
The question mark was his friend. “They can’t sue you for asking a question,” said the Inquirer’s attorney. “You’re not claiming it’s a fact.”
Yesterday’s article needed no question mark, but there it was: “Are Bedroom Monsters Real, Asks Scientist?” It was complete with a fuzzy picture and an interview with Dr. Rupert Doozystein, noted cryptobiologist at the Stanford Institute for the Dubious.
On and on the stories went. No claim was too outrageous, no fact was ever checked, and Mike made them all up from the comfort of his local bar. “Who cares about truth,” his editor and drinking buddy had said. “Entertainment sells newspapers, not the truth. It’s too boring.”
It was the perfect job.
“Life cannot be lived without consequences,” his first editor had told him, and one day one of those consequences walked into the bar.
He was about three feet tall, dark haired, and 6 or 7 years old. After climbing onto the neighboring bar stool, he asked “Did you write this story?” The boy was holding out Mike’s bedroom monster article.
Better keep this short, Mike thought. “Sure. That’s one of mine.” How the hell did this kid find me?
“My name’s Stevie. I have to talk to Dr. Doozystein, and I can’t find him.”
“Well, Stevie, there’s a question mark after ‘scientist.’ That means it’s a question. I didn’t say it was true,” said Mike, feeding the boy the standard line.
“You mean he’s not real – it’s another lie?”
Mike felt sorry for Stevie, who looked sad and confused. Too young to know better, Mike thought, with a little pity.
“Well,” said the boy, “if you made it up, then you’re gonna have to help me.”
Mike wondered what Stevie meant. “I’m just a reporter, son – I only write these articles.”
“No, you’re just a liar.”
The accusation hung there for a few minutes. Not much I can say to that, thought Mike, as he gestured for another drink.
Mike felt what was left of the real reporter in him stir. “What kind of help do you need?” He almost winced after asking. Damn. Now I’ve done it.
Stevie looked Mike in the eye, and said “There’s a monster living in my bedroom, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Mike almost choked on his drink, but it would have been a waste of bad scotch.
“What do your mommy and daddy say?”
“It’ll go away when I grow up, but I want it to go away now, and they won’t help me. Mama read me your story so you have to help.”
Mike paused. He remembered what it was like to be a child, and have no one believe you – hell, no one believes me now -- besides, he had to make sure this kid got home safe.
“Where do you live, Stevie?”
“Across the street from the gas station.” This was just a few blocks away.
“I tell you what, why don’t I walk you home, and I’ll look into it.” Mike couldn’t believe he added the last part. Too much scotch, not enough sense.
Stevie lived on the second floor of a modest apartment building. The apartment was neat and clean, and Mike could tell that Stevie was well cared for. Everything looked cheap and second hand, but his parents were doing all right, which was more than Mike could say for himself.
“Where are your parents?” asked Mike.
“At work.”
“Who takes care of you during the day?”
“Mrs. Schmidt, next door, but she had to see a doctor today because she’s old, so I’m supposed to stay indoors ‘till she gets back.”
“What does Mrs. Schmidt say about the monster?”
“She says I’m lucky to have the company. But no one wants to come over and play ‘cause they’re afraid of him.”
Kid’s got a great imagination, thought Mike, but it's not doing him any favors.
“OK, Stevie – let’s go to your room and figure this out.”
It was easy to tell which room was Stevie's bedroom. The door was closed, with a sloppily printed sign reading “MONSTER INSIDE.”
Stevie’s bedroom was small, but it had the essentials. The bed was made, his toys were put away, and his schoolbooks were stacked on his desk. Stevie’s many stuffed animals were arranged into little families, with a rather ragged teddy bear on his pillow. The room looked recently cleaned.
There was not a monster in sight.
“Your room looks very neat and tidy,” said Mike.
“That’s the monster. He gets bored in here, so he cleans up.”
“OK, but where is he?” said Mike, looking under the bed.
“In the closet. He’s shy.”
“What’s his name?”
“He won’t tell me. Mrs. Schmidt calls him Cecil, ‘cause he’s hairy like her husband who died.”
“Look, Stevie, I need to see Cecil.” Now I’m playing into his delusions!
“OK, but don’t scream. Cecil hates that.”
Wonderful. A sensitive monster.
Stevie opened the closet door, and there stood Cecil, looking like a pint-sized Sasquatch. He was about four feet tall and covered in brown fur, with claws and fangs-- the whole monster package. The closet was as well-organized as the bedroom.
Mike quietly but quickly closed the door. He could hear growling inside. Never, ever will I help a kid again.
He quickly switched into Michael Simmons, ace reporter, who had just stumbled onto the story of a lifetime. This will put me back on top! I can name my own price!
His editors always told him to go for the human interest. This’ll be even better if I can help the kid, and get interviews and photographs, the works. Pulitzer Prize here I come!
Mike could hear a gentle zip-whirrr zip-whirrr sound coming from the closet.
“He likes to play with my yo-yo,” explained Stevie.
Great! A video of that’ll go viral in a day! Mike could barely contain his excitement. But first I need a happy ending, and I have an idea.
“Why is Cecil living here?”
“He was here when we moved in, and Daddy said we don’t have to pay as much to live here.”
“Stevie, are you sure you want to get rid of Cecil?”
“Yeah. My room’s too small and he snores and won’t leave my stuff alone.”
“OK, I have to talk to your parents and Mrs. Schmidt, but I think I can work something out.”
Mike discussed ideas with Mrs. Schmidt and Stevie’s parents for hours, working out compromises. In the end, everyone was happy, including Cecil (according to Stevie).
Cecil went to live with Mrs. Schmidt. She was lonely and had plenty of room, and Cecil could keep everything clean, just the way he wanted. Cecil could still visit Stevie and play with his toys, so Stevie wouldn’t miss him as much. Everyone was satisfied.
Mike had his happy ending, and now he just had to write the story. I need a little lubricant, he thought as he headed back to the bar and splurged on some of that single malt scotch. He barely touched it as he wrote the article – Cecil: The Story of A Real-Life Monster and the Boy Who Loved Him. It was the heartwarming tale of a determined little boy, his bedroom monster, and the crusading reporter who helped them.
The article had one flaw. Nobody would publish it.
His old editor at the Daily Ledger told Mike that they didn’t print fiction. The Tribune’s editor told Mike that they were still cleaning up the lawsuits from his old articles. It was the same wherever he went. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it hit you on the head” was common. The editor at the Weekly Times said they didn’t have enough space for the retractions the article would need.
The Inquirer was interested, but only if Mike stuck in a quote from Dr. Doozystein, made up a love angle, and put a question mark in the title.
This was the best, the truest piece Mike had ever written, and no one would take it. Another consequence, thought Mike, as he found himself at the bar again nursing drinks late into the night.
Mike’s attempted return to real journalism was brief, disastrous, and regrettably final. He had bills to pay and scotch to drink. The National Inquirer was still willing to pay him for his scurrilous stories, question marks and all, and in fact he did have a real talent for it. He went feet first into the path of least resistance once again.
Mike thought about Stevie and Cecil from time to time, but he never walked those few blocks for a visit. That had been a special day for him, as a reporter and a man, and he wanted to keep it that way, an episode that closed with the perfect ending.
Things were almost certainly fine, but if they weren't, he didn't want to know.
For that story, the version of the truth he had last witnessed was the only one that deserved to be real.
* * * * * *
I am grateful to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halfshellvenus for beta reading this story.
Topics: A blanket that leaves your feet cold
“When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it."
“Truth like – like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.”
Todd Anderson, from Dead Poets Society.
CONSEQUENCES
As a newspaper writer, Michael L. Simmons fell short of the mark. Sure, he had ink for blood, a dedication to his craft, and the ability to turn out crisp, exciting articles overnight. Unfortunately, as his career had progressed, his commitment to the truth had become a little lax.
Mike blamed the alcohol. His nightly two fingers of Scotch had become “one more won’t hurt” and had slowly progressed to “where’s that other bottle?” But a certain amount of booze was just part of the job – it helped lubricate his writing, and he could still type without too many mistakes. As long as he had kept churning out those hard-hitting exposés of corruption, power and greed, his editors hadn’t cared. Newspapers were not for choirboys.
But really, the problem wasn’t the drinking, it was simply laziness combined with his relaxed dedication to the truth. Mike used to tell himself that he had spent too much time staring into the abyss, until the abyss finally won. It sounded romantic and he could console himself with it while deep into another bottle of scotch—no longer the good kind. Mike had long since gone from drinking single malt to the bottom shelf.
Mike had started his career near the top, with the Daily Ledger, and a job at the prestigious Daily Journal was in sight, but Mike had been his own undoing. His sloppy work had caused more and more retractions and corrections over the years, until he had finally been shown the sidewalk.
Mike had bounced from paper to paper, from the Tribune to the Examiner, until finally not even the Weekly Times would have him, and he had become a “freelance” reporter. Mike had gone from “Senator Buys Election” to “Mayor’s Love Nest,” and finally to lost pets and obits. Now, he was lucky if he could sell a puff piece on the best pizza joint in town.
Mike bottomed out when he quit caring about the truth at all. He let his imagination loose and started selling to the National Inquirer, which managed to rank below its closely spelled namesake. Truth was optional, accuracy was dead, and only the sensational was fit to print. The Inquirer was Mike’s kind of rag.
“Illuminati Hiding Area 51 Aliens?” screamed the headline. “Dogboy Expelled For Biting Principal?” “Malaysian Flight 370 Crashed on Gilligan’s Island?” “Elvis Had Love Child With Marilyn Monroe?” “Putin Poses Nude for GQ?” Mike even wrote tactful advice on romance: “Why Can’t Hot Women Resist Clown Noses?”
The question mark was his friend. “They can’t sue you for asking a question,” said the Inquirer’s attorney. “You’re not claiming it’s a fact.”
Yesterday’s article needed no question mark, but there it was: “Are Bedroom Monsters Real, Asks Scientist?” It was complete with a fuzzy picture and an interview with Dr. Rupert Doozystein, noted cryptobiologist at the Stanford Institute for the Dubious.
On and on the stories went. No claim was too outrageous, no fact was ever checked, and Mike made them all up from the comfort of his local bar. “Who cares about truth,” his editor and drinking buddy had said. “Entertainment sells newspapers, not the truth. It’s too boring.”
It was the perfect job.
“Life cannot be lived without consequences,” his first editor had told him, and one day one of those consequences walked into the bar.
He was about three feet tall, dark haired, and 6 or 7 years old. After climbing onto the neighboring bar stool, he asked “Did you write this story?” The boy was holding out Mike’s bedroom monster article.
Better keep this short, Mike thought. “Sure. That’s one of mine.” How the hell did this kid find me?
“My name’s Stevie. I have to talk to Dr. Doozystein, and I can’t find him.”
“Well, Stevie, there’s a question mark after ‘scientist.’ That means it’s a question. I didn’t say it was true,” said Mike, feeding the boy the standard line.
“You mean he’s not real – it’s another lie?”
Mike felt sorry for Stevie, who looked sad and confused. Too young to know better, Mike thought, with a little pity.
“Well,” said the boy, “if you made it up, then you’re gonna have to help me.”
Mike wondered what Stevie meant. “I’m just a reporter, son – I only write these articles.”
“No, you’re just a liar.”
The accusation hung there for a few minutes. Not much I can say to that, thought Mike, as he gestured for another drink.
Mike felt what was left of the real reporter in him stir. “What kind of help do you need?” He almost winced after asking. Damn. Now I’ve done it.
Stevie looked Mike in the eye, and said “There’s a monster living in my bedroom, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Mike almost choked on his drink, but it would have been a waste of bad scotch.
“What do your mommy and daddy say?”
“It’ll go away when I grow up, but I want it to go away now, and they won’t help me. Mama read me your story so you have to help.”
Mike paused. He remembered what it was like to be a child, and have no one believe you – hell, no one believes me now -- besides, he had to make sure this kid got home safe.
“Where do you live, Stevie?”
“Across the street from the gas station.” This was just a few blocks away.
“I tell you what, why don’t I walk you home, and I’ll look into it.” Mike couldn’t believe he added the last part. Too much scotch, not enough sense.
Stevie lived on the second floor of a modest apartment building. The apartment was neat and clean, and Mike could tell that Stevie was well cared for. Everything looked cheap and second hand, but his parents were doing all right, which was more than Mike could say for himself.
“Where are your parents?” asked Mike.
“At work.”
“Who takes care of you during the day?”
“Mrs. Schmidt, next door, but she had to see a doctor today because she’s old, so I’m supposed to stay indoors ‘till she gets back.”
“What does Mrs. Schmidt say about the monster?”
“She says I’m lucky to have the company. But no one wants to come over and play ‘cause they’re afraid of him.”
Kid’s got a great imagination, thought Mike, but it's not doing him any favors.
“OK, Stevie – let’s go to your room and figure this out.”
It was easy to tell which room was Stevie's bedroom. The door was closed, with a sloppily printed sign reading “MONSTER INSIDE.”
Stevie’s bedroom was small, but it had the essentials. The bed was made, his toys were put away, and his schoolbooks were stacked on his desk. Stevie’s many stuffed animals were arranged into little families, with a rather ragged teddy bear on his pillow. The room looked recently cleaned.
There was not a monster in sight.
“Your room looks very neat and tidy,” said Mike.
“That’s the monster. He gets bored in here, so he cleans up.”
“OK, but where is he?” said Mike, looking under the bed.
“In the closet. He’s shy.”
“What’s his name?”
“He won’t tell me. Mrs. Schmidt calls him Cecil, ‘cause he’s hairy like her husband who died.”
“Look, Stevie, I need to see Cecil.” Now I’m playing into his delusions!
“OK, but don’t scream. Cecil hates that.”
Wonderful. A sensitive monster.
Stevie opened the closet door, and there stood Cecil, looking like a pint-sized Sasquatch. He was about four feet tall and covered in brown fur, with claws and fangs-- the whole monster package. The closet was as well-organized as the bedroom.
Mike quietly but quickly closed the door. He could hear growling inside. Never, ever will I help a kid again.
He quickly switched into Michael Simmons, ace reporter, who had just stumbled onto the story of a lifetime. This will put me back on top! I can name my own price!
His editors always told him to go for the human interest. This’ll be even better if I can help the kid, and get interviews and photographs, the works. Pulitzer Prize here I come!
Mike could hear a gentle zip-whirrr zip-whirrr sound coming from the closet.
“He likes to play with my yo-yo,” explained Stevie.
Great! A video of that’ll go viral in a day! Mike could barely contain his excitement. But first I need a happy ending, and I have an idea.
“Why is Cecil living here?”
“He was here when we moved in, and Daddy said we don’t have to pay as much to live here.”
“Stevie, are you sure you want to get rid of Cecil?”
“Yeah. My room’s too small and he snores and won’t leave my stuff alone.”
“OK, I have to talk to your parents and Mrs. Schmidt, but I think I can work something out.”
Mike discussed ideas with Mrs. Schmidt and Stevie’s parents for hours, working out compromises. In the end, everyone was happy, including Cecil (according to Stevie).
Cecil went to live with Mrs. Schmidt. She was lonely and had plenty of room, and Cecil could keep everything clean, just the way he wanted. Cecil could still visit Stevie and play with his toys, so Stevie wouldn’t miss him as much. Everyone was satisfied.
Mike had his happy ending, and now he just had to write the story. I need a little lubricant, he thought as he headed back to the bar and splurged on some of that single malt scotch. He barely touched it as he wrote the article – Cecil: The Story of A Real-Life Monster and the Boy Who Loved Him. It was the heartwarming tale of a determined little boy, his bedroom monster, and the crusading reporter who helped them.
The article had one flaw. Nobody would publish it.
His old editor at the Daily Ledger told Mike that they didn’t print fiction. The Tribune’s editor told Mike that they were still cleaning up the lawsuits from his old articles. It was the same wherever he went. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it hit you on the head” was common. The editor at the Weekly Times said they didn’t have enough space for the retractions the article would need.
The Inquirer was interested, but only if Mike stuck in a quote from Dr. Doozystein, made up a love angle, and put a question mark in the title.
This was the best, the truest piece Mike had ever written, and no one would take it. Another consequence, thought Mike, as he found himself at the bar again nursing drinks late into the night.
Mike’s attempted return to real journalism was brief, disastrous, and regrettably final. He had bills to pay and scotch to drink. The National Inquirer was still willing to pay him for his scurrilous stories, question marks and all, and in fact he did have a real talent for it. He went feet first into the path of least resistance once again.
Mike thought about Stevie and Cecil from time to time, but he never walked those few blocks for a visit. That had been a special day for him, as a reporter and a man, and he wanted to keep it that way, an episode that closed with the perfect ending.
Things were almost certainly fine, but if they weren't, he didn't want to know.
For that story, the version of the truth he had last witnessed was the only one that deserved to be real.
* * * * * *
I am grateful to
halfshellvenus for beta reading this story.
