Done is done
Die's cast, and all that crap. The column hit the newsstands, and then the shit hit the fan.
My new agents (signed the contract Monday, and thank God for the timing!) are keeping track of the number of marriage proposals vs. death threats they're receiving. As of an hour ago, the ratio is holding steady at 1:2, but it almost evens out if you look only at the out-of-state letters. Truly, we live in an open-minded, open-hearted nation. Joyce, Yarrow's assistant, suggested in the last update that I wear something nice and frilly for tonight's appearance - we might be able to tip the ratio towards proposals by tomorrow!
I shouldn't be making light of the situation. Not sure what else I could be doing, though. Might as well?
He looked so tired, but not at all bowed ("not nearly bowed!" as I wrote last night - my inner purple-prose freak is really getting a workout these days) in the basement. That same basement. And Nathan and Tom let me see it. Let me see him. I'm tied to them now, if anyone tells. If Dr. Grey tells.
If his daughter gets it out of his mind. Oh, God. She could show up on my doorstep and . . .
Yarrow is getting me security detail. A bodyguard for public appearances, just in case. It was all I could do not to giggle hysterically and point down at the street where Nathan was waiting in the car outside the office. "Beat ya to it! Isn't that Tom such an organizational genius?"
Who is he? I need to find out. Am I allowed to do my job on him? He can't expect me not to. He must have a job. He can't be terroristing all day, every day of the week. Who would know? If I were closer to Nathan, maybe - but I'm close enough to my Friendly keeper, aren't I? My minder, my watcher, my babysitter. My late-night-poker-and-donuts partner. Has a kid down in Trenton. Matthew. Matty. Big blue eyes, gap-toothed grin. Bats right, throws left. Gonna be Roger Clemens and Ken Griffey combined when he grows up.
I shouldn't know this shit! And not know anything about his boss except his fucking name!
Maybe I can ask the cops. Rossi.
Rossi is going to kill me for the column. Well, if Beston leaves his partner anything to chew on when he's done. I can see that hangdog disappointment on his face already. It reminds me of Dad's.
I'm not even going to think about my family right now.
Maybe I could've said more about the memorial service. I said plenty in the interviews afterwards, though (all my old friends and co-workers, calling me up, begging for a quote - now they want to know me? Vultures, goddamned hyenas). About the younger Dr. Grey's activism, too, such as I'd shied away from putting in the column itself. (If she does show up at my door . . . oh, God, oh, God.) I'm sure Larry will ask for more tonight. Bet he'd like to get us both on the air at the same time. Debate! Catfight! It would sell. No doubt someone out there is already working on the idea. It would sell great, and isn't that what America's all about?
I have my notes for tonight. I have the suit I'll wear in the studio. I'm running through the likely questions and my responses in my head whenever I have a quiet minute. I'll be fine. Done this for years. Not at this level, sure, nor to this degree, but it's all a matter of degree, right? Everything is. Just nudging a little further out there, is all. Just putting food on the table. Just getting the word out. Fighting the good fight. Sure.
Sure.
My new agents (signed the contract Monday, and thank God for the timing!) are keeping track of the number of marriage proposals vs. death threats they're receiving. As of an hour ago, the ratio is holding steady at 1:2, but it almost evens out if you look only at the out-of-state letters. Truly, we live in an open-minded, open-hearted nation. Joyce, Yarrow's assistant, suggested in the last update that I wear something nice and frilly for tonight's appearance - we might be able to tip the ratio towards proposals by tomorrow!
I shouldn't be making light of the situation. Not sure what else I could be doing, though. Might as well?
He looked so tired, but not at all bowed ("not nearly bowed!" as I wrote last night - my inner purple-prose freak is really getting a workout these days) in the basement. That same basement. And Nathan and Tom let me see it. Let me see him. I'm tied to them now, if anyone tells. If Dr. Grey tells.
If his daughter gets it out of his mind. Oh, God. She could show up on my doorstep and . . .
Yarrow is getting me security detail. A bodyguard for public appearances, just in case. It was all I could do not to giggle hysterically and point down at the street where Nathan was waiting in the car outside the office. "Beat ya to it! Isn't that Tom such an organizational genius?"
Who is he? I need to find out. Am I allowed to do my job on him? He can't expect me not to. He must have a job. He can't be terroristing all day, every day of the week. Who would know? If I were closer to Nathan, maybe - but I'm close enough to my Friendly keeper, aren't I? My minder, my watcher, my babysitter. My late-night-poker-and-donuts partner. Has a kid down in Trenton. Matthew. Matty. Big blue eyes, gap-toothed grin. Bats right, throws left. Gonna be Roger Clemens and Ken Griffey combined when he grows up.
I shouldn't know this shit! And not know anything about his boss except his fucking name!
Maybe I can ask the cops. Rossi.
Rossi is going to kill me for the column. Well, if Beston leaves his partner anything to chew on when he's done. I can see that hangdog disappointment on his face already. It reminds me of Dad's.
I'm not even going to think about my family right now.
Maybe I could've said more about the memorial service. I said plenty in the interviews afterwards, though (all my old friends and co-workers, calling me up, begging for a quote - now they want to know me? Vultures, goddamned hyenas). About the younger Dr. Grey's activism, too, such as I'd shied away from putting in the column itself. (If she does show up at my door . . . oh, God, oh, God.) I'm sure Larry will ask for more tonight. Bet he'd like to get us both on the air at the same time. Debate! Catfight! It would sell. No doubt someone out there is already working on the idea. It would sell great, and isn't that what America's all about?
I have my notes for tonight. I have the suit I'll wear in the studio. I'm running through the likely questions and my responses in my head whenever I have a quiet minute. I'll be fine. Done this for years. Not at this level, sure, nor to this degree, but it's all a matter of degree, right? Everything is. Just nudging a little further out there, is all. Just putting food on the table. Just getting the word out. Fighting the good fight. Sure.
Sure.