Page 72 of Cuts like a Knife
His chin gestured toward the makeshift set, where we can still see Maylee comforting Savannah. The guys with handheld cameras were ignoring them, busy capturing the apparently more interesting action happening around the other cooking stations.
“Looks like one contestant comforting another,” I finally said. “Newsworthy! I’m surprised you’re not taking notes.”
“That all237?”
“I never asked your name,” I said, deliberately changing the subject.
“That’s right, you didn’t,” he replied.
“Cute. So?
“It’s Charles Atlas.”
Damn238.
“I see you’re familiar with my work,” he added, obviously watching recognition dawn on my face.
“Why are you talking to me?” I said, finally. “Seriously, though. Like, me in particular? You already know I work for a nothing little publication. I’m a nobody. There’s nothing I can help you with. Nothing I can do for you. I don’t have any connections. So … what’s with the attention? I’m not into older guys if that’s your angle239.”
“Good grief. I’m old enough to be your grandfather, kid. I don’t mean to offend you, but I’m not remotely interested. Besides, I’m gay. And I’ve been married for more than thirty years. Since before we could call ourselves legally married. So relax. I thought you were familiar with my work.”
“Yeah, with your work, not your personal life.”
“Touché. So?”
“So?”
“So, what do you make of that? That whole thing.” Again, he gestured to the set. “Why’d the Canadian kid blow his top at Savannah? And what’s Maylee Wise’s deal? I know you saw her snuggling up to Danny at the bar last night. I noticed that too.”
“I thought you were watching TV in the restaurant.”
“That’s what I wanted you to think. You took some pictures, right? Mind sharing?”
Um. Yes. I do mind.
Instead of answering, I just shrug. If Grandpa wants to steal my ideas, he was going to have to do better than that.
Even at his age, with his pedigree and clips and profile — I can’t believe he’s still pulling the same crap they all do.
It took me a long time to figure out what most journalists were really life. Slime. At Flash, when I first started, I was deeply confused.
Kelsang was calling me Al, treating me like a buddy, but once I finally got the courage to start pitching him centre spread features, he also turned down every pitch I made that wasn’t mean or scathing. Every story about an NGO, every time I asked about interviewing activists or attending protests, Kel shut me down. He was nice about it, but … uninterested. He wanted something else from me. He wanted snark. He wanted jokes240.
A few months in, when I still had yet to be assigned a single feature, Kelsang called me into his office and pulled up Twitter, then turned the screen to me.
I was looking at my own feed. And specifically, my own viral tweet. The mean one. About the politician.
I cringed241.
That tweet had gotten me the job at Flash.
I was grateful, but at the same time, I didn’t understand what Kel was trying to say.
“This was amazing,” he explained.
“Amazingly mean,” I countered.
‘True, but Al, that’s what I want from you. Give me a little bit of that sharp tongue. That’s why I hired you. You know that. I explained that at the very beginning.”
