It's been a very odd day for you. It started with a broken alarm clock, and an interview you were an hour late for, you didn't get the job, obviously. And now the day is ending with a dinner and a sunset. Specifically, a sunset through a 50 foot long window, with a balcony outside it, and a dinner that probably cost more than your rent. And that's not including the wine. You're 25 floors up, in New York, and the restaurant is totally abandoned. Fine crystal glasses are set out, pure white tablecloths, freshly shined silverware, salad forks for god's sakes. It's eerie with nobody here, the place should be packed with new money, starlets, and those "self made" people you always fucking hated. You shiver. And wait. You don't touch the food yet.
It's almost twenty minutes before he strolls into the room. "Yo." It hits a nerve, that little word. It's so, so wrong. Him, in his sharply cut suit, perfectly crisp tie, $500 haircut. Yo. Jesus Christ, that is so weird. "Alright, so the deal is..." He picks up a crystal glass of water, takes a sip. "You know, you can dig in anytime." You pick up your knife, and cut into a thick steak. "It's the 50's baby, we aren't rationing anymore. Anyway... The deal is that I need you in Havana." The knife scrapes the plate, the sudden pressure from your hand grinding it to a stop halfway through the steak. You open your mouth for the first time since entering the restaurant.
"What the fuck are you talking about." You say, eyeing him. He smiles at you.
"I want you in Havana, man. It's the hottest place in the world. That's what they say. I saw your war coverage. You blew the journalistic world completely fucking open."
"I'm out, Richard. You fucking know that."
"Come on, Thomas. Come the hell on. Five thousand in expenses. Five thousand! Twenty five hundred once you're done with it. Just go to Cuba for a few weeks, get us some pictures, write a story, and do what you did last time. You've got another few good stories in you, I know it. You thrive on this, I saw how bored you've been. You think that shit you've been writing is gonna keep you going? Trust me, man, they're only keeping you around because they hope you're gonna go big again. Quit your fucking shitty job, go freelance again, and have some fun. We did great things last time. We can do it again. What do you say?"
Why did he have to be right. God dammit. You went through hell in the war, but you loved every second of it. And you really did miss taking pictures. You sigh, hard. "Fine."
"Wonderful, here you go." He tosses an envelope on the table, and it makes a satisfying clunk. You reach for it, and rip it open. Good god that's a lot of cash. "You still got the camera?" You nod. "Great. Your tickets are in there, leaving tomorrow morning. Good luck man." He walks away from the table. You tear into your steak. What the fuck have you signed up for.
By midnight, you're back at your apartment. It was a risky trip, wine glass clutched in one hand, phone in the other quitting the 'shit job' as Richard put it. Careening down city streets, nearly hitting the crazy fuckers still out at this hour. You screech onto the curb, not particularly giving a shit about parking right now. Your blood is pumping, hard. You can't wait. You run inside, slamming your apartment door open, diving under your bed. A few seconds of rooting around reveals your Halliburton, you pop it open, and survey your camera. The old gal is in good condition, and a quick inspection shows you that it seems to be working. You close the case, and toss it on the bed. Next you grab your suitcases, toss some clothes in, and slam them shut. As a second thought, you grab your .38 snub, and roll it in a couple socks. Just in case. It's added to your suitcase, and you look around again. Nothing piques your interest so you grab both cases, run downstairs slamming your door on the way, and toss everything in the back of your car. Now what? You've got six or seven hours before you need to be at the airport, and while most reputable places aren't open right now, you can always find someone in New York that has what you need. So. What do you do?
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Topic: Journalism (Read 2028 times)