The Chosen

Thursday as in the day we send The Weekender to fucking press.” He thrust up his stout forearm—for a second, Paul thought he was going to hit him—and pointed to the date squares on his watch. thurs it displayed.

“And who the hell do you think you are hanging up on my men?” Tate continued with his wrath. “And hanging up on me? Let me tell you something, wonder-boy. No writer, and I mean no fucking writer in this city hangs up on me!”

“I didn’t…” Paul faltered. Had he? Suddenly he recalled distant bells, distant voices. But they were part of the nightmare. They had to be. “I…hung up on you?”

“You’re goddamn right you hung up on me! What the fuck’s wrong with you, Kirby? You on drugs? You lose half your orbital lobe the last time you took a shit?”

Paul could only look back in unblinking turmoil. Blurred images began to sift through his memory, pieces of colors, slabs of sounds, and distantly unpleasant sensations. For one frightened second, he didn’t even feel real.

“I—I’ve been sick, I guess,” he stumbled. “The flu or something.” His memory struggled to disbirth the rest, but nothing came. He fitted together the few facts he had on hand. I’m a metropolitan journalist. The very pissed off man standing in front of me is the editor in chief of the biggest paper in the city. I owe him a story, and the story was due over five hours ago. And I don’t have it.

“I don’t have it,” Paul said.

“I didn’t think so,” Tate replied. At once his voice tremored down, the prickling rage supplanted by low disgust. “I should’ve known you were a fuck up, Kirby. You’re out. You’re never getting published in my paper again. Period. And that advance I gave you? I want it back. If you don’t give it back, I will sue you, and if I have to go to the trouble of suing you, hear this. I will devote my life to seeing that you never get published, anywhere, ever again.”

Paul felt ablaze in shame. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Worst part was, he had no idea how any of it had come about. What’s wrong with me? he pleaded with himself. I don’t even know what day it is.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. “I’ll give you back your check. Give me a couple of hours, I’ll have the piece for you. I’ll even write the rest of the series for free. Give me a chance to make it up to you.”

Tate’s expression turned astonished. “I was born at night, Kirby, but not last night. What do you think I am, a fucking idiot? You think I’m stupid. I used to like you, you know that? I used to think you were one squared-away kick-ass journalist. But all I gotta do is take one look at you now to know what you really are. You’re a fuckin’ cokehead, Kirby, and if you ask me, there’s nothing more disgusting in the fucking world. Drugs are for losers, Kirby, for assholes who don’t give a shit about anything but their own cheap thrills. Don’t you realize that the people you buy that shit from are the same evil motherfuckers who hook nine-year-olds on crack? Don’t you understand that every single penny you give them only makes them stronger? You’ve let yourself become part of the same machine that’s tearing this country up. Your talent, your career, all the great things you could’ve been you’ve thrown out the fucking window, and for what? For cheap thrills. And why? Because you don’t give enough of a shit about yourself or anyone else to be strong enough to live right. So go on and feed your head, Kirby. I could care less. You make me sick.”

Tate’s entire monolog left Paul standing rigid as a granite statue. What was he talking about? Paul had never used drugs in his life. “I’m not a cokehead,” he eventually said, after the shock wore off. “I’ve never even used it once, and—”

“Don’t hand me a load of shit,” Tate cut him off. “You’re making an ass of yourself. Take a good look in the mirror, sport. You say you got the flu? Don’t insult me. You’re sweating, and your eyes are all fucked up. You’re