It’s been a cold winter. I’ve been trying to sort out the means of my anger the way this great country taught me how. So when they turned up the air conditioning inside the interrogation room to make my blood boil I just thought; Yall should know by the grins I’ve been given, that I was born cold blooded. Ohhh!! How I laughed. Sat there staring at that mirror smirkin’ at all that I done did, and how they  think a little air conditioning gone make me cringe. The door creaks open. When I look up a man walks in too insecure to fit his cheep pinstripe suit. Oh he’s just shakin’ in his boots. He can’t see I’m handcuffed to a table?

“BOO!” He don’t even flinch. Like he saw that comin.

“ Very funny Tom. Smoke?” He pulls out the dented package of Camel Backs from his inside jacket pocket. I take one.

“Light?” I lean my head forward as he strikes the match. Fire pleases me. It reminds me of good times.  

“Those are some interesting tattoos you got there Tom. Mind telling me what they mean?” I puff out a cloud of smoke into his face. I haven’t stopped making eye contact yet.

“Never met a man who was confused by a swastika before.” I say laughin.

“Mph, I guess that’s fair. So Tom,  mind telling me why you’re here?” I look him up and down quickly.

“You tell me. I didn’t cuff myself to this table.” He looks up from the manilla folder calm and smirking.

“So, you gonna tell me or not Tom? Cause I’ve got time. and we’ve got...”

“Let me guess. My DNA is everywhere and this isn’t my first offense they’ve caught me on. Save it. Cause I know you don’t. I’m not sloppy with what I do. And I know your lying, cause you’re tappin’ your foot faster than a winning horse in a race. You see Officer.....”

“O’neil”

“O’neil, good name. Irishman. Me too as a matter of fact. You know we came over here and built this country from the ground up just as much as those gorillaz did? But we still had our skin color cause this means power.” I point at my hand proudly for him to see. I laugh.

“ You see, It always saddens me how a good white man like you shakes in his seat when he sees someone like me. Cause we’re one in the same!! Just lookin’ for a good ride you know? To feel that true white power we’ve been blessed with since birth.”

“You might be right Tom. So Why do you feel like it’s your responsibility to take care of these “Vermin.”

“I see. huh. You want a story. Just like the rest of em. You see people don’t hate me. How could they I make a good find for a story. It entertains people when they can hate or love. But people love to hate, and you best believe people love me.”

“Then give me a story Tom. If you’re so loved and hated. Spit it out.” He looks at me with dead eyes, like my fathers.

“I hate the gaps that we live in. The fact that we have to share the same grounds with animals makes me sick to my stomach. How everything shifts and changes. I remember when we looked at vermin with sideways glances like they didn’t even belong on the bottom of our shoes. The first time my father told me about purpose of the nigger I had to grit my teeth, because I learned how broken we are as a people struggling to come out on top. Cause I’ve got a whole lot of memories that make me wanna challenge the ideals of what it means to be a white man again. When daddy came home too dirty to sit from the coal mines in little stockton, indiana.

“Daddy! Can we play catch outside?”

“No, kid. Daddy’s too tired.” He always said that. While mumblin’ his frustrations of porch monkeys who shared his benches and wages and “morals!” Even way of life. The only power he had was his skin. So he used it. Every time one of those things would walk bye. He never cared much for me. Only joy he ever got out of his time was making cocktail bombs to light niggers on fire he said. And even then, he never felt like he had enough whiskey to ease himself to sleep. Momma was always waltzing with the wind anyway. Never payed me no mind. So the first time I played tag along with daddy I was ten. And boy was I excited. When you’re younger you always wanna lift up that curtain to see where your parents go, when they say “grown up stuff”. So I asked him can I come, and he said.

“Why the hell not. No son of mine is gonna grow up to be a pussy anyway so you best get on up and learn what it means to be a man.” I still can’t stand the smell of Budweiser. The way it hangs on breath like bitterness. But that’s what Daddy was. Bitter. I knew though, he was a man. And I needed to learn how to hold my head up in front of one. So we rode out in his busted up white pick-up truck. Painted with the confederate flag on the back of it. The only thing he truly loved. He drove us into town and we stopped at uncle Pat’s bar. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. So when my dad walked in with his ten year old son no heads even turned. Not like now in these big cities yall have where everything is I.D’s and responsibility. We walked up to my uncle Pat wiping down the bar.

“How’s business?” Uncle Pat looks up at my dad and chuckles, like that was the dumbest question in the world. The bar was empty.

“Well this don’t help none.” When he pulled up his hand, I saw something that stuck with me for the rest of my life. His palm was covered with a black square kind of thing that was made by to separate lines that had curved with sharp edges inside of a white circle. Covered in another square that was red and bright. Like a flag.

“I told you, open hate is never no good for business. But you insisted. Always gotta be loud and proud Pat.” I hadn’t seen my dad laugh joyfully since I was five. He and Momma were dancing around the living room. It was christmas eve and I came down looking for santa.

“Hurts like a bitch too. Remind me never to get wasted with you ever again. Heyya Tommy.  Your Old man tells me you’re ready to play with the big boys now?” I always loved uncle Pat growing up. He was the only adult who had this warm feeling towards me. Like it was okay for me to be boy and not man for once.

“Yeah!! Daddy said it was time for me to learn how to be a man and I’m ready!”

“Well that’s good big guy. Cause tonight we’re meeting some friends and they know all about what it means to be a man. And it’s about time you meet them.” Uncle Pat climbed over the bar top and gave me one of his big rocket ship hugs, where he picks me up and throws me. After that he squeezes me until I can’t breathe.

“Put him down. He’s too old for that shit!” My dad hates when Uncle Pat treats me like a kid.

“Oh calm your fucking tits Lucas. The kid needs someone to love him every now and again.” I liked my dad’s name. I loved Star Wars as a kid, so I guess since his name was Luke like that Skywalker guy that maybe he could be the hero one day. He never was. Just gave me a lot of bruises and drank a lot of beer.

“Whatever, I don’t have time for pussies right now. Can we go? Have they started yet?” Uncle Pat put me down and stared at my dad for a long time before answering.

“Yeah we can go. They’ve started betting already too.”

“What round is Tommy up?”

“After Buchanico and Jackson.”

“Who’s he fighting?” Uncle Pat put on a smile that I had never seen him in before.

“ Eddie’s kid.”

“Ahhh!! yes!! that bastard has to watch while his kid gets fucking trashed. Teach him to mess with us again.”

There were only two Eddie’s in the whole town. One was Dad’s and Uncle Pat’s friend. He was fat and smelly. He didn’t have any kids. I don’t think he ever could give a woman his seed anyhow. The other one was Eddie Baxter. He owned the local Pharmacy. But his kid went to my school back then. His name was Lewis. The only nigger in our grade, so he never talked much. Still I didn’t know what they were talking about. When they started walking towards the back of the bar, there was this drop in my stomach.  I felt myself kind of weighing down trying to slow my steps. I was being a little bitch basically, is what was happening. So I gathered myself and stood up straight. Uncle Pat unclipped the keys that he always kept on his belt loop and opened this rusty steel green door, that you could only hear noise come out of when it was opened. When it was, there was this huge roaring noise of men's voices, and they were all proud. I recognised so many different faces. Friends dad’s, my teacher Mr. Shuels was there, even some of my friends who were with their dads. Like I said it’s a small town. They were all gathered around this cage that looked like a ring except there was no padding or anything it was just metal and concrete. There were no seats just men crowding behind each other screaming

“ Beat him! Beat the nigger!”

And the flag on Uncle Pats palm was hanging above the cage high. Proud. When we reached the front of the cage I saw these two boys, who were older than me. Luis Buchanico and Freddy Jackson. The men all around were waving bills in the air, no less than 20’s. Except for Freddy’s Dad in front of the cage. I have only ever seen a grown man cry twice in my life, and Freddie's Dad was the first time. His face was pressed up against the cage covered in his son's blood and these hysterical tears. Behind him Mr. Shuels was pushing his face against the cage and holding his hands behind his back. Uncle Pat was laughing hysterically.

“You see that Tommy? That’s what weakness looks like.” He wiped a tear from his face since he was laughing so hard. I remember thinking weak. Why didn’t he try to help his fucking son instead of crying like a little bitch while everyone laughed at him. But that’s what you get when you take cattle to slaughter. Freddy stopped getting back up after a while, watching him fall was surreal. His eyes didn’t match up anymore and he was looking at the ceiling and then boom he fell. This awkward exchange happened between the screaming of Freddy’s Dad there was just a wave of two different emotions. About a quarter of the bills floated out towards the center of the ring echoing with

“FUCK!” and

“Never Bet on NIGGERS”!

Others had a thrill in their voices. They were betting against who would win. You could always tell who lost. When they picked freddy off the ground I don’t remember if he was breathing. I remember his dad got lost in the crowd and was no longer being pushed up at the edge of the cage and Freddy had disappeared when I looked back up.

“Your turn kiddo.” I looked back, waiting for the voice of Uncle Pat but it wasn’t. It was my Dad. He hadn’t looked at me like that in a long time. Like he loved me. He held up a 100 dollar bill to my face and said:

“I’m betting on you.” Then something yanked my arm and I moved through the crowd of men quickly and found myself in the middle of the cage. There was this gigantic wave across the mens voices cheering. I felt tall. Like I was the strongest person in the world. Like a superhero. I then saw that cocksucker Eddie crash through the crowd and Mr. Shuels held him up against the cage just like he did with Freddy’s Dad. I looked at the concrete floor. It was bloody, but you could tell that this game was old by the stains on the concrete. Because they’re were the fresh ones from Freddy, and then others that had turned purple from being there for god knows how long. Uncle Pat Has Eddy’s kid by the neck and throws him into the ring. Eddy’s kid was a lot smaller than I was, He was fragile. Not like Freddy’s boy who was a football player and had a much bigger build. He was just skin and bone. they tore our shirts off and a bell rang. The men started screaming, this blood curdling scream from a crowd. And the little shit in front of me was shaking. He had fucking pissed his pants, and you could tell that he was holding back tears in his eyes.

“HIT THE LITTLE PORCH MONKEY!!”

“Yeah do it KIDDO!!”

“PUNCH HIM IN THE GUT!”

“KNOCK HIM OUT!”

I could hear my dad through all those voices, so I hit his face as hard as I could and he went tumbling down quicker than anything I’ve ever seen. He stood back up and his mouth was bleeding. And the entire side of his face was blown up like a balloon. He was barely standing, when I heard the voices again. So I clocked him in his face as hard as I could and I watched him go down screaming, and I kept hitting him over and over, And it felt good. You never know power until you watch someone worthless completely collapse beneath you. When I got up the bell rang. I looked at Eddy’s Dad with his face pressed up against the cage. That was the second time I watched a grown man cry.”

“Do you love your father?” Officer O’neil hadn’t moved. I forgot he was there for a while actually. I felt like I had just woken back up.

“What!?”

“ Do you, Thomas Gibson Love your father?” He staggered his words like my fucking father did before he hit me with his drunken hands. Like I was stupid.

“YES! The fuck kind of question is that? He taught me how to be a man. How to walk How to speak. And those fucking koons got what they deserved. Cold and hard on a platter for taking our place in the world. Like we didn’t fucking Own it!!” Shit! He sees it now. Never go vulnerable in an interrogation, ever. I do love my father no one will ever deny me that ever!! He was the only person who would ever love me.

“Did I hit a nerve?” He had this smile on his face like he knew he had me, I was losing the game. I don’t care if I go to jail. But I sure as hell won’t go a pussy. I’m giving them a story. People love a good documentary about someone they should hate.

Breathe, I have to breathe.

“No.” I say calmly catching my breath.

“So mind telling me why you did it Tom?” I’m still a little out of it. Forgot where I was who I was with. If you’ve ever lost control you know. How weak you feel. How everyone uncovers those dirty little secrets.

“How I torched the Nigger? Or skinned him? Which one do you prefer?”

“Well I’ve only got the one you burned sitting here. But you’re welcome to tell me about either one.” I lean forward over my cuffs and get close to his face.

“I would do it all again.” He stops. Leans back into his chair trying to hold his breath. I watch him get up and walk out. I know what he’s going to do now.Like all the others, he’ll ask for a new detective because they don’t know why they feel sorry for me. Everyone is a sucker for a good story.  So I stare through the mirror where they watch me from. I smile. Pretend like I have control between my teeth, when I know that I hated my father. That he was the first time I killed someone, and it felt good.

A man rushed through the door and walked briskly toward the steps leading to where Nebuchadnezzar sat in his throne. The man kneeled and tilted his head down. He heard a powerful, booming voice. “You may rise” Nebuchadnezzar said. The man stood and announced “Your conquest of Judea has been successful”. Nebuchadnezzar looked pleased. To conquer Judah was not his original intention, but eventually, it became clear that in order to capture the Egyptian Army, they would need to get through the Judeans. The city of Jerusalem was held under siege longer than expected and Nebuchadnezzar had grown anxious for its destruction. “Good” Nebuchadnezzar said. “Do you have the slaves?” “Yes sir.” the man said. He yelled and the doors to the throne room burst open once again. Two lines of slaves, none of them particularly strong looking, walked into the throne room in chains and tattered clothing. All of the Judean soldiers and strong men would be used to build monuments and other massive structures. These slaves were here to serve the King, Nebuchadnezzar.

Cheers burst forth from the crowds. The people of Babylonia adored Nebuchadnezzar. He had completely rebuilt the Empire and had turned Babylon into a thriving city-state like it once was when Hammurabi was king. Nebuchadnezzar smiled and waved. He loved his people. Even many of the ones whom he had conquered he had also come to love. As he walked through the busy streets of Babylon, he could not get the face of one particular slave out of his mind. He was a new slave, a Judean, who had been assigned to serve Nebuchadnezzar his wine. As Nebuchadnezzar’s cup was being filled the night before, he caught a glance from the slave; a look of disgust that unsettled the King like nothing else before. As Nebuchadnezzar thought of this slave’s look and the feeling that it brought, he grew confused. Nebuchadnezzar was a warrior at heart. He had killed many men and looked into their eyes which were raging with anger, as he did so. Why was this slave’s look of anger and disgust particularly bothersome to a person who had experienced much worse hatred? As he walked, the question kept popping into Nebuchadnezzar’s head. He called to his attendant “I want all of my house slaves lined up in the throne room when we get back”. “Yes, sir” his attendant said. As Nebuchadnezzar began to think about this slave again, he could hear his attendant yelling orders at a messenger in the background.

Nebuchadnezzar slowly walked up the palace steps surrounded by guards. He continued thinking about this slave whose face had been stuck in his head for nearly a day now. When he reached the palace doors, the guards opened them for him. In his throne room, on either side, his slaves stood perfectly still. After Nebuchadnezzar settled, he walked up and down his throne room, carefully looking for the slave whose face had fixed itself in his memory. He asked a slave “What is your name?”. “Arishaka” the slave replied. “Where are you from?” the King asked. “I am an Assyrian”. This was not the slave he was looking for. Nebuchadnezzar looked disappointed. He turned around. Nebuchadnezzar was startled. He saw the slave as though he had appeared out of thin air. “What is your name?” “Benjamin” replied the slave. This was a name that stood out to Nebuchadnezzar. Even though the language of the Judeans and Babylonians were very similar, somehow there names were very different. “Where are you from?” Nebuchadnezzar asked. “Judea” the slave replied. Nebuchadnezzar was obviously satisfied. The King dismissed everybody from his throne room.

Jim walked through the doors with a big smile on his face. He felt confident and prepared. He was up half the night finishing the outline for the advertisement. He normally wouldn’t have worked so hard on an outline, but he felt that this particular one deserved the effort. After all, this wasn’t just any ordinary advertisement he and his firm were creating. This wasn’t just an ad for some stupid product or service, like a kitchen appliance, or a cell phone plan. No, this ad was for something that mattered. This ad was for a company that helped homeless children in America. This was an ad for something that helped people, and did good things for society. This was why Jim went into advertising in the first place, to help create advertisements that helped the world (Ways of Seeing).

Jim was working with his collaborators on creating an advertisement which they would later pitch to the company that was helping the kids. Today he was going to meet with his colleagues and put the ad together. His job had been to design the basic format and layout of the add. His colleagues had other responsibilities, such as picking the images they would use, and putting the soundtrack together. They were going to compare ideas to put this ad together. The elevator arrived on the tenth floor. Jim got out and walk over to the conference room. When he opened the door he found that the others were already inside. His co-workers Milo and Chris were waiting for him.

“ Hey Jim,” said Milo, “ How are you?”

“ Good,” Jim replied.

“ Good, well let’s get down to business. What’s your idea for the layout of the ad?”

Jim eagerly pitched his idea for the layout. He told them what the ad would say, and how it would say it. He emphasized using a sad tone of voice and describing how much these poor kids suffered.

“ This will play to people’s sympathy” he said confidently. “ They will see how sad these kids are, but then we’ll tell them how they can help, and then we show some smiling happy kids or something to show how happy their donation will make someone. They will see themselves as the answer to the problem, when really their individual donations do so little in the long run.”

Chris and Milo both liked the layout; they agreed that it was effective and persuasive. Chris was in charge of creating the soundtrack for the add. He played some sad music, and then some happy upbeat music at the end. Jim and Milo agreed that this really set the mood and the feeling that this ad was trying to create. Then it was Milo’s turn. Milo was in charge of picking out the images of sad and happy homeless children that the ad would use. He showed them a slide show of many photographs of little kids.

“Obviously this is too many images to put in the add.” he said “I was hoping that we could pick out the ones we want.”

“Yes, there are a few that I think should definitely be in this ad,” Jim said. Then he went over to Milo’s laptop and copied all of the photos that he liked and put them in a separate folder. “I think that these kids will really pull at people’s heart strings, and make them want to donate.”

Milo looked at the images that Jim had selected. His face was placid and expressionless. After looking through them he paused, thought for a moment, then looked at

them once more. “I noticed that all of the photos you liked were of caucasian children,” he

pointed out.

Suddenly Jims face looked serious, like he had just been accused of some sort of crime “What are you implying Milo?,” Jim asked “Are you implying that I am a racist who thinks that white kids deserve help more than minorities? Because that’s not what I think. It’s just that I think that these particular kids will make people feel sorry for them, and want to help.”

“Because they’re white” said Milo.

Jim sighed. “Look, Milo. I personally don’t care what race kids are, but let’s face it, that’s not how the rest of the world sees it. This ad will be shown in a predominantly white community, and therefore these images will appeal more to the public.

“I’m just worried that it’s a little bit racist. After all, most of the homeless kids in America are African American .” Milo informed him.

“ Look, it doesn’t matter whether or not the ad is racist, what matters is if it is effective (America’s Youngest Outcasts). I’ve looked at some statistics. 90% percent of the local population is white. White kids will appeal more to them.” Jim stated

“I just worry that this ad may be a little offensive,” said Milo.

“I don’t think many black people will mind. I mean look at Chris, he’s black and he thinks that these images are ok,” Jim pointed out, “Right Chris?

Chris paused for a moment, thinking about what to say. Finally he spoke, “Actually I do think that we should include a few photos of African American kids. We have some images of black kids that I think could be very effective. Look at this photo. This poor little guy is only about three years old. He’s the youngest one we’ve got. I think that his age will make people feel sorry for him.

Jim examined the photo. “He is very young, but I just don’t think he’s that cute. People will want to help cute little kids. Look at this one. See this little blonde-haired girl? Doesn’t she just have the cutest little blue eyes?

“While your definition of cute pertains to little blonde-haired blue eyed white girls, others may find black children just as cute,” Milo pointed out.

Jim started to get frustrated. He wasn’t a racist, and he didn’t like that he was beginning to come off as one. It wasn’t his fault that this was how the world was. It wasn’t his fault that the people of this town would relate better to a little white kid that resembled their own children. “I don’t think that white kids are any cuter than black kids,” he stated “But the rest of this town feels differently than I do. We have to face fact and play to the interests of the people. That’s how advertising works. We spread products, services, and ideas to the people by pertaining to their needs. We find out what they like and we give it to them. It’s how things and ideas are created. It’s how advertising, and spreading products and ideas shapes the world.”

Milo looked at Jim and said, “The thing is Jim, I just don’t think that you’re giving the people of this town enough credit, This town isn’t the same as it was twenty or thirty years ago when you moved here. People have changed. There is more racial equality, and I believe that they will want to help homeless children of color, just as much as white children.”

Jim was annoyed. Milo and Chris just didn’t understand advertising. He had been in the business longer than them. He knew how to appeal to people’s interests. But, they were too stubborn to agree with him. If they wanted to show images that wouldn’t work as well in the ad, then that was fine with him.

“Let’s leave it up to the charity people. We’ll make two ads, one with my images and one with yours. We’ll see which one they like best. I have some work to get done, good bye.”

“Good bye,” said Milo, “And may the best ad win.”

Sources

1. "America’s Youngest Outcasts: State Report Card on Child Homelessness."Familyhomelessness.org. National Center on Family Homelessness, n.d. Web. 14 Jan. 2014. <http://www.homelesschildrenamerica.org/pdf/report_cards/long/fl_long>.

2. Ways of Seeing. Dir. John Berger. 1972. Online Video.

*Ring* Ring*

I pick up the phone, “Hello?”

“Hi this is Nathaniel Archibald, from the Boston Review, I’m calling for Ms. Bolton.”

“This is she.”

“Good, we have some good news about the job you interviewed for the other day... You got the job and we would like you to start on Monday.”

“Oh that’s great! Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Bolton. We are looking forward to seeing you Monday morning.”

“See you then.”

*Click*

*Click*

Monday Morning

My alarms are set for 6 am. I have to be there by 9 am. This gives me three hours, it takes a half hour to get there. If I take the bus and leave by 8:15 I will have time to spare. I take a shower and blow out my hair and put on makeup. I spend 20 minutes picking out the right outfit.

I have never been so excited to start a new job. It has been a while since I worked at job I liked. The last time was probably when I was in high school and I got a job a the pizza parlor where the cute senior worked. This new job is better than the best. I’m the new writer for the Boston Review. This is what I have dreamed about since I was a little girl.

I have my coffee and am out the door. I’m so ready for this day. I couldn’t sleep at all last night. The Buses are packed with men and women in their suits and nice shoes. Everybody is on their phones reading the latest news. I see one guy reading the Boston Review. To think in less than a week my name will be on these people’s papers, they will be reading my articles, that I wrote. The idea almost made me miss my stop. I jump off the bus, the streets are packed, but I nudge my way through. I see the building. I stand and stare. 36th Floor, suite 309.

When I get up there the receptionist calls someone and tells them I’m here. He tells me to sit and wait. I people watch. I watch people running around with clip boards and binders filled with papers. Everything is so energetic. It’s so alive. I snap out of my trans when I hear someone calling my name. It’s a tall man wearing a suit and tie, he gestures for me to come with him.

“Hi Ms.Bolton, I’m Tom Bradshaw, you can follow me this way.”  

I feel like a little kid in a candy store. Looking in all the offices. Seeing all the people hard at work. This is me. I am a part of this. I am this. For the first time in a long time, I’m really motivated to do the right thing. We stop in front of an office with my name on it. My name, is in gold letters on a black plaque. It was mesmerizing.

“This is your office, Ms. Bolton.”

It had a window and everything. It was picturesque.

“And I believe your first assignment is on your desk. You will be covering the school shut down in Cambridge.”

“Thank you so much, I will get started right away.”

Mr. Bradshaw walks away. I sit down at the desk and look through the file. I look through my new @bostonreview email. I have an email from an unknown name telling me that the rental car was waiting for me outside and that I should pick up the keys from the secretary. I assume that they want me to go get a closer look. I call the school to set up a tour. The most important thing they tell you in journalism classes is to never tell the people that you are interviewing that you are a reporter.. When people know they are getting interviewed it makes the whole experience a lot less realistic. So I told them I was a prospective parent.

When I get to the school it is almost empty, there were maybe 10 kids per class. Every student in a black blazer, girls in skirts, boys in slacks, both in white shirts with red ties. It was a very classy school. After the half hour tour, we were taken to a large bulletin board with all the students biographies. I couldn’t help but notice that every single one of these kids that went here were children to either famous or political parents. I thought I had enough for my story. I sat down and started to write.

 Many have heard of the school closings in the city and country but some of the schools making the biggest noise maybe should be the ones to be shut down. I recently took a visit to the 2nd most prestigious K-12 school, the Elizabeth Banks School. It is one of the many getting closed in the Boston area. With an annual tuition of 24,000 a year it does not seem like such a tragedy if it does get closed down. There are currently 100 kids in the entire school, the smallest school on record for this area.

The piece goes on with the many reasons why the school should be closed because they don’t meet the requirement for students, so on and so forth. I dropped it off on the editor’s desk that night before going home.  

I had slept easy that night. Proud of my achievements. I had written my first article. The next day I woke up proud. There was a different kind of bounce in my step that day. I got to the office and started researching my next article.

*Knock* *Knock*

There was a knock on my door, I look up from my computer. It is the head editor of the paper.

“Oh. Hello Mr. Smith”

“Hello Ms. Bolton”

“Please come in, sit down”

“Thank you, but I won’t be staying long.”

“Is something the matter? Did you not like my piece on the clossing of the schools?”

“It’s not that I didn’t like it, it is just that I’m not sure this is the right message we want to send to our readers.”

“I’m sorry I don’t think I understand. You told me to write an opinion piece and I did.”

“Yes and it is a great opinion, but I just think that maybe you should write for the opinion of our readers… not your own.”

“Are you telling me you want me to lie?”

“No not lie. Never that.”

There was a long pause.

“This company was started by my family years ago. It was passed down from generation to generation. It started off as just a little paper nobody would ever read, but then it blossomed and it was sold by the hundreds everyday. But the times have changed. People aren’t reading the newspaper anymore, it is all about the online stuff. The only people that read our paper are old men who drink their coffee and read their paper every morning because they don’t know how to work a computer.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, he smiled.

“Do you know what I mean? We have to keep our readers happy.”

“You want me to tell them what they want to hear.”

“Exactly! I knew you were a smart one, that’s why we hired you.”

It boggled my mind to think about what Mr.Smith had just said. When I became a journalist it was because I liked to write about current events. I wanted people to hear my opinions, but now it seems like that isn’t actually what is going to happen. I have two choices, quit and try to find a job that will let me write what I think is true but the chances of that may be slim, or keep my job and twist stories for the rest of my life into what the upper class of the Boston area wants to hear.

I would have the power as someone of the press that would be able to change the way people look at things by giving bias information just so they would buy and read our paper.  

[Man sits on a milk crate against a wall. He is near enough to an subway entrance to catch the commuters coming and going. He holds a mostly empty cup.]

MAN

Excuse me sir. Pardon me, ma’am, can you spare some change? No?

Could you spare a few coins, miss? I- I could really use a meal

Alright well have a wonderful day, miss.

[The man reaches out and grabs three coins, which the woman dropped while passing.]

MAN

Oh, uh excuse me miss! Excuse me. Excuse me!

[The man stands, and gestures to the coins.]

MAN

HEY, LADY. I’M TRYING TO GIVE YOU BACK YOUR MONEY!

[He grabs her arm roughly, attempting to get her attention. He lets go quickly, looking surprised by his actions.]

MAN

Don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened Miss. I just- how often does someone chase you down the street trying to give you money, right? (He laughs, and notices that she doesn’t) I, (pause) I believe you dropped these coins. Here, take them. They’re yours. Maybe you can spend them on a side of fries or a Sprite, or, oh I’m sorry, is fast food too low for you? I mean for God’s sake, lady, if you can afford to drop money behind you without a second thought, treat yourself to a steak! A steak...

Do you know? I see you every day. Do you even see me? Every day you clamber up those subway steps, you run a hand through your beautiful hair, you check your smartphone, you turn and you tell me that you don’t have any change for me. Look at these quarters. You people leak money, but there’s never enough for me. There will never be enough for me.

How, though? Tell me how. Tell me how you can trot your way to get lunch, passing me and never looking back. Are you so saturated with pocket change that in your eyes it’s valueless? I had money once. I remember. When I had money, I kept a jar of pennies on my desk and never touched them. Why bother? I couldn’t see how anyone would value something so crushingly inconsequential. Can you not see, lady? Can you not see the hunger in my eyes? I’m hungry for food, I’m hungry for those pennies. (pause) Can you not see? Or is it what you see? Is it my appearance? Do I frighten you? When my chapped palms reach up from the ground, does it startle you? Or am I just another lazy, panhandling addict, looking for my next fix? You wouldn’t want to enable me, would you? God forbid. Well I may not smell it, but I’m clean, lady. Do you know? I taught. History. I was a professor. I never touched a narcotic in my life. I don’t even drink.

Even now.

So I’m not an addict. There’s no excuse there. I’m probably a criminal, though, right? You’d probably just be funding my next underhanded misdemeanor. I’m not evil, lady, I’m just poor! You have no excuse not to help me. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE NOT TO HELP ME.

No excuse.

But look at me. Look at me. Screaming my head off like a lunatic. Look at me. I’m shaking.

I’m sorry- I…

I’ve scared you.

[The man looks up, looking for her eyes. She is gone.]

MAN

Look at me. I just want you to see me. I lived my life right. I went to school. I did my job. This is what I get.

[The man looks down at the coins in disgust, and tosses them as far away as he can.]

Wilson Biggs

*walks into view*

*cups ear as if listening* *looks at watch* Is it really time to go to school? Whatever. I’m not gonna go today. Not because I don't like school, but because I don't really care about school. I have no reason to. The only thing that’s accomplished at all is getting a day closer to college. To spending forty thousand dollars to get a part time job at Taco Bell. Stressing out to the point of breaking down, which happens at least once a week, isn’t worth that. I’d only go to college get a job anyway, which I’d only do to try and survive while I actually do something I enjoy. It’s not worth it. I want to be creative, not serve Doritos Tacos to people in a train station. That’s definitely not something I aspire to do. *sigh*

There’s really no point in thinking about this, anyway. I'd rather just lay face-down in bed and do nothing. You know what? I think I will. And after I do that for a long time, maybe I'll stare at the wall. I don't care enough to be bored by it. Or maybe I’ll sit at my computer and do nothing productive for a while. That sounds okay. I’ll do that for a bit, actually.

*on computer* Heh. A picture of Tom Hiddleston saying something vaguely philosophical. Reblog. A gifset of a TV show I haven’t seen since 2004. Like. What does that say? “wow. such doge.” Reblog. Oh look, someone’s pizza man started singing to another pizza man or something. I don’t know. Like. *humming pompeii*

Well, great. My mom's yelling at me to come downstairs and go to school. *yelling down* No. Because there’s no point. I’m really tired. I don’t want to go. Everyone there hates me. Leave me alone. I don’t care about school. I don’t care about anything anymore. *stops*

Eh, whatever. I'll just go shut and lock the door. Put headphones on. Listen to some loud music. Go back to sleep. That sounds pretty good. I don’t really care if I get in trouble. It’s not like that would be the worst problem in my life anyway. *sigh* I’ll set my alarm for 3pm. I need the sleep anyway. I was up until two in the morning studying for a test about some stupid equations that I’ll never use anyway. Whatever. Sleep. Yeah.

*walks out of view*