Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Nine

I am depressed.

But that isn't an unusual state of being for journalists. What's unusual is admitting it.

You don't need to be diagnosed with clinical depression to suffer from the weight of the world.

And hearing Rev. Trotter essentially prepare to give up on life feels terrible. But I am obligated.

I make my way back to the Midway and with little fanfare, hammer out a twenty-column-inch story about the suffering of the Trotter family and the hope that rests on Isaiah's recovery.

I want badly to opine about their lives, to tell readers that this family disproves every negative stereotype about parents of color in urban areas. I want to celebrate Rev. and Mrs. Trotter for raising three apparently good boys. I want to point out that in spite of checking off all the "good parent" boxes, the Trotters have still gotten the short end of the stick.

But I can't write those things, because I'm not a columnist. I'm just a reporter. I share contextual facts and hope that Midway readers take the time to read between the lines.

I should go home. And I intend to go home. I live just four blocks from the Midway, so I've arranged with management to park my Jeep in the company lot overnight. They're OK with it as long as I remain a one-vehicle guy. Any more, and I'll have to find a garage near my apartment where they'd charge me more than my monthly car note to park.

The five-minute walk is so familiar to me, I could probably do it in my sleep. So, I'm both chagrined and annoyed with myself that after "sleep-walking" for fifteen minutes, I find myself standing in front of the Shangri-La.

The door opens and Candy sticks her head out.

"Um, he wants to know if you're coming in, honey, or if you're going to stand here on the sidewalk all night."

She holds the door. I enter reluctantly. I need peace. Need calm. Need a chill atmosphere.

Don't need Ray getting on my case, but "git" he does before I sink into the duct-taped cushion atop my stool.

"Yo! You are rude, homie! How you gonna bail like that when I brought my guy in to meet you? I mean, how you treat people like that?"

The easiest thing in the world be to flip the script and take Ray on a figurative guilt trip to the morgue by describing for him in vivid detail the autopsy I witnessed today and the old woman whose death pulled me away from the bar earlier in the week.

Instead, "I'm sorry, Ray. Got a work-related call."

He waits for more, but I only give him a rueful smile.

Ray backs off and plugs about two hours' worth of change into the jukebox to commandeer it with classic R&B and acid jazz before the Philistines pollute the air with bubble gum pop.

I raise my glass in thanks.

"It's all good," Ray says. "I got you."

He looks at me curiously before asking if I heard about the goat in the bar.

"I don't do punchlines, Ray. You know that."

"Not a punchline, though, homie! It was in the news last night. A goat walked into a bar in Oakland or someplace in the Bay Area. I mean, maybe it should have a punchline!"

He gets a smile out of me, as a good friend would try.

The tension has been successfully broken and Ray, in his own clever way, steers the conversation back to his friend Phillips, reminding me that Phillips' issue is that he hates himself. So badly that he wants to have surgery and chemical treatments to make himself white...ish. And apparently, his concerned family wants the courts to stop him. Ray promised Phillips he could probably pique my interest.

Their thinking was a story by me about Phillips' plight might cause his parents and their formidable legal team to back off and let him make decisions for himself unchallenged. The alternative? Their dirty laundry being aired out in print, online, and broadcast for all the world to consume.

But the revolution has not started. As far as I'm concerned, Phillips can wipe his tears with thousand dollar bills as he cries himself to sleep in his penthouse Gold Coast condo.

I decide to rip off the conversation like a Band-Aid, rather than string Ray along with excuses.

"I don't think I can write about your guy. I mean, somebody could write a textbook about why he's self-loathing, but there are more urgent things happening in this city. If things ever settle, I'll think about it, but for now? Murder calls."

He looks disappointed, but Ray gets it. People like Phillips have the luxury of buying their way out of their skin - figuratively, and yes, if he gets his way, literally. But if this war pops off there'll be nowhere to run or hide for a lot of people.

"That serious, mane?"

"That serious, Ray.