First Steps

Initial draft version of a story that popped into my head long ago

                Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

                Immediately, Tom reached for the clocks’ snooze. Most days, he’d grown used to allowing himself at least 45 minutes to an hour before dragging himself out of calamity.

                After a 45 year career in the television industry, having lived and adapted to various changes and proudly being a “survivor” and stone-age, as his team referred to him, the hardest part of every day was still getting himself out of his haven. He was used to the professional setbacks, such as good people let go (for various reasons), the natural evolving changes that came to the business because of the modern-age, and showing up. Tom Herald, you see, had been a Producer of both Live and pre-recorded broadcasts enough years and times to handle change. It was a part of him and what initially fascinated him to the industry. He saw it as a privilege, producing something he loved and seeing the payoff unfold. Working his way from Memphis to Houston, Chicago and New York, he had been temporarily assigned to Georgia to make the upcoming National Championship draw bigger ratings than all other shows that week.

                It wasn’t the task that scared him. Nor was it the occasion. It was the huge possibility of everything that could go wrong or unexpected that stirred his temple in the middle of the night.

                That was the main reason, among others, why, when heading into his world for the day at WOAH-TV, Tom asked his station’s manager, Jerry Hamilton, a request a few days after receiving the Georgia ABC-affiliate’s inquiry.

                “I’d like to have the following people by my side for it,” Herald told Hamilton at their brief meeting. Handing him the list, Hamilton glanced over the names and gave Tom a look or two.

                “Susan Gill? Stokley Ashford? Stand Norrington? …Judy Marin? ” Hamilton, a veteran of the profession himself, replied. “You want these folks alongside you? Why? I don’t recognize half of them.”

                “Jerry, I’ve already spoken with Susan,” Herald began. “These are the people both she and I came up with when we realized the gravity of the occasion we’d been asked to coordinate. Either they have the most experience, come very highly recommended, or both. The only way we knew this could work (seeing how partly dumbfounded Hamilton appeared), make everyone happy, was to get these people. Trust me; in all the years I’ve been doing this, (Susan and I know) only way to get the best, smoothest possible show is by having some of the best in the industry with you.”

                Hamilton, being in the position he was, swallowed a wave of odd-acceptance hearing all that. He knew Herald knew what he was doing, sure. That wasn’t an issue or problem. He just wasn’t used to having no real say-so. It put a level of trust outside his hands he’d slowly gotten used to. And, in his position, he was and wasn’t entirely comfortable with that feeling.

                But he could live with it. Sighing, he nodded.

                “Okay,” Hamilton agreed. “You’re the decision-maker here. A confident delivery for such an occasion is what I like to be assured of when these events present themselves.”

                Gesturing, he gave his final two-cents: “Just make sure of one thing,” he stated. A brief pause signaled Herald was all-ears. “I do not want any unexpected things going off. These things have huge potential for so much to go wrong. Chaos could break quickly. Let’s make sure everyone has a good time and get’s home safely. Safety is priority. Is that understood?”

                “Perfectly,” Herald agreed. “Good,” Hamilton stated. “The last thing this network needs is a Yahoo! or front-page headline for bad publicity.” Waving him away, Herald got the cue to head out. The event is now in my hands, he realized at that moment. We may not speak again until after it is said and done, if we do.

                Of course, that’s the way it usually worked with Hamilton. He let everyone do their things without his intervention. He only needed to speak face-to-face if or when something caused them to have to meet.

                Either way, they did not know it then, but they wouldn’t.

                But, for now, Tom’s main objective was to get to-and-from the bathroom without knocking into anything. That was always priority in the morning. No matter what; that was it.

 

                The neighborhood around Bull Park wasn’t exactly the friendliest nor most uninviting in the world, let alone city. Sure, some of the condos weren’t state-of-the-art. Nor were the fences protecting their gardens. Most cars driving by the homes in that area didn’t give a second thought to the intact-but-not-ideal locale. Like a morning Mass (Church) service, unenthused and uninspired looks aplenty went Bull Park’s way.

                All that didn’t matter to the Ash brother and their pals, just a few of the residents inhabiting some of the quarters.

                Jack was the older, taller, brown-haired, black-eyed of the two. Shane, Jack’s younger and clever brother, measured a few inches shorter with dark black hair and pale, almost grey-like eyes. Both were avid thriller and board-gamers, always trying to outwit one another with their sly cleverness. They had a natural instinct for calculating moves and executing battle-like maneuvers flawlessly, to the point where it was almost impossible to evade them. Yes sir, Jack and Shane were video gaming nerds by most peoples’ basic description. Truth is, though, they spent their time not necessarily practicing all their twists and turns to claim supremacy on the screen. Every time they played a game, they went into study mode to find where their nerves and calamity steadied themselves, for they intended to learn and relearn their moves, to the point of mastery, on a much grander scale.

                They lived two floors and caddy-corner to “Nate,” that’s Nathan Slate to you, whom they had known for quite some time. The three guys had been pals since they were kids, getting along when no one else seemed to care for them. The Ashes knew Nate well�"he enjoyed certain house gatherings, attended movies on particular occasions, his room set-up a certain way. About six feet, medium build with a scarred jaw and relatively clean look, not many people noticed or knew the craziness Nate portrayed when playing certain board games with the Ash fellows. You could say Slate fit the time-old cliché “don’t judge a book by its cover.” Most folks whom noticed Nathan always would gossip that he was “different, always to himself.” Of course, most of those folks did not seriously bother knowing him anyway. They were always in a hurry with their own busy lives. Or so that was always their excuse.

                Nate knew all that, though. He knew people talked about him. They always were. He had his parents to thank for that habit.

                Nathan was the grey-haired, tall and buzzed eldest child to Mark and Diane Slate. For years and years, they, Mr. and Mrs. Slate in particular, were regulars at local community events, parties and fundraisers where they lived. They would bring him along, not necessarily to mingle, but to have more “big picture” views of the world as opposed to his “small-world” lifestyle perspective he was constantly used to. He wasn’t the most social kid around the block nor did he always contribute to the neighborhood gossip like everyone. His main contribution was a sly, partly sarcastic joke here or there to get people uninterested in further discussions with him. That contribution worked well, though, every single time. Nate actually looked forward to it. It gave him exactly the chance he wanted for everyone to, basically, stay the f**k away from him. There were no awkward moments and ‘ok’ glances thrown his way when telling people a story about this or a joke about that, knowing little to no reaction was the inevitable result.

                It didn’t matter, though. Nathan knew most the crowd his folks associated with wasn’t there to socialize with him. That did matter to him. That was important as it allowed him all the opportunity out there to observe all these folks whom would fall to his mercy someday soon. For as much as they didn’t socialize with him, he didn’t care about them. In fact, somewhere in the back of his mind, he figured the world could almost do without them. Mark and Diane didn’t entirely bother changing and redirecting their son. At 19 years of age, he was definitely at that “established” and unreachable stage, the one where he was pretty set in his ways. In fact, the couple was so used to him; they observed him as he observed all the others.

                The point usually came when he asked to be excused from those overly polite showcases. They had no problem with that.

                “I’m going to…,” Nate would always begin his exit speech, gesturing to the doorway.

                “Just go on,” Mom and Pop casually replied, acknowledging his inevitable request after giving his greetings to the uninterested.

                “I may head out later with a few of the guys,” he followed up.

                “Fine, no worries here,” Mr. and Mrs. Slate replied back.

                Moments later, the uninterested were no longer observant of the Slate boy. As that evening passed, the crowd, still in their little worlds, forgot the boy even arrived with the parents. He didn’t exist to them. Or, if he did, it would only be in memory when they talked about him�"the person they knew at least. None of that bothered him. Nate was a rather independent guy; only his close pals really got that about him.

                He was sitting on his a*s, in his simple but out-of-style place, when he recalled one of those night. Whatever, he always concluded. He never enjoyed them much anyways.

                He did, however, thoroughly enjoy his off-days. The local gym a couple blocks from his place, Mac’s, had him pulling a few double-shifts lately. Along with his workouts, all that busy time left him drained. And with a cloudy day out, Slate wasn’t in the mood for anything other than unwinding.

                Hello my friend we meet again started ringing on his cell, filling the quiet room with a distracting, catchy tune. “Hello?” he spoke, in his heavy but clear voice.

                “Nate,” the voice began, “What you up to man?” Jack inquired on the other end.

                “What do you think?” he replied, in his deep but clear voice.

                “Staring into space, thinking about the chick from the other night,” Jack guessed, knowing he was wrong.

                “That’s what you were thinking about. No, man, I’m just sitting and chilling; been working my a*s off last few days. You know how it can be.”

                “Yeah man, I hear you,” Jack replied.

                Growing restless about small-talking the same old s**t, Nate felt a mother-son discussion coming on. He wasn’t in the mood. “So what’s going on man? Is there something I don’t know (about)?”

                “Now why would you say that?” Jack jokingly asked.

                “Why else would you be calling me? Come on, man. We both know you probably would not be calling me unless it was something you had or wanted to talk to me about.”

                The momentary silence was typical between two.

                “Fair,” Jack remarked, taking another dose of Nate’s witty bluntness, semi-admitting a rare moment of “concession” to his pal. “The guys are meeting up later�"you going to be around? Or should I assume anything else?”

                “You should assume what you can always assume with me. What do you think? Come to think, how long have you known me?” Nate replied, just to amuse him.

                “Look man, I know you know I wouldn’t call you like this. Already saw your car outside which means I know you’re there. Also know you have nothing going on based on your short-styled voice, despite knowing it was me calling. Furthermore, we are meeting later, all of us. It’s our great manifesto. We’re going all the way this time. I’m not f*****g around.”

                “What’re you talking about, man?” Nate questioned, as if confirming the mind of a madman about to unleash his masterpiece.

                “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jack began. “Don’t pretend like I haven’t mentioned something about the ‘plan’ to you once or twice in one way or another.”

                “Never knew how serious or not you were.”

                “How long have you known me, Slate? Long enough to know when you’re talking out of your a*s and being serious. Seriously, though, is this time for real in which case I might be all ears? Or is this just another ‘maybe’ bullshit possibility where we talk and do nothing?” Nate wasn’t even in the mood for talking about things right now. He’d been used to people talking all his life. He was ready to do something.

                “The other guys are meeting later too. Should I come knocking or just expect you to be here too?”

                Knowing how much he hated people knocking at his door, it reminded him of his mother’s annoying let’s-go to the party, he knew what to say, as if already confirming his role-to-be. “Count me in. Don’t worry; I’ll be there.”

 

                It was a few months prior to the game event that Tom and Jerry had their respectful but straight meeting.

                On this morning, with the cool breeze circling around his home, Tom knew the setup of his bedroom to maneuver with ease and without much light. That was helpful, as the morning came with clouds zipping over the immediate skyline. For Tom and his wife, Margaret, lived at the corner house on Ashby Road for nearly 20 years, seeing all sorts of things come and go. Married in the late 70s, they moved to 1510 Ashby Road in the early 80s and established a life there ever since. The happily proud parents of three wonderful kids, all of whom had careers and lives in other parts of the country, Mr. and Mrs. Herald were as regularly known in the local community as they were in their respected careers. She was the City County’s Senior Community Center Manager; it was a position righty earned and respectfully considered “hers” by her colleagues. Mrs. Herald’s name went with her plaque the last 15 years; no one in the area felt the need to take it from her. “Marge,” as was her reputed nickname among the Center’s regulars and locals, was a passionate community lady who never stopped showing everyone why she held her spot. Not even Mr. Herald questioned her motives. Tom had known her since their late teens; he was well-aware of her devotion to causes for others.

                This was why he didn’t worry when, after taking his first few steps around his upstairs master, he noticed she wasn’t laying on her side. He figured to find a note on the counter near the side door telling him of her whereabouts. That was her thing.

                “OK,” Tom said aloud. “Let me get my stretches in and get going.” Even at his age, the golden 55, keeping intact was a routine concern. Never know when something may happen, he always reminded himself. A few moments before he hit the closet light, eager to assemble his authority presence. It was actually, rather, humorous; as many times it may’ve pained him to roll out of bed, Tom never tired of putting together his control room outfit. Every time he looked at his wardrobe and saw the finished image in the mirror, the pride cruising through his veins reminded him of the years built into him. That entire package bundled together, with the end result: his persona.

                Gone for a morning walk then headed to the Hall for a Ladies meeting. Call you later. Margie.

                That explains the quiet halls and no-response, Tom thought, when he called for her. “Moving on,” he spoke, confirming the need to begin his day without huge concern for his wife’s note. Trust wasn’t the issue or lack of further, immediate communication; Tom had places to be and his schedule waiting. A note was a concern, just not the upmost.

                Grabbing his keys, Tom gave one final glance at what he had versus what he didn’t. He was well-aware how easy it was to forget one thing after another, especially when his mind was preoccupied with more “important” things, namely preparing for a big day at the office. Sometimes he would merely think the whole day over just to think of what he’d need and not. He’d always been that way, of course, dating back to this childhood. It was a Herald thing, that annoying ability to easily forget. He didn’t know it, but today he could not afford for that happen.

                “Tom!?” yelled Dave Hicks, Tom’s neighbor. “Good morning, how is all?”

                “Doing alright,” Tom replied, continuing their small-talk introduction, usually an indication of bigger, meaningful conversation to unfold.

                Dave, a Repair Director for Teleworks, the local market’s independent telecommunications provider for the city, was a long-timer like Tom. In his fifties, he had the demeanor an “of the system” fellow. Mr. Hicks, like so many others in and around the area, was born and bred to contribute to the always-enduring, never-free working folk. “How’re the preparations going for the Championship?” hinting at the look all over Tom’s face. (As if I need an answer, Dave thought.) “Well, Dave, all of us at the Station have been planning and connecting for a while now. We feel decently OK and confident about it. We have a lot of things thought-through. But, tell you what, if anything happens out of the ordinary, you have my full permission to crack me right in the jaw.”

                “Okay, Tom,” Dave replied, laughing at the first interview-like response Tom may’ve had to prepare for. “We’ll be watching,” he left, hinting at everyone, something Tom grew accustomed to after so many years.

                “Sounds good Dave, have a good one.” They exchanged hands and gestured their own ways.

                Once he was on the road, Tom thought back to Dave’s talk. He was familiar with casual discussion preparing for big occasions. He didn’t particularly enjoy the slight chance of doubt creeping into his thoughts. They could make their presence known; by the end of the day, he always managed to rid them. He intended to finish this chapter the same way.

                Elsewhere, others had a different agenda.

 

                Morning rolled to afternoon that day, as the overcast grey and breeze found themselves rolling onwards from the cities’ stomping grounds. With the shade filling the windows at certain angles, three small autos pulled into Bull Park’s adequate lot. The ’92 red Honda Civic was pursued by a 2005 grey Toyota Corolla; the final contestant making its entrance was the ’95 Camry, the dark blue paint slightly fading from the wear-and-tear of the few years spent on the road. At a combined odometer readings around 666,000, the vehicles, and their owners, had seen more than their share of ups and downs. Ronnie, Blake, and Johnny were regulars at the local Jiffy. They’d spent layers of green and multiple tick-tocks in the garages tuning and tweaking their babies. The crews, guys on the various shifts playing their parts in keeping their hoods in good condition, knew them well and could spot their vehicles the moment they pulled in. There may’ve been six figures on the dashes, but they were figures well-kept. And the Jiffy guys knew it. They knew the “trio” knew their stuff and were straight shooters. They expected quality maintenance because they expected the highest value for the vehicles, old and underappreciated as they were.

                The “trio” didn’t care. To Ronnie, Blake, and Johnny, their old wheels were as usable to them as the built-in, customized home-theaters for famed Actors and Directors.

                Truthfully, it was on purpose. Ronnie and Johnny both knew that when it came to cars, impressions were everything. The car was a symbol, an identity. It was also a disguise. Like his pals, Blake knew the car was a way to hide the person no one ever saw or questioned. Johnny, for instance, grew up around most folks who either had nice cars or money to afford them, or both. Originally from the Grove Hills suburbs, about twenty miles west of the city, Johnny was a Patton. His family had settled there after years of relocating due to his father’s military routine. That meant he was used to constant moving, organization and discipline, obedience and precision when it came to matters of transportation and automobile’s around several people. Johnny was the third of five Patton siblings, you see. His two younger sisters and two older brothers never entirely took to dad’s military-like parenting ways. Johnny, though, took the fathering to heart, sometimes a little too much. Plus, it taught him about staying cool when dealing with various people on a daily basis. He knew how to handle himself around his father and siblings, close family and the random neighborhoods that bothered to ask him “how things were.”

                Fact was, for so long Johnny heard that phrase, it came across as bullshit. When he saw the neighbors ask and people give him strange looks, he could never tell if they were being genuine or grabbing details to stir up neighborhood gossip. Because he could never tell, his questioning turned to skeptical cynicism, something his siblings noticed more and more in recent years. Phone calls always had some hidden tone with him. More than just a “military kid,” Johnny had instincts for being razor sharp. It was, as they say, what he thrived on.

                That is why, when his mutual pals Jack and Shane called him, Ronnie and Blake to meet, he knew attendance was priority. Though Mr. and Mrs. Patton never objected to their six-three, two-twenty-five short brunette son meeting his pals, Johnny always had a way of convincing his folks and close friends it was merely hanging out. They were, after all, in their young 30s, the lot of them. Johnny’s fascination with MW3, that’s Modern Warfare III for the amateur gamers among the interested, was his main connection to Jack, Shane, and the lot. Turns out, he was quite the expert at the gig. It wasn’t just a game to him. Johnny saw the phenomenon as an alternative training camp to the military life he would have been living had his father’s plans for him followed through at West Point or an equivalent.

                Nevertheless, Johnny felt this would a gathering unlike the other times he’d received that particular call from Jack. Pulling up, he quickly put his ride in-park and pondered. Opening the door, he glanced around, making a final judgment at whether suspicious looks would be shot his, Ronnie’s or Blake’s way. Seeing none, he allowed himself a breath, perhaps to calm his nerves, perhaps to steady himself, prepping for what he was about to hear…this time.

Author's Note

Draft version; editing will come.

Reviews

[Warrior]

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