Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

Once the cop was out of sight, Mark pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He knew the cop was right. He had to make amends with Amanda. Somehow. Things had fallen apart so quickly he really hadn’t seen it coming. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. In hindsight, he knew the signs were there. He just hadn’t accepted them, instead had just wished them away. Lot of good that did.

Mark put his handkerchief away and pulled a mini-bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket and downed it. He opened the center console and tossed the bottle in with the other empties. From another pocket he pulled out a packet of breath mints and popped one into his mouth, then started his car and drove away.

Mark pulled into a parking spot near the news station, a six-story building that they now shared with a couple of other companies. At one time in the near past, when Mark had first started with the station, they occupied the entire building. Even with the other tenants, the parking lot wasn’t as full as it had been as recently as last year. Every time there had been a layoff, Mark noticed it got easier to find a spot closer to the building. Scuttlebutt was that there was another round of cuts heading for the station, and the reporters were the biggest target. Again. They were getting rid of the more experienced reporters and replacing the higher-priced investigators with younger, ‘internet only’ reporters. The quality of the stories had gone downhill, but the audience would never notice. The viewership numbers stayed steady, but the costs went down. Shit.

“Can’t keep your job sitting in your car,” Mark told himself as he swung the door open.

As the elevator approached the 5th floor, Mark, the lone occupant, snugged up his necktie. He cupped his hand and checked his breath. Yuck. He popped another breath mint as the elevator doors opened.

Mark stepped out into the reporters’ cubicle farm. Mark looked past the receptionist’s desk at the half-dozen or so reporters sitting in their half-height cubicles. Another cost cutting measure. When Mark had first started at the station, he had had his own office, even as a junior reporter. Now, despite being a senior reporter, he sat in a small, topless box with four-foot-tall walls. There was very little privacy when he was at his desk, and he could see, and hear, everyone around him.

Even now, random, subdued noise permeated the room. He could see a dozen reporters working the phones. A few were typing.

Just outside the elevator, Judy manned the reception desk like a sentry on duty. Never one to mince words, she held up one hand while her other held a phone to her ear. Once she had Mark’s attention, she covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand and spoke to him through her plum-colored lipstick. “Art wants to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mark said. “I’ll check in with him in a bit. I have a report to finish.” Mark started back to his cube.

“No, no,” Judy stopped him. “He said as soon as you show up. By the way, you look like crap.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” Mark said.

Judy uncovered the phone mouthpiece. “Hold on a minute, Susie.” She pushed the hold button, then hit another button. She looked back up at Mark, already walking away: “I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”

“Whatever,” Mark mumbled under his breath.

Mark headed for the coffee pot. Surely Art could wait for him to grab a cup. Mark was about to pour some coffee when his phone buzzed with a text:

MY OFFICE! NOW!

“Shit,” Mark mumbled.

Mark abandoned the coffee and headed for the back of the room where a few real offices, with large windows, looked out over the cubes. “Shit.”

Mark approached the center office, window stenciled with:

Mark checked his breath and popped another breath mint before he rapped on the closed door. “Shit.”

Mark looked through the glass and saw Art Hill, his news producer, look up from his desk. Art was generally a good guy, an old school newsman who’d been around the block — and back. Mark just didn’t want to deal with Art’s bullshit this morning.

Art saw Mark through the glass, then dipped his head back to his work. “Come in!” he yelled.

Mark opened the door and stepped into Art’s office. Art’s empire. A dozen monitors covered the side wall away from the reporter’s pit. A few were black, but others silently played local and national news networks.

Art seldom had time for pleasantries anymore. He practically yelled at Mark as soon as he walked in. Without even looking up from his work: “Where’s the story on the mayor?”

Mark had gotten used to Art’s gruff exterior demeanor. Art hadn’t always been that way. In fact, Mark almost considered Art a friend in the early days. Mark had assumed it was the constant pressure to cut costs, meet deadlines, and try to keep the publisher happy. Thus, Mark always gave Art the benefit of the doubt, even when Art acted like an asshole. “Almost done,” Mark said. “Just a little editing…”

Art still stared at his computer: “I need it ASAP. I want tape on my desk before you go home tonight.”

Mark turned to leave.

Art looked up from his computer. “Mark.”

Mark turned.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Art asked.

“What?”

Art actually pushed back in his chair, away from his computer. His expression softened as he looked up at Mark, or at least Mark thought it did. His words weren’t soft, though.

“The last six months you’re always late. And when you finally turn something in, your stories suck!”

Art’s words were accusatory, with an emphasis on the word ‘suck’. Mark still thought about the pressure Art was under. He paused, then decided he could confide in his boss. He turned back and closed the door to Art’s office so no one outside could hear. “A little drama at home, that’s all.”

Art stared at Mark. This time, even his voice softened. “Well, it’s impacting your work. You better get your act together,” Art said.

“I will. Things are looking up at home… at least I think they are.”

Art stared back at him. Hard. “Look, I’m working on a plum assignment… out of town. Be perfect for you. And it’s coming straight from the publisher. But I need someone who’s on top of their game.”

“I’m good, Art. You know you can count on me,” Mark said.

“No, no, I don’t know that. Not anymore,” Art shook his head. “Go finish that story on the mayor. Show me you got somethin’ left. You need to do this.” Art’s voice got even quieter: “For your job.”

Mark nodded. He understood what Art was trying to tell him, which confirmed the rumors of another layoff. “I will,” Mark said. He got up and headed out of Art’s office.

“And close the door on your way out,” Art yelled as he turned back to his computer.

On the way back to his cube, Mark stopped by the coffee machine to get what Art had kept him from. He knew Art was right. For the last few months his work had been sloppy. Unfinished. Unprofessional. Mark was having trouble getting his head fully into the game. His mind kept wandering. What was he going to do about Amanda? Would they be able to get back together? He knew his relationship with Rachel was fractured now, too. Could he ever repair it?

Mark flopped down in his cubicle and placed the cup of coffee on his desk. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was looking in his direction, so he opened his bottom desk drawer. He took out a small, silver flask and poured a shot into his coffee. He had just dropped the flask into the drawer when Ellen Kilpatrick surprised him. She stopped and leaned over his small cubicle side-wall.