Bystanders by Tara Laskowski

Author:Tara Laskowski [Laskowski, Tara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Santa Fe Writer's Project
Published: 2016-02-15T05:00:00+00:00

Entrapment

There was something about ruining someone else’s career that really motivated me to get out of bed. That sounds negative, I know, but I’ve never been much of a morning person. Most days at 7:34 a.m.—even with The Professor, my iguana, digging his claws into my naked back—I’d say screw that and roll back over, slapping my hand on top of the alarm clock. But that morning was a special day.

“All right, Prof,” I groaned, my mouth feeling as dry as his scales. “I’m up.”

I’m Paul, by the way. Paul Reston. That’s the name my parents crowned me with when I popped out of the womb and started howling. However, you might know me by my other name: Harrison Teeth. I know, the last name is a little pretentious and sounds made-up—that’s what people say. They have no idea that Paul Reston, movie critic and restaurant reviewer for the Daily Star, is also Harrison Teeth, investigative reporter.

So Harrison Teeth or Paul Reston, or whoever I was at that god awful hour of the morning, shoved on some dirty jeans, carried The Professor back to his domain, and unlocked the dead bolt to find the paper. My new apartment building, which I moved into about seven months ago when Mary Beth left me, had an early bird newspaper carrier. When Mary Beth and I lived uptown our carrier was a grouchy old man who delivered the paper sometime between 10:00 and 11:00 a.m. So that was one of the positives of my new apartment complex—add it to the (meager) list. An almost-working security system that allowed me to beep in guests from downstairs, an extra bedroom for The Professor to roam around in, and a location on the other side of the building from the garbage dumpsters, so the smell of decay and shit only occasionally wafted over.

No balcony, no yard, and Mary Beth got to keep the dog and the kid (most of the time), but I was trying to keep it upbeat.

The paper was there, faithful as ever, a single pink rubber band holding it in a tight roll. The Daily Star in fancy scroll script. My story above the fold, front page. I could see the top of the Judge’s head, just peeking out below the masthead. His giant, might-as-well-be-a-mugshot image was arriving on 120,000 doorsteps all across this fine city. There was a certain power in knowing I was responsible for feeding many people their water cooler chatter as the sun rose in the blue sky that morning.

“Hi, Mr. Paul!”

In my reverie, I hadn’t heard Theresa approaching. I suppressed a groan, looking up to see her ambling toward me. About that time, my head started pounding, remembering that I was dehydrated from the ten or so beers I had the night before after my editor finally put the story through.

“Can I come in quick and see The Professor?”

I knew that’s what she was going to say, broken record that she was. Unshaven, still half-asleep, I wanted to be mean, but there was the guilt.

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