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Part I: Call to Adventure
"Oh, yeah," Greg remembered, his expression gone sullen. "I, er, I gave a hot take as always. Heh." He sniffed.
"Your show? Um," he scratched the back of his neck. "I did, don't get me wrong. But...after reading your book a-and watching you do the news--like legit CNN-type news--it didn't feel right. It was...kinda like you were a, uh...a sellout." Greg held up his hands defensively. "Not that I don't think you do a good job reporting o-or writing o-or anything but when I watched...it wasn't the Eliza Taylor I knew. Then again, I...I don't know much in the first place, right?"
"No," said Eliza thinly, "You don't know much."
She leaned back, "A sellout, am I? Seems like any woman whose career goes somewhere is a sellout. What, is Anderson Cooper a sellout? Chris Cuomo? Sean Hanni…" she snapped suddenly, "I am not a sellout! I report the news, and the news slowly eats away at whatever remains of my soul."
Eliza eyed him warily. Her coffee was growing cold, but she drank all the same.
"They cut my show today," she said at last, "I had a 'nervous breakdown', they said. I need 'time away'. They're gonna put some gray-haired pedant at my desk until I 'get better', whatever and whenever that is.
"The news is a lot of things, Greg. It's fast and its hard, its merciless and unyielding. Very often it's sad, more often its infuriating. It's almost always scary. But there was a time when I thought it was beautiful too. I've been reporting the news on national T.V for nine months...and I have never felt more miserable."
"Sorry! Sorry," Greg replied defensively, yielding the sellout comment to Eliza.
"Mean world syndrome," he quickly pointed out. "Learned about it in my Comm 101 course back at LCC. It's an effect of being exposed to nasty crap everyday. Hard news is tough, Eliza. No one would blame you." Greg sighed. "I know it's a lot, asking you to come back to a town where no one respects you to cover a story that by now is beneath you, I guess. But...I respect you. And I-I know you don't think I'm beneath you. So..." He smiled for a second before nerves got the best of him as he asked, "Will you head back with me?"
"I took a Comm class too, Greg, you don't have to mansplain my Liberal Arts degree."
Eliza leaned back, "Greg, I don't think Lakewood is beneath me. I do, however, think I am as wanted around there as an ovarian cyst. What do you want me to do? Descend on Lakewood, USA armed with the power of corporate media? Maybe I knock around the old haunts, scare the living daylights out of your new hayseed sheriff, harass Emma Duval, give Brooke Maddox another reason to pray for my swift immolation?"
It was only now, saying it, that she truly realized the truth of what she was saying. She had not changed as much as she thought she had, and surely Lakewood hadn't either. She would return to it and find the same sorry, suspicious lot that she had left.
And she would be alone again. Thrown headlong into a case where she wasn't welcome to find a truth nobody wanted to give, and that nobody would thank her for finding.
"If you want so badly to tell the truth, Greg, to cover the real story? Do it yourself. It's hard work, and it isn't always rewarding. But it's better than holding out for a hero."
She tossed the ball back at him, "It's been fun, Greg. Drop by the studio, tomorrow, I can give you a tour. Top of the Roc's worth half the hype, and that's more than most."
Greg clumsily caught the ball with both hands, distraught as he watched Eliza leave the Dunkin' Donuts. "B-but..."
But it was too late. Lakewood's one hope for reporting the truth, dashed over a cup of coffee.
Knee-deep in his sorrows, he sat there, sad that his efforts were for naught.
***
ONE HOUR LATER
Greg had spent the next hour in that discount coffee-house planning his way back home, deeply regretting using his sick days for this trip. Walking back up the stairs to the El to catch the 2 back to Manhattan, he reconsidered. Maybe he would stop by the studio tomorrow. Get a taste of the big shot news. It would be the closest he'd ever get to it anyway.
Tossing the Nets ball up and down to keep his thoughts in order, Greg stood on the platform, waiting for the 2's arrival in just about one minute, according to the schedule. He supposed Eliza was right. He should just do it himself. It didn't work out last time but Greg would learn. He'd get to the bottom it himself. Maybe then he'd be signing autographs alongside Eliza, co-anchoring her show.
The 2's raucous entrance interrupted his reverie. Greg would plan his approach on the flight home, cross that thin line between fantasy and reality, and make his dreams happ...
All it took was a light shove from behind to knock Greg off balance, lurching off the platform. Greg had only a second to recover himself when he looked up, stunned at the bright light charging in his direction.
With only a second to understand his ultimate fate, Greg screamed. The 2 train dashed him, as well as any heroic fantasies, to pieces.
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