I could also see it by the amount of access that he gave me at the clubhouse and to him for interviews. I still got gruff from Spawn and Sonny, and Satan refused to let me interview anyone else—I couldn’t even capture footage of bikers just hanging out inside the clubhouse—but relative to what I figured I’d have at the beginning of the story, I might as well have had a dream amount of footage in my hands right now.
And so a week later, I was sitting at home, trying to imagine how I’d piece it all together and feeling pretty good about my life as a whole. Really, if I had to, I could have produced a segment right there on the spot; I still would have preferred for Satan to give me his real name, but I guessed Satan would have preferred if the only people who ever saw the documentation were the Devil’s Patriots.
I was starting to sketch out the order of scenes and interviews when I got a call that showed up on my phone as “Boss Roberts.” I always,alwaysfelt anxious when his name popped up on my screen. If the name “Satan” could elicit warm feelings and arousal, “Boss Roberts” brought about the exact opposite.
“Hello?” I said.
“Miss Cook, how is the piece on the Devil’s Patriots coming along?”
There was an edge to his voice that suggested that wasn’t the only question he had. Did he find out about me sleeping with Satan? That would have been a career killer.
Then again, if he’d decided to fire me, he wouldn’t have called me like this first. That could have opened up a whole slew of lawsuits.At least, that’s the hope.
“It’s good, I’ve got about five different interviews with their president, Satan, two with Spawn, three with Sonny, and I’ve got some B-roll footage—”
“I’m not asking you what things you bought at the grocery store. I’m asking you how the recipe is coming along in the kitchen.”
For once, a metaphor of Mr. Roberts made some measure of sense.Barely.
“I’m outlining everything right now.”
“And when will you have it ready by?”
We never discussed this. It’s not my job to have a due date.
“When do you need it ready by, sir?”
“Well, before this past weekend, after the spate of violent shootings at the Devil’s Patriots hideout, I would have said that you can do it whenever your heart pleases. However, now, I don’t much care what your heart pleases as I do the number of eyeballs it pleases.”
Not sure “pleases” is the verb I’d use to describe what this footage will do to Phoenix residents.
Maybe it’ll please you with the ratings.
“So, Miss Cook, we are going to run this segment this upcoming Monday.”
“As in…two days?”
“Did Monday suddenly become Wednesday, which suddenly became Monday?”
I didn’t even know how to make sense of what he’d said. So I just responded as simply as I could.
“No, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Yes, in two days. I need you to send something to us by ten a.m. on Monday, along with all the footage and narration you’ve shot for this. I’ll expect you to be in the studio at that time so you can shoot further VOs if needed. See you Monday.”
I couldn’t even say “sounds good”—not that I would have meant it—before Mr. Roberts hung up, leaving me gulping and exhausted. I hadn’t even put them together in our software; I only had them laid out like a shopping list. Putting this together into what I wanted—a good fifteen-minute segment—was going to literally take all damn weekend.
And for what? So that Mr. Roberts could bitch at me some more using metaphors that I wasn’t even sure he’d understand if they were spoken to him? So that I could work eighty hours a week for what was probably coming out to five or six dollars an hour?
So that I’d not only have less time with Satan, but be producing something that could easily splinter us apart?
No.
Fuck that.
I wasn’t going to quit my job. I wasn’t going to deliberately get fired. There was a fine line between doing what I felt was right and being an unnecessary martyr in the process.
But I was going to make a documentary that demonstrated what I believed to be the truth.
