I’m pursuing this entire career because I’m trying to learn how to say it different.
“My little brother, he’s had some struggles in life. With his mental health, I mean. Your posts, they meant a lot to him.”
I nod, my expression serious. Gentle, I hope. “Thanks for telling me that. He doing all right?”
“Yeah, he’s good these days. He won’t believe I saw you, oh man! He’s gonna be jealous.”
He wears an expression I recognize. He’s considering asking, and I’m going to spare him the trouble.
“You want to get a photo for him?”
The guy lights up.
“Would you?”
“Sure.” I slide out from the booth, trying not to look ruefully at my pancakes. They don’t really matter, not in the face of this. I know that stuff I said helped a good number of people, for all the people who ended up hating me for it.
“I’ll take it,” says Salem, holding out her hand for the guy’s phone. When I stand, he laughs a little, gets another one of thoseoh wows in. He’s maybe a head and a half shorter than me.
We stand together while Salem snaps a few photos, and then the guy swipes through them, deciding which one to send to his brother first. Somehow seeing those pictures seems to give him more confidence, and he’s got another favor to ask, wants to know if I’ll hop on the phone and say a quick hello to the brother. I do it, because the guy seems so genuine, and once he’s on the line, the brother’s so thrilled he can hardly form a complete sentence. It’s probably ten minutes before I get it all wrapped up—the call and the thank-yous that follow. I must say “No problem” and “Happy to do it” about twenty times before the guy finally walks away, shaking his head in cheerful disbelief and typing on his phone.
I cram myself back into the booth.
“Your pancakes are probably cold,” Salem says.
“That’s all right.”
But I admit. I’m bummed about the pancakes.
I try not to make a disappointed face as I chew, because I can tell Salem is watching me.
“You know,” she says, “it’s too bad the real Jess Greene isn’t a football fan.”
I do a closemouthed cough. It sounds guilty. Damn me for having that thought about how much shampoo she uses in the shower.
“Maybe that would’ve made her more amenable to our presence yesterday.”
I take a sip of my water, clear my throat. I guess I should take this as an opportunity to tell her my reservations, even if I’m worried about what she’ll think of me for it.
“I don’t think anything’s going to make her more amenable.”
“Oh yeah?”
There’s a doubtful tone to her voice. It makes me wonder if she’s already heard something from Jess Greene. But when I meet her eyes she shakes her head as if she can read my mind.
Then she makes a gesture with her hand, ago ongesture.
I set down my fork again.
“It seems risky. Our entry point into this was a teenager. The sister—that’s her guardian, I’m pretty sure—doesn’t want us around. Was hostile to having us around.”
Was hurt by having us around, I don’t add.
“This from the guy who . . . what’d your friend say?Flattenedpeople?” Salem says.
She’s teasing, but my ears heat up again. I don’t want her to think I’ve misunderstood one of the most fundamental things about the kind of journalism I want to do, and that’s that it takes tenacity, perseverance. More perseverance than flattening guys on a football field. More tenacity than sending out a series of scathing, off-the-cuff social media posts about the kind of shit that happened to your best friend on and off of that football field.
“It’s not really that. I know it’s important to push sometimes.”
