“Okay.” Said with some obvious trepidation.
“I have a point.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I got a job reporting for a local radio station. And I enjoyed it enough—but I wanted more of a challenge. So I took the plunge and went back to school to do a Master’s degree.”
“Well, that’s cool.” Although he was still eyeing me.
“I thought having the letters after my name would open more doors. That didn’t exactly happen.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. But I was determined and I kept pursuing all avenues. Newspaper and magazines—along with television, obviously—were still the main ways of reporting. Internet journalism’s much bigger now. But I thought the way to legitimacy was through legacy media.”
“Right.” He rubbed his forehead.
“Eventually I landed a job at the Sun.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?”
“Yes. But I worried it might not’ve been for the right reasons.”
“Ah. Because of your skin color rather than your writing abilities?”
“Precisely.” I rose and walked over to the window. “Stupid, right? I was a damn good journalist. Impeccable credentials. Several writing awards. Little stuff, but it all added up, you know?
“I do. Guys like Marlon, who get in because of nepotism? They should be working twice as hard to prove they earned their spot and it’s not just because of who they know.”
“Exactly. I was put on the metro desk. I started out doing little human-interest stories. Slowly, I made a name for myself. I got a couple of big scoops and broke a scandal involving a city counselor.” I swallowed. “Accolades came. I got recognition for the work I was doing. And I still did stories about my old neighborhood—”
“Which neighborhood?”
I didn’t turn to face him. “Downtown Eastside.”
“Ah.” He didn’t have to say more. The poorest urban neighborhood in Canada. Extreme poverty butting up against extreme wealth. Crossing Cambie Street heading westward was like entering a new universe. Plenty of poverty existed in Canada—which was a travesty in and of itself. Indigenous communities suffered the greatest inequality—both on and off reserve. Another horrendous truth the country had truly to grapple with.
And if one wanted to find the most destitute in Vancouver, one went to the Downtown Eastside.
“I tried to separate myself from my past, you know? Even as I wrote stories about my old neighborhood. I wanted to prove I was—” I flailed my hand about.
“I get it.”
Since I didn’t want to say out loud the tumult in my mind, I just kept going. “One day I was approached by a guy from my old neighborhood. Someone I’d known. Someone I’d known to steer clear of.”
“Okay.”
I rubbed my face. “He had a really good scoop. A politician on the take. Lots of proof, too. He was willing to show me all of it.”
“Just like that?”
“My exact reaction. Everyone wants something. But I couldn’t figure out his angle. I didn’t have money to give him. He didn’t want his name in the papers, so fame wasn’t his aim either. He claimed he was doing it for the greater good. To better society.”
“Ulysses?”
I turned to face Finn. “Yeah?”
“Too good to be true?”
