In the years since he had started out as a reporter, Chris had learned that not everyone was willing to have their story told. And that was something that as a reporter he had to accept—but at the same time, he had to be willing to go great lengths to get a story. He was working the city beat—entertainment, culture, what some might like to call fluff, but he was determined to find something with a sharp enough angle to get people to pick up the section he was writing for.
Ellen was picking Tam up from school today. In the beginning, it had been difficult. He could barely look at him because he looked so much like her. To this day, a part of him still blamed himself for Kim’s death. It had taken the combined efforts of both Ellen and John to make him realize that he needed him, and so slowly he had begun the process of learning to be a father. A decade later, he was still learning.
He could never pretend to truly understand the hell Kim had gone through—the hell he had put her through—but he did understand how devoted she had been to their son. In a life that was plagued with so much guilt and so much pain, he was the reason he found the strength to get out of bed in the morning and battle his demons.
He stopped at the corner when he saw a commotion up ahead—a woman was passing out fliers, which a guy didn’t seem to like. Normal people would chalk it up to the reality of living in New York City, but reporters looked for a story in everything, and Chris was no exception. He held up his hands in surrender when she snapped at him. “I’m a journalist with The New York Times—I may not be sane, but I am curious as to what this is about.”
Of course. Of course she'd decide to flip out on the one person actually interested in her cause. Maureen couldn't help but laugh at herself slightly. Well, it wasn't like she had the best reputation when it came to the media, anyways. Just a few months ago, she had been protesting in front of one of the major newspapers, claiming that their biased reporting was causing the downfall of their nation. Newspapers didn't like that, interestingly enough.
But this man didn't know about that, and Maureen was willing to play nice for the moment. "I'm sorry, I just -- ah, it's been a long day. How about we start over?" She gave what she hoped was a winning smile, clasping her fliers to her chest in a pleading gesture. "I won't yell at you again, I promise."
She took a deep breath, then held out a flier. "To answer your question, I'm protesting the unfair demolition of a cultural fixture. They plan on tearing down this building to make room for a parking lot, and many residents of East Village are outraged." Maureen went into a shortened version of her usual spiel.
"If you wanted, we could sit somewhere for an interview ... If we stay out here too long, someone may throw their smoothie at us." She sounded as if she were speaking from experience. People could be very antagonistic, for apparently no reason. Standing on the streets for any extended period of time was something only a crazy person would do -- which was probably why Maureen made a living off of doing it.
