Stories That Have Broken You

Also late to the party, but here goes:

21: I couldn't do this if it required loathing what I wrote.

Not that I love or even like every story, but as I've said on other threads, this is a better gig than any other job out there, at least for me.

Fortunately, I've been doing this long enough that I no longer suffer from existential issues about whether this is a good use of my life or whether it's nothing more than tilting at metaphorical windmills. It's what I do, a big part of who I am and at the end of each night, sleep comes easily as a result.

On the rare occasions where I do manage to really nail it, yeah, it feels great.

But there have been stories that kicked my ass.

Years ago, we had a December day where seven different people in our coverage area committed suicide. I was on news side then and went to one location just as the EMTs were rolling out stretchers with a dead couple, both in their 60s, who had massively overdosed. Right as I got there, their daughter, a woman in her mid-30s, arrived. What do you say in a situation like that?

One Thanksgiving, an estranged husband showed up at his wife's family's house under the guise of wanting to bring some Christmas presents for his kids. He shot his wife and killed her, in front of their children. Then, he went after the rest of the family. His sister-in-law's boyfriend tried to stop him, and in the struggle, the father of the family shot them both dead, one on purpose, the other accidentally. Then the father had a heart attack.

The next day, I had to go interview the family matriarch, who had just lost her husband, her daughter and her other daughter's boyfriend.

Covering sports, by comparison, is a walk in the park.

 

I'm in my bedroom writing to you today. It's a sunny Sunday afternoon. There are things that need to be done, a Sunday drive through the countryside, mowing the grass, spring cleaning and frolicking. Instead, I'm numb to the core, the victim of something I'm not sure I can explain.

It was supposed to be a story about a high school kid who became the family's fifth Eagle Scout. I had a series of lame questions ready. I was prepared for some fluff about how Boy Scouts teaches morals and life skills, about how learning to build camp fires and shoot deer builds well-rounded adults.

What I got was something totally different. The phone call that set up today's meeting with Victor Belland had provided only one strange revelation. Victory's father is sick, very sick, and wasn't planning to be a part of my visit to his house. There was some mention of oxygen. Dad, though, spent 15 minutes telling about the wonderful world of scouting. He was witty and provided great color. He was quick to invite me to his house for the interview and photo session. He told me there was a Ford Freestar and an Excursion in the driveway, that I couldn't miss it. It sounded like your average family.

Today, though, everything was surreal. I rang the bell and waited. I heard some mild commotion. Then the door opened. I expected to see a grinning face and an outstretched hand. Instead, my vision tunneled its way through a cluttered foyer into a even more cluttered living room. I could see nobody for the first few seconds. Then a 50ish woman in a fire engine red sweatsuit bounded into view a good 15 feet from me. Obviously, she hadn't opened the door. "Hi," she said.

I wasn't sure whether this was an invitation to enter, but I saw no point in shouting a reply. So I shuffled through the doorway. That's when I noticed something moving behind the glass panes of the door. Slowly, as if afraid that the light might melt him, a teenage boy decked out in his Boy Scout shirt and pants emerged but didn't speak. His shirt was covered with various patches I knew to be awards for accomplishments. I searched him for some sign of what I was to do. Nothing. His face was expressionless, almost as if he were looking through me rather than at me.

"You must be Victor," I said. "Wow. You dressed up for me."

He nodded sheepishly and then said in a monotone, "Ya, but I didn't put on my shoes."

I looked down to find him barefooted.

"That's fine. I won't be taking pictures of your feet anyway," I responded.

He grinned. Then four seconds passed in silence.

"You must be the guy from the paper." It was the woman in red. "Come on in here."

Here? Where did she mean. I tried to force myself to neglect my peripheral vision. There were things everywhere. Tool boxes covered with cardboard boxes heaping with things I couldn't identify. I still didn't know where to go, but I walked forward and found the kitchen to my right. It was well-lit with a large bay window. It seemed to be our meeting place. So I paced into the room. Victor shot past me. Nobody indicated whether I was to sit, but I walked to the table and dropped my camera bag onto it. Victor went to the other side and took a seat. He still looked out of sorts.

There was a toddler in a high chair. The lady in red took a seat, her back to the table. "I'm Mary Jane," she said. "I guess you're talking to my back right now." She laughed. Suddenly, it seemed okay. There was a joke.

The first question went smoothly. How many scout meetings have you driven to at this point? Thousands, 360 per year. I didn't argue the math. Then I turned to Victor.

So, your the fifth brother to become an Eagle Scout, huh? That's quite an accomplishment. That's when things got weird. Victor almost never answered the question that I had asked. Instead, he went into some strange story about how bad things are going for him. He's been looking for a job, but he can't find one. He joined the football team, but he quit. The other football kids are calling him a "quitter."

This girl likes him, but she's only 15. He's 18. There's lots of drama at school. Some kids want to beat him up. Everyone pokes fun at him because he's in special classes. He wants to get his driver's license, but his mom says he needs to pay for the insurance and he can't. He doesn't need football. It's "just a team. I don't need to be a team." He doesn't have many guy friends, but he has a few friends who are girls. He tries to make friends, but everyone thinks he's gay. They say Boy Scouts is gay. He doesn't care. He plays video games. He thinks he might not be able to get a job because he's tardy a lot. He's trying not to be tardy so much. Some of his brothers are cool, but some are mean. He hates them.

I did get a funny story, one where his brother, the top scout in his group at the time, got out of a canoe to take a piss on a log. The log, it turns out, was an alligator. He didn't even have time to zip up. The gator and another followed them downstream. It's a great story. But he tells it in a monotome, with a straight face. There's no smile, no wrinkling of the eye brows, no hand gestures.

The whole time, Mary Jane interrupts, reminding Victor that he joined scouts because it "builds moral character." She can recite the entire Boy Scout manual, the scout code, the pledges. She knows the names of all of the badges. She's been doing this for 25 years, and it shows.

I'm out of questions after asking Victory who inspires him. I'm fishing. I'm expecting him to tell me about his dad, the person who's in the other room, the guy who is the reason there's an "oxygen in use" sign on the front door, the guy who helped five kids build pinewood derby racers, who went on camping trip after camping trip. But Victor doesn't mention him. Instead, he runs through a list of teachers he can't stand and notes one that he likes, a health teacher. "He tells me that drugs are bad."

"What about your parents?" He glares at his mom. Then he says they help a lot. His mom turns and smiles. When she turns back to the toddler, he screws up his face. It's the first real express I've seen him make, and it's not flattering. I sense deep resentment, and I can't blame him. After all, she'll later say that all she wants from him is a high school diploma and the Eagle Scout award. Of course, she rushes to cover the statement. "Well, the Eagle Scout thing isn't for me. It's for him. It might help him get a job."

On that job topic, I feel obligated to offer advice, options. I say that he might discover what he wants to do when he goes to college. He tells me he can't go. His degree is "special" and he says he won't qualify for regular college. His mom suddenly sounds hopeful. "But you could go to the junior college and then transfer." After hearing that he has a reading comprehension problem, I say that I only had to take a few English classes in college and one math class." Again, Mary Jane sounds hopeful. "Really? I thought you had to take a lot more for journalism." I explain that journalism is a separate department, part of the school of communications. They also have TV production. That's when she mentions that they have TV production at Victor's school. He says he tried to take it, but they wouldn't let him in. "They said it was filled up with the regular education kids."

At this point, I've lost all hope for Victor, and he seems to have done the same. He talks about how he'll have to go back to school tomorrow. He asks how many days until June 6, when summer vacation starts. He explains summer vacation, as he does most of what he discusses. He talks as if these things are new concepts to me, as if I've never heard of vacation. I count the days for him, throwing the 31 days in May together with six days in June and the last three days of April. His jaw drops. He can't believe there are that many days. He says he thought it was about 10 or 15. I note that those aren't all school days. He seems slightly relieved.

The door bell rings. It's a guy driving through the neighborhood. He wants to grind down two stumps in the yard. He's asking for $45. Mary Jane hollers to Victor. "He said $45 for both. Is that good, Victory?" He doesn't respond at first. "What's he doing to the stumps? What stumps?" Mary Jane says he's going to remove them. "How?" I tell him the guy will use a grinder. He acts like I'm speaking French.

I learn that Victor's brother introduced him to the guy rat lifestyle. Victor works out every day after school before coming home to play video games. I notice that he looks strong. His arms are nearly too big for the sleeves of his Boy Scout shirt. I figure he'd make a fair safety for the JV team or, at the least, a fifth-string linebacker.

We move on to discuss his project. Victor raised $2,000 and used it to purchase medical equipment, which he donated to the local VFW, which distributes it to needy individuals. Instead of telling me he raised money mowing lawns and through donations, he tells me he spent $2,000 of his own money.

Mary Jane pulls out his project folder. There's a photo of a truck stuffed to the rear with walkers, canes, crutches, shower chairs, special toilet seats. The conversation goes on much like it began. Then the door bell rings. It's the stump grinder. Mary Jane goes to the door. I ask Victor to go outside for a photo. He walks to the front door. I follow. There's a horrible smell. It smells like rotten hog shit. It's from the stump man. He talks, and it's obvious he's nearly illiterate. He says something to Victor about Boy Scouts, but Victor doesn't understand. I don't either. I take my pictures. I shake hands. I get the fuck out of that weird place. As I'm pulling out of the driveway, I spot one of dozens of stickers on the Expedition. It says, "certified sasquatch hunter."

I'm almost in a trance as I drive home. I consider Victor's options, weigh his chances. None of it looks good. I want to imagine him married with kids doing landscape work for $15 an hour. But I won't be surprised to hear he committed suicide hours after I left his house. I consider a Columbine-style spree, but I doubt he has the faculties to plan something so intricate.

On Monday, I'll write a bland story about a kid who became the fifth Eagle Scout in his family. I'll tell people the funny story about Joe and the alligator. People will be filled with joy as they hear about Victor's noble deeds. They'll declare a bright future for the planet.

The truth, the story I should tell, the one that truly matters, could haunt me for a lifetime. I wish it would fade out of my soul alongside this unexplainable numbness sometime this afternoon. I wish Victor would disintegrate as I sit down to watch the Big Brother finale tonight. I hate him. I hate Mary Jane. I understand none of it, and I need to understand all of it. And it scares me to the core.

 

It sounds like you ought to print out what you just wrote here, and tell your editor that this story is NOT what you, or anybody, thinks it is, or thought it would be, and can NOT be written that way. Even if it means the story may have to wait a while.

The story might be, and probably actually is, more than it appeared...but in a bad way. And if that's the case, you need to tell an editor that you'll have to do more as far as reporting this out. Or else not do it at all.

What's wrong with the kid? Why is he in special classes? There are so many unanswered questions and things that require more explanation here -- not having read your actual story, of course -- that there is obviously going to be more to any story than anybody first thought. At least, that is, if it's going to be done right.

You need to make all this clear to an editor, and find out what to do about it.

From the way you sound, I would not, at this point, write that story at all the way you or your editors first thought you would. It wouldn't be honest or complete, and in a sense, it wouldn't be accurate, if you do.

If I were you, I'd stand my ground, tell them my thoughts (or let them read my post) and then ask them if they understand what you mean, and then, what should you do from here?

It actually sounds like it could be a good story, but you'd have to get in deeper, get clear answers to a lot more questions, and understand all the nuances of the situation(s).

I think maybe you know this is what you should do. And I hope maybe this helps.

 

Re: A few posts above you'll find my own tale.

Here's the update:

I'm on vacation at my mom's house. There's no internet access here unless I head to the coffee shop. But Adrian managed to get a wireless signal from the neighbors. It was in and out. But I managed to check my e-mail. I saw a message titled "newspaper story." It got the juices flowing. I thought my best freelance client had a new assignment, which would have been a surprise considering the financial and reorganization issues.

It took me 20 minutes to open the message. When it did, I discovered an e-mail that made its way through the newspaper from the managing editor through two AMEs and down to the editor who assigned me the story on the Eagle Scout.

After some careful consideration, I decided to tell the story I felt in my gut. And I fretted over it. In fact, I bit my lip a few weeks ago when the kid's dad called me to ask for some copies of the photos. I worried that he didn't like the story and might think it reflected poorly on his son. After all, I told about the bullies at school, his learning disability, the whole deal.

His dad gave no indication that he was upset, excited or anything. He just seemed slightly uncomfortable talking to me.

So, back to the e-mail: The kid's father died last week, about 20 days since I sent him a link to the photos on my Flickr page. The news had me in tears. Then the whole world stopped. In the next sentence, the editor said his family put a copy of my story in the casket with him. I lost it.

For two days, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind. My emotions are a jumbled mess. Part of me is proud. Part of me is devastated. One minute my chest swells only cave in as my stomach starts to churn. I thought about writing the guy's name on one of my big rockets last night, but I worried that my friend's might think I was goofy.

I can tell you this. There is no Plan B for me. I'm a storyteller. It's all I've ever wanted to be, and it's the only thing that makes me happy.

I don't care that I have lost almost all of my clients and approximately $25,000 in annual income in the past year. I don't care that I don't even know how I'll pay my bills in six months. I'll find a way. I'll do whatever it takes. But I'll do it one story at a time.