It's complicated and yet it should be simple. All I want from him is what he just gave me. I thought that it was a two-way street. I thought we had a deal. Just fucking, nothing more. It can't ever be anything more, not for me.
He's too close, too accessible, physically at least. How could I have known when I bought my condo that he lived seven floors below in the same building?
We worked together for about a year after I moved east to Toronto. I joined the station as a producer. He was already there as talent, but when I met him he wasn't happy. The thing is, he had real chops as a journalist, but they didn't see it. According to him they hired him to do the real job but then they reneged and made him just read the news, be another pretty boy TV news guy.
Eventually they relented, let him do a story, but only if he worked with me. I had barely two years in the business and he had almost ten. I'm supposed to keep him on the leash? So there was that tension right from the start. For about a month we worked very closely on a story about the trouble among young, male Ethiopian immigrants. The kids were getting in over their heads in the drug trade, playing with the big boys and they were getting killed.
He was good to work with, better at interviewing than I am, not as good at finding the leads and angles. He and I fought about things on the story. It got loud sometimes, but it was never personal. It was always, always about getting the best out of the story. We laughed too. He accused me of being cynical and hard-bitten, and he told me so, directly, like it was his matter-of-fact observation. I found him arrogant and self-centred. With him it was always I did this, I did that, me, me, me. He looked at his reflection too much. I told him that, too, and he said that he knew that already. But there was no doubt he knew how to get the story and how to present it. You don't have to like someone to respect what they can do.
We spent a lot of time together mostly on the clock but sometimes off. We'd get together, grab a meal, nothing fancy. I'd run into him in the elevator. If it was on the way down we'd talk about where we were going, what we were doing. Sometimes we'd be headed in the same direction so we'd walk together. I guess we were an eye-catching couple, except that we weren't a couple. On the sidewalk people coming toward us would check us both out, him because he is on their TV every night and me because, well, it was mostly guys checking me out. I'm used to that.
One time I was headed out for a run. The elevator stopped at his floor and he got on in his running clothes. We laughed about that, but I usually ran by myself to set my own pace. This time we ran together, along the lakeshore. On the path it can get crowded so one time he fell behind me to make way for on-coming runners. When there was room again he stayed behind me, longer than he needed. I didn't stop but I slowed down so he'd have to catch up.
"You checking out my ass?" I asked when he'd caught up. I wasn't flirting.
"Nice," he said without looking at me. He didn't like the question? Thought it was crass? He wasn't interested? Or maybe he really was looking at my as liked what he saw.
It was friendly enough with him, but I wouldn't say we were that close, more like neighbours. Other than work we didn't share our life stories or anecdotes, and there wasn't ever any deep personal interest, no intimate disclosures or affection between us. It wasn't about that.
And yet, it was strangely exhilarating to be with him, like being on a knife edge. He had a quick mind and was well-read, smart. I had to be on my game every second. There always was this feeling of excitement, and I had to make sure I was never putting out anything less than my very best with him.
