Chapter 1
I smiled as I heard her complaining. She had been accosted by a homeless man, wanting a few dollars for bus fare, and she felt so bad she had given him a five, only to see him go into a Seven Eleven and buy a pack of cigarettes. He came out tapping the pack, looked up, saw her, gave a sheepish grin, and walked down the street.
"Well, damn, Jen, what did you expect?" I asked, tired of her telling the story for the fifth time. "These guys are hustlers, mostly veterans of years of street living. They know how to work people, especially young, gullible women. Most times, anything you give them goes up in smoke, in their arm, or into a bottle. You really think you're helping?"
She gave me that stubborn look I'd come to know. "Yes, I think I'm helping. I have to believe that there's good in people. If I didn't, my world would be a little too grim."
"Like mine, you mean? I'm older than you, honey, seen more of the worst side of life than I hope you ever do in your lifetime. One thing I've learned is that people will sink to the lowest level very easily. Anything could trigger it. PTSD(I had a little knowledge of that), divorce, death of a loved one, bad accident, loss of employment, any traumatic event, the list is pretty long. You want to help these people? Give them directions to the nearest shelter or soup kitchen. If they're vets, send them to the closest VA center. The ones that actually want help will take you up on it, the ones that don't , well they just don't."
Jen was a recent college graduate, working at the entry level at our station, the lowest of the low. She was twenty-three, fresh faced, still viewing the world through innocent lenses. Middle class background, from a loving home, parents still together, with a lot of brothers and sisters. She wanted to make it in the broadcast world, become a star on national television. I didn't want to be the one to burst her bubble, but it took a lot of very hard work and more than a little luck to rise to the top, and a pragmatism she didn't have. The ones I had worked with, and there had been more than a few, were cast iron bitches who would cut the throat of anyone they viewed as a threat or obstacle on their way to the top. There were a few exceptions, and those didn't usually last long.
Me? I was a cameraman/producer. My training came from my Uncle. I was part of the green machine for six years, doing two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. I wasn't a rear echelon soldier, my job was to go out into the field, film everything as it happened, for training purposes and to cover their ass. It took a long time to learn to go into combat with a camera instead of a rifle, and I got a reputation of hanging in until the last round was fired.
The group I was with got into a pretty hot firefight three months before I was to rotate out of Iraq. It was a clever ambush, we were outgunned and outnumbered and it was really iffy for awhile. I filmed until it got too hot, then picked up an M4. I was completely out of rounds by the time help arrived, and was hand to hand with a pretty determined enemy. He shot me, not a major wound, before pulling his knife. A tactical mistake, his AK actually had a bayonet. He did manage to cut me long and deep, three times from my chest to just above my groin, before I clubbed him to death with the butt of my weapon. I refused to leave the field until I retrieved my camera. I got a purple heart, a bronze star, a trip to Ramstein for treatment, and was shipped home for a year.
Then they sent me to Afghanistan, with a plum assignment. I was attached to a Colonel, to film progress being made rebuilding schools and hospitals. My commander was a pretty no nonsense type a guy, and when he found that for every dollar in aid our government gave them for these projects, only about twenty cents actually went to building and repair, he was pretty pissed. The rest was taken as fees by the government and local tribal leaders. When he filed a report, the powers that be in the country ordered him to cease and desist.
The Colonel was actually retired but they called him back for this project. One night we found ourselves alone, and he casually asked if I still had friends among the network people I had worked with on occasion, someone who could be depended on to hold a confidence. I did, and soon one of the field producers bought some papers from a local, and blew the whistle on the corruption prevalent in the new regime. Popular theory was the local had stolen it while we were in transit from one village to another. Of course everyone knew what happened, but they couldn't prove anything. The did send the Colonel back into retirement, publically praising him for discovering the corruption, but not before we were ambushed. We were supposed to be well behind the combat line. It was blamed on the Taliban, but I recognized some of the bodies as workers for the corrupt contractor that lost his business. I got a couple more tin pieces to embellish my tunic, as did our driver, a woman who had never seen combat but was incredibly cool under duress, and a wickedly accurate shot. Between us we got everyone out of the vehicles and treated the wounded as best we could. The colonel was a tough old bird, firing his sidearm and cursing our attackers as I treated his leg. He got a limp for the rest of his life, and a triumphant return when he got stateside.
I was rotated home and spent the rest of my time editing footage from the fronts. Some pieces were released to the public, other footage used for training and analysis. They didn't try very hard to get me to reenlist, and I was hired by a major network the day after I mustered out.
It paid well, and they sent me all over the world for another three years, usually war torn countries where the dangers were very real. I got shot in some hellhole African country, and when I recovered I told my bosses my war days were behind me. They grumbled, but sent me home. I settled here, at a station that didn't serve a large market. The pay wasn't the best, but the atmosphere appealed to me. And when it came down to it, I was pretty good at getting everything I could out of any assignment, and the piece often went in directions the station never saw coming. I even won two regional Emmys, which led to more offers from the networks. Not a chance.
My lifestyle didn't allow me much of a love life, so at thirty one I was still single. I dated, had sex pretty often, but found no one that held my attention for more than a month. I was beginning to think bachelorhood would be permanent.
Jen had that attractive mixed race thing going. Her father was half white and half Korean and her mother was Hispanic. The races mixed really well, she had flawless light brown skin, a riot of jet black curls that stopped just above her shoulders, and almost almond shaped eyes. She could shake her head and it would take almost a minute before her curls stopped quaking. Everybody from the interns to the evening anchor took a run at her, and she turned them down to a man. And in a couple of cases, to a woman. I was the only one who didn't pursue her, so naturally she wanted to know why.
"You're attractive beyond words, Jen, but you're twenty-three and on your way up, if you work hard and get lucky. I'm thirty-one, and exactly where I want to be right now. It would be cruel for us to get together, then have you move up or find someone who knocks you off your feet. Best we stay friends."
Chapter 2
I worked a lot of weekends because I was single and didn't mind, letting the married guys be home with their families. Jen worked mostly weekends, stuck in what I called the "Weekend Ghetto". I once pointed out to the station manager that the entire Saturday lineup was all female and completely minorities. He nearly had a heart attack, thinking of the possible lawsuits, and scrambled to get white males in for Sunday. After he chewed the weekend producer a new anal orifice, a better balance was achieved, and Jen got to do a few things during the week.
If there was any hint of possible confrontation, I was the automatic producer/cameraman of choice, especially if the reporter was female, because of my military background and physical size. There had been a few incidents in the past, once during a protest sparked by an interracial shooting that turned into a small riot, another at a demostration over illegal immigration, and the most intense came while we did a field interview with a group of vets who were having trouble receiving benefits in a timely manner.
A bunch of them were suffering from PTSD, and were already dancing on the edge. One guy lost it, and got into Jen's face. I stepped from behind the tripod and got between them. "Chill, brother. How much help you think you'd get in jail? She has no idea what you went through, and believe it or not, we're trying to help."
My size and the way I held myself seemed to calm him. "You were there?"
I sighed. "Yeah, I was there. Iraq and Afghanistan. Sucked both times."
The man lost it, and fell sobbing into my arms. "Sorry, man. Ma'am, I didn't meant to scare you. I lost my job because of my PTSD. We couldn't afford the mortgage, and lost the house. My wife left, took my kid, because she was afraid to be around me. Sadly, it was the right thing for her to do. I'm living on the street now, got nowhere else to go."
