The Life and Times of H.B. Kershaw, part 1

By Philip

Harry’s alarm rang with a metallic tinge. It was placed strategically just out of reach so he’d be forced to get up to end its painful noise. The mechanical clock looked straight out of a classic movie. He’s had it since he was a kid and it never failed to wake him up no matter how late or hungover he was from the night before. With some difficulty he pulls himself out of bed and clumsily fumbles to press down on the pin to silence the noise. He squints as his eyes adjust to the darkness still about: 5:30 AM EST. 

That’s right. He had an appointment for his chemotherapy this morning before heading to the office. He could feel the nagging itching coming from under his skin. He resisted the urge to scratch. Before the diagnosis he had scratched at himself to the point of drawing faint blotches of blood as though one scratched a mosquito bite too vigorously. It was what pushed Harry to finally take an appointment to see the doctor. He was too busy working on a case where the Pentagon brass were aware of and suppressed the knowledge of the effects of Agent Orange on America’s own soldiers during Viet-Nam. At first he thought the source of the itch was purely mental, borne out of stress or sympathy from listening to the stories and observing the effects on the various vets he interviewed.

Harry dragged his feet to the bathroom and pulled at the chain to illuminate the tiny room. After the separation from Claire, he opted to rent an apartment downtown to be closer to his work. Growing up was a series of moving from one naval base to the next following his father’s career path until they finally settled down in Harry’s early teens. He never felt any longing for suburban life but followed along with his now estranged wife’s desires. She had kept the house from her previous marriage and so him moving in was the most practical solution. Gazing into the mirror was disheartening. Before his diagnosis he’d describe himself as tall and lanky. After losing about twenty pounds since the start of his cancer treatments, his ribcage was now visible beneath his skin. That is if you didn’t fixate on the brown splotches that were creeping in.

He washed his face and immediately reached for his razor but decided against it. Maybe the stubble could mask how gaunt he was becoming. Harry hoped he’d avoid some of the pity stares he’d get at the news desk. He knew he was sick. He didn’t need to be reminded every time someone looked at him. Harry went about his daily routine. He considered opting out of breakfast. He’d likely just puke it out anyway. He struggled to keep food down due to the chemotherapy. Instead he made himself some light toast with peanut butter since he’d need whatever calories he could get as he had a long day ahead of him. 

The early appointment allowed him to get to the office only an hour late. Harry didn’t need the extra aggravation from Leonard, his editor, for missing a good chunk of the newsday. When healthy, he’d march up the stairs to get to his 7th floor office but his condition confined him to the elevator. He smiled feebly at the other passengers who gave him “the stare” he’d grown to loathe. It did little to dissuade them but it worked occasionally to indicate to others to go on about their day. He nodded to a few colleagues he crossed paths with. “Can you believe the Caps lost again last night?” whined Deborah, the mail lady. He had listened to snippets of the game on the radio while driving to meet two of his sources. “Bondra is in a slump. He better turn things around.” He replied briefly before collecting an armful of newspapers. He made it a point to read what the competition was printing. He prided himself on sticking his nose to the grindstone and never being scooped. Sometimes it led him to places he shouldn’t have gone but that’s where the juiciest stories could be found.

He sat down at his desk with a groan. His age was catching up to him. There were three new messages on his office answering machine. He jotted down notes on a legal pad while he listened to the messages. Details he’d probably need for later investigations. Harry kept himself busy juggling anywhere from three to sometimes five leads at a time. Not all of them would pan out but keeping feelers out there was a big part of the job. Lately, during morning scrums he’d delegate some of the less promising work to the junior reporters when Leonard would allow it so they could earn some experience. He couldn’t help but feel the rest of the staff were all too eager to count him as dead and ready to move on without him. He might have one foot in the grave but he’s going to go down bringing as many corrupt individuals as he could alongside him!

Next he skimmed some of the articles in rival papers for any article of interest. Both local news but also the major outlets like the New York and LA times, even periodicals like USA Today, People Magazine and the like. Lately, a lot of reporting was centred around the outgoing Bush administration. There was never a lack of disgruntled staff who had an axe to grind about not being kept in the incoming White House, the President-Elect’s own people who were jockeying for positions, or getting ahead for any future bad news to blame on the previous admin. Both Bush and Clinton were at least cordial post-election. They both stepped up to voice the decision to bomb Baghdad after the dictator’s air force violated the interdiction zone. Harry sighed. The Iraqi people were the ones who were going to be the ones to bear the brunt of the pain.

Suddenly, he heard a knock on the door. The person didn’t wait for him to answer. “See Bea? He’s not dead yet. Kershaw! Make sure to keep the place clean though. Wouldn’t want the next person here to also get sick..” It was Bill Rickson, a fellow reporter at the Post. Harry would not describe him as a colleague though. Bill had it out for him the moment they met. 

“Don’t be an ass.” replied the woman next to him. It was Beatrice Molly. One of the secretaries. “They ordered pizza in the cafeteria. Just wanted to let you know if you’re up to it.” she added with a tinge of concern. Harry could use a pick me up, but his stomach was already churning. He was going to spend a while in the restroom regardless. “I’ll tag along.”

He grabbed his tweed jacket and joined the pair downstairs. Dozens of Dominos boxes were piled up, some already opened as it was self-serve. Harry grabbed the most plain looking slice he could find but the overpowering odor of processed cheese and whatever other cheap ingredients they used as a substitute was too much for his fragile stomach. Three bites in and he had to find a nearby trash can to expel it back out along with most of his undigested breakfast. 

He could feel the stares burrow into the back of his head at the sight of him being hunched over the can. He wished he could shrivel into a little ball and disappear. Eventually, someone handed him some napkins to wipe his mouth. He absent-mindedly accepted them with a pained nod and retreated back to his office with what little dignity he could preserve. 

He’d have stayed secluded there if not for the call into his editor’s office. With a resigned sigh, he made his way to the office labelled Downie, Jr in silver letterhead. Leo was a ball of nerves on a good day, but with a hair trigger temper. Rumors were abound of a poor home life as the editor didn’t keep any family photos or the like on his desk. After a faint knock, Harry addressed his boss. “You wanted to see me?” he was answered with a simple grunt and a dismissive hand wave at the chair in front of the desk.

The next hour was the typical back and forth the two men’s relationship had become. Leo trying to poke holes into every single story or lead Harry was chasing, and the latter having to defend himself and the credibility of his sources. Leo was very much an attack dog. He rose to editor in the wake of the “Johnny’s World” scandal where one of the former reporters for the Post made up an entire story about an 8 year old heroin addict. Even the famous Bob Woodward, an editor at the time, put his credibility on the line to defend the published article that earned the paper a Pullitzer. It was a humiliating affair when the award was rescinded. 

Their conversation was coming to a close when Leo uttered what everyone knew but was too timid to say. “You look like shit.” Harry shrunk slightly in his seat. He wasn’t ready for such a blunt statement and personal reproach. “If you aren’t going to be able to continue, let me know and we’ll put you on sick leave. Otherwise, I want everyone contributing their 100%. Is that clear?” Harry clenched his fists and simply nodded. He wanted to yell but after the scene in the cafeteria earlier, he didn’t want to start another one.

The rest of his work day involved following up on the messages from earlier and checking in with other sources. Some he’d meet later that very evening. One of the few advantages of his current state was that people seemed more open about sharing details with a walking deadman, at least off the record. Harry had never betrayed a source and doing so now didn’t cross his mind. He was resolute in making it through this. 

He got home just before 11 pm. He settled down with a more audible groan in the Lazy-Boy recliner in front of the 16 inch tv to listen to the local news. The chair was the only piece of furniture he took from his old home with his wife. The rest was bought used or already part of the apartment. His personal answering machine was blinking with several messages. He’d listen to them one at a time during the commercial breaks. His mother was calling him twice a day since sharing his diagnosis just to make sure he was ok. Her anxiety was contagious and only made him feel worse. Sometimes she’d pass the phone to his dad. He went on as if nothing was wrong which was comforting in a way. He’d call them back tomorrow at a more reasonable time. He drifted off to sleep in his chair shortly after the NHL and NBA highlights played.