Part 1 - Pre 2/28, Chapter 2b
Now to find a suitable interviewee for Nik.
Heading out into the parking lot where a lot of fans were celebrating, Corey found his pace quickening. This was the part of his job that he enjoyed the most, the interaction with the fans. Sometimes, when he was dead drunk and alone, Corey would feel guilty about the pleasure he derived from this part of the job. On those nights, his demons crept out from the darkest recesses of his consciousness to plague him with thoughts of inadequacy.
After all, he had done nothing to get the admiration and affection of the fans, except present them with the illusion that they were closer to the organization than they actually were.
It were opportunities like this that made the illusion so much easier. By having Nik interview three or four fans, ask them questions about their thoughts on the game or the starters, the fans would feel represented and heard.
Corey got to the parking lot and stopped to breathe in the barbeque fumes coming from the many grills. Was that lamb he smelled?
His appearance caused a little stir among the closest fans. Recognizing him, some fans nudged others and soon most within sight were aware that the Acting Liaison to the Fans was amongst them. He walked confidantly to the nearest set with the thought in mind that each sentence he uttered would be a screen test of sorts. Swiftly, he eliminated almost all he encountered.
Most he got rid of because they were so drunk to the point of near incomprehension, followed by moments of uncontrolled guffawing that a five second interview would be too long. Some seemed more out to gain glory for themselves like in telling him who has succeeded his father at the Center Defender position since he retired, in consecutive order then alphabetically. Some had the personality of sodden uniforms and some had such combative ones he thought about recommending them for "target dummies", people who pay for both the offense and defense to practice tackling on.
Quiet, he told himself. He mustn't slip. Some insider words just weren't meant for the public, words like "target dummy." By the time he got to where Jimmie and Stace were tossing back a few with some of the regulars, he had a grand total of two candidates for Nik to interview.
"Hiho, Corey!" came the greeting from several folks.
"Hiho back." He gratefully accepted a beer that was outstretched to him by the nearest fan. He then passed the bonfire raging inside a metal barrel, wondering how the heck so many barrels were produced each game. By the time he would came to work the next morning, the parking lot would be bereft of most things. He gave a good squeeze to Stace and then settled between Jimmie and Stace. Clinking cans with Jimmie, they hollered, "RAYDARS RULE" before taking large swigs.
Stace rolled her eyes at the two of them. Corey shrugged and said, "Old habits." Jimmie was definitely drunker than most now, but the most amazing thing occured to Corey. He realized that the more drunk Jimmie was, the more coherent and cohesive his breakdowns of the game was.
"... kept scorin', makin'games of it. Nah, it ain't ta see who cud aim fer da center y'know? Nah, they'd be aimin' for the edges man. Edges, can ya see it? Now THAT's the way ta demoralize the enemy, to be usin' them as target dummies. Don't shoot me them thar look, Corey. T'aint no one in the world who don't know that you guys call 'em that. Hell, we call 'em that. Why not? Those suckers ain't never be listening to us no how. See, it t'aint jes the shooters who'll be improvin' man. It'll be them protectors, too. I mean, didya see #33 nearly get walloped in the head? Thank Shon that Walker's peripheral vision exceeds 55°."
"Hey Jimmie, Jimmie. Jimmie! Slow down -"
"... d'fense kept - Huh?"
"- How'd you like to be on either the radio or TV?"
*SNORT* was his response in many directions.
"Serious, JImmie. You've got some strong opinions and well, you're good at this. So, c'mon."
Jimmie shuffled his feet, then shyly looked over at his aunt. Was Jimmie looking for approval or permission? Corey couldn't figure it out. Stace chuckled, and said in her backwards complimenting way, "Why not? It'll give you a chance to prove everybody wrong about you."
It seemed to Corey that Jimmie stood straighter at that suggestion. Having known Jimmie practically all his life, Corey had always thought it weird that Stace seemed to dare Jimmie either do better or fuck up, depending on how you interpreted her comments. Perhaps that was why if Stace ever bestowed upon you a direct compliment, you'd better sit up and pay attention. They were heard rarely, like a hermit thrush's mating call in winter.
Once, after a drunken mob had nearly rioted after a humiliating loss to the Hunting Royals and Corey had managed to defuse the situation with the help of free bread and Jimmie's fireworks, Stace had whispered "Good job" in Corey's ear as she passed him on her way home. The euphoria kept Corey buzzing for two months.
"S'right, Ah'll do it. Sign me up, Core, or do Ah need ta sign on a dotted line somehere?"
"Don't worry about anything Jimmie, I'll have Nik's people call you."
"Manticore Ray West, are ya shittin' me? NIK BLOOM? Ah'm gonna be talking with ol' Nik himself?"
Corey glared at Jimmie, hating the use of his full name which few people knew. Abruptly he got up, almost regretting his decision but ultimately feeling like this could be one of the most fortuitous decisions he'd ever made in his career. "I have to go meet my sister now, but thanks for doing this." Corey hoped he managed to sound sincere. He really WAS grateful; however, Jimmie's little immature jokes could sometimes be, well, annoying.
Heading out into the parking lot where a lot of fans were celebrating, Corey found his pace quickening. This was the part of his job that he enjoyed the most, the interaction with the fans. Sometimes, when he was dead drunk and alone, Corey would feel guilty about the pleasure he derived from this part of the job. On those nights, his demons crept out from the darkest recesses of his consciousness to plague him with thoughts of inadequacy.
After all, he had done nothing to get the admiration and affection of the fans, except present them with the illusion that they were closer to the organization than they actually were.
It were opportunities like this that made the illusion so much easier. By having Nik interview three or four fans, ask them questions about their thoughts on the game or the starters, the fans would feel represented and heard.
Corey got to the parking lot and stopped to breathe in the barbeque fumes coming from the many grills. Was that lamb he smelled?
His appearance caused a little stir among the closest fans. Recognizing him, some fans nudged others and soon most within sight were aware that the Acting Liaison to the Fans was amongst them. He walked confidantly to the nearest set with the thought in mind that each sentence he uttered would be a screen test of sorts. Swiftly, he eliminated almost all he encountered.
Most he got rid of because they were so drunk to the point of near incomprehension, followed by moments of uncontrolled guffawing that a five second interview would be too long. Some seemed more out to gain glory for themselves like in telling him who has succeeded his father at the Center Defender position since he retired, in consecutive order then alphabetically. Some had the personality of sodden uniforms and some had such combative ones he thought about recommending them for "target dummies", people who pay for both the offense and defense to practice tackling on.
Quiet, he told himself. He mustn't slip. Some insider words just weren't meant for the public, words like "target dummy." By the time he got to where Jimmie and Stace were tossing back a few with some of the regulars, he had a grand total of two candidates for Nik to interview.
"Hiho, Corey!" came the greeting from several folks.
"Hiho back." He gratefully accepted a beer that was outstretched to him by the nearest fan. He then passed the bonfire raging inside a metal barrel, wondering how the heck so many barrels were produced each game. By the time he would came to work the next morning, the parking lot would be bereft of most things. He gave a good squeeze to Stace and then settled between Jimmie and Stace. Clinking cans with Jimmie, they hollered, "RAYDARS RULE" before taking large swigs.
Stace rolled her eyes at the two of them. Corey shrugged and said, "Old habits." Jimmie was definitely drunker than most now, but the most amazing thing occured to Corey. He realized that the more drunk Jimmie was, the more coherent and cohesive his breakdowns of the game was.
"... kept scorin', makin'games of it. Nah, it ain't ta see who cud aim fer da center y'know? Nah, they'd be aimin' for the edges man. Edges, can ya see it? Now THAT's the way ta demoralize the enemy, to be usin' them as target dummies. Don't shoot me them thar look, Corey. T'aint no one in the world who don't know that you guys call 'em that. Hell, we call 'em that. Why not? Those suckers ain't never be listening to us no how. See, it t'aint jes the shooters who'll be improvin' man. It'll be them protectors, too. I mean, didya see #33 nearly get walloped in the head? Thank Shon that Walker's peripheral vision exceeds 55°."
"Hey Jimmie, Jimmie. Jimmie! Slow down -"
"... d'fense kept - Huh?"
"- How'd you like to be on either the radio or TV?"
*SNORT* was his response in many directions.
"Serious, JImmie. You've got some strong opinions and well, you're good at this. So, c'mon."
Jimmie shuffled his feet, then shyly looked over at his aunt. Was Jimmie looking for approval or permission? Corey couldn't figure it out. Stace chuckled, and said in her backwards complimenting way, "Why not? It'll give you a chance to prove everybody wrong about you."
It seemed to Corey that Jimmie stood straighter at that suggestion. Having known Jimmie practically all his life, Corey had always thought it weird that Stace seemed to dare Jimmie either do better or fuck up, depending on how you interpreted her comments. Perhaps that was why if Stace ever bestowed upon you a direct compliment, you'd better sit up and pay attention. They were heard rarely, like a hermit thrush's mating call in winter.
Once, after a drunken mob had nearly rioted after a humiliating loss to the Hunting Royals and Corey had managed to defuse the situation with the help of free bread and Jimmie's fireworks, Stace had whispered "Good job" in Corey's ear as she passed him on her way home. The euphoria kept Corey buzzing for two months.
"S'right, Ah'll do it. Sign me up, Core, or do Ah need ta sign on a dotted line somehere?"
"Don't worry about anything Jimmie, I'll have Nik's people call you."
"Manticore Ray West, are ya shittin' me? NIK BLOOM? Ah'm gonna be talking with ol' Nik himself?"
Corey glared at Jimmie, hating the use of his full name which few people knew. Abruptly he got up, almost regretting his decision but ultimately feeling like this could be one of the most fortuitous decisions he'd ever made in his career. "I have to go meet my sister now, but thanks for doing this." Corey hoped he managed to sound sincere. He really WAS grateful; however, Jimmie's little immature jokes could sometimes be, well, annoying.
posted by resigned idealist at 10:45 PM
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