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The Saddest Story I Never Wrote
October 17, 2006It was the end of a long, terrible day filled with thugs, standoffish cops, madness and mayhem.
Nothing unusual.
That's the life of a cop reporter, but the very last call on the scanner turned out to be the worst crime of all.
It was a hot summer Sunday in the 90s, and I'd spent it running around as fast as my ailing car would go.
In the space of less than eight hours, I'd covered a homicide, a stabbing, a robbery, a car wreck and two fires. And that's not counting dry runs for things that turned out to be nothing.
Soon, I was driving around a nice residential neighborhood in Wichita Falls, looking for an address in the dark.
I finally found it and walked up to an officer I knew who was leaning against a patrol car in front of the house. He was one of the few who was consistently friendly and courteous.
Cops, in case you didn't know, don't usually like to talk to reporters. Or at least they like to give that impression.
I asked him what was going on, and he explained that a teenager had shot and killed himself, apparently upset over a breakup with a girlfriend.
Suicides usually go unreported in newspapers, but there are really no hard and fast rules.
I called the office, and the editor took a pass on a story.
That meant I was basically done. Finally, I had time to think about the day.
I saw someone walk quietly into the darkened house where the boy had lived and died. A deep silence had settled in around the block.
I turned around and walked away, feeling the weight of the day.
One of the things that drives me as a reporter is being able to -- sometimes finally -- know the whole story. I always want to know why.
I'd never know that in this case, but maybe that was a gift, a mercy.
For once, I didn't have to ask the hard questions. No doubt, somebody else already was.
Posted by Trish Choate at 01:09 PM | Permalink
"Drive" On
October 13, 2006WASHINGTON -- Sometimes the best writing is a mixture of pleasure and pain that changes things in your skull on a permanent basis.
You can't forget it. You don't want to.
The rush of great writing long ago made me into a junkie scrounging for fix.
"Drive" is the last book that got me tripping something fierce, hypnotized by the story but howling internally in anticipation of the bad ending that just had to be coming.
Littered with good bookstores, D.C. is a book lover's dream.
But Kramerbooks & Afterwords Cafe & Grill at Dupont Circle seems like it's got my demographic.
I was poking around the mystery section there last week, trying to decide if I wanted to spring for another George Pelecanos book since "Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go" had made the grade.
A few books down, a woman plucked William Gibson's "Neuromancer" off the shelf and waved it in a guy's face.
"I never read stuff like this, but someone told me this was really good, so I did. And you just can't believe someone can be so creative. It's a great book," she said.
"I don't usually read books like that," the guy said, wrinkling his nose like a bad smell was in the room.
I guess that means books some might refer to as so-called "low culture" because they weren't written by say, Dickens, Shakespeare or even Twain.
I felt sorry for that guy at the bookstore. I really did. I've spent half a lifetime trying to catch up on the low culture I missed while slaving away as an English major in college, reading "To the Lighthouse" and Emily Dickenson's oft twisted musings.
That meant I knew nothing of Stephen King's "The Stand," Poppy Z. Brite's "Lost Souls," Susanna Moore's "In the Cut" and dozens of others who've since enriched my life.
I don't regret that I'm formally schooled in high culture one bit. Just the other day, I snagged a new book of ee cummings poetry.
I just wish this attitude of "it's gotta be one or the other" would get off the bookshelf.
Some of the coolest, best writing percolates between the covers of popular fiction -- and nonfiction.
"Neuromancer" is a book to be devoured. The writing shines with a poetic flair, and Gibson's imagination fuels the story. It's basically a sad story. I often try to avoid sad stories in the written word or at the movies because I've seen enough misery.
But I couldn't stop reading "Neuromancer." I was hooked from the first taste.
In Kramerbooks, I turned away from the poor sot who was too much of a literary snob to dig into the cyberpunk classic.
My hand found a slick paperback by James Sallis with "Drive" on the front.
And I went for a ride.
I read the whole thing in about four hours. It's a masterpiece of noir crime fiction about a guy called Driver with a really crappy childhood who turned out pretty good -- considering.
He drives for a living, first as a stunt driver and then more and more as a crook.
You know a writer's rocking if he gets you rooting wholeheartedly for someone who's an unabashed criminal you wouldn't want to meet in an alley, light or dark.
But heck, Driver's really a pretty good guy, even likeable, except for a laundry list of crimes against man and society.
But that's the thing.
Driver is a fleshed-out character, so when the blood starts flowing, you understand why.
Not that you approve of it.
But you understand.
Sallis has a clean, fast style that stays away from being a caricature of Raymond Chandler.
"Drive" is a soaring piece of low culture.
Posted by Trish Choate at 12:37 PM | Permalink
Sundays in the City
October 09, 2006Massive crush of ruthless commuters. Relentless wail of sirens. Plethora of seemingly sharpened elbows, carelessly swung briefcases and irritatingly rude people.
That's Monday through Friday.
But Sundays are different in D.C.
Getting up and at 'em in the morning sometimes brings a momentary feeling of dread.
I'll have to hurry up, get up, get ready, dash to the bus stop, look at my watch a dozen times in 10 minutes, hustle on to the bus, jump off and join the rush-hour crowd for the final sprint to the office.
More than one person I've come across here has referred to "the rat race." I guess that must be the feeling sometimes that you're one of thousands scrambling for the cheese.
The truth is, the energy of the D.C. is exhilirating.
I love being able to turn my head once and see dozens of people of all races and creeds, dressed to kill or to thrill and speaking a quartet of languages. It's fascinating to see what they do and say, and they're rarely rude actually.
The worst incident I've seen was near Dupont Circle when a passenger jumped out of a cab and screamed profanities at another cab that was blocking the street.
Of course, my relatives from Texas were down for the week, and they saw the whole confrontation. But that's not business as usual in Northwest D.C.
There are days -- often Monday -- that I'd just as soon skip the whole rush, rush, rush thing.
Maybe that's because I've just had a D.C. Sunday.
Sundays are the days when the subway cars are often nearly empty. Stores aren't crowded. Relaxation is written on every face bent over a newspaper at the Cosi near the Dupont Station South Metro Station. And an afternoon indie movie at the Dupont is just a few steps away.
It seems like even the leaves on the trees relax and take a breather.
The biggest crowd is at the farmers market at Dupont Circle where yuppies, students and interns line up for everything from fresh goat's cheese to orange, yellow and purple gladiolas plopped in buckets of water.
I tell myself it's OK to walk slower. I have to do this several times a day on Sundays.
If I have to go downtown to grab something at the office, I notice the streets are blissfully empty, and I might duck into a news stand on Farragut Square with papers from all over and magazines galore.
That's heaven.
If the sun is out, the bums in the park drowse on benches while pigeons scour the ground underneath them for crumbs.
Adults and children sit on blankets with ice chests nearby.
Everyone's gotten a time out from the rat race -- at least for Sunday.
Posted by Trish Choate at 04:23 PM | Permalink
Senator!
October 05, 2006Walking, talking, screaming, galloping, jostling, rude cliches roam Capital Hill.
They're called journalists, and, after a dash to the elevators and virtual shouting match, I'm fully initiated into the MO.
I went on a stake out not too long ago, but forget that image of two plain-clothes cops hunkered down in an unmarked car, stale doughnouts on the dash and coffee stains on their shirts.
For one thing, I was joined by about 30 or 40 other journalists -- all gabbing loudly and milling around. We were staking out members of Congress in a hallway outside the Senate near the Ohio Clock.
The Ohio Clock is a big grandfather clock that's such a landmark that members of Congress reference it in their press releases, as in: Senator Blabbity Blah will participate in a stakeout by the Ohio Clock.
This time, Texas Sen. John Cornyn had announced he was going to participate, so I had made the long journey by Metro and foot to be there. I needed to ask him a question for a story I was working on, and inside sources -- i.e. his esteemed press secretary, Mr. John Drogin -- had told me that could be a good time to catch him.
Luckily, Cornyn isn't one of those members who blends in with the crowd. A sharp dresser, he's also got a head full of silvery hair surrounding -- naturally -- a youthful face. So I figured I'd be able to spot him and zero in for my questions.
I joined the crowd of journalists in the hallway outside the Senate and noticed a velvet rope in front of us. Apparently, we were supposed to stay behind this rope.
Some policemen were glaring at the crowd of unruly journalists, sometimes stepping forward to shoo an unintimidated reporter back behind the rope. I kinda felt sorry for them. It must have been like herding cats.
I managed to position myself in the front so I could spot Cornyn when he strode by. Otherwise all those darn tall people would block my view. It's not easy being a short reporter in Washington. It's a heightist world.
A woman I'd never seen before told me she was looking for a certain member and to let her know if I saw him. She was brand new and wasn't sure what he looked like.
I told her I was brand new, too, and had no idea what her guy looked like, either. Also, turned out she had no idea what Cornyn looked like.
But we still made a pact to alert each other should we see our objectives pacing congressionally down the corridor.
I drifted to the back to talk to someone. When I looked up, my prime position was taken by some other reporter, and I couldn't see anything. Suddenly, Margaret Thatcher swept by with Texas Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison.
At least, that's what the very tall man standing by me said. All I saw were heads turning and the flash of several cameras. I didn't even get to see the top of the former British PM's hairdo.
I elbowed my way to the front to wait and got scared when a knot of reporters, about five deep, suddenly formed. It was impossible to tell who they were interviewing in the middle of the crowd. I asked the other newbie if she knew. We established that neither of us did.
I clung to the velvet rope, feeling a little sick to my stomach that they might be getting all sorts of fantastic information from Cornyn while I stood by.
However, he didn't appear for quite a while. Cameras were setting up nearby for a press conference where the Republicans were going to claim Democrats didn't give a fig for national security, etc.
By the time I figured this out, another gaggle of reporters had gathered over there. Cornyn seemed to suddenly appear with some other Repubs. They griped about the Dems for awhile. Cornyn said a piece, and in the few minutes he was speaking, about 15 reporters appeared beside him. As soon as he finished, the shouting started: Senator! Senator! Senator!
It was a sort of surround-sound effect not unlike the movies about earthquakes I saw when I was kid, the ones that had those special sound effects to make you feel like you were in the earthquake, too.
I didn't see any point in trying to ask him something right then.
After answering some questions, he turned to head for the elevators, and I leapt. I dashed after him. The playing field had narrowed to about four reporters by then, including me. I figured I could get something.
Clutching my tape recorder in my hand, I stayed right on his heels until he stopped and turned at the elevator. He answered rapid-fire questions about national issues while I stood there, thinking that I had come all this way for nada.
That's when I fired up my reporter determination. He was still finishing up answering a reporter's question, but I walked over his answer and yelled my question in his face, fueled by a powerful mix of adrenaline and desperation.
Apparently, the question made some sense because he gave me an answer while I stuck my recorder up in his face. I'm not sure if I've ever felt more rude, even when appearing on doorsteps of recent crime victims.
At least then I could speak softly and calmly and say, "Well, thank you, anyway" if they didn't want to talk.
This was different. It was reporter war. I had to take that hill or at least this one spot on Capitol Hill.
I got my answer. It was maybe two sentences, and it only took me about two and a half hours to obtain my objective, including travel time.
But I've realized that if I didn't speak up on Capitol Hill -- run, yell, do what it takes -- for the readers of the four newspapers in Wichita Falls, San Angelo, Corpus Christi and Abilene who decided to send me to Washington, then there's a chance nobody will.
Plus, I like having a job.
After my extremely rude interruption of his answer, Cornyn turned to the reporter I'd stolen him from for a few seconds, "Linda, do you have any other questions?"
Someday, I hope to be the Linda in that situation.
Until then, I guess I'll just have to be rude.
Posted by Trish Choate at 12:24 PM | Permalink
