The Crossover Page 15

  Steve Bracy Studios

  I had to get up at the crack of dawn to be at the studio on time. I didn’t know it was a morning show. At 4:30 in the morning the studio was hiving. Behind the scenes there were dozens of staff scurrying about and running into each other to support the show. I quickly learned there was a pecking order in television broadcasting.

  TV Producers

  TV Personalities and celebrity guests

  Everyone else

  It seemed if you didn’t belong in the first two groups you were a nobody. The caterers got the least respect and were almost invisible. Everyone on set had perfect hair, cosmetic surgery in one form or another and were dressed to the nines. They were treated like royalty.

  I saw Steve Bracy walk in to the studio with his entourage. He was just over six feet tall, dark-colored, curly, gelled hair and a massive attitude. He didn’t dignify his staff with verbal commands, he made a lot of hand gestures and snapping of the fingers. He had a large poster of himself on the rear wall in his wardrobe room. I later found out Steve Bracy also was a co-anchor on the Six o’clock News.

  I sat outside the producer’s office in the waiting area. It was chaos and I felt out of place, until an old Japanese woman dressed in a kimono sat next to me. I knew a little Japanese so I addressed her.

  “Ohayo go zaimasu,” I said the best I could.

  “Good morning to you too. You speak good Japanese,” the old woman replied with a slight bow.

  After a brief conversation with the woman I realized the station double-booked us. Monet never told me who arranged my interview so I had no point of contact. Steve Bracy headed into the producer’s office and backtracked.

  “Houston, we have a problem!” Steve Bracy yelled to his producer.

  Steve stood in front of the old woman and put his hands in his pockets.

  “Whatcha got for me Lady Kung Fu?”

  “My name is Ms. Wantanabe. Today I’m going to talk about Green Tea.”

  Steve Bracy stormed into the producer’s office. I could hear him from outside.

  “Bill, you’re killing me. Green Tea? Really? It’s green and it’s fucking tea. The end. Let’s go with Bo Jackson sitting next to her. What’s his deal?”

  Thirty minutes later Steve came out.

  “Ms. Wannabe, there’s been a mix-up. Sergio, please see the tea lady to her car. And get me a caramel macchiato on the way back.”

  I wasn’t impressed nor intimidated by Steve. I thought he was rude and arrogant as hell.

  Steve stood directly in front of me and we did the stare down contest for about a minute before he spoke.

  “It really must be a slow day at the office when we have to interview a self-published author. Do you know what I think about self-published authors?”

  I’ve been chewed out by four-star generals, shot at by Somali insurgents, there was no way I was going to let someone like him sweat me.

  “I don’t know what you think, but is that shaving cream in your right ear?”

  He stuck his finger in his ear and out came a nice white lather. He took off in a huff and had a few words with his makeup staff. I was not bothered at all if I got dropped from the show because our chemistry was like oil and water. However, the show would go on and I would be on it.

  “Ready on the set. Five, four, three, two and one!”

  “Good morning Evansville. It’s the top of the hour and today we have an interesting guest from London, England. Mr. Thompson, welcome to the Steven Bracy Amateur Hour. What brings you to the show?”

  I wasn’t nervous, I was excited. Steve was able to ditch his nasty personality for TV and I was ready to talk about my passion.

  “Thanks Steve for having me. Today I’d like to talk about my novel The Mogadishu Diaries. It’s a memoir that pre-dates Blackhawk Down and captures the early days of pursuing the beloved Somali warlord Mohammad Aidid. In fact, I have a book signing on Wednesday at the Barnes and Noble on Green River Road.”

  The back and forth between Steve and I was cordial and he was the consummate professional, until we addressed my next project.

  “So, do you have any irons in the fire?” Steve asked.

  I walked right into his trap completely unaware.

  “Glad you asked, I’m just putting the finishing touches on my latest work titled The Seduction of a Military Wife. It’s a story of love won, love lost and love reunited,” I replied.

  “Let me stop you right there. I read your manuscript. This isn’t a story about love, that’s a lie. This is a story about a cheating wife who uses hypnosis as an excuse to get her groove on. That’s what this story is really about,” Steve said as he held a copy of my manuscript in the air.

  The studio fell silent, the cameras were still rolling and I was speechless. I didn’t have a comeback. I was being humiliated in front of everyone on live TV. My first instinct was to walk away. My palms were sweaty and my embarrassment led to anger. I needed to salvage this moment.

  “There are things in the book that I am not proud of but the story is genuine and I hope the readers will not judge the main characters too harshly,” I replied.

  Steve intensified his attack.

  “Let’s be clear, the main characters are you and this Monique chick. Is that her real name?”

  “No. I wanted to respect her privacy so I changed her name.”

  Steve grabbed his earpiece; apparently he was in communication with his producers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our producers have identified the real Monique Simpson in the book. Monique Simpson is actually Monet Dawson. There you have it, you heard it here first.”

  I wanted to do a Jerry Springer on him and kick his ass on live TV. Again, I had no comeback. My fists were tight and my heart was thumping fast and hard. I wanted to injure him in the worst way. I wanted revenge. I plotted.

  “I can’t believe you just said her real name on TV.”

  “Sue me, ha, ha, ha,” he laughed.

  We broke for a commercial.

  “Clay, don’t take it personal it’s all about the ratings. Shake?”

  Steve stood from his chair and extended his hand. I grabbed his hand then I tightened my grip. He tried to pull away but I wouldn’t let him. He panicked.

  “Security, security!” he screamed like a sissy.

  With his hand in mine, I stared directly into his eyes intently. I suddenly jerked his hand and whispered a posthypnotic suggestion in his ear. The next thing I knew, I had two large security guards in black muscle T-shirts lift me off the ground and escort me out. The suggestion was planted. I just had to wait until the six o’clock News.

  Monet was at work so she was unable to watch the show but she recorded it. That night she worked until 6:30 so I sat in front of her flat screen in the bedroom ready to watch the evening News.

  Breaking News Live at 6:00pm

  “Good evening, I’m Barbara McKinney.”

  “And I am… shit, I forgot my name!” Steve said in desperation.

  Barbara the anchorwoman looked over to Steve and whispered, “You just swore and we are live on the air.”

  Steve was flustered and confused. He whispered back to Barbara.

  “Okay, what’s my name?” Steve whispered.

  “Don’t do this. Pull yourself together, right now,” Barbara whispered, still looking straight into the camera.

  I tried to hold my laughter in but it was just too funny. His antics reminded me of Ron Burgundy from the movie Anchorman.

  The camera shifted away from Steve onto Barbara. She was annoyed and did a pretty good job of concealing it. The cameramen cut Steve’s microphone but in the background you could hear him screaming.

  “For the love of god, will someone please tell me my name!”

  After a few of Steve’s off-camera rants Barbara got a bad case of the giggles before she busted out in laughter in the middle of her News story.

  “Sorry, Bill. Can we break to commercial? This is out of control. What is wrong with Ste
ve?” Barbara laughed, still on live TV.

  The producer made a decision to maximize the entertainment value of Steve’s meltdown and directed the cameramen to follow him around the studio. The entire News team was in stitches. Steve finally returned to his station desk somewhat composed. As long as he didn’t have to say his name he was fine, until the end of the show.

  “And from the Channel Seven News Team, goodnight. I’m Barbara McKinney.”

  “And I’m... shit, I forgot my name again,” Steve repeated flustered.

  Steve Bracy’s What’s My Name Meltdown went viral on the internet and became an instant YouTube mega-hit, until station producers deleted it. The hypnotic suggestion was self-canceling when he left the building.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  * * *

  Book Signing at Barnes and Noble

  The Mogadishu Diaries

  Welcome to Barnes and Noble Mr. and Ms. Thompson,” the community relations rep said. Her name was Elisabeth.

  It was nice to hear Monet and I addressed as a married couple. It made both of us smile.

  The Barnes and Noble store was the largest in the city. It had two floors of books as far as the eye could see. I had no idea a book store could be so jam-packed on a Saturday morning. We followed Elisabeth to the center of the store where they had a nice wood grain table with stacks of my novel The Mogadishu Diaries on both sides. On a large easel was a sign that read, Meet Author Clay Thompson at 10am. I was honored by the red carpet treatment. None of this would have been possible without Monet. She was so good for me and to me.

  I gave her an unexpected kiss while Elisabeth identified the bathrooms to the left and the Starbucks to the right.

  “Mr. Thompson, we will make an in-store announcement every half hour to alert patrons about the book signing. We advertised this event for the last two weeks, we are expecting a decent turnout, Evansville loves its Veterans and its authors.”

  There were two chairs behind the desk for Monet and I. We felt like royalty swiveling in the executive chairs provided.

  “Monet, I think I will buy a regular coffee for every customer that buys a book,” I suggested.

  “Honey, I think you might want to reconsider?” Monet said.

  “Why?”

  Headed directly for us was a mob of Veterans; some were dressed in partial uniforms. I was particularly impressed with the large turnout of former and retired Marines.

  I sat straight up and Monet handed me an expensive tubular case.

  “What’s this, babe?” I asked.

  Inside was an expensive pen set with my name engraved on the case.

  Unfortunately, Monet was summoned back at the house. Her daughter Michelle needed to be picked up from her friend’s house.

  I was having so much fun at the book signing. Very little had to do with signing books; it was more about reminiscing with my fellow Marines who served. One conversation in particular was most memorable. We had so much in common it was unreal.

  The gentleman was a large black guy who obviously pumped a lot of iron. He was massive. The only thing that put me off initially was he stank of alcohol.

  “Mr. Thompson, I think I saw you on TV the other day. Was that you?”

  “Yeah. If that was my fifteen minutes of fame, I think I got shortchanged,” I replied.

  Surprisingly we both were stationed at Camp Pendleton in 1991 and lived near each other. He was a chatterbox.

  “Yeah my wife is a big fan of your work. I’d like to buy a book for her.”

  “Well, I’m glad she liked the book. How should I sign the dedication? What is your wife’s name?” I asked.

  “My wife? Her name is... Monet. I’m Marc, her husband,” he replied enraged.

  I reluctantly looked up…

  “No, wait, don’t!”

  Fade to black.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Rude Awakening

  VA Hospital, Evansville, Indiana

  Mr. Thompson’s vital signs are improving, when do you think he’ll wake up, Doctor Goldstein?” the nurse said to the doc.

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t come around. His face sustained brute force but there’s no sign of cerebral trauma. My diagnosis is severe physiological shock. I’ll be monitoring his behavior,” the doc said.

  “What kind of behavioral symptoms should we look for?”

  “The three A’s, anxiety, anger and avoidance.”

  I could hear everything around me but I couldn’t communicate. I had no idea how I ended up in the hospital or what day it was. All I knew was my entire face felt like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. I knew my nose was broken and I could feel stitches between my eyes. I ran my tongue across my teeth and I noticed a tooth was missing in back. It was a struggle to raise my eyelids, they were just slits. The bandages that covered my entire face meant something happened to me, something terrible. My first thought was, what did I look like underneath the bandages and swelling?

  “Good morning sunshine,” the nurse said as she opened the blinds.

  “Uggh. That must have been some accident. Where’s Monet? Is she all right?” I asked the nurse.

  The nurse walked over to me with a thermometer in her right hand. I recoiled.

  “I don’t have to roll over on my side, do I?” I asked.

  The nurse smiled and shook her head no, before placing the thermometer in my mouth.

  “I’m Nurse Young; I will be looking after you. If you like you can call me Kim.”

  She removed the thermometer and raised it to the light.

  “Hmm, 98.6. Perfect.”

  Kim was a kind soul and I found her presence soothing and comforting. She had her brunette hair pinned in a bun and wore fashionable glasses. She was probably about midthirties and of average build.

  “Mr. Thompson, what is the last thing you remember?”

  “Monet and I were on the way to the book signing on Green River. I hope they don’t think I no-showed. I need to call them to reschedule.”

  I saw genuine empathy in Kim and she struggled watching me flail in confusion. What was even more confusing were the dozens of cards around my bedside. I inquired.

  “Who are these cards for?”

  “Mr. Thompson, you’re Evansville’s latest celebrity. They are for you?”

  Now I was really confused. Why would so many strangers be sending me cards? Among all the cards was a very large red one that towered over the others. I fixated on that one.

  “Kim, my vision is a little blurry. Can you read the big red card on the night stand?”

  Kim lifted the card and read it silently first.

  “Ahh, Mr. Thompson, maybe you’d like me to read another card. How about this one?”

  “The big red card please, first. It’s the nicest of the bunch.”

  Kim was reluctant but I insisted.

  “Okay, Mr. Thompson.”

  “Please call me Clay,” I said.

  “Okay, Clay. Here goes. But remember I warned you.”

  The card read: Karma is a bitch ain’t it. Steve Bracy.

  Kim paused immediately after reading the card.

  “Clay, is this the same Steve Bracy that does the Ten O’clock News?”

  I felt like I woke up in a Twilight Zone episode.

  “Yes. But he does the Six O’clock News, right?”

  Kim placed her hand over her mouth trying to keep from giggling.

  “Steve Bracy hasn’t done the Six O’clock News since he had that fit on television. Oh my god, that was so funny. How can you forget your own name?”

  “So how did he and all these other well-wishers find out I was in the hospital?” I asked.

  Before Kim could respond, a police officer knocked on the door. He wanted to speak with me.

  “Mr. Thompson, I’m Sergeant Barnett. Do you mind if I talk to you about the incident two days ago?”

  “Two days ago? What day is it?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “Today is Tuesday and you were t
he victim of an assault.”

  My very first thought was that I missed my flight that morning. My second thought was… Where was Monet?

  The officer continued.

  “This should be an open and shut case. The entire incident was captured on the store’s closed circuit TV. It was broadcast all over the local News on Sunday night.”

  “Someone did this to me? It must have been a mugging or something. I don’t have any enemies. Who did it?”

  Kim left the room and waved goodbye and let the officer tend to his business.

  “Well, I can tell you or I can show you,” the officer replied.

  “Show me.”

  The officer opened a black briefcase and placed an iPad on his lap.

  “Here, this is you sitting down. Do you recognize the man talking to you?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him before, ever.”

  The officer fast-forwarded to the moment of impact.

  “There, you can see the perpetrator leaping onto the table. This is where it gets ugly, brace yourself.”

  “For what?” I asked

  “For that right there. He kicked you right between the eyes. You went flying into the bookcase behind you. You are somewhere underneath all those books. Three men tried to assist you but he manhandled them and put the fear of God in them. They may have saved your life. They distracted him enough to allow security to respond.”

  I immediately recalled the incident and I remembered it was Marc. My heart rate spiked through the roof and my EKG sounded an alarm. I was experiencing a shortness of breath and I thought I was having a heart attack. My world was turned upside down, I was fearful. I had never been afraid of anyone, but Marc terrified me. I believed if he had another chance he would finish the job.

  Kim rushed back into the room and put an oxygen mask over my face. The policeman backed away and Kim helped stabilize my vital signs.

  “Clay, I think you’ve had enough for one day. I’ll tell the policeman to come back at some other time.”