"Yes, that's the idea, isn't it? You say what you have to say the way
you have to
say it and hope to hell you're bothering somebody." - Sharon
Sheehe Stark
The quote was written longhand on the first page of the dog-eared, navy color-covered notebook that Will Tippin had carried during his final months as a reporter. Whenever he flipped it open and read those words, they allowed him to feel better about himself as he sniffed out, circled, and then attacked each lead with the ferocity of a shark. Even when he went after the SD-6 story and tried to uncover what he had come to realize could not be uncovered without dire consequences, those words stayed with him and fueled his wild curiosity. He just had to flip over the rock and find out what was slithering around underneath, convinced it was a matter of life and death. Will's shock was total and complete when it was made clear to him that the life and death for which he rallied so hard were his own.
The notebook had been relegated to the bottom of a cardboard packing box, the same box he had used to clean out his desk at the newspaper on the day after he had announced to the world that he was a heroin addict. The notebook hitting the bottom of the box sounded and felt to Will like a slap across the face. He knew it would be many months before he could bring himself to dig it out and flip through the pages that to him, during those shark days, had been sacred.
Will did not consider the box again, or its contents, until four months later when he was moving into his new rental, a bungalow-style home in a quiet suburb of Los Angeles. He had managed to move his few meager belongings on his own, stacking the boxes in the half of his new garage not occupied by the car he had fought tooth and nail to keep. In order to make the payments, he had sold all of the furnishings from his old apartment (except for necessities like his TV, his bed and his beloved laptop computer), worked part-time in Francie's restaurant and done some freelance investigations for Agent Vaughn.
Renting the home had come about in an unusual way. It was clear to him, after weeks of crashing at Sydney's and Francie's house, that his status as an almost permanent fixture in their lives needed to change. He had not only taken up residence in their home, but also in their lives, and he often felt like an intruder. Syd and Francie insisted that he could stay as long as he wished, but Will had a sense that his welcome was a bit over- stayed. He began searching, on the sly, for another place to live.
Will enlisted the help of his friends only when he realized the only places he could afford on his own were in nightmarish neighborhoods where gunfire often rang out in broad daylight. Having seen enough trauma in his young life, Will immediately rejected the idea of living in a place where his safety would be in question.
Will was more than a little amazed when one day, at Francie's restaurant, Jack Bristow appeared and offered Will a cashier's check that would more than cover the security deposit and three months worth of rent on a house in a safe, quiet neighborhood. Will accepted the check and stood from the corner table where he sat, finding himself without adequate words to express his gratitude.
"Jack," He shook his head. "I don't. I can't. you've done so much for me already." What he was thinking was that he owed Jack Bristow not only his life in general, but also his new, independent life as well. "I will pay back every cent of this, I swear."
Jack held up a hand to quiet Will's promise. "As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Tippin," He said, his eyes steely but not without compassion. "You've already paid more debt than one person can possibly owe." At those words, Jack turned and left the restaurant, leaving Will to stare after him in dumbfounded silence.
The good fortune did not end there. When Will confessed to Francie that he had virtually nothing to move into his new home, she quickly organized a promotion through the restaurant that offered a free dinner to anyone willing to donate a piece of gently used furniture. Will ended up with a couch, two side chairs, a small kitchen table with one chair and a beat-up but definitely usable office desk. Added to that was the entertainment center and bedside table Francie and Sydney gave him as housewarming gifts. Needless to say, it did not take Will long to move in.
Will had been in his new home for three days when he decided to mow his lawn. The idea thrilled him, and he couldn't help smiling as he kneeled in his garage, tinkering with the used lawnmower he had bought off of the bartender at the restaurant. Will unscrewed the gas cap and stood to grab the gas can from where it sat by the garage door. On his way to retrieve it, he accidentally knocked into a stack of cardboard boxes. The top one tumbled to the garage floor, landing on its side with a thud.
Will sighed and bent to pick it up. He stopped, however, when he read the printing on the side of the box. In his handwriting, tight and slanted, it read "Newspaper stuff". Will paused for a moment, uncertain. He glanced over his shoulder at the lawnmower and then picked up the box. He shook it and heard the rustle of papers inside. His reporter's curiosity got the best of him; he carried the box into the house and let the grass go uncut for the time being.
Holding the notebook in his hands once again brought Will a heady rush he hadn't anticipated. He flipped through it backwards, starting at the end, his fingers tracing over words written in his peculiar shorthand, smiling at names of old sources and tips on leads for various stories. When he reached the first page, a mixture of anger and disgust bubbled to the surface of his consciousness as he read over the quote he had written there, the one that fueled his shark-like bloodlust for juicy leads and meaty stories. The one that kept him in the game long after the other players had gone home.
Will snapped the notebook shut and held it on his lap for a long time. The thoughts circling his brain, like sharks circling prey, were dangerous ones. He forced himself to set the notebook aside and return to the garage and to the yard work at hand. But as he pushed the old, noisy mower back and forth over his modest plot of land, his mind was no longer on the lawn. It was stuck on the reckless idea that there were people left to bother and things he still had to say.
*********
The quote was written longhand on the first page of the dog-eared, navy color-covered notebook that Will Tippin had carried during his final months as a reporter. Whenever he flipped it open and read those words, they allowed him to feel better about himself as he sniffed out, circled, and then attacked each lead with the ferocity of a shark. Even when he went after the SD-6 story and tried to uncover what he had come to realize could not be uncovered without dire consequences, those words stayed with him and fueled his wild curiosity. He just had to flip over the rock and find out what was slithering around underneath, convinced it was a matter of life and death. Will's shock was total and complete when it was made clear to him that the life and death for which he rallied so hard were his own.
The notebook had been relegated to the bottom of a cardboard packing box, the same box he had used to clean out his desk at the newspaper on the day after he had announced to the world that he was a heroin addict. The notebook hitting the bottom of the box sounded and felt to Will like a slap across the face. He knew it would be many months before he could bring himself to dig it out and flip through the pages that to him, during those shark days, had been sacred.
Will did not consider the box again, or its contents, until four months later when he was moving into his new rental, a bungalow-style home in a quiet suburb of Los Angeles. He had managed to move his few meager belongings on his own, stacking the boxes in the half of his new garage not occupied by the car he had fought tooth and nail to keep. In order to make the payments, he had sold all of the furnishings from his old apartment (except for necessities like his TV, his bed and his beloved laptop computer), worked part-time in Francie's restaurant and done some freelance investigations for Agent Vaughn.
Renting the home had come about in an unusual way. It was clear to him, after weeks of crashing at Sydney's and Francie's house, that his status as an almost permanent fixture in their lives needed to change. He had not only taken up residence in their home, but also in their lives, and he often felt like an intruder. Syd and Francie insisted that he could stay as long as he wished, but Will had a sense that his welcome was a bit over- stayed. He began searching, on the sly, for another place to live.
Will enlisted the help of his friends only when he realized the only places he could afford on his own were in nightmarish neighborhoods where gunfire often rang out in broad daylight. Having seen enough trauma in his young life, Will immediately rejected the idea of living in a place where his safety would be in question.
Will was more than a little amazed when one day, at Francie's restaurant, Jack Bristow appeared and offered Will a cashier's check that would more than cover the security deposit and three months worth of rent on a house in a safe, quiet neighborhood. Will accepted the check and stood from the corner table where he sat, finding himself without adequate words to express his gratitude.
"Jack," He shook his head. "I don't. I can't. you've done so much for me already." What he was thinking was that he owed Jack Bristow not only his life in general, but also his new, independent life as well. "I will pay back every cent of this, I swear."
Jack held up a hand to quiet Will's promise. "As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Tippin," He said, his eyes steely but not without compassion. "You've already paid more debt than one person can possibly owe." At those words, Jack turned and left the restaurant, leaving Will to stare after him in dumbfounded silence.
The good fortune did not end there. When Will confessed to Francie that he had virtually nothing to move into his new home, she quickly organized a promotion through the restaurant that offered a free dinner to anyone willing to donate a piece of gently used furniture. Will ended up with a couch, two side chairs, a small kitchen table with one chair and a beat-up but definitely usable office desk. Added to that was the entertainment center and bedside table Francie and Sydney gave him as housewarming gifts. Needless to say, it did not take Will long to move in.
Will had been in his new home for three days when he decided to mow his lawn. The idea thrilled him, and he couldn't help smiling as he kneeled in his garage, tinkering with the used lawnmower he had bought off of the bartender at the restaurant. Will unscrewed the gas cap and stood to grab the gas can from where it sat by the garage door. On his way to retrieve it, he accidentally knocked into a stack of cardboard boxes. The top one tumbled to the garage floor, landing on its side with a thud.
Will sighed and bent to pick it up. He stopped, however, when he read the printing on the side of the box. In his handwriting, tight and slanted, it read "Newspaper stuff". Will paused for a moment, uncertain. He glanced over his shoulder at the lawnmower and then picked up the box. He shook it and heard the rustle of papers inside. His reporter's curiosity got the best of him; he carried the box into the house and let the grass go uncut for the time being.
Holding the notebook in his hands once again brought Will a heady rush he hadn't anticipated. He flipped through it backwards, starting at the end, his fingers tracing over words written in his peculiar shorthand, smiling at names of old sources and tips on leads for various stories. When he reached the first page, a mixture of anger and disgust bubbled to the surface of his consciousness as he read over the quote he had written there, the one that fueled his shark-like bloodlust for juicy leads and meaty stories. The one that kept him in the game long after the other players had gone home.
Will snapped the notebook shut and held it on his lap for a long time. The thoughts circling his brain, like sharks circling prey, were dangerous ones. He forced himself to set the notebook aside and return to the garage and to the yard work at hand. But as he pushed the old, noisy mower back and forth over his modest plot of land, his mind was no longer on the lawn. It was stuck on the reckless idea that there were people left to bother and things he still had to say.
*********