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9:00 a.m.
On Tuesday morning, I bit the bullet and headed into the office. It seemed to have been years since I’d been there. I was dreading it.
The reaction from my co-workers was exactly what I had figured it would be.
“Hey, Mr. Hollywood,” said Ted Slater from his desk, “what’s next, Steven is God?” He was trying to disguise his jealousy with humour. I was in no mood to play nice.
“No, Ted. You’re God. You knew that, right?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Meg Cleroux spasm with a suppressed giggle. Apparently, Ted saw it, too, because he scowled and plunked himself back down at his computer.
But it seemed that Ted’s question was on everyone’s minds, as it felt as though all eyes had turned toward me.
Some of my colleagues were now gathering around me, clutching mugs of coffee. I felt like Jesus, put on the spot by his disciples and expected to deliver a parable, a miracle, or a superstar named Clint Eastwood.
Bob had joined in, as well.
“How’s Steven?” Doug Taylor asked. Doug was a tall, obese man, with thinning red hair. He edited news copy for Bob, and was one of the most honourable men I knew.
“Steven? He’s good, yeah.” I felt like a complete shit. Cleverly and deftly, I steered the conversation away from this painful topic and into more dangerous territory. “Anyone going to the reunion concert on Saturday?”
There was a chorus of affirmation. Meg piped up: “Before Steven’s full page ad hit the streets, we called the ticket sales number and bought up twenty tickets. It was a cool ad, but mysterious. No photo of Steven.”
“That’s what surprises are all about,” I said. My throat tightened. Paranoia ate me up. Coming in to get some work done had been a big mistake. It was shocking to me that this group of serious, intelligent journalists was falling for this ridiculous nonsense. I felt queasy at the thought.
“Gotta run,” I said, slipping through the ring of curiosity seekers.
And I was out the door, walking down the hallway towards the escalators.
“Wait a minute, Donny! This one came this morning for you. It looked kind of interesting so I kept it out for you.” Meg handed me a registered letter, out of breath from running after me.
“Thanks, Meg, it’s just too chaotic to write here. I can’t focus. Too many phone calls, the media hanging outside, it’s too much.”
She nodded. “There’s sixteen bags of mail in the warehouse. Do you want to pick them up now or later?”
Ouch. That was sixteen bags of mail that would not be read until Hell froze over. And I figured that I would end up in a good position to know the temperature in Hell. “Uh, later. Sorry, just too busy, you know?”
“I can’t wait to see Steven,” Meg said. The innocent enthusiasm on her face pained me. “See you tomorrow,” she said from the doorway, waving.
I pressed a smile on my face and waved back.
I felt a panic attack coming on. I’d never had one before. That made me panic even more.
