I wrote this for an online literary magazine’s fifth-year celebration contest. The prompt was “Five” and the word limit was 500.
Live In Five
I dump my on-air face the second we cut to commercial.
“I don’t know man, I don’t think I can do this today.”
The director lurches into action. “You sick? What you need, stimulant, painkiller, anti-nausea? Jerry, get the med kit, will ya?”
I shake my head, wave the intern back into his seat. “No, it’s just—doesn’t it ever bother you?”
“Oh.” He wipes a palm down his face, momentarily accentuating the bags under his eyes. “Where’s this coming from?”
“You mean my conscience?”
“Don’t gimme that.”
I decide to level with him. “My kid this morning, I’m dropping her off at school and she’s white-knuckling her little bunny, wrenching away at it instead of the usual pat-pats while she’s staring out the window. So I ask her, ‘Baby, you nervous?’ And she just nods, how kids do, eyes down and frowning like they’re in trouble. I ask her what’s up and she says, get this, ‘If you die in the war, who will come pick me up?’”
He rolls his eyes but I pretend not to notice.
“And what can I say? Aw, nah, honey, Daddy’s not really at the war, he’s just pretending? I can’t have her telling her little friends that the war on TV isn’t real and Daddy said so.”
“Ya better not. The legal team would bash you so hard with the NDAs you’d never see the light of day again.”
A spike of adrenaline jolts my chest and I take a deep breath to tamp down the words that would’ve gotten me fired. “I know. I said I’m not going to tell her.”
“Tell her you’re bulletproof or something. First-graders believe in magic, right?”
“I mean yeah, but that’ll only last so long and then I’m a liar. Not a precedent I want to set.”
“You’ve had this job for half her life. What have you been telling her?”
“It hasn’t come up. Six-year-olds don’t watch the news, and up until now we’ve just been doing protests, kidnappings, the occasional bombing. Aftermath stuff. But with a full-blown war this season… Doesn’t seem right to stress people out like this, that’s all.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “No one’s believed anything on the news since 9/11. She’ll figure it out eventually, like Santa. You knew what you were getting into when you signed the contract. Work it out with the shrink on your lunch break, we need your head in the game.”
He turns to shout at a group of extras sipping coffee in their fake-bloodied costumes and bullet hole makeup. “Places!”
The extras arrange themselves into dramatic configurations on the metal-strewn ground.
“Live in five! Four! Three!”
He holds up two fingers.
I smooth my hair and slap on the serious-reporter face I’d practiced since school, back when I thought I’d be a real journalist.
He points at the camera.
My lines catch in my throat and I cough. Clear my throat, stare into the camera. Open my mouth.
“I can’t do this anymore.”