c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-25)
Libby Raal had been busy at her condominium in Lakewood throughout the morning. Yet despite having gone over notes that cluttered her desk, and folders of printed material in the file cabinet nearby, inspiration never yielded any finished product. She was suffering from an episode of writer’s block that first appeared after her encounter with residents of the Evergreen Estates trailer community. More specifically, following her meetings with editors at the Plain Dealer and Queer Conundrum newspapers. Their dissatisfaction with her literal account of canvassing the park stalled any creative zeal that she had for translating the story into a prose product.
She fiddled with a Japanese Bonsai tree on her bookshelf, and sipped Chai tea while listening to a k.d. lang collection via Spotify, over her cell phone. Then, the music stream was interrupted by a ringtone that indicated some professional contact was reaching out to her, from a database of Cleveland peers.
The tiny screen registered a number for Quantra Bolden, from her LGBT enclave along Lake Erie.
“Hey Libbers, how’ve you been girl? Pick up the line, I want to rehash our chat about your trip to MAGA country...”
Ms. Raal was flustered and unprepared. But answered immediately.
“YEAH! I’M HERE! WHAT’S UP, MAMA Q?”
The alternative editor shivered a bit, with temperatures in northeastern Ohio having plummeted during the recent week. Her hemp blouse offered little comfort with the wind outside making things even more frosty for everyone. She detested the frigid isolation of winter months.
“That piece you were doing about the poor saps in Geauga County... I wanted to give it a second look. Have you written it out, maybe? I’ve got some suggestions.”
The sidelined journalist tugged at her nose piercings.
“Nah, nothing so far, I’m afraid. You didn’t sound interested in what I found...”
Bolden huffed while playfully tapping a pen on her desk.
“It’s a matter of presentation, woman! You know big rags like the Pee Dee have their history to go on, it gives them a place in the market. Small fry like the QC don’t carry that kind of weight. We’ve got to make ourselves known with raw truth! Not too much at a time, we want to sell copies every week. But enough to keep readers hooked. That’s how we pay bills here. With volunteers and spare change. That gets it done!”
Libby was slightly confused.
“Okay, but what’s your point? Why call me again when I didn’t have anything sensational enough for your liking?”
The seasoned taskmaster shook her head, with a frantic swirl of gray locks spilling everywhere.
“Now, listen lady! I’m not going to push you to do anything wrong, that’s not a path I’d want to take. But if the details needed tweaked, you know, massaged just a bit, to get attention from the unwashed masses... I think that could be looked at as perfectly legitimate. You get me?”
The potential correspondent felt a chill run over her skin. Suddenly, the mug of tea had gone cold, and flat.
“Tweaked? Like how? You mean, adding to the report with made-up stuff? That’s the methodology of a supermarket tabloid! I won’t stoop that low, Ms. Q! I have standards to defend!”
Editor Bolden chortled and hummed to herself.
“Of course not, of course not! No cheat-sheet nonsense. I’m just proposing that how you spin the tale makes a huge difference. When you were accosted by the militia guy, for example, was it how you should’ve been treated? No! That gives evidence of more dirt, hiding under the surface. Wouldn’t you say he acted like a Klansman, for example? A gun nut? A fascist? Or a seditionist, of the kind we saw on January 6th, 2021? There must be more you can uncover...”
Raal gasped out loud. She was not sure how to respond.
“Well, someone might draw that kind of conclusion on their own. But I got no clear evidence of a nationalist vibe from him! Nothing at all! The police blotter from their township said that he’s been a hanger-on since the original leader of their goon brigade committed suicide. He’s a wannabe, a pretender. In street language, an ass kisser...”
Mama Q was amused by her reluctance to label the bad actor, publicly.
“If you put it in print, and say it straight out, that would be totally fair. Who knows what he’s got at home. Maybe a shrine to Hitler or Satan, or the battle swords of Confederate generals hanging on his wall. It might be anything! You don’t have to convict the dude, just squeeze a little hot sauce on your final dish. Jazz it up a bit, okay? Give it some spice!”
Her wordsmithing cohort was burning with disbelief.
“SPICE? HOT SAUCE? YOU’RE TALKING HALF-TRUTHS, OR NO TRUTH! I CAN’T DO THAT, MS. Q! WE SEE THINGS THE SAME WAY, AND I GET SICK THINKING ABOUT THEIR ORANGE-FACED HERO GOING BACK TO THE WHITE HOUSE! BUT NAILING PEOPLE AT THAT VILLAGE OF MOBILE HOMES WON’T MAKE ME SLING SHIT LIKE A GOSSIP HOUND! I’M PROUD OF MY CRAFT!”
The counterculture maven smiled and nodded. She did not want to alienate her prodigy while there was still a chance of reconciliation.
“Look girl, it’s something we all do, to move product. We’re social crusaders, yes. You and me are never on the fence, we get our hands in the mud every day! We work that mess until it serves our needs! People depend on us, homeless folks, outcasts, agitators, artists, students, all the fringe elements that don’t fit anywhere else. They need us to fight! Maybe I’m pulling up a corner of the rug, and you don’t want to look under there... I understand. It’s dark and dusty. I’m saying you need to hype your story, before it’ll be right for inclusion in the QC pages. That’s basically what the Pee Dee said before me, right? You got to close the deal with readers. Otherwise, they wander off and you are forgotten...”
Libby had turned a pale shade of white. The change made her tattoos pop with vibrant colors.
“I umm... don’t know what to say, Mama Q!”
Bolden took a deep breath, and dropped her pen on the desktop.
“Say nothing. Give this a good going over, and call me when you’ve got it figured out! Stay warm and safe, Libbers!”
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