Work Text:
A Bright Young Reporter
1973, San Francisco
09/11, Tuesday
Daniel’s body hurt. The pain occupied every part of his head, his face, running from his arms right down to his calves. Like sharp, pointed jolts of electricity every time he moved. He had been hurting on and off for about a week now. During the latter half, it pulsed under his skin along his own. It’s also the first thing he remembers after he came to. He’d been hurting during it
He was sprawled on his couch reading this old journalist’s memoir, gritty self-pity kinda thing. Well, he was trying to, anyway. He looked at the clock. 11:23 am. Hm.
Good thing he didn’t have to go into work today on account of how he was unemployed. To add to the royal shit show of a week he’d had recently, his startup job had sacked him recently, something about a week long bender he’d gone on. Whatever, those tight fucks weren’t paying him enough anyway. He was the only one doing the only kind of journalism worth doing, wrapping his tapes around real people’s insides, stripping them bare. He isn’t completely lacking self awareness, thank you. He was very much aware of how much he’d fucked up. This had been one of the more intense benders of his life; he’d woken up with black and blue bruises all over him with no idea of how they got there, a bloody nose, and probably an STI. What had he done?
He read for another hour and half before falling into a deep sleep and dreaming. He dreamed of Polynesian Mary’s. Cocktails. The most handsome man he’s ever seen paying for it. Drugs, his pick of the most beautiful drugs calling out to him. Biting? Doors slamming. Another man, an oriental man, with black curls falling around his face, round orange-ish eyes with a most ferric tinge to them around the walls. He has an accent? Is that what makes you fas-
Daniel woke up with a jolt. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Same dream. For the millionth time now? Despite himself, he faltered, knowing that he was more scared than he’d like to admit. This was getting old quick. What was the bad boogeyman of his dreams gonna do? Haunt him to death? He imagined getting a fucking life and what that would feel like. He glanced at the clock. 3:52 pm. Hm. He got up to make grilled cheese.
Funny how days passed when one had nothing to do but smoke weed, read, watch, eat. Oh and recover from a high one doesn't even remember. Two days passed, three, four. The pain dimming with each passing moment, thankfully. This want, nay, need inside him; ever curious, to get peoples’ stories, to make these perfect taped treasures. What had he learned from the past two psychotic weeks? Fucking nothing. Probably gonna get himself killed soon, a risk like that only egging him on more. He was going to have to start looking for a job very soon, preferably one that doesn't make him want to kill himself.
22/09, Sunday
Honestly, what had he expected, really? Daniel wondered as he sat on the bar stool after the bartender tried to kick him out. Wasn’t he allowed one moment of respite? One grasshopper before being told to get some help? Or to fuck off?
Regardless of the bartender’s sullen mood, things were actually going well enough for him for a change, he supposed. Things were absolutely riveting, thank you.
He’d recorded a few interviews with San Fran natives, modest regulars, people who worked dawn to dusk. Having written an article for the Daily Wire, about the ‘supposed’ mental state of the local, blue collar, middle class, tax- paying law abiding citizen concerning Nixon’s socio-economic policies, which had been hailed as insightful, he figured he deserved a little treat. Just a little one. Even when he’d hmm-ed and said sure mom, when asked about visitation to Modesto, he hadn’t not completely meant it.
He was bored out of his mind but shhh because what, no he wasn’t. He told that part of himself to shut. up. Things were stable right now. Now, it was a truth universally acknowledged that people like Daniel had to live their lives, in order to live full lives, suppress certain urges along their way, y’know, show restraint. Go along while slowly growing accustomed to a high pitch voice screaming at the back of their mind. He had learned to give in sometimes (granted, he’d only made that progression since the drug den) and juuust enough that it didn’t want to make him pound nails into the floorboard with his forehead.
On an innate level, he knew that however much he wanted to actually live his life, be free, he had to live in a sort of purgatory. Ah, purgatory, stable, secure. Beautiful enough for almost everybody else, it seemed.
Right now, right here though, his mind swam in this bar with its blobs of different shades sticking to each other yelling over the music that pounded at the back of his head. He doesn't feel so bad, you know.
“Hey, sweetie! Why don’t you gimme a smile!“ He turned to notice a handsome man with caramel skin, and the widest grin aimed at someone across the room.
He turns his head again, ah too fast (he recovers by clutching the counter in front of him), to catch a glimpse of the woman working her way through the crowd and heading towards him.
She slid on the stool beside him, cat-like and “A lime margarita, please“. Soothing voice. With his heart caught in his throat, he tried to say hi, or anything at all for that matter, to the most angelic looking woman he had ever seen, and probably was ever going to see.
A relatively slim woman with the smoothest skin, skin darker than the man she’d ignored, voluminous dark hair falling in graceful curves around her face covering one of her big brown eyes. She was wearing a white shirt that stuck to her in an heavenly way.
She had a way about her that made it seem like she knew it too. She glanced his way, smiled a shy smile as if she knew what he was thinking, how could she not Daniel supposed. She leaned in an-
“Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.”
Suddenly, his head felt a lot more clear.
“I’m so sorry,” he ducked his head for effect. “I’m an idiot, let me introduce myself; Daniel.” He stuck out his hand, she shook it. Cold hands.
“Alice.’’
“Haven’t seen you here before, Alice.’’
“Not here, no.’’ Um- “What is it that you do, Daniel?’’
“I’m a journalist, I interview people.”
“People?”
“Yeah, just people, ordinary people going about their lives, everybody has a story, you know.”
“Wouldn’t you like to hear my story?”
Daniel smiled. “I would love nothing more, but first, can I buy you a drink?” he said, with no regard for his bank account.
Well, they had all the time in the world for the rest of it.