37. Patrick

My first hospital article made page one of the Metro Section. It wasn't the prime spot, but it still led all other news for my section.

The article was more than two thousand words, my second four-digit word count since working at the AJC. Unlike the only other one, my last Fire Department article in which I summarized the prior three, this one was all new information, a deep dive into the struggles of a publicly funded Emergency Room as they tried to balance the needs of their community with the financial health of the institution. It was a meaty piece, real news, brimming with substance and asking meaningful questions to spark interest and debate. I'd never been so proud of a piece of work.

Demmit lost his shit.

"Pierce!" he barked across the floor. The Lord and Master of his Universe stood in his office doorway, his jacket slung over his shoulder and belly pooched out. He wore an old-school vest that strained to contain his bulk without shooting buttons like little plastic bullets. His tie had long since been loosened and hung askew below his many chins. "Get your ass over here."

I bolted out of my chair and nearly sprinted across the floor. By the time I reached him, all eyes were on us. I could feel them, glaring with curiosity, hoping for a public execution or some other medieval entertainment.

Demmit reached up and clapped both hands on my shoulders. For a second, I thought he was going to hug me. The idea made me want to run back to my desk.

"Fucking good work, son. Seriously. If you don't win an award this year, nobody at this damn paper will. I knew you had it in you."

I was so shocked I could barely breathe. My nod was frantic. "Thank you, sir."

He glanced over my shoulder at the dozens of nosey newsies. "Get the fuck back to work, all of you."

And our moment was over. Demmit didn't say another word, just wheeled his flabby ass about and slammed his office door, almost hitting me in the face.

As I strode back to my desk, the others eyed me, a mix of "What is that strange animal in our zoo?" and "I'm jealous of the love he just got." At least, that's how I read their curious faces and snarling lips.

I knew I should've lifted my chin and strutted like the amazing peacock I was, but that wasn't my style. I wasn't a strutter; I was more a slinker. So I slinked back to my desk with my head cowed as if Demmit had just reamed my ass.

That made me think of rimming. And Demmit. And Demmit rimming. Oh god, no! Make it stop. Please.

I would never be able to scrub that thought from my brain. There was no cleansing ritual that would erase its stain. I erupted into the most uncomfortable, growling, groaning laugh ever barked across the news floor and race-walked back to the safety of my cubicle, desperate to hide my face that had turned eighteen shades of crimson.