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Jack followed her down a wide, marble-floored corridor. There were people everywhere, clustered in pods around the copiers and doorways. A few smiled at him as he passed; more ignored him.
Finally, they reached their destination--a closed door. She knocked softly and opened it.
Jack closed his eyes for a split second and visualized success--Jumpin Jack Flash--then smiled confidently.
The man behind the desk was older than Jack had expected--maybe seventy or more. "Jackson," he said, rising, extending his hand.
They shook hands.
"Have a seat," Mark said, indicating the chair in front of his huge, mahogany desk.
Jack sat down.
Mark did not. He stood on the other side of the desk, seeming to take up an inordinate amount of space. In a black Armani suit, Wilkerson was an industry prototype for authority and power, both of which hed been wielding so long his hands were probably calloused. His was the largest independent production company in the northwest.
Finally, he sat down. "Ive seen your tapes. Youre good. I was surprised at how good, actually. "
"Thank you. "
"Its been, what, fifteen years since you played for the Jets?"
"Yeah. I blew out my knee. As Im sure you know, I led my team to back-to-back Super Bowl wins. "
"And youre a Heisman winner. Yes," Mark said, "your past triumphs are quite impressive. "
Was there the slightest emphasis on past, or had Jack imagined that? "Thank you. Ive paid my dues in local broadcasting, as you can see from my resume. Ratings in Portland have gone up considerably in the two years Ive been at the station. " He bent down and reached for his briefcase. "Ive taken the liberty of outlining some ideas for your show. I think it can be dynamite. "
"What about the drugs?"
Just like that, he knew it was over. "That was a long time ago. " He hoped he didnt sound defeated. "When I was in the hospital, I got hooked on painkillers. The networks gave me a big chance--Monday Night Football--and I blew it. I was young and stupid. But it wont happen again. Ive been clean for years. Ask my previous employers. Theyll stand up for my work ethic. "
"Were not a huge company, Jack. We cant afford the kind of scandals and disappointments that are standard operating procedure at the networks. The truth is youre damaged goods. I dont see how I can risk my success on you. "
Jack wished he could be the man hed once been. That man would have said, Cram your shit-ass little TV program up your wrinkly white ass. Instead, he said, "I can do a good job for you. Give me a chance. " Each word tasted black and bitter on his tongue, but a man with a mortgage, a dwindling stock portfolio, and two daughters in college had no choice.
"Im sorry," Mark said, though he didnt look it.
"Why did you bother to interview me?"
"My son remembers you from the UW. He thought a face-to-face meeting would change my mind about you. " He almost smiled. "But my son has substance abuse issues of his own. Of course hed believe in giving a man a second chance. I dont. "
Jack picked up his briefcase. He used to think that losing football was rock bottom, the damp basement of his existence. It had been what sent him reaching for a bottle of pills in the first place.
But hed been wrong.
Nothing was worse than the slow, continual erosion of his self-esteem. Times like this wore a man down.
Finally, he stood up. It took all his strength to smile and say, "Well, thank you for seeing me. "
Although you didnt, you officious prick, you didnt see me at all.
Then he left the office.
Elizabeth sat in the dining room, with fabrics and paint chips and glossy magazine pages strewn across her lap, but she couldnt concentrate on the task at hand.
Maybe tonight, she kept thinking.
For years, shed listened to daytime television talk shows. The shrinks agreed that passion could be rekindled, that a love lost along the busy highway of raising a family could be regenerated.
