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In two days it would be Thanksgiving. The forecast was for snow, naturally. But things had managed to become quiet in Gotham for the first time in months.
Quiet being relative. There was still crime, and corruption. The counterfeiting scare left its scars on Gotham’s weak economy, and more than a few people (none of whom Knox trusted) were calling for both Mayor Borg and Commissioner Gordon to resign. But there was nothing new that kept Knox busy. A few Bat-sightings, yes, and the unresolved rumors about Joker’s body. Not much else.
So Knox found himself left to do something he didn’t like doing too often. He was thinking about his life.
Not long ago, he was just another unpopular crime reporter. Then came the Bat, and Vale, and the Joker, and with a handful of stories, he was getting respect. He liked that, but didn’t expect it to last. And it didn’t do him much good. His salary was the same. Vale was still dating Bruce Wayne (when she was stateside – she was spending the holiday in Prague, waiting for the return from disgrace of Alexander Dubcek, the man whose reforms led to the failed “Prague Spring” in ’68). Knox would be alone for the day. Even if he went to the Bar, he would come back and face the Cowboys and Lions and his lonely dinner at whatever greasy spoon was open.
The Bar…that was the other big change, wasn’t it? He was finding his way into the joint less at random now. Some doors worked better, some not at all. And as a result, he was spending more time there than at Murray’s. But he didn’t miss Murray’s. If anything brought home how isolated he’d been getting up till this point, it was that.
Milliways was alive in a way that no bar in Gotham was. Even when things seems rough there, it was never as dour as home. He loved Gotham, could never live anywhere but Gotham, but maybe he needed to have that new point of view to survive Gotham.
He liked the people he was meeting. The women were certainly of a better quality, and most were at least a bit receptive of his overtures. He hadn’t been slapped once. And certainly, his feelings for a couple were, to him, surprisingly strong. Especially Buffy. He found her captivating. Even if he wondered why she wasn’t around of late. And the guys were a lot less in-yoru-face than the typical reporter (Knox included).
It was more, though. It was seeing the world open up like a blooming rose. Everything was real. Vampires, werewolves, witches, dead teenaged girls running newspapers and brothels like junior-league Citizen Kanes, men from the future, men from the far past…all of it was real. (And amazingly, it was only now that he decided he had to call Lilly “Citizen Kane” next time he saw her.) How much of it was in his world? If so, in what form? His whole life, he’d been looking for a story to tell. Now, he found more than he could absorb.
And that had energized him. He was a better reporter, less sarcastic, more focused. Maybe he needed to find the Bar to find himself?
Nah. That’s too much psychobabble, he thinks as he hands in his stories for the night. And being a fairly shallow guy, Knox makes himself stop thinking.
Only he doesn’t. He thinks about Jack, and Shufti. As well as Mathilda. He always had sympathy for the lost children of the big city. But he never had real contact with them till now. He liked it. Liked trying to be Shufti’s long lost uncle. Liked trying to see past the obvious pain and subtle violence in both young women, and liked trying to be a friend no matter what.
Knox harbored few illusions about being a father. It could happen, but he didn’t think it would. Except now it didn’t seem like such a bad thing to strive for after all.
The day done, Knox puts on coat and hat, and grabs the day’s paper. He checks his messages one more time – something from a shrink who claims he can guess who Batman really is? maybe tomorrow – and goes home.
Quiet being relative. There was still crime, and corruption. The counterfeiting scare left its scars on Gotham’s weak economy, and more than a few people (none of whom Knox trusted) were calling for both Mayor Borg and Commissioner Gordon to resign. But there was nothing new that kept Knox busy. A few Bat-sightings, yes, and the unresolved rumors about Joker’s body. Not much else.
So Knox found himself left to do something he didn’t like doing too often. He was thinking about his life.
Not long ago, he was just another unpopular crime reporter. Then came the Bat, and Vale, and the Joker, and with a handful of stories, he was getting respect. He liked that, but didn’t expect it to last. And it didn’t do him much good. His salary was the same. Vale was still dating Bruce Wayne (when she was stateside – she was spending the holiday in Prague, waiting for the return from disgrace of Alexander Dubcek, the man whose reforms led to the failed “Prague Spring” in ’68). Knox would be alone for the day. Even if he went to the Bar, he would come back and face the Cowboys and Lions and his lonely dinner at whatever greasy spoon was open.
The Bar…that was the other big change, wasn’t it? He was finding his way into the joint less at random now. Some doors worked better, some not at all. And as a result, he was spending more time there than at Murray’s. But he didn’t miss Murray’s. If anything brought home how isolated he’d been getting up till this point, it was that.
Milliways was alive in a way that no bar in Gotham was. Even when things seems rough there, it was never as dour as home. He loved Gotham, could never live anywhere but Gotham, but maybe he needed to have that new point of view to survive Gotham.
He liked the people he was meeting. The women were certainly of a better quality, and most were at least a bit receptive of his overtures. He hadn’t been slapped once. And certainly, his feelings for a couple were, to him, surprisingly strong. Especially Buffy. He found her captivating. Even if he wondered why she wasn’t around of late. And the guys were a lot less in-yoru-face than the typical reporter (Knox included).
It was more, though. It was seeing the world open up like a blooming rose. Everything was real. Vampires, werewolves, witches, dead teenaged girls running newspapers and brothels like junior-league Citizen Kanes, men from the future, men from the far past…all of it was real. (And amazingly, it was only now that he decided he had to call Lilly “Citizen Kane” next time he saw her.) How much of it was in his world? If so, in what form? His whole life, he’d been looking for a story to tell. Now, he found more than he could absorb.
And that had energized him. He was a better reporter, less sarcastic, more focused. Maybe he needed to find the Bar to find himself?
Nah. That’s too much psychobabble, he thinks as he hands in his stories for the night. And being a fairly shallow guy, Knox makes himself stop thinking.
Only he doesn’t. He thinks about Jack, and Shufti. As well as Mathilda. He always had sympathy for the lost children of the big city. But he never had real contact with them till now. He liked it. Liked trying to be Shufti’s long lost uncle. Liked trying to see past the obvious pain and subtle violence in both young women, and liked trying to be a friend no matter what.
Knox harbored few illusions about being a father. It could happen, but he didn’t think it would. Except now it didn’t seem like such a bad thing to strive for after all.
The day done, Knox puts on coat and hat, and grabs the day’s paper. He checks his messages one more time – something from a shrink who claims he can guess who Batman really is? maybe tomorrow – and goes home.
