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Dec. 19th, 2006 04:53 amIt was a chance conversation, strange and a bit unnerving but not unpleasant. Knox had met dead people before, but not ones who'd killed themselves. Or were HIV positive. But he could deal with that, if he tried. What was done was done, and he knew that AIDS was here to stay. And April was quite nice. She seemed to be dealing with the hand life - and afterlife - had dealt her.
But it was that one question she asked that really got him thinking. What do YOU want to be? And so he told her. A columnist. Funny how no one ever stopped to ask him that before. And how he never was ready to say it out loud. But he had.
The answer echoed through his mind the rest of the day, and once he left his holiday shopping in his room, he decided that maybe he needed to be home. To be in Gotham. True, the Bar had begun to feel like home. Heck, his current suite was bigger than his studio apartment. But if you are going to be a columnist in Gotham City, maybe you need to be in Gotham City.
Today he was walking through the cluttered, filthy Cathedral District, a miserable slum where the brief increase in tourists following Batman's battle with the Joker ended with the start of the new year. It wasn't very cold today, not for late February. It hadn't been cold for some time, he recalled. Strange how maybe four months had passed for him since the new year began - keeping time was not so easy with a timeless refuge in your life. But in the two months in Gotham, there was no snow, just the usual Gotham winds. Not bad weather for walking.
This was his city. Till Milliways invited him in, he lived every day of his life in its boundaries, knew its dark corners and its rare glimpse of light. He knew that the Archdioscece of Gotham City would never reopen the old cathedral, knew that the people who oversaw churches in the US didn't trust anyone in Gotham, and even knew that the handful of valuable objects once housed in the cathedral were long ago moved to Metropolis for safekeeping. He could tell you the names of the last archbishop, the six women murdered within screaming distance of the ruins in 1984, and the cop who arrested the serial killer. And if given the chance, he could string it all together into 1,000 words and make sure everyone else knew as well.
But that hadn't happened. Instead, Knox grew lazy. Yes, he still pounded the pavement in search of the stories. Still got the exclusives. But that wasn't his dream. He wanted to be Woodward or Bernstein? Woodward was an editor, and a writer of books that shook Washington (even if that book about Iran-Contra was unfair in pointing the finger at a dead man). Bernstein was in Hollywood, a novelist. And Knox was still where he was in 1979.
He wasn't unhappy. But was he happy? If he were, would he spend all his time in the Bar? He loved it there. It was a good place to be. He could spend his money to his heart's content. Yet, he knew from the second he got that note that he wouldn't quit his job. Or rather, quit being a reporter. And yet...
He passed the row of rundown stores where he and Amanda bought the piece of authentic Batplane wreckage. He thought that he would ride the Bat to the top. Only, the Bat refused to be in the public eye. He was changing things in Gotham, that was for sure, but he wasn't news anymore. He was rumor and shadow and gossip. An honest reporter couldn't use him anymore. But a columnist? A columnist could talk about the Bat, about the effect he was having on the city, about anything he liked.
Rachel had declared him a Seeker of Truth. That was wonderful. But it wasn't enough. He needed to be a speaker of truth as well. But how? Could he convince his editor to make him a columnist? Should he write a book? He didn't know. But he was sure that he'd have to get his life here organized. Buy that house. Get that car. And assert himself.
He wasn't going to turn his back on the Bar, or the friends he'd made there. That was certain. But in the Bar, he was never going to be what he wanted. Seeking and speaking the truth there? Not very useful. Or even possible. In a place like that, the turth was always hidden behind the power of the Bar. That was fine. And he had to admit, playing Alex Knox, Millionaire wasn't entirely true either.
So he kept walking, kept thinking. As the day waned, he slowly made his way to the Financial District, a better place to be after dark (though not by much). The workday was ending, and the brokers and lawyers and secretaries and editors and day workers filled the streets. He smiled, revelling in the energy of the city. Revelling the crowds. He missed the crowds when he was in the Bar. He wasn't sure how you could really miss a crowd, but maybe that was what it meant to be from the big city. To be from Gotham.
There were stories to be told in that crowd. Stories that he wanted to tell. It was only a matter of how and where.
Knox made his way to Murray's. It had been a while, and maybe some of his friends from the paper could give him some advice.
But it was that one question she asked that really got him thinking. What do YOU want to be? And so he told her. A columnist. Funny how no one ever stopped to ask him that before. And how he never was ready to say it out loud. But he had.
The answer echoed through his mind the rest of the day, and once he left his holiday shopping in his room, he decided that maybe he needed to be home. To be in Gotham. True, the Bar had begun to feel like home. Heck, his current suite was bigger than his studio apartment. But if you are going to be a columnist in Gotham City, maybe you need to be in Gotham City.
Today he was walking through the cluttered, filthy Cathedral District, a miserable slum where the brief increase in tourists following Batman's battle with the Joker ended with the start of the new year. It wasn't very cold today, not for late February. It hadn't been cold for some time, he recalled. Strange how maybe four months had passed for him since the new year began - keeping time was not so easy with a timeless refuge in your life. But in the two months in Gotham, there was no snow, just the usual Gotham winds. Not bad weather for walking.
This was his city. Till Milliways invited him in, he lived every day of his life in its boundaries, knew its dark corners and its rare glimpse of light. He knew that the Archdioscece of Gotham City would never reopen the old cathedral, knew that the people who oversaw churches in the US didn't trust anyone in Gotham, and even knew that the handful of valuable objects once housed in the cathedral were long ago moved to Metropolis for safekeeping. He could tell you the names of the last archbishop, the six women murdered within screaming distance of the ruins in 1984, and the cop who arrested the serial killer. And if given the chance, he could string it all together into 1,000 words and make sure everyone else knew as well.
But that hadn't happened. Instead, Knox grew lazy. Yes, he still pounded the pavement in search of the stories. Still got the exclusives. But that wasn't his dream. He wanted to be Woodward or Bernstein? Woodward was an editor, and a writer of books that shook Washington (even if that book about Iran-Contra was unfair in pointing the finger at a dead man). Bernstein was in Hollywood, a novelist. And Knox was still where he was in 1979.
He wasn't unhappy. But was he happy? If he were, would he spend all his time in the Bar? He loved it there. It was a good place to be. He could spend his money to his heart's content. Yet, he knew from the second he got that note that he wouldn't quit his job. Or rather, quit being a reporter. And yet...
He passed the row of rundown stores where he and Amanda bought the piece of authentic Batplane wreckage. He thought that he would ride the Bat to the top. Only, the Bat refused to be in the public eye. He was changing things in Gotham, that was for sure, but he wasn't news anymore. He was rumor and shadow and gossip. An honest reporter couldn't use him anymore. But a columnist? A columnist could talk about the Bat, about the effect he was having on the city, about anything he liked.
Rachel had declared him a Seeker of Truth. That was wonderful. But it wasn't enough. He needed to be a speaker of truth as well. But how? Could he convince his editor to make him a columnist? Should he write a book? He didn't know. But he was sure that he'd have to get his life here organized. Buy that house. Get that car. And assert himself.
He wasn't going to turn his back on the Bar, or the friends he'd made there. That was certain. But in the Bar, he was never going to be what he wanted. Seeking and speaking the truth there? Not very useful. Or even possible. In a place like that, the turth was always hidden behind the power of the Bar. That was fine. And he had to admit, playing Alex Knox, Millionaire wasn't entirely true either.
So he kept walking, kept thinking. As the day waned, he slowly made his way to the Financial District, a better place to be after dark (though not by much). The workday was ending, and the brokers and lawyers and secretaries and editors and day workers filled the streets. He smiled, revelling in the energy of the city. Revelling the crowds. He missed the crowds when he was in the Bar. He wasn't sure how you could really miss a crowd, but maybe that was what it meant to be from the big city. To be from Gotham.
There were stories to be told in that crowd. Stories that he wanted to tell. It was only a matter of how and where.
Knox made his way to Murray's. It had been a while, and maybe some of his friends from the paper could give him some advice.
