Part 1 of 10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

(But were afraid to ask)

                A man sits in a comfortable chair in the middle of a room.  A large television camera is aimed in his direction and being fiddled with by two men.  They seem to have accomplished whatever they were intending to because they give the man a thumbs-up. The cameraman takes his position, framing the shot he likes.  A makeup-artist comes into the room, puts the finishing touches on the man and scurries away as quickly as she had entered.

                “Is it here yet?” the man asks.  He’s got a voice for radio, but a face for television.

                “Not yet,” a woman responds. 

The man fixes his piercing blue eyes on her.  His tanned face, showing no sign of his true age, is expressionless.

“Well? Where is it? We have a schedule to keep,” he says, trying hard to keep his tone even and friendly.

The woman brings her arms closer to her body as if she is hugging the clipboard she has clutched tightly in her hands.

“I don’t know.  Let me check.”

She turns away and begins to whisper frantically into the headset she is wearing.  Her expression is one of worry not anger.  She knows that Cliff Weston has more than enough authority to fire her on the spot if he wants to.  He is the talent and she is merely the producer.  He has made that clear to her on several occasions and she would prefer if this were not another such time.  She nods as she listens to the words being spoken back to her.

“Thank you,” she says into the headset and then turns back to Mr. Weston as he insists she refer to him.  “We’ve gotten word that he’ll be here shortly, Mr. Weston.  I apologize for his tardiness.”

“He? Are we sure it’s a male?” Cliff asks. 

He’s a little out of his element as he’s never gotten an opportunity to interview one of these before.  He’s heard about them, watched television programs about them, and even read articles about them, but never has he met one face to face.

The woman nods.

“Okay.  Thanks, Tina.  You can go now,” he says and waves a dismissive hand in her direction.

“Tonya,” she replies.

“What?”

“My name’s Tonya,” she says, biting back the venom she wants to inject into these words.

“Whatever.”

With that Mr. Weston picks up his cellphone and hits his speed dial.

“Yes, I’d like to make a reservation,” he pauses presumably to listen to the voice on the other end.  “Yes, that’s fine.  Weston.  W-e-s-t-o-n.

He hangs up without expressing the gratitude that Tonya is sure he must feel at being squeezed in at probably one of the finest restaurants in New York.  Mr. Weston’s roaming gaze falls once again on her.

“You’re still here?” he asks.

She nods, afraid that any vocalization will betray her true feelings toward the man who sits before her.  This man whom she has been babysitting since he’d arrived late the previous afternoon.

“Can you please make yourself useful then and grab me a bottle of water? Voss, not that other crap you brought me earlier.”

Tonya considers telling him that he can stand up and get his own bottled water.  She considers reminding him that she is the producer not his personal assistant, but then she remembers the revenue the interview is expected to bring in.  She remembers the raise she has been promised if it goes off without a hitch.  Suddenly hustling off to grab a bottle of Voss seems a little less bothersome.

“No problem,” she says with a smile.

Cliff watches as she leaves, admiring the view, and wondering if she’d be interested in joining him for dinner.  Who knows? After dinner maybe they could…

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asks.

Cliff, startled, glances around.  He sees no one.

“Did someone say something?” he asks, glancing down at his phone to see if a call has connected.

“Yes.  You heard me, right?” the voice replies, perturbed.

Cliff’s mouth is suddenly very dry and he hopes Tara, or whatever her name is, gets back shortly with his water.  At this point he wouldn’t care if she brought him tap water.  He licks his sticky lips.

“I think so,” he says, trying to pinpoint where the voice is coming from.

“Should I just sit right here?”

Cliff nods.

“Sorry, this is my first time.  I’m not quite sure what to do.”

“Mine too,” Cliff admits.

He looks up and sees the young woman returning with his water.

Thank God, he thinks and rises from the chair. 

He closes the distance between them quickly.  Their hands touch as he snatches the bottle away from her.  His is shaking.

“Is everything okay?” Tonya asks.

Mr. Weston points a thumb back over his shoulder as he twists the top from the bottle and takes a long refreshing draw from the Norwegian water.

“I think our guest is here,” he answers.

“Okay.  Shall we begin?”

Mr. Weston is stunned by the authority in her voice all of a sudden.  Tonya smiles, but only for an instant.  Then she puts her game-face back on.

Time to kick this interview’s ass, she thinks.

To be continued