Bob McCarty Writes

Below is Part Six of a series of posts I’m sharing with readers of this blog today. A change of pace from my usual writings on humor, politics, culture and capitalism, this series represents the first few chapters of a book I’ve been writing for several months. It draws from my background in the Air Force as well as from my experience in politics and public relations. I hope you enjoy it, and I look forward to your feedback.

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SCRATCH OFF

By Bob McCarty

Copyright © 2008 Bob McCarty, L.L.C. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, publication or broadcast
or other use of this document without the express permission of Bob McCarty, L.L.C., is prohibited by law.

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Normally, Schramm didn’t work on Sunday. Today, however, she would make an exception. After all, an opportunity like this one doesn’t come along too often at the Daily News, a nearly-200-year-old newspaper published Tuesday thru Friday mornings and again on Saturday with an Effingham Sunday News flag.

“Hello, Mr. Kastens,” she began after hearing him pick up. “This is Judy Schramm at the paper. I understand you left a message at our office this morning.”

“Yes, I did,” Kastens replied. “Can we get together and talk?”

“Certainly, Mr. Kastens. What’s on your mind?” she asked, despite already having a pretty good idea.

“Ms. Schramm – ”

“Please, call me Judy,” she interrupted.

“Okay, Judy, I read your article yesterday and found it to be quite different from most of the others I’ve seen about my son’s death and funeral,” he said. “After I read it, I called Captain Jones and talked over a few things with him.

“During our conversation, he told me you had asked about the letter Josh had written – the one Captain Jones delivered to me.”

“Yes,” Schramm offered, prompting him to continue.

“I’d like to share the contents of that letter with you and answer other questions you might have, Ms. Schramm – er, uh, Judy,” he concluded.

To Josh’s dad, nothing on earth could be more disturbing than the news he had dealt with during the previous four days. Then to see his son’s name tied to the mudslinging conversations about the war in Iraq, the Global War on Terror and whether either were justified. That type of so-called journalism made him sick to his stomach. By sharing Josh’s story with Schramm, he saw an opportunity to set the record straight.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Kastens – ”

“Please, call me Larry,” he interrupted. “Where can we meet?”

“Can I come to your house?” she asked. Not waiting for a reply, she continued, “I would like to see where Josh grew up and take a look at pictures you might have – stuff like that. Would that be alright?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Why don’t you come over, and we’ll have lunch. I have enough food over here to feed an army.”

“That sounds good. Let me get my things together, and I’ll be there, let’s say, by 11?”

“Sounds fine,” he said. After giving her directions to his home and exchanging the usual pleasantries, both hung up and the line went dead. That was Schramm’s cue to get ready.She had 35 minutes until the interview. She hoped that would be enough time.

After a ten-minute shower, she fixed her hair in five and “put on her face” – that’s what she called the process of applying foundation, mascara, etc. – in only four. Next, she laid out her clothes – her favorite pair of blue jeans, thin white pullover, denim jacket and pair of brown loafers – and got dressed in three minutes. She had 13 minutes.

With a final look in the mirror, she let out a sigh of relief – “Whoo!” – knowing she now had about eight minutes to write down a list of questions for the interview and five minutes to make it to the Kastens place. During the drive, she would outline in her mind a game plan for her interview.

Though she rarely stuck to any outline, she was loyal to the process – something she picked up during her previous job as a student reporter for The Alestle, Southern Illinois University-Edwardsville’s strangely-named twice-a-week campus newspaper.

“What if he just wants to vent? What if he goes postal? What if…?”

A flurry of questions raced through her mind as she approached the intersection of Banker and West Fayette. The stop light had traffic backed up three cars deep – a virtual traffic jam by Effingham standards – and Schramm needed to be moving. After what seemed an eternity with her foot on the brake pedal, she realized traffic was something she couldn’t control. So why try? Then she had an epiphany.

Rather than try to control the interview process, she decided she would trust her instincts. This, after all, might be her first “story of a lifetime.” The light eventually changed and, because of Schramm’s loyalty to being on time, she found herself pulling into the driveway of Kastens’ home promptly at 11.

Her interview subject had seen her coming in her light blue Volkswagen Beetle – one of the newer models – approaching from the north. When she was within a half mile, he walked out his front door and across the lawn to wait next to his pickup truck at the head of the driveway. Only when he saw Schramm pulling into the driveway and bringing her car to a stop did he begin to walk in her direction.

“Hi,” Schramm said as she climbed out of her car, pen and paper in hand. “You must be Mr. Kas – Larry.”

Kastens nodded, said “That’s right,” and extended his hand to her as they came within handshaking distance.

“Judy Schramm,” she said, making a point to smile – but not too much. A pregnant pause followed as they stood still for a moment in front of her car. Kastens didn’t have any experience with reporters and felt somewhat at a loss about what to do next.

Schramm sensed his discomfort and tried to break the ice with light fare.

“You’re right about this being the only home behind the Wal-Mart,” she said, at the same time taking a small, “follow-me” type of step toward the house.“ Yes,” he replied, catching on to her prompt and taking a step toward the house. “As long as you can find the Wal-Mart, you can find my place. Let’s go inside.”

The two walked across the front lawn, still soggy from the rain cloud that had seemed to camp over the Kastens house all week. Upon reaching the front door, Kastens held the door open for Schramm and they entered the small foyer.

The reporter couldn’t help but notice the abundance of flower arrangements in the house. Everywhere, from the front door to the back door and in every direction, it seemed – except for a narrow walking path – flowers had replaced carpet. Kastens noticed her look of amazement.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve turned away as many deliveries as I’ve accepted,” Kastens said as he pulled condolence cards from two of the flower arrangements and begin reading. “They’ve come from as far away as San Antonio and Boston and Baghdad.”

“Wow, that must mean a lot to you,” Schramm said, easing into the interview without formalities.

“It does, I guess,” he said, “but I’d trade it all in a heartbeat to have Josh back.”

“I’m sure you would,” Schramm replied. A moment of silence followed. It appeared as if Kastens wanted to say something but was struggling over it.

“Larry, I know this has to be hard to talk about,” Schramm said, exhibiting wisdom beyond her years, “but I get the feeling you have something really important to share with the world about your son…something those other reporters didn’t know.”

Something those other reporters didn’t know. Hearing those words, the man looked up at the 24-year-old reporter and sensed immediately that she understood his pain.

“I do,” he said. At the same time, he realized he should probably clear a place for the two to sit down and talk.

“Would you like to sit at the table here?” he asked after swallowing back his emotions. “I can clear things off a bit.”

“That would be great. Let me help you,” Schramm said. Together, the interviewer and subject began relocating flower vases and potted plants until there was enough room for each to pull up a chair and get comfortable.

“Are you hungry?” Kastens asked.

“To be honest, I am,” Schramm replied. “I haven’t had anything to eat today.”

“Well, you can take your pick,” he said, displaying a slight bit of theater as he opened the right-side door of his Frigidaire®. “I have everything a person might want when it comes to food.”

The refrigerator was packed, and it had been a long time since the underpaid and overworked reporter had had such a wide choice of menu options. Though tempted to go for something really tasty, she opted instead for something easy to eat.

“Would you mind if I had some of that pasta salad?” she asked.

“Not at all. Plate or a bowl?”

“Bowl, please,” she said.

Kastens grabbed a large bowl from the cabinet above and, using a spoon from the nearby silverware drawer, began scooping from the Tupperware® bowl.

Schramm could only imagine how much salad he had scooped. When he turned toward her, she saw in his hands a bowl of pasta four inches deep and almost as wide across as a dinner plate

“Oh, that’s a lot,” Schramm said, laughing at the thought of finishing such an enormous portion. “This much could last me a week!”

‘“You’re welcome to take home more if you like,” he countered as he handed her a fork and spoon. “I’m not much of a pasta type.”

“Thank you, I will,” she said.

Kastens fixed himself a plate of sliced ham and baked beans. After a minute in the microwave, it was warm enough to eat. He sat down at the table and began eating, knowing that questions would soon follow. He hoped he could answer them.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 Bob McCarty, L.L.C. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, publication or broadcast
or other use of this document without the express permission of Bob McCarty, L.L.C., is prohibited by law.

>> Part Seven <<

To read other SCRATCH OFF posts, click here.