“I mean it

“I mean it. The producers from Primetime Live and GMA keep calling, talking about using you as a regular contributor on their shows. You know, ‘what this late-breaking science news means for you’ and all that. A big leap for a science reporter.”

“I’m a journalist,” Jeremy sniffed, “not a reporter.”

“Whatever,” Nate said, making a motion as if brushing away a fly. “Like I’ve always said, your looks are made for television.”

“I’d have to say Nate’s right,” Alvin added with a wink. “I mean, how else could you be more popular than me with the ladies, despite having zero personality?” For years, Alvin and Jeremy had frequented bars together, trolling for dates.

Jeremy laughed. Alvin Bernstein, whose name conjured up a clean-cut, bespectacled accountant—one of the countless professionals who wore Florsheim shoes and carried a briefcase to work— didn’t look like an Alvin Bernstein. As a teenager, he’d seen Eddie Murphy in Delirious and had decided to make the full-leather style his own, a wardrobe that horrified his Florsheim-wearing, briefcase-carrying father, Melvin. Fortunately, leather seemed to go well with his tattoos. Alvin considered tattoos to be a reflection of his unique aesthetic, and he was uniquely aesthetic on both his arms, right up to his shoulder blades. All of which complemented Alvin’s multiply pierced ears.

“So are you still planning a trip down south to investigate that ghost story?” Nate pressed. Jeremy could fairly see the wheels clicking and clacking away in his brain. “After your interview with People, I mean.”

Jeremy brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and signaled the bartender for another beer. “Yeah, I guess so. Primetime or no Primetime, I still have bills to pay, and I was thinking I could use this for my column.”

“But you’ll be in contact, right? Not like when you went undercover with the Righteous and Holy?” He was referring to a six-thousand-word piece Jeremy had done for Vanity Fair about a religious cult; in that instance, Jeremy had essentially severed all communication for a period of three months.

“I’ll be in contact,” Jeremy said. “This story isn’t like that. I should be out of there in less than a week. ‘Mysterious lights in the cemetery.’ No big deal.”

“Hey, you need a cameraman by any chance?” Alvin piped in.

Jeremy looked over at him. “Why? Do you want to go?”

“Hell yeah. Head south for the winter, maybe meet me a nice southern belle while you pick up the tab. I hear the women down there will drive you crazy, but in a good way. It’ll be like an exotic vacation.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be shooting something for Law & Order next week?”

As strange as Alvin looked, his reputation was impeccable, and his services were usually in high demand.

“Yeah, but I’ll be clear toward the end of the week,” Alvin said. “And look, if you’re serious about this television thing like Nate says you should be, it might be important to get some decent footage of these mysterious lights.”

“That’s assuming there are even any lights to film.”