Money Well Spent
Copyright© 2018 by qhml1
Chapter 2
I worked a lot of weekends because I was single and didn’t mind, letting the married guys be home with their families. Jen worked mostly weekends, stuck in what I called the “Weekend Ghetto”. I once pointed out to the station manager that the entire Saturday lineup was all female and completely minorities. He nearly had a heart attack, thinking of the possible lawsuits, and scrambled to get white males in for Sunday. After he chewed the weekend producer a new anal orifice, a better balance was achieved, and Jen got to do a few things during the week.
If there was any hint of possible confrontation, I was the automatic producer/cameraman of choice, especially if the reporter was female, because of my military background and physical size. There had been a few incidents in the past, once during a protest sparked by an interracial shooting that turned into a small riot, another at a demostration over illegal immigration, and the most intense came while we did a field interview with a group of vets who were having trouble receiving benefits in a timely manner.
A bunch of them were suffering from PTSD, and were already dancing on the edge. One guy lost it, and got into Jen’s face. I stepped from behind the tripod and got between them. “Chill, brother. How much help you think you’d get in jail? She has no idea what you went through, and believe it or not, we’re trying to help.”
My size and the way I held myself seemed to calm him. “You were there?”
I sighed. “Yeah, I was there. Iraq and Afghanistan. Sucked both times.”
The man lost it, and fell sobbing into my arms. “Sorry, man. Ma’am, I didn’t meant to scare you. I lost my job because of my PTSD. We couldn’t afford the mortgage, and lost the house. My wife left, took my kid, because she was afraid to be around me. Sadly, it was the right thing for her to do. I’m living on the street now, got nowhere else to go.”
Another of the protestors snorted. “Suck it up, you pussy. He can say anything. He don’t know shit.”
I kind of zoned out. The guy I was holding stepped back and the other protestor flinched when he saw my face. I had a nice button up shirt and I yanked it apart, the buttons flying everywhere, the three scars evident on my chest and stomach. “I was there, asshole, got the scars and the ribbons to prove it. Now stand down and let us try to help you.”