GENRE: Literary Fiction
The screen blinked. A line of static throbbed across the middle of the television. Beneath the static was the same old footage, the same White Bronco, legendary by then, hurtling down the interstate. Dr. Phil narrated the abbreviated story of O.J. Simpson, the outcome of which, by the year 2007, was a foregone conclusion. His dull refresher was unnecessary, but he gave it anyway, gratified at how it sounded coming from his own mouth, and turned to the guest sitting next to him on the stage, the mustachioed Fred Goldman, who was looking grayer, looking hackneyed, still looking sad. He was as just as much of a cliché as the careening truck.
The fuzz bisected the screen obfuscating everything below Goldman’s worn eyes. It wouldn’t be long before the white noise overtook the image. Puck looked around him. Four people were sleeping in their seats, two were waiting for the restaurant to open. An older man read the discarded living section from yesterday’s newspaper. Only one person was watching the television — him. He stood up and hit the side of it. Dr. Phil snapped back from the whiteout holding up Simpson's book, his head shaking, almost certainly describing the infamous Night of the Murder of Nicole and Ron. It was three in the morning and the Greyhound sign was the only light at that hour in that part of town. Fred Goldman sighed on the screen above Puck's head and the few passengers waiting for their buses lowered their eyes and drifted off to sleep.