TITLE: Tell Me Something About Yourself I Don't
93K finished and polished - this is the opening:
"I don't remember when I met Becky."
My job brings me in contact with journalists from all over the state. Sometimes a new one, usually from down south, realizes that I'm not just Vic Anderson, I'm that Vic Anderson. I was a big deal two decades ago.
"With all due respect, that's hard to believe," he said.
I wanted to hang up on him, but I need to be nice to these people.
"My mother claimed that we played in the same park as preschoolers, but I don't remember that. It was a small city. She wasn't in my high school, or my church, but I knew her from around."
That was true. At interfaith basketball games I would occasionally glance up from the court and see her perched on the outskirts of the pretty girls. She was also quick on the buzzer at the academic bowl. I used to sit in my school's alternates' row and cheer against her squad. She was always a smart girl.
"And you never had any sort of adolescent relationship with her?" Jesus, I thought. This is what passes for journalism nowadays? Sometimes I saw her at parties; is that a relationship? I remember her as the voice of reason:
"Let's not do that." "It's too late to go way out there." "I'll drive. You've had enough." She was brainy, flat-chested, and short.