Scared To Fly
Gregory Helms felt his jaw drop open as he took in the
majesty of the Nightly Express-Bulletin Building. He'd never seen such nice architecture - definitely
not back on the farm on which he'd grown up.
The people were nothing like he'd ever seen, either - pushy, certainly,
with an ugly conviction about where they were going and what they had to get
done, at the expense of all else.
Gregory thought that was a shame.
Life was to be enjoyed, not rushed, that was what Grandpappy
always told him. He shed a tear. Poor Grandpappy,
may his soul rest in peace...
"Hey, are you Gregory Helms?"
A brassy brunette, short and the very image of humanity in
her black suit, thrust a hand at him. He
managed to scare up a nod.
"Molly Holly - MISS Molly Holly."
Gregory's eyes bulged.
"Molly Holly! The legend herself!"
The girl did something unlike herself - blushed. "I'm no legend."
"You are in the outhouses of
"Thank you," she said, her cheeks turning a chartreuse
shade between disgust and pleasure.
"But I've always wanted to do something outside of my columns on
the domestic arts. I've been trying to
convince the editior-in-chief to move me to features,
and....oh, I think I've heard enough about myself. What about you? Mister Lawler is extremely
impressed with the collection of articles you submitted to him."
"Aww, that t'weren't nothing."
"He said they were the best pieces he'd ever seen from
an amateur! And I will admit, your editorial about the plight of one-eyed chicken made
me cry."
"Bessie," he took off his grey flannel hat and
held it to his chest. "There are
some souls, Miss Molly, that goes straight to
heaven. Well, my poor Bessie, she's up
there peckin' away with Elvis and General Lee right
now."
"I'm sure," Molly said, indulgently. "Well, come along with me - I'll take
you into the office and bring you to Mister Lawler."
"Okay," Greg marched resolutely behind Molly,
following her into an elevator and then up to the third floor. The wood-paneled elevator was coffin-like but
serene with all of its polished wood.
All of this waiting was tiresome.
Why, it'd take him ten seconds to fly there -
But no - no one could ever know his secret. No one but his Mother, Grandma, Aunt JoJoBean, Uncle Duke Dexter, Aunty Jean May, Cousins Luke,
Duke, Bo, Avery, Bessie Lynn, Carrie Lynn, Becky Jo Lynn....Well, heck, half of
the family knew about his secret identity!
Surely it wouldn't cause him problems in the big city - especially with
a girl as nice as Molly...
"Miss Molly, do you believe in ma-"
"Marriage? I suppose - if the right fellow came
along. I've been in a few serious
relationships, but nothing spectacular," she folded back her stark black
lapels. "Most of the men I've dated
in Titopolis say I'm too pushy. Others
say I'm too old-fashioned. Too quaint,
they say!"
"Ma'am, I do not want to live in a world where knitting
is considered a quaint hobby."
The elevator dinged, opening up into a spacious newsroom,
where workers in neat suits bustled from gray cubicle to gray cubicle,
shuffling an endless amount of paper.
Gregory was simply a goggle. He
walked like a zombie behind Molly. They
walked among the network of cubicles until they reached a series of small
offices almost hidden behind the numerous tables. On one office door read JERRY LAWLER, ED IN
CHIEF. In large gilt letters. Two offices were simply lettered EDITORIAL in
plain red letters on the glass. On the
final door, the corner office, read MISS MOLLY HOLLY: FEATURES.
She had a secretary as well; a wholesome-looking, petite
blonde woman with all-American looks and a blouse wide open at the third
button. Greg immediately directed his
gaze somewhere else - that girl simply looked too much like the 'wicked city
women' his grandma had warned him about.
"Miss Molly! Shane's on like
one!" A voice in the thong called from an open cubicle.
"Heavens, Torrie, which
Shane? There's positively a
Torrie's eyes were focused
greedily on Gregory. "Ooh - this
one's cute - is he clean?"
"How in mercy's sake should I know? Which Shane is it?"
"McMahon, the publishing heir."
Molly's face screwed down in an imposing frown. "Tell him I don't have enough time in
one day to tell him how much I wish he were dead!"
Torrie pouted. "Our message slips aren't that
big."
"Oh, well, tell him to join the Kiss My Ass club -
he'll certainly know what that means.!"
Torrie picked up the phone, and as
Greg followed along behind, he could clearly hear the woman tell the person on
he other end of the phone to join the Kiss My Ass Club.
Molly knocked on the Editor in chief's door.
"Who is it?"
"Molly, Chief.
I've got the fresh meat you're so excited about."
"Helms, my boy! Come in!"
Molly and Gregory entered the office. Jerry Lawler sat behind a plush desk, a
large-breasted woman in a short skirt flanking him to the right. Compared to the rest of the office, in its
bland beiges and grays, Lawler's office was done up in vivid emperor purple
shades.
Gregory poked Molly's shoulder, and pointed at a large
plaster eagle on the top of the chair.
"What're those?"
Molly looked at the woman and said, "beach balls. Want
to pop one?"
"Ashley, go do some filing, okay?" He smacked her
on the rear as she left. "That's
the best thing about interns. I keep
getting older and they stay the same age," he patted his jewel-encrusted
mouse in a manner most phallic.
"Welcome to the company, Greg!
I can call you Greg, right? I'm gonna
call you Greg. Want a cigar? Have a cigar..."
"But I don't smoke..." Gregory began, but his
voice was silenced by a thick Cuban.
"Did Molly make you feel welcome? She's good at that, if you catch my
drift..."
"Oh, one New Year's party and you're labeled for
life!"
"I meant with people now - you're good with
people," Jerry stubbed out his cigar.
"We like the cut of your jib, boy.
We like it so much that we called you up from that god-forsaken dustbowl
you called a home and made you a feature writer for the number one newspaper in
Titopolis! How do you feel about
that?"
"Well, plumb good!"
Jerry frowned. "Work on the accent, kid. Only Colonel Sanders and Foghorn Leghorn ever
made money with a voice like that," the smile returned to his face. "Well, here's your first
assignment," he thrust a thick file in Greg's hand. "Dog beauty pageant at
Fifth and Nine. Gimmie the home town feel, but
with a little gloss...you getting this, boy?
And make it edgy-cute!"
Gregory became visibly more serious. "Kelly Clarkson it. Got you."
"Right. But be sure to bring me the dirt!" He clasped Greg on the shoulder. "You're the future of the company,
Gregory Helms!" He turned on his
intercom. "You hear that, you lazy SOB's? Gregory Shane
Helms, Boy Reporter, is the future of the Nightly Express Bulletin! He's the wave of the future, and after he
hits all you SOBs are gonna be bobbing around waiting
for him to pick you up outta your own mess!"
Greg peered through the wooden partition. A countless number of angry faces glared
back.
He would have indulged more in the horrible awkwardness of
the moment, had his super hearing not picked up a faint cry:
Help! My baby!