JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

I was tired.  My flight from Denver to St. Louis was delayed several hours by thunderstorms over the Midwest.

I reached the hotel shortly after midnight. I wanted nothing more than to be in bed.  I had to be at the Post-Dispatch at 7:30 a.m. the next morning to meet with the paper’s editor.

A woman in a hotel uniform approached as I stood at the check-in counter.  She picked up my bag without even asking and said with more enthusiasm than anyone should have at that time of night, “I’ll show you to your room.”

“No, that’s alright,” I said trying to reclaim my bag from her hand.  I’m an introvert and my desire for silence grows stronger when I’m tired.

She just turned around and headed for the elevator paying no heed to my plea.  “I don’t have anything else to do,” she said as if everyone would want company given the opportunity.

I had no choice except follow.  I felt helpless.  The woman bellhop was in complete control.  I put my briefcase over my shoulder and followed her toward the elevator.

“So, how was your flight,” she asked in a loud, chipper voice.

My heart sank a little lower still.  She was a talker.  “Fine,” I answered trying my best to strike a tone of not being rude but making clear that I was too tired to talk.

“I’ve never flown myself,” she said.  “I don’t know if I’d really want to. I think I’d get nervous when the plane was landing. I’d be afraid that we’d crash. Do you get nervous?”

“No,” I replied head facing the floor, hoping to no avail that a lack of eye contact would deter her from talking more.

“Oh, that’s good. If you travel a lot that would be a bad deal.  Do you travel a lot?”

“Some.”

“I didn’t expect anyone to arrive this late.  What brings you in so late?  Was your plane late?”

“It was delayed,” I said, looking down as we rode up the elevator.

“That’s too bad,” she responded either not noticing my signals to be left alone or refusing to be deterred by a grump. “Why were you delayed?”

“Weather,” I said.

The chatter and questions continued in the elevator and down the hall to the hotel room.  As she opened the door to the room where I would stay, she asked, “What brings you to St. Louis?”

“Business,” I replied as I walked into the room in front of her.  I was reaching in my briefcase for my wallet to get money for a tip when the next question came my way.

“That’s good. Who are you working with?”

“The St. Louis Post-Dispatch,” I said with my back still turned toward her.

Silence.

I turned. The smile on her face was gone. Her entire demeanor had changed. Now she looked toward the floor. No glow in her eyes at all.

The name of the newspaper, Post-Dispatch, had clearly triggered this dramatic change.  I wanted desperately to go to bed.  I was in no mood to talk for another moment. But, I felt a strange obligation to find out why the words Post-Dispatch had such an effect on this seemingly happy woman.  Ugh!

“You don’t like the Post-Dispatch,” I asked cautiously.

“No,” is all she said still looking toward the floor.

Our roles were now reversed.  I was the one asking questions.  She was the one uttering mono-syllable responses toward the ground.

“Why not,” I asked looking directly at her for the first time that night.

“They wrote something bad about my son,” she replied softly.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask anything more.  Who knew what might be in this Pandora ’s Box.  But something inside me compelled me to learn more.

“What did they write,” I asked.

“He was killed by a cop.  They said it was justified,” she replied still barely audible but a hint of an old anger rising up in her voice.

“What else was in the story,” I asked.

“They just told the police’s side of the story. They never talked to me.”

I was all the way in now. There was no turning back. I had to find out why this woman felt so deeply troubled.

“Why did they say it was justified,” I asked trying a slightly different tact.

Now she was mad.  “The police said he was just a gang member.  That made it justified. They never even asked me,” she repeated for a second time.

“Who didn’t ask you,” I said trying to think how I could calm the anger and still learn more.

“The newspaper. They just put in the paper what the police told them to say.”

“Why did you want the paper to talk to you?”

“I wanted them to hear my side of the story,” she said looking up a fire in her eyes.

I was searching my brain for a way to diffuse the tension.  And, at the same time, something inside me led me to push things a bit further.  “You know,” I started slowly. “I’ve heard people complain that newspaper reporters harass people when they’re grieving.  They knock on people’s doors or call their homes wanting to do an interview when people are grieving over a family member who was just killed.

“I’ve heard a lot of people say reporters should leave people alone at times like this.  Give people a little space instead of harassing them at a difficult time.  Maybe, the newspaper didn’t want to bother you right after your son was killed.  Maybe they were just trying to give you a little space.”

“Maybe,” she said hesitatingly.  I doubt she bought that line of thinking but at least it calmed her anger.  Her voice was reflective now.  Distant.  “They should have talked to me.”

I tried to match her tone.  “What did you want them to know,” I asked.

She looked up at me and said in almost a whisper, “My baby died that night.”  Strength returning to her voice, she added, “I wanted them to know that a mother lost her baby.”

There was silence in the room.  It felt long but was probably just a moment.  I didn’t know what to say.  I had no more questions in my mind.  I finally looked her in the eye and said, “I’m sorry.”

She nodded.  As she turned to go, I handed her the tip that I still held in my hand.

“Thanks,” she said and walked more quickly toward the door.

As closed the door she called out with some vigor returning to her voice, “I hope you have a great time in St. Louis.”