Reports & Repertoire

Part 1 Texts & Truths

In the middle of a messy apartment that had lonely, unemployed bachelor written all over it stood Eddie Brock. His forehead on the kitchen island, head planted hard enough to feel like he was punishing himself after hours of failed attempts to call and text any of his contacts to find work. His hand gripped around his phone that was running hot from overuse and stuck to his ear the entire afternoon buzzes and he's hit with a glimmer of hope.

No, just another reminder his phone bill was due. As if he could forget. He sighs and runs his hands through his messy hair that's gotten almost too shaggy in his neglect of himself during this downward spiral he found himself in after getting blacklisted. He sees the pile of overdue bills, the old containers of Chinese takeout and groans in self-pity. Maybe he should just call it a day. The growing ache in his neck and shoulders from stress would turn into a full headache soon and he was low on painkillers from too many mornings waking up hung over.

He plops down on the recently fabreezed sofa, a tiny attempt to make him feel like he had his shit together in the slightest. He almost sneezes at the fake floral smell, rubbing his nose as he grabs the remote to flick mindlessly through documentaries on Netflix, a friend still not having changed their password for their subscription and he's thankful. He's hoping to find some sort of inspiration, but his bad mood only increases as he sees all the things he could've done and hasn't. He stops paying attention, flipping open his laptop on the coffee table in front of him, hunched over and elbows on his knees, one finger haphazardly browsing social media. He's found himself floating in the buzz of cheap liquor again by this late into the night, something he did far too often and felt bad for the next morning, in more ways than just physical. He knew better but that hadn't stopped him from fucking up everything for himself had it?

He finds himself on YouTube, finding the related videos from his own he'd posted and down into a rabbit hole of investigative pieces he went. He finds himself clicking through on a series called Miller on the Webb. The reference makes him smile, and that was a rare thing these last few months.

"I'm Candace Miller, and today I'm going to tell you about the mysterious disappearances of many homeless women in the Tenderloin neighborhood of San Francisco." she says, her head moving enough to show she was confident, but not too much to show she was an amateur. Her accent wasn't from California, and he couldn't quite place it. She had the habit of tucking her brown hair behind her ears when she'd lean forward and comfort victims, a tell of some sort he figured. What really held his attention was the spark he recognized in her eyes when she'd interview someone in the position of the oppressor in a formal setting. Her brow low and steady, voice deeper and calm as her eyes burned into them with wordless accusations. He missed that feeling.

He finds himself immersed. This girl, well, the woman was thorough, well-read and charismatic without being pandering. From the video of interviews and footage, he could tell she was serious, asking ballsy questions and being sympathetic when needed. He finds himself clicking through video after video, following her social media and finding she seemed to work for a local paper but all he found were fluff pieces which he found a total waste of her talent. He sees she works on her hard-hitting pieces alone, her name her only credit on each video and post save a varying camera operator role.

He lays in bed with his phone, frowning and looking at the message he's typed and not sent yet to this reporter Candace. Sure, sending a DM at well past midnight in the middle of the week wasn't exactly his style. But at this point, he didn't really have anything to lose. He introduces himself, tells her he likes her work and wondered if she was open to collaborating on something. He deletes and edits and groans at each rewrite, each seeming more fabricated than the last. He wasn't used to asking for things, asking for help and he thought he was coming off too whiny, but it could just be a personal opinion clouding his judgment. He starts to nod off with the phone in his hand and he grunts and finally just hits send. The bloop of the message going through sounds and there's no taking it back now. He yawns and pushes the phone away from him, face down on the bed before he pulls the cover over his torso and rolls over to fall asleep.
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The alarm blares early. A groan and a mad swatting at the bed to find her phone in the pile of notebooks and opened and tabbed book pages she'd fallen asleep in again. With a heavy sigh, she sits up, closing and placing the books back on the large shelf by her bed that serves as a room divider for her small studio apartment. Stretching, she pulls back one side of the curtain to be greeted with a foggy and gloomy morning outside, not that she minded this sort of weather.