Page 20 of Personal Disaster

Chapter Eight

Marcus

I’m followingup on a report of a bear cub trapped in a dumpster when I get an email from Poppy.

From: Poppy Lisowski

To: MarcusDane

Okay, here’s my article. I guess I’m sending it to you for comment? This is weird. Also, I’m past the point of hangry, so I’m bringing along more food for our lunch.

There’s an attachment, but I have a bear cup to reunite with his mother before said mother loses her shit, so I just fire back a quick reply.

From: MarcusDane

To: Poppy Lisowski

I didn’t realize you had my email address. But I look forward to reading the article. Pick up cookies at the bakery.

I leave my phone in the truck and carefully approach the dumpster. Sure enough, there’s a small bear inside. “Ah, bud, what have you gotten yourselfinto?”

I glance around for mama bear, but she’s not making herself known just yet. What I need is something long and sturdy to stick into the dumpster to give the adventurous cub a ramp out of his prison. I have a shovel in the back of my truck, and some rescue gear, but none of it is quite long enough, because the big dumpster was recently emptied.

Heading to the edge of the woods, I’m on high alert. If I was mama bear, this is where I’d be. Watching and ready to take out any threat to mybaby.

I’m no threat, I projected. Just a friendly ranger, being a good neighbour. I make lots of normal noise as I gather up some downed branches, and keep it up until I get back to the dumpster.

The cub scurries to the far side of the bin as I angle the first branch in. It falls in, not quite tall enough, but the next one is, and so is the third.

I back all the way up to my truck and climbin.

The little fella had a ramp. Now he just had to figure out how to useit.

I read Poppy’s article while I waited. By the time I’m nearly to the end of the surprisingly raw, emotional piece about how journalism is shifting beneath her feet, a little black head appears at the mouth of the dumpster. He scrambles up onto the lid, then pulls himself onto the out building before following the slanted roof off in the other direction.

As he disappears, I turn back to Poppy’s last two paragraphs.

I flew to Colorado in search of answers. It turned out, I didn’t understand the questions. As journalists, we’re used to piecing together narratives—for our own stories, and as a community. We lay our articles side-by-side and through that collective lens, we see the bigger picture. The last twenty-four months have cracked that lens. I had to climb a mountain to realize my own focus was zoomed in too tight on entertaining details. I was missing the big picture. I was missinglife.

There is a disconnect right now in America. I don’t know what questions to ask. But for the next while, I’m going to do more listening than talking (or writing) while I figure itout.

Damn.

I put my truck in drive and head back to my office.

She’s sitting on the porch, and she’s wearing a dress.

“I thought you were going to write about us,” I ask as I hop out of the truck.

“We’ve only known each other for twenty-four hours. It occurred to me that it was a bit early to know what that us might look like, too. More hubris from the journalist.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Maybe.” She stands up and holds up a familiar brown bag. “I brought you cookies.”

“We already have a tradition,” I say as I catch her wrist, tugging her and the cookies hard against my chest. “It was a good article.”

“Yeah?”

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