Page 50 of Personal Disaster

Chapter Fifteen

Poppy

November

Portland, Maine

I’min Maine with three other members of the Record’s reporting team for a contentious candidate debate leading up to a special election called to replace the junior senator for that state.

We aren’t alone in being here. All the national media has descended, along with protestors, supporters for both candidates in the election, and a good number of general gawkers.

In addition to doing background for our story, I’ve been live tweeting all day. First outside the suburban arena where the debate is being held, and now inside.

There’s definitely a hostile energy in the cavernous space. I tweet out pictures of the crowd as I move through it. There’s a cordoned-off press area, and I wait until I get there before clipping my badge to my chest.

James and Guiliana are having a spirited discussion about how long the civil debate will last before it devolves into a shouting match. I take up a position on the outside of Guiliana and do what I’ve been doing a lot of lately. I listen. First to the reporters around me—more of the same argument, plus lots of grumping about the bullshit early timing we had to make in order to get our press credentials.

Then I step as far as I can get to the side and try to listen to the crowd, but it’s hard, because the music is loud and the people around us aren’t talking.

I’m tempted to head back into the throngs of people, but there’s something about that negative energy gives me pause. Maybe today isn’t the day to dive deep into what people are feeling.

Boundaries are healthy, Marcus wouldsay.

He’s going to be proud of me when I tell him I stuck to the press area. Bah. Being one of three dozen people back here isn’t great reporting, though.

My Twitter mentions are getting busy, which makes it impossible to find responses I need to reply to. Crap. I tighten up that filter, then tweet another update that we’re fifteen minutes out from the start of the debate.

When I look up from my phone after doing that, there’s a guy standing right in front of me on the other side of roped off presspen.

He’s holding a phone, too, and I’m pretty sure he’s looking at the Twitterapp.

I can’t step back because there’s a camera guy right behind me, so I move to theside.

Dude mirrors me. His expression twists in pure anger. “Lügenpresse,” he sneers, and I force myself not to recoil. Lying press. Great, an actual neo-Nazi.

Despite their virulent presence on social media, these kinds of protesters aren’t everywhere. And we didn’t get any heads-up that we’d be expecting them today.

“How are you enjoying the debate?” I ask him, proud of myself for keeping my voice calm. I slide my hand into my pocket and flick the bluetooth interceptor Marcus gave me ages ago. I’ve been using it a lot lately, and quietly distributed them to other reporters, too.

Apparently Toby is thrilled they’re useful.

Right now, I’m grateful for the device, because Angry Dude slaps at the phone and swears at me, a string of words I can’t publish in The Record and wouldn’t be interesting enough anyway.

This asshole isn’t a story, he’s a distraction. But if he gets ahold of my phone, that’s badnews.

I jerk my hand back, but not quick enough, and he’s got me by the wrist all of a sudden. My phone tumbles out of my hand, landing on the concrete floor with a sharp smack.

Shit, shit, shit…

I try to look for it, but he’s got a tight grip on myarm.

“Let go of me,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Get your hand off mybody.”

“Hey,” someone yells, and I can feel the heat of the camera lights turn myway.

Aw, crap. I don’t want to be the story. I hear Marcus’s voice in my head. Angry assholes expect you to go one way. Go the other. Move in, twist toward them, drop low. I step forward, my mind spinning as I try to figure out where his fingers end, where the weak spotis.

This isn’t anything like how we’ve practiced over the last few months. This is terrifying, and I’m shaking as I turn my handin.

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