"Hi, this is Marion Cox from The Escapist." There was a cacophony of microphone scraping and shaking which sounded bit like the person on the other end was in a hurricane.
The tone of Dale's voice seemed apprehensive when he asked, "This is Marion from The Escapist?"
"Yes, Marion from The Escapist." This was really getting annoying. "Do you mind if we start the interview? I have to pick my dad up from the VFW soon." I glanced at my watch - damn, I was supposed to pick him up an hour ago. Well, I was late already; he could wait a little longer. I got right to it.
"Sorry Dale, it's been a busy week. The Escapist has had me doing a lot of interviews: Hulk Hogan, an Apple exec, you and some stupid kid who sued Microsoft." I plowed right into before he could object. "Ok, first question. Now that you're finally on the cover of NBA Live, has the fame changed your life at all?"
There was a short pause. "Uh, this is Dale Daurghty, are you sure you have the right interview?"
Shit, he was right. I had mixed his interview questions up with Dwight Howard's. "Oh man, sorry I had the wrong notes." It was my turn to shuffle papers and make strange scratching noises into the mic; I relished every moment of it.
"Let's try this again: you recently started a magazine that defends piracy," I said. "The magazine is 13 pages long and most of the images in the magazine are attributed to page one of Google image search. In addition to that, you call several members of the gaming industry names, including someone you interviewed 'sum dum chink.' I guess my question for you is: doesn't this sort of behavior actually make it harder for people with legitimate issues regarding piracy law to be heard?"
The only response was silence, and then the Skype call dropped.
Perhaps it was for the best. My dad was probably standing out on the street making passersby "Drop and give him 20" if they dared to make eye contact. It always surprised me how many people would actually obey his orders. Dale could wait - the innocent pedestrians outside the VFW needed me.
In the car, Dad and I discussed the interview. I described Dale as a guy who manipulated the law to raise awareness of his cases and how he'd run out on his interview. Dad didn't really care, he was still a little pissed that he had spent the last few hours outside the VFW waiting for his drunken and delinquent son.
"Dad, I fucked up." I regretted saying the words even as they came out my mouth.
Marion Cox, Sr. angrily pointed his finger at me. "First, you need to stop whining like a pussy. I raised you better than that," he growled. "Second, don't you make up most of that shit anyway? If you ask me, it sounds like you need to quit your bellyaching and get writing."
My father supported my writing, in so far as he knew it paid the bills, but beyond that I might as well have been selling blowjobs for bus tokens in the park.
Unbeknownst to him, he had given me an idea. I went home and started writing the interview. I wasn't going to miss another deadline. No way. I'm getting this to my editor on time for once, whether it's strictly true or not.
I just hope Tito buys it.
Marion Cox definitely missed another deadline.