The Green Room

He sat in the green room waiting for his turn to go on. It wasn’t his first time, it was his second, counting the appearance he made on the local news back home. He looked around the room. It was kind of spare considering he was sitting in the same room where presidential candidates and movie stars sat.

Everyone, his wife, who was having an affair with one of her co-workers, his friends and the people he worked with at the school insisted that he take full credit, act the part of a hero. He took a deep breath. An assistant producer would soon beckon him.

His brother-in-law, a hotshot marketing executive, put him in touch with Mr. Winston, a guy who specialized in this sort of thing. Winston told him he could make a few bucks if he played his cards right. He told him how to answer the questions he would surely be asked. They rehearsed on the trip to New York at least 30 times.

He was 37, the head janitor of the only high school in Shapely County, population 6,300. A few extra bucks would be nice. And being on television? Let’s face it; the fourth grade teacher doing his wife couldn’t compete with that. Still, his stomach was in knots. He wasn’t afraid to be on the tube, far from it. It was the fundamental lie that ate away at him. He wasn’t a hero. After all, three innocent kids died. And it wasn’t like he rushed the shooter head on, risking his life. No, all he did was to creep up behind a confused, mentally ill, 15 year old kid and break his mop handle over the kid’s skull.    

He poured coffee into one of the mugs with the network’s logo on it. As he stirred the sugar, he wondered if maybe celebrities, like Julia Roberts, or Tom Cruise, drank from the same cup. He heard the door open.

A woman leaned in and said, “Five more minutes Mr. Rigby.” He knew what they would ask him.

“Tell us what happened that day. Were you afraid when you approached the shooter?”

“What were your thoughts? Should gun control laws be stricter?”

“Do you realize you’re a hero?” God, how he hated that one.

He wanted to tell the truth, that he was scared, so scared that he walked too slowly. At least one of the kids might still be alive had he moved faster.

He had no ideas about gun control before the tragedy. Why should he have any now?

When he mentioned his thoughts to Winston, he could see the man blanch.

“This is your moment Patrick. Don’t blow it. You’re never going to see another one.”

Again the door opened. “We’re ready for you Mr. Rigby.”