Ethan watched the first episode of Life and Death alone in his palatial Malibu living room. The network brass, having bought into the notion that Ethan had stumbled onto the next wave of reality TV, wanted to have a party to celebrate the premiere and the unprecedented amount of advertising dollars it generated. But Ethan declined. He thought that now was the moment to appear introspective, aloof, to start to create the legend of Ethan Overbee in the minds of his peers. Just like Steve Jobs, he thought.
He watched the show on a custom-made, eighty-inch, Bluetooth-enabled plasma television embedded with video-conferencing capabilities and surround sound. He sat in an armchair made of burnished leather and held in his hand a tumbler of Beefeater gin, with a lime and a splash of tonic for good measure.
Ethan simply could not believe how well the first show had gone. In a week, all of America would be watching the plight of poor Jared Stone. Hell, even he wanted to see what happened next. It was compelling, heart-wrenching, beautiful television, even if it was a bit morose.
Melancholy was nothing new to television. Every news department in America feasted on tragedy. When a hurricane hit, they were the first ones in (and the first ones out). When terrorists blew up a domestic target, they provided round-the-clock coverage. When a lone gunman opened fire in a post office, they interviewed every family member of every victim, every relative of the shooter, and every talking head with an opinion or theory, no matter how stupid. Jared Stone was no different. There was even an internal discussion at ATN to run the show out of the news department, but Ethan wasn’t about to let his baby go.
As he watched the final credits roll beneath a teaser for tomorrow night’s episode, Ethan was so emotional he wept.
***
During the airing of the premiere episode of Life and Death, Glio was feasting on Jared’s memory of his first date with Deirdre. Maybe it was because he and Deirdre had told that story to the Life and Death cameras. Or maybe it was the other way around, and Jared told the story knowing on some subconscious level that the memory would soon be lost forever.
Glio found himself blowing across a latte to cool it, looking at Deirdre. She had green eyes, a button nose, and dirty blond hair pulled tight in a ponytail. Her long, slender fingers massaged her coffee—which was black, unaltered—in a manner that was something between seductive and provocative. Glio was so nervous as he relived this moment from Jared’s life that he heard little of what Deirdre was saying. The mantra playing over and over again was “She’s out of my league. She’s out of my league.”
After coffee, Glio and Deirdre walked through Washington Square Park, south into Soho and west into the heart of Greenwich Village. As the day wore on, Glio felt his confidence grow. His inhibitions dropped as he fell in love. His heart skipped a beat every time he paused to look at Deirdre; then he would dive back into the conversation and lose himself in the bubble that was growing around them.
When the date came to a close, four hours later, they were standing outside the entrance to Deirdre’s dorm. Glio mustered the courage to kiss her good-bye. He was surprised that when their lips met a snippet of the memory of Jared’s first kiss, consumed earlier, was inserted into the timeline he was watching, was living. Jared, Glio realized, compared every first kiss to that very first kiss.
He watched Deirdre retreat into the lobby of her dorm, and then he floated away, both in the memory and in Jared’s brain.
***
Sherman Kingsborough didn’t like the man sitting next to him. He had little patience for the hackneyed rhetoric spewing from the guy’s crooked mouth.
The two of them were parked in the cell phone lot at the Portland International Airport, the radio in Sherman’s Mercedes playing N.W.A’s “Fuck tha Police.” The classic gangsta rap song was Sherman’s half-baked attempt to project an image that he was tough. It wasn’t really working.
“It’s going to cost you,” the man in the passenger seat was saying. He was dressed in jeans, a brown leather bomber jacket, and very dirty work boots. His name was Bobby—“Just Bobby,” he had told Sherman—and he looked so much like central casting’s idea of a petty criminal that you had to figure him to be anything but.
“I told you, money isn’t an object. I just need to get into that house.”
After watching the first episode of Life and Death, Sherman began to formulate a plan. He would break into Jared’s house in the middle of the night, when not very much was happening and not many people were stirring, neutralize any bystanders, and then kill Jared, making sure the deed was captured by one of the television cameras that seemed to be stationed in every room. When it was done, Sherman would remove his mask, revealing his identity. Then he would begin his flight from justice.