Morgan_spiehs - A Vulture in the Weeds–ROUGH DRAFT lyrics

“You want me to what?” Anna said. Her eyelids felt heavy and pained her when she opened and closed them. “Call her, will ya,” her editor said as he flipped through the unorganized piles of newspaper and timecards on his desk. “We need an updated photo for Monday's issue. It's going A1.” Anna imagined if this were 1950, her editor would have extinguished the cigarette pinched between his fingers at this point in the conversation. Instead he took a quick gulp from an energy drink can. Anna wasn't prepared to argue with the editor she'd only had for a few months. Her options were simple: feel like a human being or… well… not one. Anna knuckles were turning white as she clinched the back of one of her editor's office chairs. When she relinquished the whicker material, she was surprised by the amount of sweat her palms left behind. There hadn't been a fatal case of plague in this county for over three decades. Anna was under the impression the plague only affected rats aboard ships and Middle Ages-era Europeans. There were fewer than 50 nationwide cases in the entire decade. And here Anna was, contemplating calling a mother whose daughter played concert cello hours before dying from the plague three days ago. It was Mother's Day. The photo sent along in the press release promised the story a lot of page views. A blond haired beauty with dark green eyes and an endearing set of freckles, Tessa Haven looked like the ideal babysitter Anna dreamed of as a kid. Anna wondered if she was a lifeguard. To a young Anna, there was nothing better than being a lifeguard. Anna's editor wanted a photo of the dead girl's mother. Or at least he wanted to say they'd tried to get a photo of the dead girl's mother. Anna cringed at the thought. She imagined the once well-known Olympic swimmer answer the phone with a quivering, “Yes?” Anna would bet her entry-level journalist's salary Betty Haven let one postman after another hand her an arrangement of flowers today. She was the mother who lost her only daughter on Mother's Day. Anna's fingers hovered over her desk phone's keys. Had someone asked her yesterday if she'd ever call a grieving mother on Mother's Day to ask for a photo, she would have answered surely. No way. It can wait. Was the public curious about how Mrs. Haven felt? Yes. But was it worth disturbing a distressed woman in the first few days of being daughterless on a day that celebrated her motherhood? No way, no how. Yet, her fingers still hovered above the illuminated phone keys. The dial tone became white noise. Journalism was supposed to be easier than this, Anna thought. As long as she cared about the community, cared about justice, cared about telling the truth, everything would work out just fine she was told by her tenured professors. Did those tenured professors never have to call a dead girl's mother on Mother's Day? Anna typed in three of the keys before her editor yelled across the room. “Anna, never mind! We have bigger fish to fry.” Anna exhaled. But was soon disturbed by this revelation. Bigger fish to fry? What could have happened in the last few minutes. “We've got a serial shooter,” her editor said, peering over her cubicle wall. “Like a sniper?” Anna asked. Her editor didn't answer. He was already talking about the serial shooter's first victim. The eighteen-year-old was found lying on the sidewalk. One bullet wound to the chest. This was the second of two shootings in the area. The first left a woman with a hole in her shoulder but lived to tell the tale. She hadn't seen anything. She was driving when her window shattered. She thought the pain was from the broken gla**. There was a vigil planned that night. “Do what you have to do to cover this thing,” her editor said as he walked toward the vending machine. The other photographer was on vacation. Anna could work a split shift. She didn't mind taking a long lunch. The Tavern has two-for-one burgers today. And she needed to change her shirt to something more vigil appropriate. Anna met the reporter at the college green space listed on the press release. It said there were enough candles for 200 but the gra** was covered in what Anna guessed was easily 400 people. The vigil didn't start for fifteen minutes. “It's not everyday I get pulled off a story about a teen d**h for another,” the reporter said. Poppy, a name that did not suit her, scanned the crowd for tears. She'd moved here from a larger paper. She'd covered a hundred of these events. Anna could count on her hands how many vigils she'd covered. “Did I tell you what I was doing…” Mid sentence, Anna noticed the men embracing. They sat on the curb, the older man's arm around the younger. The younger man, maybe even a boy, buried his head into his knees. He was sobbing. Anna's feelings about photographing vigils were love/hate to say the least. She felt like a vulture, though she knew she wasn't. But others think she is. Or do they? After seeing the men hugging, she dropped to one knee, placing the camera in front of her eye. She was buried in the crowd. They couldn't see her. Good. The vulture is hidden in the weeds. Through the viewfinder, Anna liked what she saw. The older man's profile was nice. He wore a cowboy hat. Cowboy hats make good pictures. After a few clicks, Anna had her photos and they were front page worthy. Now she had to get their names. This was the hard part. She imagined herself walking up and saying, "Hey there, I know this is a real tough time for ya'll and everything but can I get your names?" It made her shutter. Inserting herself in other people's worst moments was always uncomfortable. Always intrusive. Always tough to do. "That's Tyler's uncle and cousin," a woman said next to Anna. Anna's throat tightened. A tear perched itself on her bottom eyelid. God, this sh** never got easier. "Wow, this community's been through a lot," Anna managed to say. Her throat tightened more. She was unsure whether it was professional to cry. A family in the same community lost a toddler a few months before. Drowned. Her father was nearly within earshot. Anna wanted to call it "our" community. But she couldn't. She had only been here five months. It was too soon. A vulture she remained. These were the times Anna wished she were a portrait photographer. She could have a shop on Main Street where bricks still constructed the road. She could have mismatched furniture from local thrift store where her clients could sit and choose their senior photo package. “Package A really makes the most sense,” Anna could imagine herself saying. “You need pocket size prints for all those friends of yours.” The photo ran A1 with an award-worthy story from Poppy. Smashed between a community calendar and an opinion column, the grieving mother story occupied B3. There was a vacant store on Main Street for rent. About the perfect size for a studio, Anna thought while drinking coffee she'd brewed using the same grounds from yesterday. Her phone rang and she shuttered. No one seemed to call her except to tell her there was breaking news or they needed jumper cables. “The boy's parents are not happy about the vigil story,” her editor said. “Said they got too many people asking about their son being in a gang.” Anna put her face in her hands. “But,” her editor said. He paused. Anna knew her editor tried to get a rise out of people. She had no doubt that was underway. “But,” he said again. “You've got a four o'clock with Betty. All the reporters are tied up. This is all you.” Anna immediately looked to her closet. She'd wore her I'm-sorry-your-child-died shirt last night and it sat in the hamper with her cigarette smoke soaked jackets. Anna decided on a plum collared article she last endured at her great grandparents' 90th anniversary party. Betty Haven's front porch seemed welcoming from Anna's car parked down the street. Her phone buzzed in her pockets. “Don't f** it up,” the text read. Her editor could be so encouraging. Anna closed her eyes and let her mind retreat into a calmer place. Her mind usually took her back to Timber Creek. Her parents still lived in the home they built when her mother was pregnant with her. Images of her rural Nebraska upbringing entered her mind: Pink cowboy boots, Garth Brooks concert t-shirts, learning how to Boot Scootin' Boogie. Only a few acres of land separated Anna's house from her grandparent's. The gravel road that ran between was contoured to Prairie Creek. When Anna traveled the eight hours to visit, she would walk the distance between the two houses, counting the rows of soybeans and corn. The number hardly changed year to year. On her last visit, she couldn't stop herself from sitting on the edge of the ditch and weeping on her walks. When a neighbor drove by and waved, she'd got up and wiped the tears, ignoring the dirt under her fingers nails as she waved back. She knew her mother would be waiting for her, sitting on the front porch watching the traffic on the highway, wondering why Jolene was heading into town at nine in the morning for the third time this week. She would have a diet Mountain Dew in her hand and her hair would still be wet from showering, looking co*katoo-like. She would be sitting in her robe, inviting Anna to sit next to her and watch the cars. She was sure aunt Sherry would be driving by soon in her new Jeep. Her mother always spoke. She never asked Anna questions about her new life, her new job. Anna didn't mind so much anymore, though it used to bother her greatly. It allowed Anna to further escape. Her mother would go on for an entire episode of Antiques Roadshow about who's cheating who and who's quit their boss lately. When Anna loaded up her 4Runner and headed back to her empty townhome filled with unfamiliar smells, she looked in her rearview mirror for much too long. The silos filled with corn that helped to pay her student loans reflected the morning light. Her two Labradors, one golden and one black, ran in the yard, minding the electric fence keeping them from wandering into the highway. There was no electric fence keeping Anna back, no reason to stay here. As more tears ran down Anna's face, she felt silly. She shouldn't miss home this much. She shouldn't miss her parents. She shouldn't miss the small town that she never left for eighteen years. The same town that was proudly home to the largest ice cream cone in the state, sheltered Anna from the world. The town's residents despised the current president no matter what party they belonged to, too uninformed to be partisan. Anna knew of two people that died before their thirtieth birthday in the community. It was a convenient upbringing, charmed and filled with people telling Anna to “count your blessings.” Not the type of upbringing that prepares you for the cruel world. And definitely not to report on it. She knew her kitchen table would be piled high with bills. No doubt there would be more in the mailbox. Her parents' mailbox only had Timber Creek's newsletter and possibly a graduation announcement from the neighbor boy next door. The Havens' house seemed outdated. Like a Victorian woman decorated it in 1890 and the Havens didn't want to disturb her hard work. “We'll sit in the parlor,” Betty said. The parlor? Maybe Betty was somehow the Victorian woman, Anna thought. Betty's greeting was warm. She could pa** as person who hadn't just lost a child, Anna thought. Her hair was done. Her makeup looked like she'd run out to Dillard's to have the ladies at gold sales counters apply it before buying a jar of night cream. But her fingernails were filthy. Black crescents were engrained under her long, neglected nails. Anna kept reminding herself Betty had called her. Betty wanted her to be here. Anna wasn't intruding. The image of the vulture entered her head. Anna's collar felt tight. She checked for feathers. The walls were covered with photos celebrating Tessa's accomplishments. Volleyball, debate, track. Betty was with her daughter every step of the way. Donned in coaching gear, Betty smiled and wore the same medal as her daughter and her teammates. Betty looked to the large black Canon cameras resting on both of Anna's hip. “Are you a photographer too?” Betty said. She smoothed her tweed pencil shirt as the tips of her heels tapped the hardwood floors. Anna suddenly felt underdressed. “I'm primarily a photographer, actually.” “They didn't care to send a real reporter?” Anna didn't remember having time to react but she must have. Betty closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “I apologize. But this is important to me.” Betty spoke slowly and with a sense of dignity Anna wished she had. Betty was commanding and seemed to posses a quality that could hold even a goon's attention. She was intimidating. She was inviting. Anna was petrified. “I understand,” Anna said even though she didn't. Betty inhaled the stuffy air filling the room and sat on a couch with a dusty pink slip cover. The tall, slender woman Anna guessed could still give Olympic swimmers a run for their money, slumped into the seat, tilting her face toward the ceiling. “I need help,” Betty said. Anna's heart skipped. Anna loved to help. Helping was the reason she majored in journalism, unsure how she could do much good as an interior designer. “I've started a scholarship fund in Tessa's name,” Betty said. She leaned forward and placed her face in her hands. “It hasn't raised a single cent.” She looked up at Anna. “I thought you could write a story. Tell people how this would really mean a lot to me.” Anna knew nobody wanted to read about a scholarship fund. Unless a scholarship fund helped find the serial shooter on the loose, Anna knew it wouldn't make the paper. Maybe around Christmas it would if it were a really slow news day. People would read a short story about Mrs. Haven's first few days after the loss of her daughter. But even that couldn't be more than a couple hundred words. “Unfortunately, I can't promise you what the story will be about,” Anna said while looking down at her shoes. “Well, what else will it be about?” Betty wanted to strike a deal. The image of a page explaining ethics from Anna's Ma** Media Law cla** entered her mind. “I don't know that now,” Anna said. “Why don't you tell me about your daughter. What would you want the world to know about her?” Betty shifted her large green eyes to the window. Her furrowed brow allowed wrinkles to show her age. Sixty one, according to a brief Google search. “I want people to know the best way to serve my daughter's memory is to donate to a scholarship fund,” Betty said. “A scholarship fund that will help a cellist go to Julliard. Like my daughter might have.” Anna left only with quotes referring to the fund. “What would you like to tell someone going through something similar?” Anna asked. “To donate to a scholarship fund.” “Would you suggest volunteering? Or finding a way to help parents who've lost children?” “Scholarships help parents.” When Anna felt defeated enough to excuse herself from the parlor, Betty asked if she was sure she wanted to leave. Unsure how to respond, Anna smiled slightly. “I hope you hear from me again,” Betty said as she closed the door behind her. Anna wondered if she heard her right. Anna took a photo of Betty before leaving. She didn't have the heart to ask the woman to part with the couch she'd nestled herself into. Her editor had sent her another message during the interview. “No shooting update. Gonna need an A1.” Never before had Anna wished a serial shooter wouldn't have been so lazy today. But there's a first time for everything. Working with what she had, Anna pieced together something she'd hoped would at least get pity compliments. She opened the few files from her camera and stared at the last frame in the take. Anna closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. “I'm saved,” she whispered to who she could only a**ume was a photo god some where in the universe. The image showed Betty as she sat the whole interview. Slumped into the couch, one leg folded over the other. Anna hadn't realized the woman looked up to the ceiling and closed her eyes as the last shutter went off. The image showed a devastated woman. One who only wanted one thing that wasn't bringing back her daughter from the dead. Anna felt the photo somehow showed Betty's strength, her stubbornness. She hoped others saw the same thing. Her editor agreed. Donuts were served at the next morning meeting. Anna grabbed the only one with maple frosting, knowing if there was any morning she deserved it, this was the one. Others might not have agreed. A few people stopped by her cubicle, peaked over the edge and complimented her story in pa**ing. “I wish you'd used more quotes, but that photo though,” someone said with ambiguous approval. Anna's lukewarm reception was short lived. The shooter struck again. A man was running on a trail outside of town when he heard a gunshot. A bullet lodged in a tree ten feet to his left. Anna's editor peaked around the corner of his office door. “You're up, Anna!” The near-victim must have chosen the hardest trail in the county to find. Map sprawled across the front seat, Google maps open, she found relief that if she crashed she wouldn't add the community's teen d**h count at 22. As Anna drove out of town, her pocket vibrated. What could it be now? Did a teen come down with a case of leprosy? Had Black d**h made an appearance in the county? “We've got Ted Bingham on the phone. Say's he want's Betty Haven's number,” her editor said. It sounded like he was chewing gum. Ted Bingham owned nearly every movie theater in the region and half the beef packing plants. In the few months she'd worked in this town, she'd learned little about Ted Bingham. But she knew he gave more money to charities than she'd hoped to make in five lifetimes. She smiled, thinking of Betty. Anna wondered if the fund overflowing with money would accomplish the healing Betty pined for. Anna frowned, doubting it would. “And false alarm on the shooting. Turns out a yahoo with bad aim shot at a vulture in his yard.”