"Didn't you tell me your neighbour's been making hand sanitiser in his bathtub?"
"Uh huh," I say, trying to keep up, control my breathing and not trip over my feet all at the same time.
"There's your story then," he replies, so casual he could be lying down. "Bootlegging, profiteering, tax avoidance."
"He's...giving...away...for...free," I pant out between breaths.
"Damn, that's a shame."
"I...know...screw...this...I'm...done."
"Just a little more," he says, all pep.
I inore him and come to an ugly, heaving stop while he skips along like the Energiser bunny's livelier little brother.
I step off the treadmill, towelling the sweat that's running from my hair down my neck and forming a beautiful little pond above my gut.
When I catch enough breath to form proper sentences, I give him a suspicious look.
"You sure you've got yours set to incline four and speed ten like mine?"
"Hate to break it to you," he says, jogging on so happily I wish I could trip him. "I've got mine on incline six and speed twelve, I just didn't want to make you feel bad."
I shake my head, don't bother telling him that if he doesn't want to make me feel bad he shouldn't have bought me a treadmill for my birthday or keep making me run on it until I want to puke.
Instead, I throw my towel at him.
"Hey, you still there?"
"Yeah, yeah," I say, pulling my towel off my tablet. "Technical difficulties."
He's pressed stop on his treadmill, is trotting to a graceful, gradual halt.
"Sure. So what are you gonna write about then?"
"That's what I'm saying." I reach into my fridge. My hand falls on a beer but I don't want to hear about it so it comes out with my water bottle instead. "My editor wants me to bring the doom and gloom and I've got nothing."
"Give him the fluff then. Caring neighbour helping out, lending a sanitised hand."
"He's got his fluff-guys, he doesn't want any of it from me, says my outlook lends itself better to the darker side of life."
"You're a cranky old bastard, that's for sure," he says, towelling off his forehead even though I can't see any sweat. "How the hell do you work at that place anyway? Remember when you used to be a real reporter?"
"Give me a break," I say, slugging from my bottle, wishing I could miracle water into beer. "Money's money and all the journalistic integrity in the world don't pay the rent."
I think back on my most recent journalistic endeavours.
502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7Kn4mWA6l7
20 Facts That Prove We're Living In The Actual Apocalypse
502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMlXonyfuOB
15 Ways Things Are Worse Than You Think
502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXFHoceUiAE
Wiped Out - Woman Kills Neighbour for Toilet Paper
502Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ87C5SckEhv
Eesh, I might take two showers today or see if my nice neighbour downstairs will let me take a dip in his tub of sanitiser. I look at the clock, see I've got four hours to get something to my editor who was still only a bad idea in his father's ballsack when I was writing for real newspapers.
"Listen kid, I gotta go and think of something with which to bait all the clicks. Get my granddaughter to come say bye and cheer me up."
He disappears.
"How's the lemonade business?" I ask once she's on the screen.
"Ceased trading this evening, Gramps. New rules shut me down."
"You don't seem that upset," I point out.
"What am I gonna do, cry about it?" she says more philosophically than an eleven year old should be able to manage. "Besides, I got a new line going. This fu-"
"Honey!" her Dad warns from somewhere off-camera.
"Sorry Daddy," she calls out sweetly and throws me a wink. "This naughty virus isn't going to put me out of business."
"What's the new scam?" I ask, trying not to laugh.
"Stocks and shares, now's the time to buy, buy, buy."
I tell her that's the way, duck and weave but I plead poverty when she asks if I want in on the action. She tells me that's alright, she'll remember me when she gets to the top.
"He tell you what happened to his eye?"
I nod, tell her how I made him explain his shiner because I was worried she'd socked him one for policing her bedtime. She gives me a patient, old-people-ain't-funny laugh.
"He helped break up a fight between two crazy ladies while he was out getting groceries," she says and even though she's shaking her head I can tell she's proud.
"So I hear. Your Dad said he never saw the jar of pasta sauce coming."
Apparently, both women were immediately embarrassed and apologetic which means the story's way too light for my purposes. If only one of them had tried to bludgeon the other with the jar, then I'd be in business.
"Never put up your hand for hero-duty, right Gramps? That's what you always say."
"You don't want to listen to me too much. Your Gramps usually talks out his a-"
"Dad!"
"Sorry son," I call out sweetly and we exchange another wink. "I don't always know what I'm talking about. Your Dad did the right thing. He's one of the good guys."
"I know," she says with a shrug and bites down on a I-love-my-daddy smile. "I never believed you about the hero thing anyway."
"No?" I say, mock-offended.
"Yeah but I didn't want to make you feel bad."
We say our goodbyes and she puts her dad back on.
I tell him to pass on my love to my daughter-in-law, out working a double-shift. He relays some madcap incident she had with a woman in labour and a guy covered in paint arriving at her hospital with a police escort but the story's got a happy ending so it's no use to me or the citizens out there waiting to hear news that's exactly as bad as they expect.
Before we sign off, he leans in and whispers.
"She tell you about her new hobby?"
"She's Miss Wall Street, right? Investing and whatnot."
"That's just what she's telling people, doesn't want to get a reputation. She's been spreading her lemonade stand takings around different online charities, doing her research to see who's most in need. She's even started a GoFundMe to get PPE supplies for our local shelter. She's such a little swee-"
"Dad!"
"Sorry honey," he says and this time its me and him winking and then he's gone, leaving me with less than four hours and zero ideas.
I get the beer I wanted all along, raise a toast to the treadmill eyeing me smugly from the corner and grab my laptop.
I picture my editor, who's really a glorified copy-and-paste-artist, waiting impatiently for another dose of panic porn and the block gets heavier.
I think of my son the supermarket hero, my granddaughter the philanthropist, my nurse daughter-in-law with sore feet and a stress-related one-a-week cigarette habit, all just trying to not make people feel bad.
Finally, the block tumbles away and I write something worthwhile.
I print it off and file it under my neighbour's door.
Hey 311A,
Need some help with your hand sanitiser operation?
I'm available (I just quit my job).
Yours,
412B
ns 15.158.61.23da2
