Oliver Stone’s Wet Dream
by Matthew McKibben

Maria Cordoza looked over her notes on the table, and wondered how she was going to be able to organize them all into one coherent idea without losing her last few remaining strands of sanity. The clock above her editor's desk ticked away, indifferent to her feelings of panic that she had the most important appointment of her life clear across town in a matter of minutes, and she was nowhere near ready to leave. The assemblage of her notes would take more time than she knew that she had.

"Fuck it," she said aloud to the vacant room, while haphazardly picking up each of the loose pieces of paper and forcing them into her already full backpack. No matter how many times she told herself that she was going to get organized, she always managed to find herself staring down at some pile of notes, for some assignment she’d been obsessing over. It’s been that way ever since high school. Ever since high school, she’s made an almost daily pledge to change this, and ever since high school, she’s managed just fine.

"Fuck what?" spoke a familiar voice from down the hall, nearly drowned out by the sound of a flushing toilet.

"Nothing. I just have an important meeting that I'm late for," she replied.

"Thought you'd be used to that in this business," said her editor, wiping his wet hands with a brown paper towel. He tossed the towel into the trashcan, and finished wiping his hands on the back of his pants. What little moisture still remaining on his hands was used to slick back the four strands of thin hair still attached to the top of his bald head.

He sat down in his chair at his desk, and opened up a game of FreeCell on his computer. "Still working on that J.F.K thing?" he asked, moving the Jack of Diamonds onto the Queen of Spades.

"Oh my god, you have no idea how close I am to cracking this thing." He turned around in his chair and wheeled over towards Maria, still busy stuffing notes into her bag. She held up the envelope into the light on her desk. "This envelope holds part of the answer."

"What answer?" asked the editor. His eyes searched all over the envelope, as if he were Clark Kent trying to use his X-ray vision. Too bad for him, that he's all Perry White.

"The answer!" She carefully slid the envelope through the jumble of notes in her bag. "The answer. The one that's bigger than 'Who is Deep Throat?' The one that makes Area 51 seem like just another patch of desert."

The editor shook his head in disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me that you...?” His voice trailed off. He scratched his forehead with his thumb, and shook his head in disbelief yet again. For the first time in as long as she’d known him, her editor was speechless.

"Well, not, uh, the whole answer." She threw her backpack over her left shoulder. "The rest of the puzzle will be complete in 5 minutes when I meet someone who can, hopefully, verify the authenticity of this picture."

He stood staring at her as she walked for the door. "Who are you meeting?" he called out after her.

"I can't tell you that now."

"Hmm, sounds intriguing. Shall I come along?"

“We’re meeting in a crowded place. I’ll be okay.”

She was already out the door, and jogging down the staircase. By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs and to her 1996 Geo Metro, she had already put the finishing touches on her Pulitzer speech.

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He sat at the table and nibbled on an unsalted breadstick. Nothing upset him more than eating a breadstick that didn't have enough butter, salt, or garlic on it. If he wanted to eat warm bread, he would have had this meeting at home. There, he could have warmed up his Wonder Bread, and saved himself a nickel or two. Disgusted, he tossed the breadstick aside, and downed what was remaining of his Merlot.

He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. She was late. She promised him that she wouldn't be, but she was. Damn reporters. He hated talking to reporters. They always seem to be not listening to anything you’re saying. Somewhere between busily jotting his very words into their little field books, he wished that reporters would find a moment or two to actually pretend to be listening to what he was saying to them. You know, as if what he was saying was important, which 9 times out of 10, it wasn’t. But at least they could extend the courtesy.

"Would you like to go ahead and order or would you like to wait?" asked the waiter.

"Yeah, I think I’ll go healthy today. I'd like an order of whole-wheat pasta with tomato sauce please. Make sure this glass of red wine remains full please." His phone buzzed in his black coat pocket.

"Will that be all, sir?" asked the waiter.

He waved off the waiter, who dejectedly walked to his next table. He answered his phone.

"I'm, like, 5 minutes away."

It was the reporter. "Okay, okay. Please do hurry," he answered.

"Yes sir, I am, seriously, like 5 minutes away," she re-iterated.

“My time is valuable to me.”

"I'm, like..."

He closed his phone and dropped it back into his coat pocket. He checked his watch again. She had four minutes and fifty-five seconds.

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Seven minutes and forty-three seconds later, Maria parked her car in the first available spot, which for a Friday night, wasn't all that far from the entrance of the restaurant. She wondered how their business was doing, not that the new mall opened, clear on the other side of town. When, if, she ever makes it to one of the big city newspapers, maybe she'll do an article on the loss of revenues this part of the city is experiencing. Even the mayor would read it. She’d be a star.

Leaving the rest of her notes in her backpack, she grabbed the large yellow envelope and headed for the entrance of the restaurant.

"You're late," spoke a voice that until now had existed to her without a face.

The elderly aged man sitting on the bench to her left closed his pocket watch and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. His suit looked well worn, with little wrinkles permanently formed under the knees of his trousers. His lips were closed tightly on one another.

"I thought you were already inside the restaurant," she said.

"Emphasis on were. I needed a quick smoke. Come, let's go talk."

On their way to their table, they walked passed a table of high-school cheerleaders and football players, still in uniform from the pep rally they attended earlier that night. One of the young cheerleaders dropped a napkin on the ground right in front of Maria's foot. The suited man bent over, and returned the napkin to cheerleader at the head of the table.

"Thank you," she said, returning the napkin to the person who dropped it.

"Big game coming up?" he asked. They’re all big games in this state.

"Yeah," she replied. The table fell silent to see what was going on. "We play our cross-city rivals tomorrow."

"Down with Jefferson," one of the football players said, before downing his iced-tea as if it were a glass of warm Budweiser.

"Jefferson, huh," said the man, surveying the table. "That would make you guys Western Hills High."

"Damn straight," said the same football player from before. "We're due!" Much to his friend's objection, he grabbed his iced tea and slammed it home.

The man looked across the table at all of their youthful faces, all laughing at their now ice-tea deficient friend's expense. For the first, but not last time all night, Maria saw what she thought was a smile, come from the suited man's face.

"Well good luck to you all," he said, directing Maria to his table. His food was steaming and waiting on the table by the time they got there.

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Half-way through ordering her meal, the suited man cut off Maria.

"I came to see your pictures," he said. "Waiter, please leave us."

Surprised, Maria and the waiter remained speechless.

"It's fine," Maria said reassuringly to the waiter. "My water will do fine."

"Fine, dude. Whatever," the waiter said. He closed his little black book where he keeps his orders straight, and walked over to the hostess station. He had some bitching, of teenage sized proportions, to do.

Maria took a sip of her water and placed the envelope on top of the table.

"I have the negatives locked away in..."

"Yes, yes you do," he interrupted. "I've seen my fair share of spy movies too." So as to not damage the picture, he carefully opened the envelope. "I'm not here to take your pictures."

Maria sighed.

"Let's see what we have here," he said putting on his bi-focal glasses on the tip of his nose and holding the pictures up close to his face.

Maria nervously looked around the restaurant, hoping that everyone was paying attention to their food, and not on the certain goings on at their table. The few people that were actually in the restaurant were busy conversing with one another, blissfully unaware that the biggest conspiracy since the murder of Julius Caesar was being solved in this very restaurant.

"These pictures are authentic," Maria said.

The suited man nodded in agreement. "Yes, I know. I took them."

"You took them?"

He nodded again. Maria was speechless.

"Waiter," the man said, grabbing the waiter as he walked towards one of his other tables. "I'd like to order a Tiramisu, please."

The waiter sighed, and continued walking.

"It's so hard to find good service these days," the man said, returning his attention to Maria.

"Who are the men behind the grassy knoll?" she asked, breaking her silence.

He took a sip of his water. He stared straight into Maria's eyes. "You do realize that I haven’t spoken about this in ages? Since at least, well probably well before you were born?"

Maria nodded.

"Who are the men? Look, let's cut to the chase. You want to know who killed the president, don't you? You want an answer, and I want to give it." He took another sip of water and let the moment linger. "I can tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Maria felt like she’d need a forklift to remove her jaw from the table.

The suited man erupted into the type of laughter that silences restaurants. Everyone at their tables, turned momentarily to see what was going on. It isn't often that one sees one person laughing, while the other sits shaken as if they'd seen a ghost. The table of cheerleaders and football players was the only table that continued about its business, completely unaware of anyone else in the room but them.

"Oh settle down," he said "It's an old joke we used to say around the agency. I'm not here to kill you."

Maria forced a smile.

"No, the men on the hill with the rifles didn't kill the president. Lee Harvey Oswald did."

Maria shook her head in disbelief. "No? Then who are they firing at?" Feeling almost annoyed that this man before her was trying to lie to her, Maria snatched the picture off the table and pointed to the yellowing picture of men sitting behind the bushes.

"Look at their guns," he instructed her.

"I've seen this picture a thousand times. Their guns are pointing at Kennedy."

He snatched the picture back out of her hands, and after taking another glance at the picture, held the picture up inches from Maria’s face. The waiter walked by and dropped the tiramisu plate on the table, and continued walking.

"Their guns are not pointed at Kennedy," he said pointing at the rifles with his fork, covered in sweet Mascarpone cheese.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, squinting her eyes for a closer look.

For the first time, she saw it. Their rifles weren't pointing at Kennedy. She had been so transfixed with the sight of rifles pointing in the general direction of the president that she never stopped to actually fully examine the photograph. Their rifles were not pointed at Kennedy at all. They weren't even close. They were pointed more upward than she had originally thought.

"Are you..." She stumbled on her words. There’s nothing quite like a conspiracy theory unraveling before your very eyes, to suck the ability to form coherent sentences. "Are they pointed at the Book Depository?"

He took a bite of his Tiramisu and nodded. She leaned forward in her seat. The waiter dropped by to refill his wine, and her empty water glass. The decided to wait until he left before they resumed their conversation, but they guessed that he probably wouldn’t know what in the hell they were talking about. Plus, he was too busy whistling a song that neither the suited man, nor Maria were familiar with.

The suited man continued. "They're firing at Oswald. We got the word that there was a raptor, um, that's what we call an assassin, in the Texas Book Depository. But by the time we got that knowledge, it was way too late for us to do something effective about it."

She was shocked. "How much time did you need?"

The blood rushed to his face, as he leaned into talk to her. For the first time all evening, he looked around the room to make sure that no one was listening to them.

"Don't view this with 20/20 hindsight eyes." There was a noticeable anger in his voice. "Everything that happened that day was blind luck. Blind luck that there wasn't a bubble on the car. Blind luck that we didn't find out 5 seconds earlier of what was going on. Blind luck that Oswald was at an angle that we could get a clear target on him. Blind luck that he got out of that building and to that theater. Blind luck that we found him there."

Maria looked out the window at the cars parked outside their window. It was beginning to rain.

"You'll never know how many shit storms this country has avoided, and come under, because of blind luck," he said jamming his finger into the table with the last few words. “People always like to chalk up shit-storms to the other side. Pearl Harbor was well planned by the Japanese, yes, but do you know how many warnings and bells we ignored? Do you think Osama Bin Laden is that smart? Do you know how many things had to be narrowly missed and avoided for September 11th to go down the way it did? Trust me, if anyone would know, it’d be me, and everyone I work with.”

“Who do you work for? FBI? NSC? CIA?”

“That I can’t tell you. But it’s an agency that would require more than three letters to abbreviate.”

“You can’t hint at it?” she asked. “Off the record.”

He laughed. “We’re a figment of your imagination. Every wacko, Oliver Stone inspired conspiracy theory comes back to us. Poof.” He pretended to perform a sleight of hand routine, and smiled.

She had to get out of there. Where she had to go, not even she knew, but she knew that there needed to be a keyboard there. She had never in her life, felt such a desire to get behind a keyboard. Sensing her need to leave, he pushed the picture back towards her.

"Keep it," he said. "I already have a copy."

Chills ran up her spine. She turned around rapidly, and made her way for the door. For the first time all evening, all thoughts of winning a Pulitzer, or of becoming the next great American journalist were in the back of her mind. She had to get back to the office. She had a story to write. She reached for her cell-phone and dialed her editor.

“Let me know when the story runs,” he told her. She was out of ear shot, and didn’t hear him.

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Standing up, he dropped a fifty down on the table and walked for the door. "Good luck, tomorrow," he said passing by the cheerleader's table. They looked up from their desserts and smiled in confirmation. "Where's Mr. Hardcore Iced Tea drinker?"

The table erupted into laughter. "He's in the restroom. Too much iced-tea."

He smiled, pulled his cell-phone out of his pocket, and held the number one key down until it connected. "Well, you guys take it easy."

The cheerleaders waved a farewell at his back. Somewhere back in the restaurant, a pissed of waiter’s evening was made all the better by a 50% tip.

"Yes, it's me. The meeting's over.”…"It went well."…"Yes, it was an authentic picture."..."At least her. I'm sure her editor's seen it."..."Oh I don't think so."... "Most definitely.”… “She completely brought into the ‘secret agency bit.’…Yeah, I know. People watch too many movies.”… "Yes."..."Yes to all of the above."..."Yes. It's all me.” It’s my pleasure."..."Okay. I'll call you tomorrow then."..."Oh, one more thing."..."You live near Jefferson High right?"

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Maria Cordoza finally made the big-time newspapers. She was even the lead story on CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, and the BBC for a couple of nights. Her story was the biggest story for weeks on end, with everyone coming out of the woodwork to offer their expert analysis on why an up and coming reporter would kill her editor, and then take her own life by taking a nosedive out of an 8 story window and onto her own car. The New York Post called it “The Journalism Slayer,” and ran with it in half-page sized headlines.

Not quite as big of a story, or at least not for most people over the age of 18, and one that never made the national news, the Jefferson High Patriots lost against the Western Hills High Armadillos for the first time in eight seasons.