Two Minutes

Mike Wallace didn’t show up, thank God. Ed Bradley did.

He doesn’t rush things. While technicians set up equipment, he takes his time to slowly walk around my living room, peering here, pausing there. Removing a tweed jacket, he unknots his tie while stopping to study a group of paintings hanging on the wall. His timing is flawless. Lights readied, a microphone is clipped in place as he seats himself comfortably at one end of the green couch. A count-down is signaled in low tones as two monitors display our fresh faces. He then begins with an inquisitive look over his shoulder.

“There are paintings hanging here everywhere. I also saw a couple of guitars in the next room, so I take it you are man of many talents.”

“I suppose.”

He shows an enigmatic smile before continuing.

“I’ve done some checking.”

He lays his forefinger against his temple as he studies a yellow note pad.

“You had a nice run up in Washington, D.C., early on in your career. Sold quite a few paintings there -- won several nice awards. You even did an interview for one of the local papers in the area.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So why did you stop?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I see.”

His eyebrows raise. Picking up his pencil by the point, he places the eraser gently against his temple for a moment.

“So you don’t want to tell me.”

“Nope.”

Laying the pad and pencil aside, he leans forward and cocks his head to the side.

“So why are we here, then?”

“You got me, Ed. Why exactly are you here?”

He snorts a laugh as he leans back. Lacing his fingers together, he raises his hands over his head and places them behind his neck. Pursing his lips, he formulates his next question carefully.

“What made you want to become a writer?”

“Who said I did?”

“You have written a lot over the last two years. Is that not your goal, to become a writer?”

Ed holds his relaxed position while his probing eyes squint.

“My goal is to write, Ed.”

“You’ve certainly done plenty of that. So what is next? Don’t you want to become famous?”

“You are kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious. All writers want to get their words out before the public.”

“Ed, I am not all writers.”

“Obviously, you‘re not. Then why do you do this?”

“Because I can.”

“But why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Ed, because it’s Wednesday.”

The eyebrows arch again.

“Then are you simply crazy?”

I set my cup aside and turn to the man.

“Of course.”

Ed squints and grins at me, exposing his teeth while he slowly shakes his head.

“You are indeed something else.”

“I know.”

His hands come down, and as he begins to unclip the little microphone from his tie, he pauses. And then he asks me one final question.

“So what will you write about next?”

“I don’t know, Ed. I may do a piece on this interview. But then again, you never know.”