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“Hey! Mr. Miller, sir, I have that story you…” He let the door of the elevator close, shutting out the young intern and the rest of the 31st floor. God, he was sick of this place. People always yelling and screaming and running, rushing in and out and every which way, unconcerned about anything except for that ever ticking clock on the wall, sitting high above the bustling employees as if it itself were in fact the manager of the place. Or the overseer. Pushing and pushing them without so much as a word, its foot tapping impatiently as the seconds went by, unheard through the activity below, yet felt all the same. Its black whip raised high towards noon, poised for its impending fall towards six; the sting felt throughout the building by all those unprepared for when it hit.
                And Sulzberger. Sulzberger did nothing but make things worse. Riding everyone as hard as he could, never satisfied with anything, even when he got the stories he wanted. Of course, that didn’t make him any worse than the publishers before him, but at least then there’d actually been stories, or a variety of them that is. But all anyone wanted these days were stories on that damn war. War, war, war. Whether it be the one in Vietnam, or the one being fought right here at home. Whether it be about the deaths of the young men half way around the world, or of those… nothing but war.
                He sighed. Leaning back against the interior of the elevator, closing his eyes and letting the small vibrations of the box’s inexorable fall towards the first floor numb his mind from the thoughts racing through it. He’d tried to push through other stories, using his years at the paper as leverage, and a few times he’d even succeeded. But they always ended up being put on some back page somewhere, or next to a story much more readers’ interest oriented than themselves, so they were always passed by, overlooked. And on top of it all, his refusal to write solely on the death of American citizens and the tearing apart of the countries social structure at the seams, had begun to wear away at his upstanding with the editors and the other writers’, and that leverage from his almost two decades as a journalist here no longer held such an impact. In fact, if things continued the way they were, he would have no choice soon but to either conform to the rest of the paper, or lose his job. And seeing as how this paper wasn’t really the exception among the other papers out there, it was unlikely if he chose option “b” that he would be able to find new employment any time soon.
                Which left him right where he was now. In a tight spot, with his back against the wall, his eyes shut tight against reality, falling—gracefully, yet falling nonetheless—from his high tower onto the cold concrete below. The “ping” of the elevator signaling its arrival at the first floor broke the chain of thoughts that had been dragging him dangerously close to the icy hot black edge of depression. Funny such a small thing could do that.
                Straightening his shoulders, thrusting his chest out against the world, he made his way out into the lobby, hat in one hand and briefcase in the other. Stopping briefly, he grabbed a copy of this mornings’ edition, not having had the chance to glance over it yet. Tucking it under one arm, he pushed open the front doors and walked out into the hustle and bustle of 43rd Street.
                Times Square. The sun shone brilliantly down from above, cutting cleanly through the clear afternoon sky, obstructed solely by the towering skyscrapers with which he was surrounded. Though nice aesthetically, the heat of the sun and the reflection of its gaze off the concrete below, coupled with the all but silent wind, brought the weather closer to the edge of unbearable rather than pleasant. Stopping momentarily, he set his briefcase down, placing his hat upon his head in order to shield his naked scalp from the onslaught of the suns rays, and rolling up his sleeves in an attempt to make use of what little air movement there was. Moving into the never ending flow of people that lined the streets of New York City, he steadily made his way a few blocks in one direction, and a few blocks in another, eventually coming upon his restaurant of choice.
                Bello, a small Italian place, was known more its dinner menu than anything else, but was nevertheless one of his more frequent stops for a quick lunch. He’d always had a great love of Italian food, pastas especially, and his wife had joked endlessly about it being his one true passion in life. They’d come here regularly, once or twice every couple weeks, enjoying a few glasses of wine under the soft glow of the restaurants’ lights. It had always been a favorite of theirs for pre-theater meals. Well, more hers than his, she’d always been the one so in love with the theater and the swell and myriad of emotions it stirred within her. She’d loved it all so very much.
                The last performance they’d seen together had been “Hello, Dolly.” A week later an automobile accident had claimed her life. She’d opted to swerve into oncoming traffic rather than risk the lives of the boy and the dog he’d been chasing out into the street. That was five years ago.
                Lost in the past, he hadn’t even realized he’d taken a seat, and had forgotten entirely where he was until the voice of a waiter broke through into his reverie. “Sir, can I get you something to drink?” He shook his head, declining politely, saying he was fine with just the glass of water, and ordered his meal. He left shortly after, no longer having much of an appetite. Not yet wanting to return to the paper, he began to wander aimlessly amongst the crowds, letting his feet guide him in a way he alone could not.
                He found himself in a park. And not just any park, but the park. Central park. Noticing a bench out of the corner of his eye, he made his way over to it and sat down, setting his briefcase beside him, and removing his hat. As he lifted his head with the intent of gazing, if just for a few moments, on the beauty only nature could produce, he was hit with a sucker punch. Not by any actual physical force, but by a second wave of memories.
                He was walking along the path he’d just taken, heading towards this very bench. Beside him was his wife, her fingers curled around his own, smiling and laughing lightly at some private little joke of theirs he could no longer recall. Ahead of them, running in winding loops from one side of the path to the other was their son, his arms out like an airplane, his lips busy mimicking the sounds of a fighter jet in the heat of battle. The sun shone down brilliantly from above, dancing upon the leaves of the trees’ branches high above, and falling upon them. Comforting.
                He found himself almost doubled over, his knuckles white around his hat and knee, his breathing faster than it was before. Catching a few wistful glances of passerby’s he took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. Dropping his hat, his hand reached towards his shirt pocket, pulling from it a cigar. His hands shaking, it took him a few tries before he got it to light, and when he finally did it didn’t taste nearly as good as he had hoped. It seemed to calm his nerves though, and he picked up the paper, skipping the front page and moving directly to the inside cover. His eyes were unsurprised to fall upon a story on the war, this time the death of Vietnamese women making headline news.
                He wasn’t even able to read it. For the moment he read those first few words, he was immediately taken to thoughts of family. Of his wife wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she watched Carol Channing dance across the stage of the St. James Theater. Of his son running through Central Park with his arms out like an airplane. His son who had been ten at the time, and twenty just a few days ago. His son who had, in an attempt to end, in his own way, the war he hated as much as his father, rallied in protest on his college campus at Kent State in Ohio. Who had been shot in the back and killed by National Guardsmen. Whose death had come last night to his father’s knowledge, first from his publisher, and second from state officials. And who had made the front page of today’s paper.

                                                Jeffrey Glenn Miller
                                                    1950 – 1970

Author’s Note:

Most of this story is purely fiction, but there are a few pieces of nonfiction. The New York Times newspaper, along with its building, address, and publisher at the time. The restaurant Bello. The performance of Carol Channing at the St. James Theater in the play “Hello, Dolly.”
And of course Jeffrey Miller himself, who was an actual person, and whose death at Kent State, Ohio, on May 4th, 1970, was an actual event. Jeffrey Miller gave his life for what he believed in, and his death, along with three other students that day, is considered one of the single greatest events in the turning of the tide of public opinion  against the war in Vietnam, and consequently the possible cause of the saving of many lives.

Description
“Hey! Mr. Miller, sir, I have that story you…” He let the door of the elevator close, shutting out the young intern and the rest of the 31st floor. God, he was sick of this place. People always yelling and screaming and running, rushing in and out and every which way, unconcerned about anything except for that ever ticking clock on the wall, sitting high above the bustling employees as if it itself were in fact the manager of the place. Or the overseer. Pushing and pushing them without so much as a word, its foot tapping impatiently as the seconds went by, unheard through the activity below, yet felt all the same. Its black whip raised high towards noon, poised for its impending fall towards six; the sting felt throughout the building by all those unprepared for when it hit.
                And Sulzberger. Sulzberger did nothing but make things worse. Riding everyone as hard as he could, never satisfied with anything, even when he got the stories he wanted. Of course, that didn’t make him any worse than the publishers before him, but at least then there’d actually been stories, or a variety of them that is. But all anyone wanted these days were stories on that damn war. War, war, war. Whether it be the one in Vietnam, or the one being fought right here at home. Whether it be about the deaths of the young men half way around the world, or of those… nothing but war.
                He sighed. Leaning back against the interior of the elevator, closing his eyes and letting the small vibrations of the box’s inexorable fall towards the first floor numb his mind from the thoughts racing through it. He’d tried to push through other stories, using his years at the paper as leverage, and a few times he’d even succeeded. But they always ended up being put on some back page somewhere, or next to a story much more readers’ interest oriented than themselves, so they were always passed by, overlooked. And on top of it all, his refusal to write solely on the death of American citizens and the tearing apart of the countries social structure at the seams, had begun to wear away at his upstanding with the editors and the other writers’, and that leverage from his almost two decades as a journalist here no longer held such an impact. In fact, if things continued the way they were, he would have no choice soon but to either conform to the rest of the paper, or lose his job. And seeing as how this paper wasn’t really the exception among the other papers out there, it was unlikely if he chose option “b” that he would be able to find new employment any time soon.
                Which left him right where he was now. In a tight spot, with his back against the wall, his eyes shut tight against reality, falling—gracefully, yet falling nonetheless—from his high tower onto the cold concrete below. The “ping” of the elevator signaling its arrival at the first floor broke the chain of thoughts that had been dragging him dangerously close to the icy hot black edge of depression. Funny such a small thing could do that.
                Straightening his shoulders, thrusting his chest out against the world, he made his way out into the lobby, hat in one hand and briefcase in the other. Stopping briefly, he grabbed a copy of this mornings’ edition, not having had the chance to glance over it yet. Tucking it under one arm, he pushed open the front doors and walked out into the hustle and bustle of 43rd Street.
                Times Square. The sun shone brilliantly down from above, cutting cleanly through the clear afternoon sky, obstructed solely by the towering skyscrapers with which he was surrounded. Though nice aesthetically, the heat of the sun and the reflection of its gaze off the concrete below, coupled with the all but silent wind, brought the weather closer to the edge of unbearable rather than pleasant. Stopping momentarily, he set his briefcase down, placing his hat upon his head in order to shield his naked scalp from the onslaught of the suns rays, and rolling up his sleeves in an attempt to make use of what little air movement there was. Moving into the never ending flow of people that lined the streets of New York City, he steadily made his way a few blocks in one direction, and a few blocks in another, eventually coming upon his restaurant of choice.
                Bello, a small Italian place, was known more its dinner menu than anything else, but was nevertheless one of his more frequent stops for a quick lunch. He’d always had a great love of Italian food, pastas especially, and his wife had joked endlessly about it being his one true passion in life. They’d come here regularly, once or twice every couple weeks, enjoying a few glasses of wine under the soft glow of the restaurants’ lights. It had always been a favorite of theirs for pre-theater meals. Well, more hers than his, she’d always been the one so in love with the theater and the swell and myriad of emotions it stirred within her. She’d loved it all so very much.
                The last performance they’d seen together had been “Hello, Dolly.” A week later an automobile accident had claimed her life. She’d opted to swerve into oncoming traffic rather than risk the lives of the boy and the dog he’d been chasing out into the street. That was five years ago.
                Lost in the past, he hadn’t even realized he’d taken a seat, and had forgotten entirely where he was until the voice of a waiter broke through into his reverie. “Sir, can I get you something to drink?” He shook his head, declining politely, saying he was fine with just the glass of water, and ordered his meal. He left shortly after, no longer having much of an appetite. Not yet wanting to return to the paper, he began to wander aimlessly amongst the crowds, letting his feet guide him in a way he alone could not.
                He found himself in a park. And not just any park, but the park. Central park. Noticing a bench out of the corner of his eye, he made his way over to it and sat down, setting his briefcase beside him, and removing his hat. As he lifted his head with the intent of gazing, if just for a few moments, on the beauty only nature could produce, he was hit with a sucker punch. Not by any actual physical force, but by a second wave of memories.
                He was walking along the path he’d just taken, heading towards this very bench. Beside him was his wife, her fingers curled around his own, smiling and laughing lightly at some private little joke of theirs he could no longer recall. Ahead of them, running in winding loops from one side of the path to the other was their son, his arms out like an airplane, his lips busy mimicking the sounds of a fighter jet in the heat of battle. The sun shone down brilliantly from above, dancing upon the leaves of the trees’ branches high above, and falling upon them. Comforting.
                He found himself almost doubled over, his knuckles white around his hat and knee, his breathing faster than it was before. Catching a few wistful glances of passerby’s he took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. Dropping his hat, his hand reached towards his shirt pocket, pulling from it a cigar. His hands shaking, it took him a few tries before he got it to light, and when he finally did it didn’t taste nearly as good as he had hoped. It seemed to calm his nerves though, and he picked up the paper, skipping the front page and moving directly to the inside cover. His eyes were unsurprised to fall upon a story on the war, this time the death of Vietnamese women making headline news.
                He wasn’t even able to read it. For the moment he read those first few words, he was immediately taken to thoughts of family. Of his wife wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she watched Carol Channing dance across the stage of the St. James Theater. Of his son running through Central Park with his arms out like an airplane. His son who had been ten at the time, and twenty just a few days ago. His son who had, in an attempt to end, in his own way, the war he hated as much as his father, rallied in protest on his college campus at Kent State in Ohio. Who had been shot in the back and killed by National Guardsmen. Whose death had come last night to his father’s knowledge, first from his publisher, and second from state officials. And who had made the front page of today’s paper.

                                                Jeffrey Glenn Miller
                                                    1950 – 1970

Author’s Note:

Most of this story is purely fiction, but there are a few pieces of nonfiction. The New York Times newspaper, along with its building, address, and publisher at the time. The restaurant Bello. The performance of Carol Channing at the St. James Theater in the play “Hello, Dolly.”
And of course Jeffrey Miller himself, who was an actual person, and whose death at Kent State, Ohio, on May 4th, 1970, was an actual event. Jeffrey Miller gave his life for what he believed in, and his death, along with three other students that day, is considered one of the single greatest events in the turning of the tide of public opinion  against the war in Vietnam, and consequently the possible cause of the saving of many lives.