Rather at Twilight - A Fantasia:

Dan Rather knows what's going on. He is not a fool. He's been around the journalistic block a time or two. His tutelage came at the feet of the greats. He remembers Edward R. Murrow, on a visit to Huntsville, Texas, smacking him in his cherubic newsie cheeks back in the 1950s, scolding Rather for reading a press release from Ike's Oval Office as if it was the proven facts. He remembers fond nights, slugging back Beefeater Gin with Walter Cronkite, giggling about how they had had a threesome with Jessica Savitch, Rather always taking sloppy seconds after Cronkite. But on his own, Rather's been there, lord, how he's been there, front lines of Bosnia, beaten at the 1968 Democratic Convention, fuckin' Afghanistan during the Soviet quagmire there where he drank bitter homebrew with the Mujahadeen. He's faced down the best of them - Nixon, Saddam Hussein, Connie Chung. He knew that one day his confrontation with George Bush, Sr. would come back to haunt him.



It is twilight in Manhattan. It is a beautiful time on clear eves like these, when the orange glow reflects off the buildings. Earlier Rather watched the blocked streets as the endless motorcade of the President rode down 54th Street, not even pausing to acknowledge the hordes of people gathered at the gates at rush hour. Rather has broadcast his "apology" for the Killian memos. He smiles a little at the idea that some in the media have dubbed this "Rathergate," as if this scandal is anything like that old one, as if anything dubious the press does is in any way comparable to the sins of Presidents. He shakes his head at the idea that he had to drop his drawers and get spanked on the air while Fox "News" and others have never had to say word one about their wholesale acceptance as truth of the demonstrable lies of the Swift Boat Vets. They were "honorable veterans," they say. Bill Burkett "has an ax to grind." He shakes his head as he sips a fine single-malt from Oban, Scotland. God, how he wishes he was on the western coast now. Far away from vindictive Bushes and their thugs who want to bring him down.



Here is what Dan Rather knows at this dark moment of the soul: The outcry over the truth about the Killian memos by anyone in the general public is sheer projection of their frustration with George Bush. It is easier to say Dan Rather has lied than to say the President has. It is easier to direct anger at someone like him, who is one man, than at Bush, whose lies brought death to so many. The rage screaming out at him now is the rage a helpless citizenry wants to bring to Bush, but they have no means to articulate it. And why is the rest of the media feeding on Rather's still-breathing, prostrate body at this time? Because it dilutes and wipes away their greater infractions of the public trust. Because it makes them feel like journalists that they can so freely go after this story.



Rather has an idea, a vindictive idea borne out of the fury Rather feels in his balls at what's happened. Fuck 'em all, he thinks. He knows these people. He is from Texas, really truly from Texas. He knows how to wield a horsewhip. He knows how to shove his hand up the ass of a cow, fisting it for all he's worth. Fuck these fake Texans. And fuck the rest of the press. It doesn't matter anymore how much he lies about "objectivity" or "telling both sides." Unless he signs off every night with "Vote for George Bush," he's gonna be accused of being one of the chairmen of the "liberal" media. So let's show 'em what a real liberal media would look like. Let's use the power of this broadcast network and its tradition of journalism and rip into this bunch of cocksuckers with the savagery of crocodile taking down a gazelle. Let's expose their guts. Let's look into all the things that everyone else is afraid to - the justifications for war, the cronyism, the crimes - let's put it all on the table, motherfuckers, and let the electorate decide. Goddamn, it'd be a beautiful thing, Rather thinks, pouring his next Scotch, sitting at his desk in the dimming light. He starts to sketch it out. Who to assign to what. What producers can work on which stories. A detailed memo, handwritten, on how to take apart the Bush presidency.



He stares at it for a moment and sadly nods. He's tired. All of this is making him feel older than he is. He walks over to the document shredder and makes spaghetti of his grand plan. He is seated now, the sun all the way down. He turns on the television, the only light in the room, and clicks over to Fox, to MSNBC, to CNN, and all the yelling and sanctimony and hate that spews out, all the disdain for the average person. Rather is beginning to fall asleep as the noise cascades around him, a whirlpool, and he drifts off as his lessers, people who will never do the things he has done and will never get the chance to do them, waste their time judging him, as if his disappearance in this darkening night will make one iota of difference.