DISCLAIMER: All characters, with the exception of Annie, the bartender, and the gunman, belong to Rupert Holmes, AMC, Meltzer Productions, etc. The original characters are mine.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my very first completed WENN fanfic, so please excuse any novice errors. There are a few words of foul language, but I thought they were necessary. The setting is after "All Noisy on the Pittsburgh Front" and Betty’s undisclosed decision regarding Victor and Scott. All praise, advice, or blunt criticism is welcome - send them to A Tinge of Melancholy
Victor. Betty chose Victor.
Scott Sherwood contemplatively studied the shot glass that stood solitary on the bar. Several empty shot glasses remained scattered over the counter surface. He picked up his drink and downed it sorrowfully.
I do care for you, Scott. You’re like a brother to me.
Maybe he hadn’t changed enough. Maybe if he had become the patriotic saint that Victor Comstock was...but he wasn’t. Scott Sherwood was and would always be Scott Sherwood. Suave and charismatic, perhaps, but a con man nonetheless. He ignorantly picked up a shot glass and tipped it, expecting the sensation of liquor to race down his throat, but it was empty. He motioned for the bartender to bring him another drink. The bartender, a gigantic mass of muscles in an apron, looked at him doubtfully.
"I think you’ve had enough," he assessed in a rough, masculine voice.
Scott glared at the man, who appeared slightly blurry. He blinked ferociously, attempting to set his vision straight.
"Look, buddy," he began, swinging his arm around to point an accusing finger in the bartender’s direction. "I’ve just been dumped by the woman I love for a big gorilla like you. Don’t tell me I’ve had enough."
"Go home," the bartender grumbled.
"Home? Ha!" Scott released a drunk guffaw. "I can’t go back home! Because that’s where she is!"
The bartender rolled his eyes and sighed. He defeatedly handed Scott another shot and left to serve other customers. Scott pushed the drink aside and threw his head into his hands in despair. He had tried so hard to win Betty’s love, and at one time he thought he had clinched it. That was, until Victor had returned from the non-dead. Scott had been through many towns, many states, many countries, and certainly many women. Least of all would he have expected to fall head-over-heels with a girl-next-door in Pittsburgh.
"Hey mister," came an unfamiliar feminine voice. "Are you okay?"
Scott sat up and faced a striking young woman. She had invited herself to sit in the stool beside Scott’s. She wore waitress garb; her face was gaunt from long hours. She tiredly set her tray of empty glasses on the counter. He noticed her unconventional looks: the almond-shaped eyes, olive skin, and jet-black tresses did not suggest Pennsylvanian origin. Certainly no Betty Roberts of Elkhart, Indiana.
"Sure," he replied sullenly.
"Right. That’s why you’re drowning your sorrows out with liquor," the waitress said sarcastically.
"You know, I’m drunk enough to do something drastic to a pretty girl like you," Scott warned half-heartedly.
"I can slap pretty hard and scream pretty loud, mister. I wouldn’t try anything fast if I were you," the waitress said.
Scott laughed. Her face crumpled in disgust as she detected the tell-tale stench of intoxication on his breath.
"Okay, okay." He held up his hands in surrender. He gave the young woman a once-over and concluded,
"You know what? You remind me of Maple."
"Is that her name?"
"Her who?"
"The dame that dumped you."
"How did you know about that?" Scott demanded to know.
The waitress smiled and cocked her head towards the bartender.
"Word gets around quick around here," she informed him. "So? About this Maple character."
Scott shook his head. "Maple’s just...Maple. A friend."
"Old friend?"
"Sure."
Scott’s companion propped an elbow up on the counter and leaned her head against her hand. She looked at the stranger. Locks of his shiny, dark hair fell against his forehead. He wore a well-fit but crumpled military uniform. His deep, brown eyes took in the liquor-filled shot glass longingly. She sighed and nudged it in his direction.
"Knock yourself out," she murmured. "At this rate, you probably will."
Scott flashed her a trademark Sherwood beam and gladly took up his drink. He felt a little more cheerful.
"Are you a soldier?" the waitress queried curiously.
"Not yet," Scott replied with a chuckle. "Newly enlisted."
"Shouldn’t you be somewhere shaping up for war?" she asked. "What are you in Pittsburgh for?"
"You make it sound like a prison," Scott muttered.
She shrugged. "It might as well be."
"Serving time?" Scott asked.
"I guess. Surviving, anyway." The waitress idly rubbed at some invisible grime on her fingernails. "My uncle died a couple of years ago and my parents sent me here to take care of my aunt. I used to live in California." She desparingly looked about her bleak, smoky surroundings. "This hellhole was the only place that would hire me."
"Watch your language," Scott commented wryly. He fingered the alcohol-tainted, empty shot glass absentmindedly. "You wanna get me another one of these?"
"No," the waitress snapped. "I’m not gonna be responsible for your waking up in a gutter somewhere in the morning. You should go home."
"He told me the same thing," Scott said, motioning in the bartender’s direction.
"He’s a wise man," she remarked.
"A wise man wouldn’t be tending bars in Pittsburgh." Scott shook his head. "Nah, he’d be running a radio station and saving farm girls from good-for-nothings like me."
The waitress cast him a suspicious glance. She had handled many a drunk men, but most had been rowdy and flirtatious. This man was muttering nonsense.
"Mister, you really should go home," she said.
"I can’t," Scott replied.
"Why not?"
"I ran away. I can’t go back there." Scott’s eyes became glazed as a mental picture of WENN developed. It had become his home; he had stayed too long, gotten too tangled-up in its web of affairs, and was still not quite free of its sticky grasp.
"Sure you can."
Scott licked his dry lips.
"You don’t understand," he said, casting his eyes down toward his hands, which were interlocked and resting on the countertop. Restlessly, he untangled his fingers and ran through his limp hair with them. Then he picked up a shot glass and impatiently tapped it continuously against the counter.
"I need a drink," he announced.
"I told you, mister, you’ve had enough."
Scott sent the waitress a pitiful glance. She narrowed her eyes in a defiant glare. Scott pouted a little more. The waitress hesitated, then sighed.
"I’ll get you a beer," she said, hopping off the stool and retreating behind the bar to grab a beer bottle. She paused, and as an afterthought, grabbed two bottles. Popping off the caps, she placed one in front of her companion and the other one in front of her own seat. "Here."
"Thanks," Scott said gratefully, taking a quick whisk. The waitress took a sip from her own bottle.
"You never answered my question," she remarked suddenly.
"What was that?" Scott queried, alcohol impairing his short-term memory.
"Why you’re here."
Scott sighed. He thought of WENN again, flashes of all the unforgettable events that had happened during his tenure at the small-time radio station. Forging the letter of recommendation, spontaneously kissing Betty Roberts in lieu of his leaving, making a triumphant return. Saying good-bye once more.
"I worked here," he replied simply.
"Doing what?"
"Radio."
"Really." For a split second, the waitress appeared impressed. "Acting?"
"Yeah," Scott sighed.
"Anything I’d know?"
"Probably not," he said, trying to dismiss any further discussion. The more he talked about his former occupation, the more the pang of guilt and pain hit him. He loved being there, the people that were there, the work he had done there. WENN had permanently claimed a piece of his self.
"Oh, come on, try me," the waitress prompted eagerly.
Scott shrugged.
"'The Hands of Time.'"
"Hmm ... no. Anything else?"
"'Bedside Manor.'"
"Well ... no," she said with a shake of the head.
"Told you," Scott commented knowingly. Secretly, a myriad of images accompanied each show title: the characters, the actors who played them, Mr. Foley’s sound effects, Eugenia’s music, Lester in the control booth...and the writer who toiled day and night to keep the station in business. Betty Roberts. Scott pictured the wiry brunette in his mind. He hadn’t even snuck in a kiss before his latest departure.
"Oh, come on. I listen to the radio like my life depends on it. I must have heard something you’ve done," the waitress said.
"Sam Dane."
"Really?" the young woman squeaked, perking up. She frowned, and reevaluated her customer with a squint. "You’re not Jeff Singer, are you?"
Scott laughed. "I’m the other guy."
"Oh." The waitress bit her lip. "Your name escapes me for a moment."
"Scott Sherwood." He made a small bow. She nodded her head and shook a finger at him.
"Yeah! I’m Annie." She offered a friendly handshake. Scott accepted it. "Sam Dane," she sighed. "I do like that show. Your writer does a good job. I’d like to meet him someday."
"Her," Scott interjected, a bit defensively. "Betty Roberts."
"Oh. Sorry. Her." The waitress looked at Scott as he lowered his head sadly. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head fiercely, as if trying to wake up from a dream. She gently reached over and touched his shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"
"What?" he almost yelled, abruptly snapping his head back up. Annie retracted her hand quickly in surprise.
"Are you okay?" she repeated.
"Uh ... yeah. I guess maybe I had one too many."
"Told you," Annie teased. "What would Betty think if she saw you like this?"
"What?" Scott demanded.
"She’s the one, isn’t she?" she said, grinning at Scott’s disbelief. "A woman can tell these things, Mr. Sherwood. Intuition."
"You think you’re smart, don’t you?" Scott couldn’t keep a small smile from forming on his formerly grim face.
"I like to think so," his companion replied. "So what’d you do, pack up and leave?"
"I’m supposed to ship out today," Scott said. "I don’t even know what time it is."
"It’s not quite six yet." Annie studied the actor. "Tell me you said good-bye."
Scott looked down at the floor. "She wouldn’t have cared either way," he said gruffly.
"Mr. Sherwood, I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But you can’t tell me you’re that in love with a woman and not expect her to care a little in return."
You’re like a brother to me. It would hurt to lose you.
But would she care enough to mourn as incessantly as she had mourned for Victor Comstock when they had all believed he had been killed? Scott contemplated the consequences of his passing had he died in war, but he couldn’t come up with any specific outcome. He didn’t know exactly what made Betty Roberts tick, and though it had been fun trying to unlock the mystery, his time had run out.
"It’s not impossible," Scott glumly said, a tinge of melancholy in his voice.
"This isn’t a romantic fantasy, Mr. Sherwood. You can’t just turn your back and walk out," she said disapprovingly.
"If you really knew me, you wouldn’t sound so let down," Scott sighed. He never said good-bye. It made things too complicated. His life had never been complicated until a little Pittsburgh radio station had entered it.
"Aw, I don’t know. You seem like a nice guy," Annie assessed. "A drunk nice guy, but nice nonetheless."
"Thanks...I think," Scott replied.
Annie smiled and shrugged. As she reached for her beer bottle, she felt an arm slide over her shoulder. She glanced up and saw another drunk man, grinning wickedly, exposing his putrid yellow teeth. Annie grimaced.
"Hey there, sweetheart," he said. "How’s about you keep me company tonight?"
"I’ll pass," Annie answered through gritted teeth.
The man began to rub her arm up and down suggestively. He leaned over to whisper in her ear, "I pay good money."
Scott, in his intoxicated state, pulled himself up and attempted to look threat-like. He grabbed the other man by the shoulder and pulled him away from the waitress, who remained sitting coolly, if a bit stiff from the man’s disgusting touch. "I would leave the lady alone if I were you," he warned.
The man laughed. Abruptly, he stopped his laughter and pushed Scott as hard as he could. Scott hit the bar but remained standing, wobbly-legged. He was furious. He hit his gloating adversary with a powerful jab to the face. The other man fell to the floor, grabbing his injured face, but stood up after a short delay.
"You sonofabitch," he growled. He reached into his trenchcoat pocket and pulled out a gun.
"Oh, my God!" Annie cried. The other customers in the bar gasped and ducked for cover. The man shook the gun at Scott. Scott held his hands up in surrender, recalling the last time he had been held at gunpoint. This time, there was no password, no Betty Roberts, no profession of love. He was all alone.
The remaining events seemed to pass in slow motion. The trigger was slowly pulled. Annie screamed. Scott ran for cover as the bullet escaped. He fell to the floor. So had the gunman. The bartender had tackled him from behind. Scott opened his eyes and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg.
"Mr. Sherwood!" Annie was immediately at his side, afraid to move him.
"My leg," he gasped, grimacing.
"Somebody call an ambulance!" Annie barked at the bystanders. The bartender had the gunman in a strong lock. One of the customers removed the gun from the gunman’s range.
"You’re gonna be okay, Mr. Sherwood," Annie said reassuringly, gently stroking his head. "You’re gonna be okay."
"I need you to do something for me." Scott’s voice was hoarse.
"Anything."
"Let them know at home."
"Of course. Just name the place."
"WENN."
Annie smiled.
"Home, huh?"
Scott weakly returned what grin he could muster. "Yeah. Home."
The End
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