When Janet Jackson stood there on the stage of the Super Bowl Halftime Show, for that split-second where her right breast was exposed to the world, she probably wasn’t thinking about the controversy it would cause and, if she was, she certainly didn’t realize how long it would carry on.
My name is Tony Altru. In college, my keen sense of observation and knack for all things magical earned me the prevalent nickname “The Warlock”, a moniker that I still carry proudly today.
“I wish you wouldn’t drive so fast,” April said to me from the passenger seat of our small car. “You know I hate it when you get like this.”
Three days passed and, finally, the files I requested arrived by carrier late in the evening. In a hurry, I ran into the dining room and threw the stack down on our large oak table and started spreading the files out.
The other two interviews didn’t go much better. Though no one broke down and cried and there were no further unpleasant surprises, nothing interesting or of use was yielded. The frustration from all three interviews more or less banished from my mind any thoughts of interviewing other victims and forced me to return home, admitting defeat.
I returned home to an empty house. April had left a note on the refrigerator saying she’d gone to the post office and the grocery store. This was a pretty typical thing for her. Every time her online business received a large order she’d head to the post office to ship it off and then run to the grocery store for a cheap bottle of Merlot for us to share that night. I would have complained about her absence at such a critical time, but frankly, I loved Merlot too much to risk losing my share.
