Colin

PROLOGUE

The door of the bathroom opened. A strapping young man with a permanent scowl on his face leaned in, but did not take any steps on the scuffled, stained flooring that didn't quite measure up to the standards that its inventor had envisioned when it was created. Floors in public restrooms, even the bathroom of a venerable, old theatre or a modern high-rise office building housing one of the entertainment industry's powerhouse firms, which this particular bathroom happened to belong to, always made those who used the facilities therein feel dirty and shameful, and added to an ambience of filth and neglect, as if those whose responsibility it was to clean said facilities forgot that it takes an inordinate amount of pine cleaner to overcome the assaulting odors left behind by even the most refined amongst us.

Perhaps those whose task it was to clean our public facilities were just as offended by the stink contained therein as those that used the facilities were, and after removing stains from toilets, washing mirrors spoiled by those who preferred to shake their soaking hands rather than grasp for the paper towels or electric air drier resting conveniently next to the white, porcelain sinks, and emptying trash cans full to bulging once the towels picked up off the foot-worn floor were thrust inside their intended target but were left lying here and there by those who considered their time too important to take a few seconds and pick up their mess, opting instead to leave it to those whose job it was, since if they were worthy of any better employment, they wouldn't be cleaning bathrooms in the first place...yes, perhaps even those admirable souls who, for whatever reason, found themselves in this line of work, in their zeal to exit these putrid walls, opted to give the floor the least attention, although in many ways, floors require much more, and as a consequence, bathroom floors in public buildings never sparkle and shine; instead, they are scratched and dulled, and in their ignominious state, they somehow bring us all down to a level of commonality.

But it was not these thoughts that entered the mind of the young, muscled herculean man who chose that moment to lean into the bathroom. His only thoughts were to get his charge to a press conference and, in the back of his mind, mixed feelings of anger, regret and sorrow brewed, for he knew that his time left in the employ of the man who had recently entered the bathroom was limited. But he would worry about that later; perhaps his boss would help him out. He had helped out others in the past.

"Mr. Richards, it's time to head downstairs for the press conference. Everyone is waiting for you to make your announcement."

Looking at his boss, who at this moment was standing at one of the porcelain sinks, staring into the mirror at his reflection, a little more of the life went out of him, but he remained lodged in the doorway, awaiting a response.

"Ok, Paul. I'll just be here a few more minutes. Let me wash my face," came the emotionless reply. He met the bodyguard's face in the mirror, and the younger man winced. Tears always made him uncomfortable, for although he was bulky and strong enough to break necks with only half an effort, at heart he was really a teddy bear, abnormally sensitive to feelings of those he considered close and true friends.

The tear-stained face of his boss, who had treated him fairly and with respect for the past five years, nearly tore a chasm through his own beating heart. At least the eyes of his boss were dry; that was a good sign, wasn't it? Sure, let him have another moment or two to wash up, make himself into the happy-go-lucky persona that millions of people had come to know over the past seven years. He was owed that. His friend was already down and beaten; certainly the press conference, and the multitude of media eagerly awaiting what most assuredly would be a startling announcement that could very well shake Hollywood right to its very foundations, could wait a few more minutes. It would have to. For whatever anyone wanted to say
about his boss, and no matter that they had, in the end, come up on the losing end of a struggle to save the life of something so near and dear to him, Colin Richards was a star.

Yes, the moguls at American Broadcasting Systems had won the war. But their combined luminesence, leant an additional layer of grime by their own very beings, made a firefly seem as bright as a lighthouse beacon; it was not the stuffed-shirt executives the media were waiting to hear. It was the man standing at the bathroom sink, looking into the mirror, and as Paul could see, looking, for the first time, his true age. Geez, he thought to himself, it's going to take some acting job to pull this off.

"I'll be right outside when you're ready, Mr. Richards." And with that, the large young man receded back into the hallway and resumed a position of sentry, allowing the old wooden door to close slowly behind him with a whisssshhh sound as the pneumatic door stopper kicked into action to perform its function. Now complete, the door stopper returned to a period of dormancy, and waited expectantly for the next opportunity to display its wares.

The bathroom was silent now. And the man standing at the sink, looking at his reflection in the mirror, felt a shiver of apprehension run through him, chilling his blood as Paul's words echoed in his head. Yes, I'll bet they're waiting for me to make my announcement, he thought.

Some people who would be in attendance had been hoping this very day would come for the last seven years. To them, the announcement about to be made would fill them with a sexual urge not felt since teenage folly years at the local high school dance. To others, it would sadly mark the end of an era, and would seem surreal given the current makeup of the television landscape. To imagine that in a scant few months, the man standing at the sink, and his entourage, would be banished from the network schedule, hundreds of hours of entertainment vanquished from the face of the planet as we now know it, was almost unthinkable.

Still others, especially those remote from the pressures and day-to-day operations of that great mechanism that is Hollywood, would view the upcoming declaration as nothing more than an interesting sidebar, something to talk about at the water cooler the next day in between hours of sitting in front of a computer screen. And still others would just feel that the man at the sink got exactly what he deserved.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror again, the man at the sink took a careful inventory of what he saw. His dark, brown hair gleamed despite the absence of one fluorescent light in the line of fixtures poised strategically over the sinks on the inside wall of the bathroom; perhaps the light had gone out in that particular fixture as a rebellion against the establishment. Or, more likely, it had just run its course and would soon be replaced.

The past few weeks had not been kind to either the man or the hair that adorned him, for streaks of gray, very subtle and unnoticeable unless one got up very close, and despite a steady application of hair darkening formula, the gray still showed through, reminding him that the years were beginning to catch up with him. As if he wasn't already well enough aware of his circumstances, the blue eyes of the man met the eyes in the reflection and saw an abundance of wrinkles he had never noticed before. Brown circles were proudly displayed under the eyes, triumphantly advertising that not even the great Colin Richards was immune from the anxieties and stresses that are a natural part of the glamour game. The short, straight nose was a pale shade of crimson, signalling either a head cold or signs of abuse from being wiped by an abrasive paper substance, which was true in this case, since the towels for use at the bathroom sink were rough to the touch but designed to dry hands quickly, not snot-bearing nostrils.

Dried tearstains were evident between the eyes and the nose and designated a trail dropping through today's razor stubble to the parched, red lips below. An objective view of the reflection would certainly suggest that the person looking into the mirror was under distress; the long, narrow face looked even moreso today, and the sunken flesh around the cheeks gave the face a hallowed expression. His trademark youthful appearance, on which he had built success for the past seven years, was fading, and he realized now, looking into the pitiful face looking back at him through the glass, that he was just a man on the brink of middle age, no different, and no more important, than millions of other men exactly his age. And now, unemployed and unemployable, for if he could not find work at this very moment, he most certainly would be black-listed within the hour, after he had made the announcement that hundreds in attendance downstairs and millions across the country, and the world, for that matter, were eagerly awaiting to hear.

Grabbing three or four hand towels from the dispenser next to the sink, he turned on cold water and dowsed the towels. He would have to clean up and get going. He didnt want to disappoint anyone. As he raised the towels to his face, he stared long and hard at the piercing blue eyes. There would be no more tears, at least not here. He had released a few earlier; the rest would have to come later.

A little voice began to speak inside his head. Why? How could things have gotten so out of hand? And he slowly began to remember...


CHAPTER 1


Summers on the coastal plain of North Carolina tend to be hot ones. A nearly constant breeze off the nearby Atlantic does nothing but move the stifling ninety-five plus degree air parcels around and does nothing to cool the air. Adding to the discomfort is extremely moist surface air, again a consequence of being so close to that second largest of all the world's water sources. A quick stint outdoors at the height of summer's sizzling punishment is enough to make even the most nonchalant person thankful for air conditioning, which adds a certain erotic chill to the skin of those who toil in hard labor when it conspires to aid the drying of sweat-laden clothing that protects the bare skin from the direct effects of the elements.

It was into a typically hot North Carolina summer that Dorothy Richards expectantly gave birth to her first son. She had been through labor before, but it had been over 10 years ago and she was much younger then. Oh, how she had forgotten what completing a pregnancy cycle was like. The constant sickness in her stomach, the restless nights and awkward sleeping positions as the fetus inside her transformed itself into a burgeoning life form, the mood swings and cravings for unusual food combinations when she had never considered mixing together before. When she had given birth to her first child, a beautiful daughter named Carolyn Ann, Dorothy didn't think she would ever sleep again, and her favorite food switched from meatloaf and mashed potatoes to three bowls of Neapolitan ice cream and saltine crackers with peanut butter.

This time, sleeping pills had helped her with sleep; although she recognized the potential negative side effects of using chemical substances while carrying a baby, she had already given up smoking, and, in a twisted way, reasoned to herself that everything was going to work out okay and besides, she'd need sleep if she was going to be off nicotine; can't give up all your vices at once. And while she still enjoyed the creamy thrill the smooth mixture of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry provided, she had latched on to Frosted Flakes cereal and found a slice of french bread pizza made a perfect complement to that meal.

Labor had commenced the night before, gentle at first but the contractions soon sped up their frequency. She was lying on her bed, for a short nap, when she felt the first pangs and unmistakable twitchings in the area from where the new member of the family would arrive. A few minutes later, a renewed sense of pain overwhelmed her and she realized that at last, her final journey into motherhood was about to end. Nagging back problems had taken on a life of their own these past nine months, and Dorothy faced fairly serious surgery to correct them.

There would be no more children; she and her husband, Ernest, had already discussed it. His salary as an insurance salesman and her contributions to the family budget as a substitute teacher allowed them to live comfortably but not exhorbitantly and while there was room for one more at the inn, the addition of a third child would put extreme pressure on incoming cash, and the long-term effects would be dire for all three siblings.

Ernest and Dorothy Richards were opting to protect their current lifestyle, one that would allow their kids to grow up much happier than either of them had been as children rather than risk lowering the standard of living for all members of the household. There would still be enough cash in the children's college trust accounts that they should be well provided for when it was time to start out on their own. A third child would mean that none of the children would have a free ride through their final development years and neither parent wished any hardship on the already 10-year old daughter and their future new baby.

Financial hardship, that is. For unknowingly to either Ernest or Dorothy, but very prominently displayed for poor Carolyn and soon, to her new brother, the tension inside the Richards home was, at times, unbearable. Although both parents were subconciously aware of the family atmosphere, neither could, or would, acknowledge the fact that something just wasn't quite right, and not wanting to force a showdown that could have disastrous consequences, Ernest and Dorothy Richards carried on as if ranting and raving, name-calling and continual nagging were the norm.

The baby was one final act on behalf of both to show their love for each other. And, it was hoped, shore up a marriage that had begun to show evidence of crumbling. The first morsels had dropped years ago but now their pace had accelerated. The pregnancy had brought an end, perhaps temporarily but hoped permanently, to the ominous veil of tightness that enveloped the Richards' house. Husband and wife began acting as if they were newlyweds. Ernest couldn't do enough to make Dorothy as comfortable as possible: opening doors for her, helping her to her chair. dutifully escorting her whereever she went, even helping out with the housekeeping.
They employed a maid, but only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and although Carolyn was a good child, her tomboy ways meant a continual mess that had to be cleaned up.

As Dorothy's pregnancy neared its end, she was able to spend less and less time in the kitchen. Carolyn showed Ernest how to cook basic foods and soon he began to think of himself as, if not the Galloping Gourmet, then at least a skilled husband, and briefly entertained thoughts of taking some cooking classes at the local community college.

A tropical storm brushed the coast in July of that year, bringing heavy rain and high winds to the North Carolina coast, knocking down power lines and making for a hellish commute. Not a very favorable environment one would choose to bring a new life into the world but that was when Dorothy's baby decided it was time to make his grand entrance. And so, Ernest packed Dorothy into their station wagon, with Carolyn following along excitedly and the family drove with great care to the local hospital. A few hours later, Colin Allen Richards was born, and the first of many events that would ultimately result in Colin's rise to fame and fortune had passed.

At 9 pounds 6 oz of blubber, Colin was a strong baby, with a pair of lungs to match. Everyone in the hospital, it seemed, knew that he was alive, for he would let noone rest unless given constant attention. After the requisite four day stay, which allowed road crews to remove any debris from the roads, mom and baby were allowed to leave, and the now-family-of-four settled into a routine; or rather, tried to settle into a routine. As one knows who has raised a baby, they often have a mind, and schedule of their own.