TKTK

Frank loves his journalism, but love is a two-way street that's getting bumpy...

Frank heard the coffee machine beep. He shoved his feet into his ragged slippers and marched outside. Early spring dew glistened on the lawn. Marsha down the street pulled out of her driveway, a hand thrust through the window waving to her husband. It must have been seven thirty.

He bent, knees cracking, to retrieve the newspaper, wrapped in plastic, midway on his walkway. It was lighter than ever. Elections. International conflicts. Civil unrest. And yet the Tuesday morning newspaper bore none of the world’s weight.

Inside, he slipped it free and spread it on the table. Poured a cup of coffee. Stirred in a splash of oat milk. Grabbed a scone. And sat.

His chubby calico cat rubbed past his leg as he read.

The front page story addressed nothing of importance.

“Fluff, again. Always fluff,” he grumbled. The cat looked up. “Not you, dear. You’re more serious than this.” The cat scurried away.

At the back of the paper were stories that mattered. Or should have. They increasingly fell off the front pages and onto sections where comics and help wanted ads once dominated. The stories were relics valued only by those who once knew their power. He scanned poorly written headlines and focused on a governmental story. Years ago, it would be front page news. These days, not so much. A few sentences into it, however, as he began to get some context, the text stopped and led to a series of letters: TKTK. He knew the shorthand, TKTK, indicated there was more to come, a placeholder for facts or quotes the journalist needed.

“Stupid ass editors. How lazy are they?”

Frank never married, but knew true love. He had always been devoted to journalism. He started his career at the local paper outside Philly. Then the Inquirer. He did a stint abroad when he lived in Austria, then Munich. A stringer for magazines and papers that eventually became websites and applications that eventually became social media headlines and AI slop he couldn’t trust anymore. He retired, but the love persisted. Living a short drive from where Ben Franklin once ran the Pennsylvania Gazette, a bastion of colonial journalism, Frank depended on local papers.

He pulled out his phone and searched for a mention of the governmental story.

Nothing appeared on news sites. Search engines appeared confused. It was all celebrities and sports and, as Frank rightly called it, “Rubbish.” The cat nuzzled his hands and turned off his phone and threw the useless paper on the floor with the ones from previous days. Destined for the recycling bin.

Later, he turned on the streaming news service. The one he trusted. They talked about a space mission. A baseball game. A new baby giraffe at the zoo. The governmental story appeared nowhere. Wasn’t there more happening in the world? Where was the coverage with value? Didn’t news used to mean something?

He devoted the day to gardening, because love was patient, and so was Frank.

The next morning, the coffee machine beeped. Slippers tickled his toes. Marsha waved. The plastic held fewer pages than the day before as he bent to lift the morning paper. He cradled it carefully to the kitchen.

Even more fluff filled the pages. Another headline caught his attention about an upcoming election. And then in the second paragraph, TKTK. And then the rest of the story repeated it. TKTK. TKTK TK. TK TK TKTK TKTKTK TK. Abysmal. His heart broke as he tried to reconcile the travesty.

Frank picked up his phone and called the newspaper. Their phone number and email address were readily accessible online. Someone answered.

“Hello? Morning Herald. This is Gunther.”

“Gunther, yes, hello,” Frank said calmly, “I am wondering why there are so many TKs in the paper this week. Does the Herald need some help? I’d be happy to—”

“Thanks for your concern,” Gunther said. “If you’d like to report an issue with the newspaper, please send an email to the address on our website.”

“But can’t we just—”

“I’m sorry I can’t help further. Have a great day sir,” Gunther said.

Frank looked at his phone. The cat appeared on the table and cocked her head.

He opened his laptop where the news streaming service broadcast a story about the space mission again. It reported more about the baseball team and how excited the players were for the season. They shared an update on the giraffe’s diet. And then it repeated.

The anchors barely commented in between segments, their faces stern. Unsmiling. He remembered when that was something that people would comment on, when anchors were still mostly humans. “She never smiles,” a former politician had once said to berate a female journalist. The comment made front page news back then. Today, it probably would be wedged between TKs.

“Frickin’ fluff, everywhere,” he said. The cat rolled on the table and Frank scratched its stomach.

The next morning, the coffee machine beeped. He wiggled into his slippers and stepped outside in time to see Marsha speed away from her driveway, her garage door left wide open. Frank didn’t see her wave. Odd.

The plastic on his walkway seemed like an empty bag, the kind Katy Perry might best identify with. He smiled at remembering the stupid lyric from ages ago. He poured a cup and looked for the cat. Must still be sleeping.

He slipped the sheets out of the plastic and sat to read them.

The headline featured a series of TKs.

He flipped through the pages.

More TKs. Every headline a TK.

Toward the back he found a mention of the government again. He saw the words take over. He read adjectives like hostile, mandate, and executive order interspersed between TKs. No context. Nothing. It may have been something about the Middle East again, though hadn’t that been resolved last year?

Frank was peeved. Local journalism had suffered in recent years, he knew, but it was the one pillar of democracy that needed not to crack. He turned on the streaming service, which showed a livestream of the giraffe at the zoo with a chyron reading: Morning News Live is now “Giraffe Watch 24/7”.

Where was his cat?

What the hell was happening?

He looked online but the news sites played livestreams of the baby giraffe from different angles. Articles popped up about the giraffe’s diet. It’s personality. How tall it might grow. It seemed nothing else was happening in the world.

Frank called the newspaper again.

“Hello? Hello?” he said.

Gunther’s voice came through in an automated message.

“Thank you for calling Morning Herald, your source for local and breaking news. Our team is unable to speak with you now, for the foreseeable future. Please send an email to voice your concerns. Have a great day.”

“Gunther, what the hell?” Frank slammed his phone on the table. A veil had fallen. Without his precious news, Gunther felt blinded. But he could clear his eyes and see for himself. He could go ask questions to get answers. He’d go to the Morning Herald’s office. He’d demand truth. Clarification. Journalism, no matter how it appeared or where it was presented, existed only to provide clarity. Oscar Wilde wasn’t wrong when he said journalism governs forever and ever.

That’s why he loved it. A true eternal love.

His cat scratched at the door, pushing through the mesh and escaping outside.

“Hey, get back here!” Frank rushed to follow her. She was too spoiled to survive even ten minutes outside, he chuckled. He walked outside and saw her on the driveway, tail raised. Hesitating.

His smile disappeared as Frank saw his neighbors on their walkways. They looked down the street. Frozen in fear. Marsha had been smart to leave when she did. The cat raced behind Frank, scratching the screen to enter the house again. But with what was coming, Frank knew she wouldn’t be safe inside. None of them would.

Maybe Oscar Wilde was wrong. Maybe forever ended today.

He suddenly knew what the TKTKs were covering up.

He wondered who tipped off Marsha and wished she had shared her source.

His true love betrayed him.

Frank went inside to pour his last cup of coffee.