- Author
- 12/29/2012
- 5,267 Words
- 1,910 Views
- 1 Comments
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Legacy - 29. In the Balance - Sammy Austin
I was having a fitful night’s sleep as I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Something just wasn’t right and, whatever it was, it was keeping me from getting a good night’s sleep. I’d had an enjoyable evening with friends, even if it had meant spending much of it in the kitchen preparing and serving the meal. I loved to cook and nothing gave me more pleasure than the appreciation my guests had for my gourmet skills.
In frustration, I flipped the covers away and sat up in bed, swinging my legs over the side. Looking at the clock on the bed stand, I groaned aloud as I realized that it would soon be time to get up anyway. Sleep was obviously a lost cause.
As I planted my feet on the floor and turned to take care of business, I noticed him. I felt embarrassed, exposed as I was, particularly since I was still sprouting my morning wood. Cliff wasn’t wearing any clothes either but at least his boyhood wasn’t standing at attention.
With a giggle, Cliff said, “It isn’t like we haven’t seen each other this way a thousand times, you know.”
“Yeah, but the last time I saw your privates, you were alive,” I pointed out.
“You saw a lot more of Paul’s,” Cliff countered, making me color up furiously - everywhere - which only made Cliff giggle even more.
“You and Brad weren’t exactly strangers to each other, either,” I challenged, which only made Cliff grin, but then he got a more serious look on his face.
“Sam,” he said seriously, “this isn’t a social call. Trevor’s gonna be here any minute to deliver some unpleasant news . . . devastating news from your standpoint. Just know this. Trevor doesn’t have all the facts and things aren’t what they seem. Besides which, death is not the end . . . not by a long shot.”
“What do you mean?” I asked but then I awoke with a start to some kind of sound. What was I doing back in bed? I knew I was awake when I spoke to Cliff. Had it only been a dream?
As a lowly member of the House, my quarters in the Underground Capitol consisted of nothing more than an efficiency apartment, but at least I had my own quarters to myself. My staffers were housed in a dormitory with several bunk beds to a room and a shared bath down the hall.
The sound of the door chime sounding again made me realize what it was that had woken me. Getting out of bed and plodding to the door, a quick check through the peephole revealed it to be Trevor, much as Cliff had told me it would be. Still feeling disoriented from the visit from Cliff, or the dream or whatever it was, I threw the door open and only when I saw Trevor blush did I realize I was still naked.
Quickly ushering him inside and closing the door behind him, I said, “Sorry bro . . . I didn’t mean to flash you like that.”
“No probs, Sammy,” he replied. “It’s not like we haven’t seen each other a million times, after all. Besides, it’s your best outfit. The bed head’s gotta go, though,” he added and we both laughed.
The smile quickly faded from his face, however, and then he grabbed me in the tightest hug and burst into tears. Not even when David died had I seen Trev cry like this.
Then pulling away, Trevor looked into my eyes and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. It’s Paul. He’s . . .” Trevor started crying all over again and even though he didn’t finish, I knew. Especially with what Cliff said about death not being an end. I wasn’t sure what Cliff had meant about Trev not having all the facts and things not being what they seemed but there was little doubt - my best friend since the age of twelve was gone. The one consolation was that we would one day be together again, and I knew that Cliff was telling me to hang in there - that it wasn’t my time yet.
With tears spilling out of my own eyes, I asked, “How?”
“All we know is what the Israeli authorities are telling us,” Trevor replied, “and I cannot and will not believe what they're saying. They say . . . they say that Paul tracked down the Palestinian Prime Minister and attempted to assassinate him . . .”
“But that’s impossible!” I replied. “There’s no way Paul would have done that. Not unless he thought he had to, to save the world or that sort of thing. There’s no way Paul did that. He was framed sure as anything,” I stated emphatically.
“We think so too, Sammy,” Trevor responded. “In fact, we’re already operating under the assumption that that’s what happened, but we’re not expecting much help from the authorities over in Israel. We have contacts in Mossad and of course we have our own agents on the ground but, with all that’s going on over there as well as with David’s assassination, it could take some time to get to the truth.”
“So the Palestinian Prime Minister is dead . . .” I started to say.
“That’s just it, Sammy,” Trevor interrupted me, “He survived the attack. Paul supposedly shot at the Prime Minister but missed, hitting and killing one of his bodyguards instead.”
“Trev, if Paul shot and killed a bodyguard,” I asserted, “you can be sure he intended to shoot and kill that bodyguard. Have you ever visited Paul at the shooting range?" I asked.
“Can’t say I have,” Trevor replied.
“He’s deadly accurate,” I noted. “If I were you, I’d definitely look into the bodyguard’s background.”
“We’re already doing just that,” Trevor assured me. “I didn’t get to be the nation’s chief spook for nothing, after all,” he added with a smile.
“I know you didn’t,” I agreed. Most people probably thought of the CIA director as the nation’s chief spook, but no one in intelligence . . . not even the president himself, had more power than the National Security Advisor. My brother was truly America’s secret weapon when it came to espionage.
“Does Linda know?” I asked - it was the obvious question.
Shaking his head, Trevor replied, “I was hoping that was one of the ways you could help us out. It’s way too risky for me to leave Washington now. These are scary times, bro, especially with Altaf heading to Israel . . .”
“You let Altaf go to Israel?” I asked incredulously.
“I don’t need to point out how much he wanted to go in the first place,” Trevor answered, “but the assassination attempt changes things. To all the world it looks like we sent Paul to Israel for the specific purpose of assassinating the Palestinian Prime Minister. This is bad, Sammy. World Wars have been fought over less.”
“So you’re sending Altaf over there to be killed as a sacrificial lamb?” I asked.
“Not if I can help it,” Trevor reassured me. “Altaf can do a lot to ease tensions in the Middle East and to reassure world leaders that Paul acted alone while we secretly work on exonerating him.
“He’s going to be well protected. We’re sending him with one of the largest and best-trained security details we’ve ever mounted for a state visit . . . or even for the president, for that matter.”
“That’s good,” I stated, “but I’m still going to worry about him the whole time.”
“We’ll all breathe a sigh of relief once he returns to American soil,” Trevor agreed.
“So . . . you want me to deliver the news to Linda?” I asked.
“Under ordinary circumstances, I’d deliver the news myself,” Trevor answered, “but that’s just not possible. I really shouldn’t send you either . . . it’s not as safe for you as I’d like and I considered asking the Police Commissioner in Baltimore to do it . . . but Paul wasn’t just anyone . . . he was a true friend, as is Linda. We owe her a personal visit.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I stated. “This will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done . . . even harder than it was to tell the truth about Gary raping me . . . but I’d be honored to do it.”
“I figured you would,” Trevor responded. “The one thing that’s critical is to do it right away. I don’t want Linda to find out from the news media. Chances are strong that the story will break by the time The Today Show airs.”
“I can be ready to go in five minutes,” I announced.
“You can have ten . . . enough for a quick shave and a shower,” Trevor replied. “An unmarked, armored limo will be waiting for you topside, along with unmarked escorts. We want to keep this as nondescript as possible.”
Trevor gave me a warm hug before he departed and left me to get ready. Scarcely fifteen minutes later I was barreling up the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, on my way to see to Linda and her and Paul’s children.
As we drove, I couldn’t help but remember all the years I'd spent with Paul as his best friend. I thought about the day we met, our mutual struggles in Special Education, our time together in summer school and our elation at getting into regular classes in eighth grade.
I remembered our trip to Disney World with Trevor and Kurt, as well as the day Paul introduced me to Sally and the way he stood by my side as my best man. I remembered my many trips down to Baltimore as Paul went through his medical treatments, as well as how I stayed with Paul and Linda as I went through my own treatment for HIV.
The one time that stood out in my mind more than any other was a time when I was running for mayor. The opposition tried to smear me with a brutal and unfounded scandal. Paul took a leave of absence from the Baltimore PD and stood by my side during one of the darkest times in my life. It was his love that got me through it all, and his police instincts that got me out of it in the end . . .
~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~
Thursday, October 9, 2031 - Twelve Years Earlier
I was in my office, going over the latest proposal from the teachers’ union and trying to figure out how in the world we could avoid a strike. I'd spent countless hours in meetings with union leaders and we seemed to be at an impasse. I’d have thought that my experience as a teacher in the city schools would have given me an edge in the negotiations, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The moment I passed from being a teacher to being an administrator, I became the enemy. I was given no more deference than would have been given an outsider.
The thing was, I appreciated what teachers faced and, after years of repeated cutbacks and sacrifices, they had legitimate reasons to expect a more generous contract than the one we were offering. There was also the proposal to merge the city and suburban school districts - a dream of mine that was running into stiff opposition, not only from the suburbanites who wanted to preserve their independence and, with it, their mediocrity, but from the teachers as well.
Sadly, when I first proposed the merger, I’d been naïve enough to think the teachers would work together for the common good. Little did I know how contentious the rivalries between school districts could be, nor how difficult it would be to deal with multiple union representatives and their competing contracts. Everyone focused on their own narrow interests and refused to budge, even when it was decidedly in their own best interest. I suspected the merger would have to wait for another, more favorable time.
And then there was the issue of my age. When I accepted the position a year ago at the age of 34, I became the youngest school superintendent in the history of the city school system. Although I had a doctorate in Education from an elite university and more than a dozen years’ experience as both a teacher and a school principal in what was one of the city’s worst high schools, nearly everyone treated me as an inexperienced kid. I suppose, to a lot of them, I was.
I was offered the job largely because of my success as a teacher and an administrator. When I started teaching at Emmerich Manual High School, the graduation rate was an embarrassing 40%. Among the students who took an English class with me, however, the rate was closer to 70%. Indeed, many of the students who took one of my English classes went on to sign up to take the foreign language classes I taught.
Unfortunately, the principal took notice and not in a good way. Rather than doing the logical thing and taking credit for our improving test scores and graduation rates, she saw my popularity as a threat to her control. In an effort to try to get me to quit, she put the worst students in my classes - kids that, by and large, came from the worst home environments. Because I’d spent the first twelve years of my own life with my crack-addicted, poor excuse for a mother and in and out of foster care, I was able to relate to those kids better than anyone else in the school. I was the one person who could get through to them and, as a result, many of them performed well in school for the first time in their lives.
When the principal realized she’d failed, she took away my foreign language classes and assigned me to teach remedial reading. Little did she know of my experience in tutoring Paul. With my patience, my ability to relate to people with learning disabilities and my unique teaching style, I had kids who had barely known their alphabet reading at their age level at year’s end. When my success began to attract national attention, the principal outright fired me on a trumped-up charge of insubordination. I didn’t yet have tenure and I guess she thought she could get away with it, but it turned out to be her undoing.
Although I’d never been a fan of the teachers’ union, they really came through for me. Within days the principal was forced to resign and I found myself with a dilemma - remain a teacher or accept an offer to replace her. The superintendent of the city schools practically begged me to take the job. Emmanuel, as it was known to locals, had been plagued with a series of ineffective principals. As a teacher I had the opportunity to work directly with kids, changing lives. I loved teaching. As a principal I could institute reforms on a school-wide scale, affecting the lives of all the students. There really was no choice.
The mentoring program I introduced for young teachers was successful beyond even my wildest dreams. Scarcely three years later I was faced with yet another dilemma - how to accommodate increasing enrollments with a budget that actually punished successful schools. We lost critical funding, targeted at underperforming schools, just as we started to turn things around. How in the hell was I supposed to continue our successes when faced with class sizes of thirty-five to forty students?
The superintendent was sympathetic and, in his defense, he did take the matter to the school board but the money just wasn’t there. When he abruptly resigned to accept an offer in Cleveland, I sensed a real opportunity to change things and I jumped at the chance to replace him. Little did I know that applications for the position were supposed to be by invitation only. The head of the school board was taken aback when I showed up at her office with my résumé in hand and a thirty-page essay on why I wanted to be school superintendent, complete with concrete plans for improvements across the board.
I knew it was a long shot but that still didn’t keep me from being disappointed when she thoroughly shot me down. What a surprise it was, then, when I was invited for an interview! In spite of my young age, I received substantial support from the teachers’ union, from the community and, not surprisingly, from Governor David Reynolds. However, as they say, ‘be careful of what you wish for, as you might get it.’
So now I found myself faced with trying to balance the needs of the students with the right of the teachers to a fair compensation package. The one way out as I saw it was something the union leadership had already soundly rejected - an end to tenure as we knew it. Of course I’d always been loathsome to the idea of tenure in the first place, even back when I was a teacher. Although the concept might have merit in higher education where there is a legitimate need to protect academic freedom, why should elementary and secondary educators get a free pass? Everyone wants job security, but that was no excuse for accepting incompetence.
There already were good programs in place - and some not so good ones - to reward the best teachers and to marginalize the ineffective ones. The cost of supporting ineffective teachers until retirement, however, was a constant drain on the school system, siphoning off funds that could have been better spent on providing the benefits the rest of the teachers truly deserved.
I was pondering these thoughts as I reviewed the budgetary figures, but then I was interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom.
“Yes Glen,” I called out. Glen was my administrative assistant and personal secretary. He wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb on the planet, being a holdover from the last school superintendent, but his nearly thirty years of service in the school system made him an extraordinary resource - an incredible fount of information that made it more than worth putting up with his quirkiness.
“There are some people here to see you, Mr. Superintendent,” Glen announced.
When he failed to elaborate, I asked, “And who would they be?”
“Who would who be?” Glen asked.
“The people who are here to see me,” I replied as I rolled my eyes.
“You mean Bob Hubert, Bill Lehrman, and Jamie Wilson?” Glen asked.
“Are they the people who are here to see me?" I asked in return.
“Who else would they be?” Glen replied. I threw my hands into the air. Dealing with Glen could be sooo frustrating.
“Could you please show them in?” I requested.
“Show who in?” Glen asked.
ARGH! “Would you please show in the men who are waiting for me?” I asked in exasperation.
“Oh, OK,” he finally answered and a moment later, the door opened. In walked the state chairman of the Republican Party, the former mayor of the city and the head of the local Rotary Club. What were these important men doing here visiting me?
“Sam Austin, I’m Bob Hubert,” the Republican Chairman began, “I’ve heard such good things about you. It’s nice to finally have a chance to meet you.”
“Mr. Hubert,” I replied, “you certainly need no introduction. The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Please call me 'Bob', Sam,” he answered. I wasn’t sure how I felt about being addressed by my first name, especially by one so powerful. Somehow I knew this wasn’t a social call - not by a long shot.
“Please let me introduce you to the former mayor,” he continued. “I’m sure you know Bill Lehrman.”
“Actually, we’ve never met,” I replied as I reached forward and shook Mr. Lehrman’s hand, “but it is my honor to meet you now, Mayor Lehrman,” I added as I looked him in the eye.
“I’ve heard great things about you, Sam,” the former mayor responded and then added, “and please call me ‘Bill’.” He then turned toward the head of the local Rotary Club and then turned back to me and said, “I believe you already know Jamie.”
Reaching forward and shaking Jamie Wilson’s hand, I replied, “We certainly do know each other. Jamie, how’s Will these days?” Jamie Wilson and Will Smith were Trevor’s age and had been active in our high school’s GSA.
Getting a sad look on his face, Jamie replied, “Will was just diagnosed with melanoma.”
With a feeling of utter shock, I pulled Jamie into a tight hug and said, “Oh Jamie, I'm so sorry to hear that. Barry and Betty and your parents and sisters must be devastated.”
“It’s been tough on all of us, and there’s far worse to come,” Jamie answered.
“You have Sally’s and my deepest sympathy,” I added.
“We appreciate it,” Jamie replied as we released each other from our embrace, “and you have our sincere thanks, but that’s not why we’re here.”
“Indeed,” Bob Hubert said as he put his arm on my shoulder and subtlety pulled me away from Jamie. “So how do you like being the superintendent of the city school system?"
Sighing, I replied, “It’s a bit more frustrating than I expected it to be. True, I’m now in a position where I can implement my ideas for school reform across an entire school system, and a large one at that, but there are still so many obstacles that are totally outside my control.”
“How would you like to be in a position of being able to eliminate those obstacles . . . to be able to set your own rules?” Bob asked.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“To cut to the chase,” Bob continued, “the three of us are here to ask you to run for mayor . . .”
~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~
The sight of the stately mansions of Baltimore’s Roland Park neighborhood passing by my window brought me out of my reverie as I realized I would soon be delivering the worst possible news to the wife and children of my dearest friend. My stomach literally was tied in knots when we pulled into the long, circular driveway of Linda and Paul’s house.
One of the guards in my limo opened the door for me and I exited the vehicle, making my way to the front door alone, as dictated by protocol . . . and common decency.
I pressed the doorbell and waited with dread for the door to open. It seemed to take forever but, in reality, probably only a minute or two elapsed before the door was opened by young Cliff Manning, dressed only in a pair of skimpy shorts. Although he looked nothing like his namesake, he was a handsome young man nonetheless. He’d filled out nicely and was looking more and more like a man every time I saw him.
“Uncle Sammy!” Cliff exclaimed, “What a pleasant surprise . . .” But then his eyes caught sight of the limo and the unmarked escort vehicles in the driveway and his expression abruptly changed. His eyes brimmed with water and then a solitary tear spilled down his tender cheek, followed by another and then another until streams of tears flowed freely down both cheeks.
“It's Dad, isn’t it?” he asked in despair, seeking confirmation of the horror that he knew was about to consume his life.
Rather than answer him directly, I engulfed the boy in a tight hug and let him cry his eyes out on my shoulder and, as I did, I realized he was now taller than I was. That was a bit of a surprise, given that I was nearly six feet tall and Linda and Paul were on the short side. Not only that but, at fifteen, Cliff still had some growing to do.
As Cliff and I stood there in the entryway hugging each other, both of us crying, Linda entered the large foyer and approached us. “Sammy, what's wrong?” she asked.
Before I could answer her, Cliff pulled away from me and stated quietly and without emotion, “Dad’s dead . . .”
Linda got a look of utter shock on her face, but then a look of resolve came across her and she said, “No, he’s not. He’s in Israel. Besides, I would know if something had happened to him. I would know.”
Shaking my head, I replied, “It’s quite a shock to all of us, but Paul was killed in a shoot-out late yesterday. We only got word of the incident a short while ago.”
“NO!” Linda repeated, “I refuse to believe it. Cliff would have come to me if something happened to Paul.”
“What do you mean, Mom,” young Cliff interjected. “I’m right here.”
“Not you, sweetheart,” Linda answered. “I meant Uncle Cliff.”
Rather than say anything, young Cliff just rolled his eyes. He’d heard tales of his namesake’s reported exploits after death many times from his parents but, when he entered his teens, he became skeptical. Truthfully I couldn’t blame him but, then, he’d never known Cliff the way his parents and I had.
Just then, Samantha entered the foyer, took one look at all of us and wailed as she threw herself into her mother’s arms. Linda attempted to soothe her daughter, stroking her long hair and rubbing her back as she said, “It’s going to be OK, Sam. It’s going to be OK.”
Moments later, we were all seated around the kitchen table and sipping coffee. The silence that pervaded the room was palpable but no one knew what to say. What could anyone say, but I knew I had to tell them what was going on.
“Paul’s death will likely be on all the morning news programs,” I began. “I don’t think he’ll be identified by name . . . at least not yet . . . but the story they tell will not be a pleasant one. It’s undoubtedly not accurate and we’re doing everything we can to prove it wrong . . .”
“What do you mean it’s not a pleasant one?” Samantha asked. At seventeen, she was a beautiful girl, and very strong-willed.
“The story coming out of the Middle East,” I explained, “is that an American attempted to assassinate the Palestinian Prime Minister . . .”
“WHAT THE FUCK!” Cliff screamed.
“Cliff!” Linda admonished her son and then turning to me, asked, “Sammy, what the fuck’s going on?”
“Wish I knew,” I admitted. “We don’t have any details other than what the Israelis are feeding us and a few tidbits we’ve garnered from our contacts in Mossad and, of course, from our own operatives. Unfortunately, since Paul was operating on his own, he was barely on anyone’s radar screen,” I explained.
“No one knows what the Palestinian Prime Minister was doing in a small synagogue in Israel proper,” I continued, “much less why Paul was there. Perhaps he went with the express purpose of meeting with the Prime Minister or perhaps it was just coincidence . . . who knows? The one thing I’m certain of is that Paul didn’t go there to assassinate the Prime Minister. Proving otherwise, however, will be extremely difficult under the circumstances.”
“Did Dad actually shoot the Prime Minister?” Cliff asked with the fascination only a boy would express.
Shaking my head, I answered, “He ‘missed’ and shot one of the Prime Ministers bodyguards.”
“What a crock!” Samantha exclaimed. “Dad doesn’t miss . . . he’s way better than that.”
“Which is exactly what I told my brother,” I added in agreement. “If Paul Manning shot the Prime Minister’s bodyguard, he intended to.”
“Holoprojector on - The Today Show,” Linda called out and, glancing at the clock on the wall, I noted that it was seconds after seven o’clock. The familiar Today Show set magically appeared before our eyes and we scooted around so we could all see it.
After the usual morning banter, they cut away to the news desk and the lead anchor started to speak.
“Good morning,” she began. “Yet more stunning developments from the Middle East as reports funnel in of an attempt by a Baltimore Police Detective on the Palestinian Prime Minister’s life.”
“FUCK!” young Cliff shouted out.
“That information was definitely not supposed to be leaked to the press,” I noted but, then, as realization dawned on me, I added, “If they don’t already know Paul’s identity, they’ll know it soon enough.
“We can’t stay here,” I continued. “It’s not safe.”
“But what can we do, Sammy?” Linda asked. “Where can we go?”
Sighing, I replied, “I’ll probably catch hell for this but I think we’d all better head back to Washington. I’m sure Trevor can arrange something for all of you in the underground complex where the rest of us are all holed up.”
It took Linda, Cliff and Samantha scarcely over fifteen minutes to dress and to gather up a few critical items and some clothing to take with them. I assured them that additional clothes could be obtained in Washington or that someone could be sent later to pick up more of their stuff. After securing the house, we were on our way. Fortunately, there was not yet any sign of the press as we departed.
The Secret Service agents Trevor had sent with me weren’t happy about the added passengers, but a quick call to my brother quickly cleared Paul’s family to travel back to Washington with me.
As the four of us headed south on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, Linda began to thank me, saying, “Thanks for taking the time to see us in person, Sammy. I still think Paul’s alive, but I shudder at the thought of having heard the news on the holovision, or being confronted by reporters out of the blue . . . you’re a true friend.”
“It was Trevor who asked me to visit you,” I clarified. “Otherwise I probably wouldn't have been allowed to leave Washington. I’m really glad he asked, however.” I added. “It’s never easy to tell someone a loved one is dead . . . I don’t know how Paul managed it on a daily basis. I’m glad I was the one to notify you about Paul . . . even if you believe he’s still alive. I’d like to think you’re right, but I can’t imagine that the Israelis would have told us otherwise unless it were true.”
Reaching over and squeezing my hand, Linda replied, “He’s still alive, Sammy . . . trust me on this. I’m sure of it. Regardless, Paul means as much to you as he does to me. In many ways he’s more a brother than Trevor is.”
“I think you’re right about that,” I agreed. “We spent so much time together, supporting each other . . . helping each other. We were always there for each other during the most difficult times in our lives.
“On the way up to see you, I thought about the time Paul helped me out when I was running for mayor . . . how he helped me avert a scandal that could have kept me out of politics for good . . .”
“What?” Cliff asked.
“When Uncle Sammy ran for mayor,” Samantha replied, “the Democratic candidate tried to discredit him by leaking a story about alleged kickbacks Uncle Sammy received when he was school superintendent.”
“You’re kidding!” young Cliff exclaimed.
“No, she‘s not,” Linda replied.
“I can’t believe you never heard the story before,” Samantha added.
“Somehow I missed it,” Cliff responded, and then he turned to me and asked, “so exactly what happened, Uncle Sammy?”
With a smile on my face as I thought about the critical role my best friend played in exonerating me, I told Cliff the story . . .
-
6
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Recommended Comments
Chapter Comments
-
Newsletter
Sign UpSign Up and get an occasional Newsletter. Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.