by Various
The camera cuts to one of our reporters in the field. “Heavy rain leads to a flooding in a popular shopping mall. I’m Amy Simmons. Coming up, I’ll tell you what road is closed, and we’ll show you the damage.”
Another camera cut. “City Councilman Dean Williams has been caught in a sex scandal. I’m Cole Fisher, live from City Hall. We’ll bring you reactions from his constituents and local Augustans.”
“Ever wondered what it’s like to put your hand inside a lion’s mouth? Local Augustan Seth Poyner is a former lion tamer for Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey. We’ll take you inside his lion-taming facility and tell you what he’s up to, now that the circus is no more.” Riley Moore forgets to give his name, but the Chyron graphic at the bottom of the screen gives our viewers that information.
Then the camera pans in to a dual screen of Tim and me. “It is the twenty-fifth day of May. I’m Mia Jensen.”
“And I’m Tim Kaplan. Looks like we’re having some wild weather tonight. Let’s head straight over to our chief meteorologist, Ron Olson.”
Ron takes it from there. Five minutes later we’re dark.
“Who the hell would want to sleep with you?” A chilling voice, Carol’s voice, calls out of the darkness, just after we break for commercial. The corpse has risen from the dead, and the set is now a graveyard—silent, cold, eerie. Just how far can a person be pushed before he snaps? shoots through my mind.
A shocked but undaunted Tim looks up from his script with a pseudo smile plastered across his face. “Hopefully not you, man.”
Scattered laughter. Then Josh bellows through his mic, with a suppressed chuckle, “Quiet on the set!” Even Josh teases Beady. And they work five feet from one another.
With a hand aside my face, to block the reading of my lips, I turn to Tim and mouth, “I feel sorry for him.” This is risky. Carol may be looking at me through the camera. “Can you give him a break?” It comes out more as a plea than a command. My mother’s voice echoes. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.
Tim’s eyebrows bounce. He mouths back, “You and Beady?” Then he swings a finger back and forth between the darkness and me.
I roll my eyes, then mutter, “Yeah, right.”
Without question, I should be taking up for Carol. I should appreciate him no matter if he’s a dork or not. Yet I’m more worried about what Tim thinks. I reason: I’ve worked my whole life for this job. I’ve finally made the move from small market to medium. From Brunswick, Georgia, with 70,000 viewers, to Augusta, with 260,000. And I’ve worked my butt off to do it. By the time I’m forty-five I plan to be in the majors. New York City. L.A. or SFO. If I side with Tim, all is good, but if I stick up for Carol, I risk falling out of favor with the male powers that be. As far as women’s rights have come lately, it’s still a boys’ club at WATW. Always will be.
Tim Kaplan is Mr. Augusta. He walks into the Masters and there’s a parting of the Red Sea. He’s been at the station twenty-five years and will not be going anywhere until he retires. There’s no question that he can catapult me forward. A Tim Kaplan recommendation carries weight of the grandest proportion. I have no choice but to put up with him.
As soon as the broadcast is over, 6:35 on the dot, I unhook my mic and gather my script. Tim notices, and as I’m pushing out my chair says, “What’s your hurry?”
“Nature calls,” I say over my shoulder. The sound of my heels clicking off set is magnified on the wooden floor. Beelining it to the couch, I grab my sweater and feel the immediate warmth as I wrap it around me. I’ll never get used to the arctic temperature inside a television studio.
I’m stepping toward the door when I hear a voice whispering directly in my ear: “Since when do you feel sorry for him?” Tim’s breath is cool from the mint he’s just slipped in his mouth. His words slice me in half, but he speaks the truth. I certainly didn’t act as if I felt sorry for Carol last night. And the twenty-four hours since have produced enough shame for an entire lifetime. I can hardly stand in my own skin. Instead of whipping around I turn slowly to face him. There is pleading in my eyes, and I have to force a smile.
“The guy has a picture of his mommy on his desk,” he says, as if that justifies the crime.
“I have a picture of my mommy on my desk.” Her face pops into my mind’s eye. The kindest person ever born. She’d never hurt anyone. Especially not Beady. After all he’s done for me.
“That’s different,” Tim says.
After a forced grin, I head to the door. Shoving it open with my shoulder, I feel the warmth as I step out into the hallway.
I don’t have to turn around to know his eyes are on my rear end.
The ladies’ room is down the next hall. Just inside the door, a built-in vanity takes up space. Rachel is in the cushioned chair, staring into a lighted makeup mirror. She anchors the eleven.
After greeting her with a simple “Hey,” I head into the middle stall.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“Tim,” I say with a loud sigh then lift the lid and squat over the toilet seat. What I don’t say is: I’m what’s wrong with me.
“What’s he done now?”
“Nothing new.” I squeeze my eyes together, trying to block the thoughts.
At first she doesn’t answer. Rachel and Tim are coanchors of the eleven. She’s been here as many years as he has. She gave up anchoring the six so she could be with her family at dinnertime. Now her husband stays home with their teenagers at night. “He’s a career dick,” she finally says. “Get used to him. He’s not going away.”
After pulling up my panties, I turn around and press the toilet handle. And imagine Tim’s pleading eyes as I flush his head down the commode. Then I see myself swirling around behind him. Feeling nauseated, I unlock the stall.
“He’s just pissed he can’t get in your pants,” Rachel says as I turn on the faucet.
“No way.” Looking at her through the mirror, I lather my hands and attempt to scrub away the guilt. Finally I reach for a paper towel, then another. And another. “Is it mandatory that he and I become close? Is that the way it works around here?”
“Of course not. It’s 2018. But the more you act like you’re unimpressed with him, the harder he’ll try. And the more of a challenge you become. Just agree with him. Take part in his shenanigans. He’ll think he’s conquered you and move on. Remember me telling you that the week you started?”
“I do.” But I still can’t stand him, I think to myself. I wink and let the door shut behind me.
Once in the newsroom, I head straight to my cubicle. Although I’m supposed to finish writing a package for tomorrow’s newscast, I decide to grab dinner first. As I’m pulling my purse from the back of my file drawer, I notice Mom’s picture on the back corner of my desk. And hear her voice. “The Sixth Commandment is not only about taking someone’s life. It’s about murdering their spirit. We must be careful how we treat people. And above all, we must watch our tongues. It’s the most hurtful weapon of all.” Blocking out her voice, I obsess, yet again, over the decision I made last night.
————
After the broadcast was over, I had just returned to the newsroom when Paul appeared at my cubicle. There was a mischievous grin on his face. “We need your help.” He’s not my boss, but he’s a big deal at the station. I care a great deal about what he thinks of me.
“Who’s we?” I asked. As a station newbie, it felt nice to be included.
“Tim and me. And the guys upstairs.”
“Okay, sure.”
He sat down in my chair, rolling up to my computer. His fingers flew expertly over my keyboard. Tinder appeared, and within moments Carol’s picture was dead center of my screen. “We created Beady a Tinder account.” Paul slid his palms together. “Watch this.” He clicked on another photo and read aloud. “Single guy looking for a relation
ship. Open to all possibilities.” Then he laughed, like he was proud of himself. He thought he was one clever dude.
Mean, I thought, but a bigger part of me agreed it was a little funny at the same time.
“It gets better. Look at this one.” Paul clicked on another picture—of Carol with his mom. “Dixon stole it off Beady’s desk during the broadcast. You’d never know it was photoshopped.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. And I meant it. About Dixon’s photoshopping skills.
Paul wheels around to look at me. “So here’s where you come in. Call him up and disguise your voice. Tell him you find him wildly attractive and that you want a date. Plan a meeting place.”
My eyes bulged.
“You’re the only one who can pull it off.”
“Okay…but he might know—”
“Block your phone. Punch in star-sixty-seven and then his number. He’ll never know it’s you.”
Paul knew I had no one to rush home to. He knew I wasn’t dating anyone—at least not at the moment. My last “friend” and I called it quits when he hooked up with a tacky gym rat and one of my girlfriends spotted them in the back seat of his Jeep. It stung at first, I can’t deny it, but I got over it. From the beginning Mom told me he had no character. But his face—and that body. Physical attraction can be wildly deceptive.
I could feel my heart racing. It’s one thing to laugh along with the guys when they do the teasing, but it’s something altogether different to be a part of the wickedness. A strong voice inside my head said, “Don’t do it. Take a stand for Carol.” But an even stronger voice said, “Yeah, but if you don’t, what happens to you?”
What happens if I don’t join the team? I hadn’t worked at the station long enough to know. So without considering Carol’s feelings, I let that second voice win. I held my nose and pulled the trigger.
We had scampered out to Paul’s car to make the call. The background noise in the newsroom would have been a dead giveaway. And we couldn’t risk someone overhearing us.
As the two of us sat inside his brand-new BMW, I obligingly blocked my number with a star-sixty-seven, punched in the numbers to Carol’s mobile, then changed my voice to a sultry sleazebag.
He answered on the first ring. “Hello.”
“Carol Frampton?” I asked.
“This is him.”
“Hi, this is Bunny Williams.” I knew I had met Paul’s approval when he squeezed his face to keep from laughing and shot me a thumbs-up. “I saw your ad and thought I’d call.”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw your profile on Tinder.”
“I don’t use Tinder.”
“Hmm. I’ve got it right here. There’s a very nice picture of you. It says you work at Channel Five. Are you the same guy?”
“I work at Channel Five. But I don’t use Tinder.”
“That’s odd. I’m looking at a Tinder profile that says you’re a camera guru, a dog lover, a coffee lover, and that you enjoy long walks in the park.”
Paul covered his face and pressed his head back into the headrest to keep from screaming. A dark crimson color washed over his ears.
Carol is silent on the other end.
I press on. “Why don’t you meet me tomorrow after work? We could go out. Have a good time.”
“Who is this?” he asks.
“My name is Bunny Williams. How about the Starbucks near Channel Five? We’ll grab coffee and see where it goes. Maybe get dinner.”
I could hear noisy breathing on his end. Several times he started to speak up, then he’d stop abruptly. After a long pause he said, “Sure. Why not?” I could almost detect a lift in his voice. “I get off around seven. Can you meet at seven ten?”
Now I had to suppress the laugh. “Sounds perfect. It’s a date.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you,” I said. Then hung up without a good-bye.
Paul shrieked when I ended the call. “You’re a genius!” Then he slapped a hand on the steering wheel. “I can’t wait to tell the guys.”
It only took a moment for the guilt to begin its slow crawl through my body. From my hair follicles down through the chambers of my heart, then out the tips of my toes. My entire being blazed with self-disgust.
Adult bullying. That’s exactly what it was. I am an adult bully. I squeezed my eyes shut at the mere thought. And swallowed the bile in my throat.
Paul sensed my regret. “He’ll never know it was you, Mia. He’ll blame us. He’ll think we found a random chick to make the call.”
“But suppose someone tells him it was me? And worse, suppose he really drives to Starbucks tomorrow night? What if he truly thinks he has a date?” I buried my face in my hands.
“Stop. He’ll never know. Besides, we devised the plan, not you. You just put the cherry on top. Don’t worry about it.” Paul patted my arm before opening his door. “Gotta get back to the control room. You’re awesome, Mia.”
When we were five feet away from his car he reached behind him and clicked his remote. The car beeped in response.
That’s when the nausea started. And when I began to loathe myself.
————
Remembering this, pain shoots through my abdomen, I’m not sure if it’s hunger or another reminder of my own egomania. Either way, I’ve got to get out of here. I need a respite—from all things WATW. Right before I stand to leave, Mom’s picture catches my eye. Instead of listening to her voice reverberate inside my head, I reach over and turn the frame facedown.
As I’m hurrying to get to my car, winding through the newsroom, I pick up my pace and practically run down the hall. Meanwhile, that second voice I heard yesterday, the one that convinced me to go along with the crowd, tantalizes me again. Aren’t you the picture of friendship? You were so worried about yourself that you threw poor Beady under the bus. You ridiculed the very guy who prevents you from ridicule. You forsook him for your own greediness.
When I turn down the final hall toward the parking lot, I see Carol holding the door for one of the salespeople. A fifty-something woman who has been working here since she graduated from college. She’s short like Carol. And she has even shorter hair. I’ve never seen her in a dress. The rumors about her personal life drip from the lips of the control room guys like saliva from dogs in heat. She’s another misfit—like Carol.
The two of them are talking inside the doorframe, even though sheets of rain are falling just beyond. I watch as Carol opens her umbrella. She hunches underneath, as if that might keep more of the water off her back. “Have a good night, Carol,” she calls over her shoulder then steps out into the rain.
When I make it to the door Carol props it open for me, too. I don’t have an umbrella so I pause in the doorframe. And look out at the downpour. “Yucky night, huh?” I tell him.
“Not so bad. We need the rain.” Carol has to lift his chin to talk to me. He’s only five feet four. As one who stands five feet nine inches tall, I’m used to that from women. Not men.
“You’re right. We do need the rain,” I say.
“You headed home?”
“After I grab dinner.” I think about home. For me it’s a luxury town house in downtown Augusta overlooking Broad Street with a view of the Savannah River. Just a few miles from the Augusta National Golf Club. What’s home like for him? On his salary?
Carol has a large Channel 5 golf umbrella in his hand, while the other holds the door open. The rain is falling sideways. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.
Standing this close to him, I detect the scent of cologne. Add that to his dress clothes, dress shoes, the beads of sweat on his nose—he’s most definitely on his way to Starbucks. With my eyes squeezed shut, an attempt to erase the last twenty-four hours, I dig for my keys inside my purse. I can’t look at him.
Pop. The noise of hi
s opening umbrella startles me. Carol takes a step forward then hooks an arm through mine. “Watch your step.”
As we’re running to my car, which is only a few yards away—as an anchor I have reserved parking—Carol says, “Wanna know a secret?”
The rain is deafening, but I hear him loud and clear. “Sure.” I click the unlock button on my remote.
“I have a date tonight.” The sweat beads are all over his nose. And it’s because of me.
Damn it, Mia. Tell him. Tell him it’s a hoax. Stop him right this minute. Do it. Be his friend.
That’s right. Be a friend to the company nerd, the devil on my shoulder screams. Go against Tim and Paul, and see how far that gets you.
You be the one to invite him to coffee, the kind voice says. Then you take him to dinner.
Paul said a few of them were parking outside of Starbucks and watching the whole thing go down. Maybe they’re already there. I could tell him right now that it’s all a big lie. But then I get the others in trouble and ruin the fun.
“That’s great, Carol,” I finally say.
He opens my car door, waits for me to sit, they hurriedly pushes it shut to keep me from getting even wetter. “Have a good night.” I read his lips through the glass.
“You, too, Carol,” I say with a wave.
As I’m backing out of my parking spot, despite the roar of the rain, I hear the loudest, most deafening bang imaginable, as if it’s a sonic boom. The intensity is so great, I jump, then feel my pulse quicken. I can actually feel the noise reverberating in my chest. I sit frozen in fear a minute or two, pondering what to do. Should I go back inside? Glancing at the station through my rearview mirror, I notice Sid Hollins, our chief engineer, standing in the doorframe with hands on his hips. His gaze is lifted up at our broadcast tower, only a few yards from the door. Then it occurs to me. Lightning must have struck. We’re most likely off-air.
Then I remember Carol. I spot him at the end of the parking lot, only a few feet from his car, staring up at the tower.
“Go back inside. Don’t go to Starbucks,” I say out loud, but to myself.