Morning Glory

by Diana Peterfreund

  Oh, no. Vieira had scored an interview with the drunk-driving Playboy Playmate. As the Today log flashed on the monitor, a cheery voice-over read, “She ran over Hef’s dog … then buried it near the Jacuzzi. Hear all the details, today on Today.”

  The scene changed to shots of the Playmate in the April spread. She smiled coyly at the camera while the most interesting parts of her nude body were blacked out. So much for getting the male viewership.

  “You’re kidding me,” I said to Lenny.

  “Oh,” he replied. “It gets worse.” He pointed to another monitor, “Check out Good Morning America.”

  I covered my eyes with my fingers. “Do I really want to?”

  “Sawyer’s doing Clooney.”

  I dropped my hands. “That bitch.” Another silver-haired charmer. We were finished.

  12

  Tension seemed strung across the set along with the lighting and camera cables. The tech crew was unusually quiet, the hands of the makeup artist trembled a bit as she reapplied Colleen’s blusher, and I was glad I hadn’t taken Mike up on his offer of frittata, as I was pretty sure I’d have spewed egg, chanterelles, and shallots all over the set.

  Mike and Colleen sat at the anchor desk, hair perfectly groomed, outfits coordinated and spotless. I watched them in the frame on the monitors. “They look good together,” I said to Lenny. “At least we have that going for us.”

  Lenny nodded, then crossed himself.

  “Great,” I said. “The Jewish guy is crossing himself. Glad we’re feeling so confident.” I turned back to the monitor. “Come on, Pomeroy,” I said under my breath.

  The Daybreak intro began. The monitors showed the taped intro, the new one we’d done, with shots of Mike and Colleen smiling at each other over the news desk, Mike running up the steps to the courthouse—artfully cropped so he had nothing to complain about—old shots of Colleen petting the trunk of a baby elephant, and smiling with Britney Spears on the plaza, plus one of Mike shaking hands with the Dalai Lama that I’d dug up in the archives.

  On the set, I saw Colleen turn to Mike. “Don’t bore the nation into a coma with your dull news crap, okay?”

  Mike pretended to be very interested in his notes. “Yes. Certainly.” He raised his head and smiled at her. “Oh, and suck it.”

  The Daybreak logo sparkled across the screen as an announcer finished his voice-over detailing the day’s schedule. “Those stories and more this morning on Daybreak with your hosts, live from New York City, Colleen Peck … and Mike Pomeroy.”

  “Good morning, everyone.” Colleen’s smile could have put a head cheerleader to shame. “Before we begin, today is a historic moment here on Daybreak: the day that Mike Pomeroy joins our little show.”

  Okay, the “very special episode” tone in her voice was a tad saccharine, but with any luck, it was only temporary. She turned to Mike, smile still firmly affixed. That’s my girl. Colleen. Such a pro.

  “We are lucky to have a journalist of your caliber here. Welcome.”

  “Yes” was all Mike said.

  Her smile faltered. I knew her well enough to know what she was thinking under that perfect coif. Are you fucking kidding me? And I was feeling exactly the same way.

  But she soldiered on. “And to commemorate your first day, we have a little surprise for you!”

  Come on, Mike. Be a good sport. Be a good sport. I’d wanted to nix this part, but apparently, it was a Daybreak tradition. I’d even argued on the side of superstition, saying that maybe doing this every time was what was cursing our male anchors. I was overruled. And in the interest of staff morale, I let it go through.

  But judging by the way Mike was resolutely ignoring the techs as they wheeled out a gigantic cake emblazoned with WELCOME MIKE in icing letters a foot high, I now realized that they—and I—might live to regret that decision.

  Colleen clasped her hands together. “Happy first day to you,” she sang, “Happy first day to you …”

  Mike’s eyes widened a fraction, and then, as if nothing had happened, he turned to the monitors. “Thank you.”

  Should I have been happy we’d at least gotten two syllables out of him this time?

  “Now, onto today’s top stories,” said Mike. “In Texas today, severe weather continues to plague the Gulf Coast.…”

  Lenny looked at me. “So far, he’s a warm fuzzy blanket.”

  I rolled my eyes. So much for being a good sport.

  Behind me, Merv, the Daybreak director, was calling the shots as we went from story to story with far more speed than we’d expected. There was zero banter. When Mike reported elevated levels of geothermal activity in Yellowstone Park, Colleen opened her mouth, but he plowed ahead into a discussion of scientists’ predictions of the likelihood of a super-volcano. When he reported the results of the election in France, she made half a joke about croissants, and he changed the subject to the situation in Guam.

  I waved at Mike and gave him a slow-down motion. He ignored me. I tried to mime “banter”—clutching my stomach and pretending to laugh.

  While the shot was on Colleen, Mike gave me a quizzical glance.

  Adam was right. I was a truly terrible mime. Maybe I needed to learn sign language. Or whatever motions referees use.

  “Now to Ernie Appleby with the weather,” Colleen said.

  Ernie’s Q ratings, I’d been pleased to see, were stratospheric. He was quite possibly the cheeriest weatherman on television. Such was people’s love for his unwavering good cheer that their approval was maintained even when he was completely off base on the forecast.

  Which was disappointingly often. Still, don’t mess with it if it ain’t broken. Our public liked to see him on TV, even if he had no idea how to predict the weather. It was the type of attitude that no doubt gave Mike hives, but I didn’t care. Ernie was solid.

  “Thanks, Colleen.” He bubbled over with warmth. “I’d like to take a moment to welcome Mike Pomeroy to his first broadcast. As one hurricane said to another, ‘I have my eye on you.’ ”

  I’m sure his fans were smiling. Mike’s face might have been one of those Easter Island stone heads.

  But Ernie didn’t seem to notice the lack of reception from the anchor. “Looking across the country this morning,” he said, gesturing to the green screen behind him, “you’ll see low-pressure systems in the Midwest bringing in that wet weather.…”

  As Ernie continued his broadcast, I made a few more desperate attempts to get Mike’s attention. I waved my arms. I jumped up and down. I considered flashing the lights in the control booth. He ignored me.

  On the set, but offscreen, Colleen turned to him, peeved. He might snub her, but no one snubbed Ernie the weatherman.

  “It’s the morning,” she said. “Not a funeral. Crack a smile, Mount Rushbore.”

  “Cram it, Methuselah,” came Mike’s reply.

  Okay, that was it. I ran out onstage, wearing a fake smile that might have given even Colleen’s a run for its money, Maybe it was her suit that had this effect on me, but even my voice came out merrier than I’d expected.

  “Guys,” I said, “I was wondering if we could take the energy up a notch.”

  Mike just stared at me.

  Colleen clucked her tongue. “I get any more energetic and I’ll fly right out of my seat.”

  “You’re doing great,” I said to Colleen. We both glared pointedly at Mike.

  “Out of my way,” he said. “Camera’s back in three.”

  I trudged back to the control room. Lenny handed me my coffee mug. “Do you need something stronger in there?” he asked.

  I set my jaw. “They’re just getting warmed up.”

  Fortunately, the next story was a bit of hard news, so Mike was right in his element. The camera ate him up: the intensity in his eyes, the cadence of his gravelly, commanding voice. Every staff member on set leaned in, soaking up his report.

  “… He apparently works alone,” Mike was telling the camera, “gaining access to homes thr
ough unlocked windows and doors.”

  At my side in the control room, Merv signaled for a police sketch to pop up on-screen. Even in pencil, the guy looked like a creep. The words “Sexual Predator at Large” flashed on the chyron at the bottom of the screen as Mike finished his report.

  “Local police in Milwaukee are asking anyone who recognizes this sketch to contact them immediately.”

  I smiled at Lenny in triumph. There. A thing of beauty.

  “In other news,” Mike said after a beat, “former president Jimmy Carter continued his campaign for human rights in Beijing this week.”

  Merv switched over to a picture of Carter.

  “He’s meeting with political protesters and calling for a renewed dialogue between—”

  I glanced at the monitor. The words “Sexual Predator at Large” still graced the chyron.

  Yikes. “Lenny!” I hissed.

  Lenny was enthralled by Mike’s newscast.

  “Merv!” I hissed louder.

  Ditto.

  I lunged for the control panel and wiped the chyron.

  “Guys, Jesus!” I said, collapsing in the nearest chair. Were we going to get calls about that one. Lots of calls. Calls from Jerry, maybe.

  Lenny looked down at me and shook his head. “I’m getting the bourbon.”

  I was too stunned to respond.

  “Becky—”

  “At least …,” I began weakly. “At least it can’t get any worse?”

  On set, Colleen beamed at the camera. Mike gave the audience his patented superserious anchorman face. They looked like theater masks of comedy and tragedy.

  I buried my head in my hands.

  Lenny brought me bourbon-laced coffee, which I ignored. The broadcast went on.

  “Tomorrow on Daybreak,” I heard Colleen say with a note of false cheer, “we’ll show you eight things you didn’t know you could do with potatoes. Ooh, that should be fun.”

  “Also,” Mike boomed, “we’ll talk to some relief workers who say the international community has abrogated their duty to protect victims of natural disasters around the world.”

  I lifted my head and stared numbly at the set.

  “And,” he went on, “that their cries for help have proven bootless.”

  Colleen blinked at the screen for a moment, then did her best to compensate. “And … after that, what your toothbrush says about you!”

  I turned to Lenny, in physical pain. “Did he just say ‘abrogate’?”

  He nodded. “Also ‘bootless.’ ”

  I’d started to hyperventilate, so I grabbed the mug and slammed back some lukewarm coffee-with-whiskey. “I think I just exited my body.”

  “That might be a good strategy,” said Lenny, watching the train wreck continue.

  At long last, Colleen, her smile certainly frayed around the edges, addressed the camera one last time. “And that’s our show this morning. Welcome to the Daybreak family, Mike, and thank you for—”

  “Thank you, everyone,” Mike cut in. “Goodbye.”

  I caught my breath. At least it was finally over.

  Colleen pursed her lips. “Goodbye.”

  Mike gave a little nod to the screen. “Goodbye.”

  Colleen cast him a quick, pissed glare. “Goodbye.”

  “How many is that?” I asked Lenny.

  “Two each.” Lenny’s hangdog expression was more miserable than usual.

  “Oh, dear Jesus,” I said.

  “Amen,” said Lenny, and he crossed himself again. If this kept up, I was writing a letter of concern to his rabbi.

  On set, they were still going at it.

  “Bye,” said Colleen.

  “Bye,” said Mike.

  “Bye,” said Colleen.

  “BYE,” said Mike.

  “And we’re out!” I cried, and cut the feed.

  In the control room, we all stood in shell-shocked silence. The houselights went up on the set. Mike straightened his tie, stood, and walked offstage, whistling.

  I knew that Colleen, however, might need physical restraints to keep her from committing homicide right there in the studio. As I exited the control room, she pointed a finger at me. “Gidget,” she said. “You get that asshole in line, or I’m going to walk.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said, holding up my hands. She wouldn’t walk. She couldn’t. She was still the face of Daybreak, which meant she needed us as much as we needed her. We needed her consistency, and the small but solid fan base she brought to the show. (Not to mention how easy she was on our budget.) And she needed the show. The best Colleen could hope for outside of us was heading back to local news in Arizona, and I doubted she wanted to leave Manhattan.

  “All you’ve been doing is talking to him,” said Colleen. “That and playing nursemaid on his couch. It’s obviously not making a difference.”

  “I know, I know.” I shook my head. “But I’ll try again.”

  “I’m sick of hearing that,” said Colleen. “And of knowing that it won’t make a difference. This was unacceptable. I was giving it my all, and Mike was making a mockery of the whole thing.”

  “I know,” I repeated, flapping my hands in the hope she’d keep her rant to a dull roar. “We all know that we can’t have a repeat of this show. We have some kinks to work out.”

  “He has no respect at all for our format,” she said. “He wouldn’t even give an inch.”

  “Colleen,” I said, exasperated. “Do you somehow think I wasn’t right here watching every second of what just happened? You’re preaching to the choir. And there’s nothing else for me to do except to promise you that in a few seconds, I am going to go see Mike and work this out.”

  She regarded me for a long moment. “Oh, I believe you’ll go see Mike,” she said. “I’m just doubtful you can budge him.”

  I glowered at her; she gave it right back. I stood there, in Colleen’s borrowed suit, and swore to myself that I’d never give her, or anyone else on this set, a reason to doubt me again.

  And I swore that Mike Pomeroy had better watch out.

  13

  By the time I got to Mike’s dressing room, he was gone. And he wasn’t at Craft Services or in the men’s room—I checked. He hadn’t gone to the other floors or the archives, or to Elaine’s for a ridiculously early drink.

  I finally tracked him down at a shoe-shine stand near the IBS building.

  When he saw me, he gave me the most expectant, innocent look a human could muster. I wanted to throttle him, but the shoe guy would have been witness to my crime.

  “May I help you?”

  I launched into him without preamble. “You said you would banter.”

  “No.” He lifted a finger in protest. “You said I would banter.”

  “And you agreed! I distinctly recall you saying that you’d do it once you were on air.”

  “I said I would talk about the headlines,” he corrected. “And I did.”

  “Barely!”

  “I said I would anchor a news show. That’s what my contract calls for. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  And here I’d gotten the man mangoes. “Mike,” I said. “You can’t just go out there and give monosyllabic answers and talk about natural disasters.”

  “You sure about that, fangirl? ’Cause I think I just did.”

  “Colleen had to carry the entire show.”

  I tried appealing to his vanity. “Is that really what you want? The media saying stuff about how you’re a sidekick to Colleen Peck?”

  For a second, he almost seemed to listen. But then the placid smile was back. “I think you sealed my reputation the second you forced me onto your insipid show, don’t you?”

  I choked on all the words I wanted to say to him.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “what are you doing here? You need to go back to your office and wait for the phone call from Jimmy Carter. You know: Jimmy Carter, ‘Sexual Predator.’ ”

  He actually made air quotes. My hands tightened into fists
at my sides.

  “Now, go away. I’m busy.” He waved me off and returned to checking the headlines on his cell.

  The shoe guy gave me a sympathetic shrug.

  I walked away as quickly as I could, eyes and throat both burning.

  Somehow, I made it through the rest of the day. The call from Jimmy Carter’s people was actually not so bad. They hadn’t seen the show themselves—natch—and were merely responding to reports about what had happened. And, you know, the YouTube video, which I notified Legal to have zapped as soon as possible. Legal, in turn, warned me that any zappage would be of course temporary, and that probably the best fix for the whole matter was to make sure the writers on IBS’s nightly talk show included a joke about it to diffuse the situation.

  Much harder to stomach were the phone calls from the elderly audience of Daybreak who’d been appalled, frankly appalled, to see our thirty-ninth president falsely vilified on our show. We put up a correction on the IBS website and promised to run another one at the beginning of tomorrow’s show.

  I had a stern talking-to with the entire staff about paying attention to chyrons.

  Lenny offered to take the blame for the mishap and tender his resignation. I told him if he left, I’d have a nervous breakdown, and to pass the bourbon.

  Colleen had already gone home for the day. To be honest, I was relieved. I didn’t see any way of facing her after she’d so accurately predicted the outcome of my conversation with Mike.

  I had no way of controlling my on-air talent. My last-ditch effort to save this show had been an utter miscalculation. I wasn’t sure if I could save Daybreak now. Maybe what they’d said was right about me: Maybe I wasn’t qualified for this job. Maybe I would fail, just as Colleen had predicted. Maybe they had been right, back at Good Morning, New Jersey, to pick blue-chip Chip instead of blue-plate me. All this time, I’d thought if I could just stick with it a little longer, just show them exactly what I could do, I could make it happen.

  Well, I showed them. And what ended up happening was a disastrous show in which I managed to call a former leader of the free world a rapist.

  Later, after I sent most of the staff home early, I sat in my office and waited around for Jerry’s call. Couldn’t wait to hear his take on the situation. Maybe he’d tell me that if I’d bothered to take a few more broadcasting courses, I’d know how to work something as simple as a chyron graphic. Maybe he’d tell me that he would have thought someone in the role of executive producer would be able to manage her staff better. Maybe he would gloat over how he’d warned me about hiring Mike Pomeroy.