by J. Wachowski
“Fine. Speaking of which, I’ve got the GM coming in for the weekly management meeting in an hour. I want you both attending the show from now on.” He flipped his finger back and forth, pointing to Ainsley and me. “But your final contract meeting will have to wait until Monday, O’Hara. GM’s got a conflict.”
“Fine.”
“That’s it. I’m done. Get the hell outta here,” Gatt said. “I got work to do.”
I have no patience for most TV office politics. Once you’ve watched World Wide Wrestling, or read The Art of War, there are no surprises. Making me wait to review my employment terms was a standard opening ego-blow. Managers like to count coup on new employees. Happens all the time, especially with a reputation like mine. ’Til now, freelancing had kept me out of the worst of the fray. As a permanent hire, there was lot less room to maneuver. Pucker up, O’Hara. Life’s a series of trade-offs.
Of course, I hated being seen as a complete push over.
“One more thing, Richard. When do I see my office?”
“What the hell do you need an office for? You’re supposed to be out on location shooting and in here editing. I’ll have Barbara find you a desk someplace.”
“A desk? You want me discussing station business with Curzon-and any other concerned citizens I happen to meet-at some bullpen desk?”
A growl roughed up the back of his throat. “See what I can do,” Gatt answered. “Now get lost.”
Ainsley seemed impressed. I smiled, modestly.
Not bad. Second day on the job, and Richard Gatt and I had already established a rapport.
With no office to call my own, I went out to my car to make a few confirmation calls while Ainsley went to find us a room to view what we’d shot this morning. The social worker at Jenny’s school helped me set up an after-school care scenario back when school started in August, so I’d have a place for the kid as soon as I got the work situation pinned down. All I had to do was confirm my new employment details over the phone.
Bad enough I had to ask Ainsley to chauffeur the kid around this morning; no way was I about to use the public office phone for these calls. The television business is a wild ride, fickle with her favors and always sniffing after the next, younger thing. I’m not saying it’s right, but once somebody gets a reputation for putting business second-behind the kid, the lover, the mother, whatever-the business finds a way to claim her pound of flesh. Or she drops you cold. The only way I figured to keep this whole situation in hand was if my personal life remained as vague as possible within the station’s walls.
It took some serious begging but I managed to get them to take Jenny into after-school care immedia-mento, paperwork to be finalized at pick-up. The relief of not having to rush out and meet the kid by three o’clock eased the sting of the grovel. After another three calls, I’d nailed down addresses for all the Tom Josts listed in the phone book. Business was in hand. Life was good.
Ainsley had our raw material on standby when I tracked him through the building to the available editing bay.
Edit bays are the cold, dark, primordial wombs of electronic storytelling. Cold keeps the machines happy, and light creates glare on the monitors. All the walls are covered in dark egg-crate foam to absorb any stray sound waves. The rooms are usually small and made smaller by stuff-blocks of players in various formats, switcher technology, playback monitors, audio controls, oscilloscopes and miles upon miles of connecting wires. The finished product may be seen by millions but most of the work is done alone, with an engineer assisting on the final cut. Two chairs on wheels are all you need.
It’s a slightly different kind of darkroom, but one I’d also learned to love. When I’m developing film, I can almost convince myself each photo is one hundred percent my creation. In the edit bay, I can never forget that creation is a team effort. Keeps me humble.
Well, most of the time.
“Staff meeting in sixteen minutes,” I reminded Ainsley. “Let’s see what you got.”
He flicked a little glance over his shoulder at me, are you ready for this? and hit Play. I watched it all the way through once and felt myself flatline a bit with surprise.
“Again.”
Rewind. Play. Same images.
Not bad, not half bad, is what I was thinking. What I said was, “Shit, College. You are awful tight on some of these.”
He’d framed most of the interview as an extreme profile close-up of the farmer’s face. I hit the freeze frame. The close-up highlighted the rough skin and deep lines of Lowe’s face and revealed the unique patina of the working man. He might not be Tom Jost’s father, but it was clear he knew the cost of a young man’s death.
“I like to shoot tight,” Ainsley answered.
I released the freeze. “Unfortunately, you’re out of focus every time he moves.”
“I figured we’d work around it with B-roll.”
“Did you shoot me any B-roll?”
B-roll is filler, supplemental shots, extra footage, whatever’s left over. Right now, I didn’t have enough A-or B-roll to even fill air time.
“Um…”
“You have a reason for shooting tight?”
“I kind of like the way it looks.” He shrugged and kicked back in his wheeled chair to stretch his long legs in front of him, like an over-sized retriever relaxing into a sprawl.
“Not good enough.” If he had a reason, I might listen. If he was just showing off- “I don’t need artsy-fartsy, College. I need clean and clear. That means in focus. Got it?”
“Yeah.” He turned his back to me and punched a few buttons. Hard. “Got it.”
“Next time give me some head room.”
“Fine.” He jerked his chin.
After thirty seconds of sulk, I tacked on, “I like the shot of the kids.”
“You do?” He spun around on his chair, eyes bright, smile starting to glow. In the darkness of the booth, the contrast hurt my eyes.
“I said I did.” I checked my watch. “Time to hit the staff meeting.”
“Okay. I’m looking forward to this,” he answered with gusto. “They cater these meetings, you know.”
“Well, eat fast. We got a lot to accomplish today. I’m planning to blow out of this place as soon as we can,” I told him, as he led the way through the building, past the kitchen-Ainsley slowed but didn’t stop-to the conference room. “I found a possible address for Tom Jost.”
“Cool.” Looking more eager than an address usually warrants, he added, “This is my first time at a manager’s meeting.”
In my experience, manager meetings are best handled like amputations. Strive to remain unconscious while the big shots lop off a few hours, and pray the whole thing doesn’t cripple the entire remainder of the day.
I gave him a pat on the back. “It’s never good the first time, College. But I’ll remind them to be gentle.”
The boy ducked his head, denying the rise of pink to his cheeks more so than the grin as we entered the conference room.
Gatt saw us and frowned suspiciously in my direction. I gave him the what? shrug. Ainsley paid no attention to this side play. He went straight for the counter with the bagel extravaganza and hot caffeine.
The guy standing next to Gatt stared me down. Typical sales guy: buffed nails, french cuffs and more teeth than a sports announcer. His cologne reeked from eight feet away. In my experience, any man wears that much perfume is full of shit and laying down cover.
“This must be our latest acquisition,” the guy thundered loud enough for everyone in the room. “Get over here. I want to shake your hand. Jim Schmed, sales manager here at WWST. You’ve got to be Maddy O’Hara.”
“That’s right.”
“Love your work. Great stuff. How’d we get so lucky eh, Gatt?”
Schmed gave me the Grip-o-Death handshake-the one they exchange right before the ref calls “…and come out swinging.”
“Really great to have you on board,” he schmoozed. “Can’t wait to see what you do for us o
nce you settle in. Love to get some promo materials from you, soon as you’re able.”
Everybody’s heard of love at first sight. In my case, hate at first sight is a lot more common. Sales guys never make me warm and fuzzy, but this was something else. My last name and my coloring come from my father. My first name-Magdalena-and my hostile intuition come through my mother’s blood.
Schmed raised every hair on the back of my neck.
“Why would you need promo material from me? I thought the promotions department was going to work off my stuff?” I turned to Gatt to clarify.
“No, no, not on the show. On you.” Schmed winked at me. “You’ve made yourself quite a name, honey. And it’s my job to sell that name to advertisers. Right, Rich?”
“That’s right.” Gatt rubbed the flat of his free hand across his bald head and frowned.
“I am not doing personal promos.”
“Sure you are, hon.” My resistance piqued Schmed’s interest. He’d stopped scanning the room for admirers and focused all his attention on me.
“No-” I tried to make it sound equally cheerful, “-hon, I’m not.”
Schmed the Sales Shark and I played a quick round of who’ll-blink-first?
Then he barked a laugh. “Is she busting my ass?” he asked Gatt. “She’s been here, what?-five minutes, and she’s busting my ass already? Are you kidding me?”
I wasn’t thinking of the first five minutes, but of the five million to come when I forced myself to suck in a calming breath.
“I’m not busting your ass, Jim. I’m just saying, I don’t do on-air. Never have.”
Like any good predator, he kept his eyes on me and slowly edged in closer. “Why not? You’d be great. Pretty girl like you. Camera would love you. Camera would eat you up.”
“Thanks, but no. That’s part of my charm, Jim. I let the pictures and the people making news tell the story. I stay off-screen.” It also made me unique in the freelance world. By staying off-air, I could produce a story for any network, any station that wanted to foot my bill. My face and voice never became the commodity. Only my work.
“Gotta have promos, O’Hara. How else am I gonna sell you? Make up for what-all you cost us, right, Gatt? Cost us a pretty penny to hire a professional with your reputation. Am I right? Jesus-Priest, I can’t sell you, if I don’t have product.”
Ah. Apparently, rumors of my potential salary had ruffled the Sales King’s feathers before I’d even walked in the door. CDB, I reminded myself, cost of doing business. Nothing personal.
I started us off on a round of chuckle-chuckle.
Gatt looked back and forth, one to the other, before he joined the merrymaking. We all laughed together.
The sound faded.
As if I was full to brimming with good humor, with a last gasp of mirth I asked, “So…you renewing your contract soon then, Jim?”
Gatt cracked up. Schmed didn’t.
It was the sweetest kind of return. Was I implying he was using me to leverage Gatt for a better contract? Or was I hinting, in a fight between us, Gatt would side with me?
Schmed looked like he was going to say something very un-funny, but Gatt interrupted. “You got a head-shot, O’Hara?”
“Maybe something old,” I replied, suspiciously.
“Fine. Get us an eight-by-ten and your resume reel. Promo department can figure something out. That’s what I pay those assholes for. Which reminds me-Jim, Barb says you got both offices on that side of the hall tied up.”
Keeping my face ever-so neutral at the mention of office space, I mumbled, “I’m going over to make sure Ainsley’s not getting into trouble. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
The room had crowded up. Nobody had taken a place around the long conference table yet. Ainsley introduced me to the usual cast of characters: woman from HR, woman from accounting, guy from engineering, guy from studio and the promotions director.
After another eight or ten minutes of chit-chat, the door opened and a little busha in a business suit entered. She was fifty-ish, solid, glossy white hair and sensible pumps. Her Secretary-at-Arms followed, laptop in hand.
Most general managers are a bit like feudal lords. They command as far as the eye can see. They make continuous war on neighboring peers. The most successful of the breed trace their management style back to Genghis Kahn. Ruthless is good. Bigger is better. Dead enemies are best.
“Right,” she called out, hands on her hips. “Where’s our new star?”
Everyone in the room turned and looked at me. Most of the faces were neutral. A few showed more than healthy skepticism. Jim Schmed looked like he wanted to try out his favorite WWF takedown on me.
Welcome to the family.
Ainsley gave me a little shoulder shove. “Here she is,” he called proudly.
“Shirley Shayla.” She chugged across the room on sturdy legs and gave me the mutual respect shake-solid grip, taking my measure. She stood with her feet a bit widespread, her trunk tilted forward. The way you’d need to stand if people were always trying to knock you down. “Good to finally meet you, Ms. O’Hara. How are you settling in? Anything I can do?”
“Definitely.”
GM’s always ask anything can I do? the first time they meet you. The standard answer is, thanks for the opportunity to join the team, and other similar crap. No GM has ever asked me that question twice. Which is why it’s a good idea to have a list ready.
“For a start, I need an office with a door.”
She tipped her head and stared at me over the top of her frameless glasses. “I’ll see what I can find for you, Ms. O’Hara. See what I can find.”
11:16:00 a.m.
He had to find it. Had to find it all. Now.
Being in the house like this was making his palms so wet, the cornstarch inside the gloves was congealing into lumps.
He searched the top of the medicine cabinet first, trying to think like Gina. She was compulsive about where she kept that kind of shit. She would never leave a bag of medical samples someplace the kid might get her hands on it.
Gina was a good mother.
Next, he searched the bedroom and bathroom. Opening the bedroom door had been a shock. It was like a museum in there. Nothing had been taken away, moved, even touched. There was dust on everything. Not that he was some kind of a clean freak, but he started sneezing the minute he opened a drawer.
Maddy O’Hara might be hot shit in TV-land but she was a lazy bitch when it came to housework.
After an hour of careful searching, he was pretty certain Gina hadn’t hidden the bag in her room. He put everything back exactly as he found it, but he hated the fact that the room was gathering dust.
Someone ought to do something.
That’s when he’d opened the night stand and discovered the stack of photos.
Months ago, right after the accident, he’d snuck back into the house and removed the obvious photos of him-one from the fridge and one from her bedside. “Play it cool” was the plan, especially with a reporter in the family. He’d stayed away from the kid at the funeral. Done everything he could to convince the guys that his relationship with Gina was short-term only.
Nobody understood how bad he felt. Nobody.
He picked the photo off the top of the pile-he was smiling, Gina was smiling, a birthday party?-and he sat down on the bed. Nobody appreciated what he’d done to keep things under control. His sacrifices. His feelings.
Maddy O’Hara was one selfish, lazy bitch all right. This sad, dusty room proved it.
If she continued to make things difficult, more sacrifices would have to be made.
But this time around, Maddy O’Hara was the one who’d be making them.
12:48:38 p.m.
Ainsley kept shaking his head and shooting me sidelong glances while he maneuvered the truck out into traffic.
“What?” I asked. I’d no clue what his problem was; pretty typical manager’s meeting as far as I could tell. I snapped my phone shut. “No answer at any of t
he Tom Jost addresses. Let’s try the farm. See if we can talk to somebody out there first.”
“Oh sure. Why not?” Ainsley said. He sounded a little on the sarcastic side.
“Just drive.”
It didn’t seem to take as long to get to the Jost farm this time. Either I was getting used to the distances or the absence of Ainsley’s singing improved our wind resistance. He parked the truck on the road and said we should walk to the farmhouse from here. He made a point of mentioning, “It’s considered polite not to park on their property.”
“Okay, Miss Manners. Before we get too close to offend anyone, get me an establishing shot of the whole scene, a view downhill from here of the hanging tree and a nice tight shot of each of the outbuildings.” It was the kind of stuff I could use with a voice-over, while recapping Tom Jost’s childhood.
We went to work. I took my camera out and shot a few stills. The farm buildings were all weathered wooden structures, painted either white or dark red and grouped at the end of a winding drive. There were two black buggies parked in the gravel near the house. No sign of the usual ugly 1950s slab house beside an old picturesque barn like most of the modern farms around here. There were no people to be seen but we heard children’s voices when the wind carried the right direction.
College hung behind me a few steps, but he had the camera up and rolling. As we came up the driveway a rangy-looking dog loped out to greet us, stopped fifty feet away and started barking his head off.
“Camera down,” I ordered. I’ll argue a person to the mat for the chance to hang around and shoot. Dogs don’t negotiate. “Someone will come now. Let’s see what they say before we shoot anymore.”
“‘See what they say,’” Ainsley mumbled to himself. “Right.” He lowered the camera immediately. The old camera jocks I’ve worked with would never stop just because I told them to. Now there’s a benefit to snapping the kid fresh out of college I hadn’t considered.
“Rascal! Rascal, stop that.” A young woman in dark fairy-tale clothes appeared in the doorway of a small outbuilding. Her face was obscured by the brim of her bonnet. “Rascal, come.”