Time and Chance

by G L Rockey

  I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, changed into my standard Monday work uniform—blue button down shirt, mauve tie, tan slacks, black loafers, and blue blazer. On the way out the door I pulled on my trench coat. I would shave (Norelco in Winston) as usual, while driving.

  I checked the time. Little after 9:15. Twenty minute drive. I gunned Winston out of The Gray Fox parking lot and thought of a 'late' excuse to offer Berry. I figured the worst that could happen was one of his patented brow beatings. Firing was remote because of a couple things: not too long ago, in what Sago described as a local Zimbabwe blood bath, Berry terminated the sales manager and hired Joe Galbo. Shortly after Galbo arrived both the promotion manager and the program manager were canned. Berry combined the two jobs into one position and hired, to fill the slot, an up and coming young kid from Providence, Rhode Island, Jay Speaker. It didn't take a Von Braun to figure it out—the word, circulating in broadcast spheres, had Berry, in politically correct-ese, difficult to work for. For those of us who knew first hand, if you checked any delusions of grandeur at the front door, you could survive. Those who could not, looked for other jobs. I rationalized that I needed some stability right now, wasn't sure about tomorrow let alone a career move, so I wasn't looking for a job. But I was having a difficult time dropping my ego at the front door.

  * * *

  Winston and I hit slick I-24 at 50 mph and we flowed over the wet asphalt, tires hissing the water away. Rain pummeling Winston pretty good, wipers flapping, I thought about Peggy. Smarter than she pretended, Terri wouldn't approve but I'm sure she would understand.

  Not wanting to think about the Peggy-Berry-Snakebite connection, I picked up my two-way microphone and spoke to the newsroom: “Anybody home?”

  After a moment the familiar voice of assignment editor, Sam Hill: “Well, good morning, Mr. Carr, we've been expecting you.”

  “Everything under control?”

  “Except for this bleeping rain, Berry Frazer, and….” She paused.

  “And what?”

  “Is this an asylum, sanatorium, or funny farm?”

  “All the above. Berry and what?”

  “Galbo.”

  “Super, so what's up?”

  “Well, Berry was down here, slamming doors, G.D.'ed everything under the sun, looking for you. Wants to know what we're doing on the weather … paged you to his office couple of time, upset, mean, ugly, kicked a chair … and ah, ah….”

  “What?”

  “Galbo called in, he wanted to talk to you, about our weather coverage, sounded like he was upset.”

  “Where is Galbo doing all his calling from?”

  “Camp Lejeune bunker.”

  Joe often telling of his duties as a sergeant at the Camp Lejeune Marine boot camp, I said, “Is he under fire?”

  She chuckled, “No, his car … stuck somewhere in traffic.”

  “If he calls again, tell him I said he can take the day off. Working too hard. Tell him he should turn around and go home, flood coming, take the month off.”

  She chuckled. I said, “Tell me about the weather.”

  “Old Hickory Lake is over the spillway, flash flood watch for the whole viewing area, emphasize watch, not a warning.”

  “Until when?”

  “2:00 P.M. Luther called in, said he had checked with St. Louis radar, clearing to the west, he didn't think there was anything to worry about, you know, his left shoulder is fine … and ah….”

  “What?”

  “Luther said Galbo called him, told him this was an emergency, ordered him to come in and do weather updates. I guess Big Joe told him that he, Big Joe, is second banana now … said Luther is our main weather person, should be in doing reports.”

  “What did Luther tell him?”

  “You don't want to know.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Berry told us to dump the story on Mike Walker Enterprises, the demonstrations by that Rev, no stories on any of it, said it's a holy roller PR stunt.”

  “Besides Joe and Berry, any other patients out of their cages?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, see you in a few minutes.”

  I threw the mic on the seat, swerved around a small lake of water, and flowed onto I-24 north.

  Settling into the right lane at a steady 65 mph, fifteen miles to go, I rubbed my chin and remembered I had to shave. I reached for my Norelco. Working the whirling blades under the point of my nose, thoughts whirled: the inmates are out; it's Monday; flash flood watch; a second banana who doesn't know rain from snow; Berry is looking for me; Peggy is Snakebite's number one hum; gambling trade deals; Peggy's name up in lights….

  Finished shaving, I threw the razor on the passenger seat, pushed a hand through my hair, and lowered my window. Honeysuckle air flooded Winston's cockpit and cool rain pelted the side of my face. I tasted the dryness in my mouth, lit a Salem, and exited the expressway.

  CHAPTER 7

  Real Time

  9:35:15 A.M. CDT

  Behind his desk, scanning the Wall Street Journal, Berry swung to his credenza, grabbed a hand towel, and wiped oily sweat from his neck. He threw the towel into a wicker basket that sat on the floor next to his desk. Before turning back to the newspaper, he reached to the opposite side of the credenza and straightened the silver framed pictures of his wife and daughter.

  Satisfied with the angle, he swiveled back to the Journal, flipped to the market page then suddenly smashed the paper closed. He looked at his Rolex, 9:37, and shouted, “Son of a mother bitch.”

  He started to snatch the phone receiver but instead walked to his office window. He looked down through the mist and rain. A white Jaguar approached TV12's parking lot.

  CHAPTER 8

  Jack’s Time

  Rain and gusty wind molesting Winston, I downshifted and turned into the TV12 parking lot. Berry's white Humvee sat in its reserved slot next to the station's main entrance.

  I shifted to second gear and looked, next to Berry's Hummer. Joe Galbo's reserved slot was empty. The orange on white sign, Reserved—Joe B. Galbo, looked lonely absent Joe's green behemoth Chrysler. So me, a sucker for loneliness of any kind, I clutched, downshifted, raced Winston's throaty engine, and parked in Joe's space.

  Winston's engine off, the rhythm of the rain droning on the canvas top, I paused to look, through the water rivulets streaking Winston's windshield, at the white brick exterior of TV12. The two storey edifice, named Broadcast House by Lamar Frazer, was roughly half the length of a football field and half again that wide.

  I looked at Berry's much ballyhooed addition to Broadcast House: a twenty foot orange neon sign protruding over the entrance that proclaimed: TV12 THE SIZZLE.

  Lightning smacked directly above. I counted one, two and thunder crawled off over the hills like some wounded animal and the rain intensified to a downpour.

  I put Salem out, waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  The sky groaning, I looked at Blancpain—little after 9:40. I squirted three shots of lime Binaca in my mouth, snugged my trench coat collar, and stepped out of Winston. Standing for a moment, feeling the rain on my face and hair, likening what I felt, I thought of the time I was in. The changing time. Thinking of the rain, listening to the rain. Spring, dogwood blossoms time, Aunt Jane's homily.

  Couldn't be.

  I closed Winston's door and, walking to the entrance of TV12, I felt eyes on me. I glanced up and noticed Berry looking down from the window of his second storey office.

  CHAPTER 9

  Real Time

  9:48:55 A.M. CDT

  Berry kicked the wall, went to his office door, and said, “Judy, call Carr, I want him in here, NOW.”

  “He wasn't in last time I called….”

  ”Goddamn it, he's here, I just saw him pull in.”

  Berry noticed one of the wall picture of himself, arms around two CBS sitcom starlets, was crooked. He walked to the picture and straightened it. As he touched the frame, Judy in
terrupted, “Mr. Frazer, Joy said Jack isn't in his office yet.”

  Berry shot back, “He's in the goddamn building, page him!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Jack’s Time

  I entered Broadcast House. The lobby, glass enclosed, about the size of a handball court, was forested with five plastic Ficus trees, the ceramic floor shined from its nightly buffing and the white leather sofa, three matching chairs, and chrome coffee table were showroom arranged. A large screen TV featured CBS morning fare. I glanced to the left at the open staircase. Battleship gray carpeting, thick mahogany railing, the stairway led to the second floor. Berry's and Big Joe's command centers were up there. So too were Joe's national sales manager, Kay Stallings; his local sales manager, Allen Smith; twenty sales associates; and Joe Galbo's private aide (he preferred aide to secretary, a military thing), looking like an Egyptian she-king, shapely P. J. Cummings.

  Up there also were the offices of Business Manager Bobbi Overmier. She supervised the accounting and traffic departments. During intermission in the work day, I like to wonder up and chit chat with Bobbi. Her world ordered, no matter what the experts said, two plus two, for her, every time, came out four.

  The Promotion/Programming Department used to be on the second floor, but Joe insisted he needed the space so Berry moved, just last month, Jay Speaker and his staff of two downstairs. Berry said it would be better if promotion was closer to news, production, and engineering. Better is one of those words like cool or wow or fab as in ‘rap music is fab’ that has real world context in terms of the word maker.

  I approached the station's sweater-girl receptionist, Marcie Clark. Fresh and young, long brown hair to her shoulders, flirting hazel eyes, she sat behind a white Formica counter.

  Marcie smiling: “Morning Jack, Mr. Frazer is looking for you.”

  I never could fathom how Marcie managed to smile like that so early in the morning.

  Suddenly a meek female voice came from the station's paging speaker in the ceiling: “Jack Carr, front office, please. Jack Carr, front office, please.”

  I recognized the voice. Judy, Berry's secretary.

  Marcie smiled, “Told you.”

  “Marcie, I've always wondered, how many red lights have you run in your young life?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I proceeded down the hall toward my office. The walls, cream-colored, dripped with framed portraits of CBS Stars, past and present. The buffed ceramic floor ended at the production control room where dull brown tile replaced it. The walls also changed to cement blocks painted beige. I walked past the control room and noted, more than usual, tension in the managed frenzy of the engineering and production people. Further down the hall, I glanced into the newsroom. Less frenzy, but somber.

  I waved to, talking on the phone, Assignment Editor Sam Hill.

  She waved back.

  Another page blasted from the public address speakers: “Jack Carr, front office, immediately, Jack Carr, front office.”

  Berry's voice this time, he sounded out of breath.

  Five steps more and I entered the tiny reception area to my office where Joy was dispatching an obscene stack of mail.

  With Joy, what you saw is what you got—chestnut eyes, no lipstick, no earrings, a dusting of face powder. Her hair, once black, pulled loosely back in a neat bun, is now mostly gray. Silver framed reading glasses rested near the end of her elegant pudgy nose. A tiny silver chain, attached to the glasses, hung around her neck. This morning she wore a knit charcoal sweater over a white blouse and looked ten years younger than forty-nine. Constant, reliable, something different and she knew it.

  She looked over the top of her glasses at me, and like I had been there all morning, said, “Now we got two arsonists.”

  I knew what she meant. Joy, some time ago, because of Berry's rash decisions, had labeled him an arsonist. The staff of TV12 were fire fighters.

  I asked, “Who's the other one?”

  “Joe Galbo.” She smiled and held up a copy of the A.C. Nielsen news overnight ratings. “Our news is still on top.”

  I took the overnights and, as I glanced them over, Joy said, “Luther called, he's all rattled, said Galbo ordered him to get his A in here pronto.”

  “Galbo said A?”

  “Luther said he told Joe to go to you-know-where. Guess Joe gave him the day off, insubordination.” She raised an eyebrow. “You believe that?”

  “I think I do.”

  Slitting an envelope with a silver letter opener, she said, “You don't look so hot.”

  “Rain, flooding, ark problems.”

  “It's me, Jack,” she said coolly.

  I took off my trench coat and another page blared over the hallway loudspeakers: “CARR TO THE FRONT OFFICE! CARR, FRONT OFFICE, IMMEDIATELY!”

  Berry again. I still couldn't figure out why he called his second floor office the 'front office'. It wasn't by the front door. It wasn't even on the first floor. But then I couldn't figure out a lot of things. I stepped past Joy's desk to our white plastic Proctor Silex coffee pot that brewed, or was brewing, or waited to be brewed, all the time. The aroma heavenly, I poured an orange TV12 mug full and sipped.

  Joy said, “Berry's called, been down here umpteen times, Judy is in a tizzy … want me to call her?”

  “I'll go up.” I looked at Blancpain, little after 9 something, and walked into my office. I threw my trench coat on one of two orange-covered chairs that faced my circa-Civil War gray metal desk, sat, fired up my computer, and it struck me. I called to Joy, “Did you say Joe gave Luther the day off”

  “I'll-be-right-in,” she said in one word.

  I knew that ‘I'll-be-right-in’ in one word meant something was up. I looked at my beige cement block walls and matching beige carpeting. Then I turned and studied the large black and white poster of a stern faced Beethoven that hung on the wall behind my desk. The caption read I did it in Nashville.

  “So did I.”

  I walked to a set of green drapes that were closed over the window that overlooked the newsroom. I parted the drapes. Sam, still on the phone, looked distressed.

  I went back to my desk and pressed the remote control that turned on my nineteen inch Sony TV. The TV, along with a video recorder/player, sat on a gray metal stand next the window. I muted the sound.

  Joy breezed in and dropped an eight inch stack of opened mail in my in basket. “Lot of junk stuff,” she said and paused.

  I detected body language that indicated she was going to go into the ‘I'll-be-right-in’ stuff.

  She stood at the corner of my desk. “Berry is in one of his brat tizzies … been down here once, called twice, and you just heard all the pages.”

  I sat in my green swivel chair and glanced at the bottom left drawer. A fifth of Jack Daniels slept there. “What seemed to be his problem?”

  “He wanted you, had a copy of that blasted talent contract he wants Luther to sign.”

  I emptied my ashtray into the waste can and lit a Salem. “And?”

  “He wanted to know if Luther had signed it yet.”

  I knew Luther hadn't signed it. We had discussed it. He was having a problem with the non-compete clause, he told me, nothing personal but he was having a lawyer look at it.

  I said, “What did you tell Berry?”

  “I told him to go play in traffic.” She smiled tentatively, “Not really.” More body language.

  “What?”

  “Luther told me last week he was having a lawyer look at his contract … something about the non-compete clause, didn't seem fair.” She looked at me. “He said he talked to you about it.”

  I nodded.

  “We never had contracts around here with Berry's father.” She straightened my in-basket, “Lamar was a gentleman, never going around slamming doors and fregging this and fragging that, you know, like Berry does.”

  I nodded.

  She shifted her tiny hips, “After this morning's ruckus, Galbo giving Luther the day of
f … I bet Luther doesn't sign anything.”

  I nodded.

  “Berry said for you to see him the minute you got in, slammed the door, knocked my Lookout Mountain print off the wall.”

  “Did it break?”

  “Glass did. I should ask him to pay for it.”

  “You should.”

  “Lots of luck.” She paused then, “And oh, Galbo called, stuck somewhere in traffic, didn't even know where he was, asked for you, I told him you weren't in, he told me to switch him over to the news room. I did. Then Berry calls, wants to know if I had seen Joe. Why would I see Joe? Like I'm supposed to keep track of Joe Galbo, well, and then Luther calls….”

  “Did Joe happen to say who was going to do the weather tonight?”

  “Well, no.”

  Taking my cup, I stood and walked back past Joy's desk to Proctor and heated my coffee.

  She followed and sat at her desk. “I'm sorry for venting, it's just….”

  Her phone console warbled around B flat. We looked at the flashing white button that is my extension. Pouring coffee in my orange TV12 mug, I said, “I'm not in.”

  Joy picked up. “News Department, Mr. Carr's office.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, Mr. Frazer, he is not in yet.” Pause. “I don't know sir, he may be in the building but he's not in his office.” Pause. “Yes sir, I will.”

  She hung up. “Guess who?”

  “I'm going.”

  Joy's phone warbled again. She answered: “News Department, Mr. Carr's office.” She listened for a moment then cupped her hand over the speaker. “You know a Peggy Moore?”

  I felt a slight sinking, like you do when driving, you've had a couple too many, and you see flashing red and blue lights in your rear view mirror. I shook my head, no.

  Joy spoke into the phone: “I'm sorry he's not in … no … all right, goodbye.” She hung up and looked at me like she had caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.