Last Bus to Coffeeville

by J. Paul Henderson

  It was another two months, however, before Jack was able to start his career in television. He himself had to finish writing and defending his dissertation, while the television station needed time to terminate the contract of the channel’s existing weatherman, who had made the mistake of growing old and was now as bald as a turnip.

  On his first day at the station, Jack was shown around by Ed Billings, the station’s manager. Billings was an overweight bear of a man, whose chest and back hair sprouted from the inside of his shirt collar. He had a brusque, no-nonsense manner, and moved Jack efficiently from one person to the next.

  Jack received a warm welcome. He was greeted with wall-to-wall smiles, an array of firm handshakes and several friendly slaps on the back. People congratulated him on joining the most successful and forward-thinking local television station in America, and advised him that, if he played his cards right, he might well be approached by one of the nationals.

  Eventually, Billings left Jack in the hands of Human Resources and told him to meet him in reception at noon, when he’d introduce him to the anchors of the evening news – Phil Wonnacott and Mary Margaret Jennings. Jack filled in forms, watched health and safety videos and drank coffee until it was time for him to meet back with Billings.

  ‘Phil, Mary Margaret, this is Jack. Go eat lunch and get acquainted,’ Billings said. He then about turned and went back to his office.

  Phil Wonnacott and Mary Margaret Jennings were both in their thirties – Phil’s later than Mary Margaret’s. There was an ease about Phil not mirrored in the harder-edged Mary Margaret. Whereas Phil had achieved anchorman status, Mary Margaret was still only co-anchor, and while Phil was content to remain in local news as the big fish in a small pond, Mary Margaret longed for the national arena.

  Phil was tanned with teeth the size of bleached tombstones. He had an athletic build and wore shorts and a polo shirt; all that was missing was a tennis racket. By contrast, Mary Margaret was as white as pure snow, as scared of the sun’s ageing properties as she was any meal over four hundred calories. Her dark mascara-ed eyes were hidden behind large sunglasses; her lipstick was bright red; and her chemical blonde hair was tied back with a gold scrunchie.

  Phil Wonnacott had worked as a reporter for several small California newspapers before moving into television. His credentials were those of a journalist, and he would often change for the better any copy handed him by the station’s writers. His baritone voice brought gravitas to the more serious news stories of the day, and viewers felt safe in the knowledge that no harm would come to them while Phil Wonnacott was reading their news. Phil’s first wife might have told them a different story: one of infidelities, blackened eyes and bruised ribs. As she still lived in Sacramento, however, no one heard her voice – certainly not Phil’s second wife Bonnie, or their two daughters.

  ‘You’d think Billings would do something about that body hair of his,’ Mary Margaret said. ‘I swear to God, Jack, I once saw him take off his shirt at a company picnic and he looked like he was wearing a mohair sweater. I’m surprised his wife doesn’t say something to him.’

  ‘His wife just left him,’ Phil said.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Mary Margaret said. ‘Why didn’t I know that?’

  Phil shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where do you want to eat, Jack? There’s a good steak house around the corner if that sounds okay.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Jack said, who was used to eating only sandwiches at lunchtime.

  The three of them arrived at the restaurant and ordered lunch. While they waited for the food to arrive, Phil and Jack drank beers and Mary Margaret a glass of spritzer. ‘So, what do you think of Billings?’ she asked Jack.

  ‘Businesslike,’ Jack replied.

  ‘He sure as hell doesn’t do warm and friendly,’ Phil smiled, ‘but he’s solid as a rock, Jack. If we ever have a problem, he’s the one we turn to. Right, Mary Margaret?’

  Mary Margaret nodded in agreement. ‘He’s a big pussycat really; his bark’s a lot worse than his bite.’ Jack glanced at Phil to see if he too had noticed Mary Margaret’s mixed metaphor but, deciding that he hadn’t, wisely made up his mind not to raise the matter.

  Food was served and Jack and Phil cut into their steaks. Mary Margaret played with the salad she’d ordered, but only occasionally placed any of it in her mouth.

  ‘So what experience of television do you have, Jack?’ she asked.

  ‘Just that segment I did for the station last year on photochemical smog,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Oh, I remember that,’ Mary Margaret said. ‘It was about that man called Donald, who got lost in the fog and died, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Jack said. ‘It was about the town of Donora; but you’re right, people did die.’

  Phil looked up from his plate. ‘Where is Donora?’ he asked Jack.

  ‘Pennsylvania. About twenty miles south of Pittsburgh.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Phil said. ‘For some reason, I’d got it into my head that it was in Sweden. I wonder why that is?’

  ‘It’s probably because it aired around the same time that Swedish guy tried out for weatherman,’ Mary Margaret said. ‘Do you remember him? Tall as a tree.’

  ‘Oh yeah, now I do. Why on earth would we want to hire a Swede?’

  ‘Why not a Swede?’ Mary Margaret asked him.

  Phil put down his fork and gave the matter his full attention.

  ‘As you ask, I’ll tell you, Mary Margaret. We all know what Germany was doing during World War II, but what the hell was Sweden doing? Nothing, that’s what! Just sitting on its butt waiting for the war to blow over. To tell you God’s honest truth, I’d rather work with a German than a Swede any day of the week. You know where you are with Germans, and at least they’ve got backbones. Sometimes, I think the United States has more in common with Germany than with any other nation. And if you think about it, we’re the only country since Germany that’s ever had the balls to invade anyone… You any thoughts on the matter, Jack?’

  Jack had: he thought Phil was completely gaga! Rather than say this, however, he picked up the conversation where Mary Margaret had left off. ‘What Mary Margaret said about the Swede being tall? Did you know that Norwegians and Dutch are taller still, probably the tallest people in the world, in fact?’

  ‘I have to confess I did not know that,’ Phil said somewhat sarcastically. ‘Any more nuggets you’d like to impart?’

  ‘The Finns have the highest mathematical level,’ Jack ventured.

  ‘I can believe what you said about the Dutch,’ Mary Margaret chipped in. ‘I travelled there once and they’re huge. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion, because we’d just come from Belgium and they’re all like midgets there. But it wasn’t. They’re seriously tall. And the language! Have you ever had a Dutch person talk to you? It’s awful, absolutely awful! The language sounds awful for a start but, worse still, when Dutch people talk, they spray your face with spit. I had to carry antiseptic wipes with me the whole time I was in the country. It was gross!’

  ‘And what do you suppose the Dutch were doing during World War II?’ Phil asked, determined to recapture the conversation.

  ‘They were occupied,’ Jack said.

  ‘There’s occupied and there’s occupied,’ Phil replied. ‘Our GIs were occupied, trying to fight their way across Europe and liberate people. I don’t call sitting around at home eating cheese and doing drugs being occupied. I despair, I really do. Sometimes I think we let the rest of the world ride roughshod over us. Someone at the station should be saying these things, but no one ever does. Too scared of their own shadows, if you ask me.’

  It was difficult to tell if Phil and Mary Margaret were friends or merely colleagues. They chatted easily enough through lunch, but there seemed to be little warmth between them, certainly not the camaraderie they displayed on television the times Jack had watched them.

  ‘Watch out for Mary Margaret,’ Phil whispered to Jack as th
ey left the restaurant. ‘Don’t let her sink those talons of hers into you.’

  ‘Watch out for Phil,’ Mary Margaret whispered to Jack as they reached the television station. ‘Don’t ever turn your back on him.’

  Jack weighed these thoughts in his head until Billings collected him from reception.

  ‘Wonnacott talk politics to you?’ Billings asked.

  ‘Kind of,’ Jack said.

  ‘Jeez! That guy never misses a beat. Keeps asking me if he can have a two-minute editorial slot at the end of every show, like Eric Sevareid used to have at CBS. We’d be off the air in no time if that happened. I told him, if he wants a chance to air his views, he should get a job as one of those radio nuts.’

  When Billings had stopped talking, Jack asked him where he’d find the computers for his weather forecasts. The station manager looked at him incredulously.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that, kid. We get the forecasts from the National Weather Service and a local private one. It’s not as if there’s a whole lot of weather to predict around here, anyway. It’s either going to be hot or less hot; some days it’ll rain but most days it won’t. All you have to do is present the weather. Didn’t they tell you that?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember, Ed. I suppose I must have just assumed I was going to be doing the actual forecasting as well as the presenting. Seems like only half a job.’

  ‘Yeah, but just think of how much money you’ll be getting paid for only half a job. There’ll be plenty of other things you’ll be able to fill your time with… By the way, did they tell you we’re calling you Jack Green?’

  ‘No!’ Jack said.

  ‘It’s a thing we do all the time. The important thing is to get you connected with the audience fast, and most of them around here will never be able to get their heads around the name Guravitch, let alone spell it. Jack Green’s easy for them to remember, and it’s a strong name, too. You won’t have to change your name in real life, and your cheques will still be made out to Jack Guravitch. That’s the main thing, eh, kid?’ he said, slapping the back pocket where he kept his wallet. ‘Now come on and let’s start getting you trained up as a weather presenter. Your first broadcast will be a week from today.’

  Jack interacted well with his colleagues at the station, and quickly secured his place in the hearts of viewers. Billboards advertised the new evening news line-up, and the smiling faces of Phil, Mary Margaret and Jack beamed down on the city; three happy friends offering their friendship to all who cared to raise their eyes. In reality, the three anchors of the evening news were never more than colleagues. They rarely socialised, each preferring to go their own separate ways after broadcasts: Jack to his friends at the university, Mary Margaret to her cat or favoured beau of the moment, and Phil – or so Jack presumed – to his wife and daughters.

  That Phil didn’t always return to his family after broadcasts became apparent after the news anchorman unexpectedly invited him out for a drink one evening. What Jack hadn’t realised until too late, was that the venue for this drink was a downtown singles’ bar. They bought drinks and sat down at a table. They talked about the broadcast they’d just finished, a bit of station gossip and then, during a lull in conversation, Phil leaned toward Jack conspiratorially.

  ‘Do you know what makes an attractive woman beautiful, Jack?’

  There was only going to be one correct answer to this question, Jack realised, and that answer was already stored in Phil’s head. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Low self-esteem,’ Phil leered, and then laughed. ‘It’s God’s gift to man. Now look at those two over there. They can’t take their eyes off us. I tell you, of all the fringe benefits TV celebrity status bestows upon a man, none comes sweeter than this. Let’s buy them a drink and play it by ear.’

  Jack hated the idea. ‘You’re married Phil,’ he said. ‘What would your wife say if she knew what you were about to do?’

  ‘What’s marriage got to do with any of this? Sure, I’m married, and I love my wife. I’m not intending to marry either of those girls at the bar, and what my wife doesn’t know isn’t going to hurt her. This is normal man stuff, Jack, a bit of rest and recreation for the family breadwinner. Now are you coming over there with me or am I on my own?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re on your own, Phil. I’ve just started seeing someone and I’m not about to screw it up.’

  ‘Suit yourself. One day, though, you’ll realise that life’s too short for your kind of morals – especially in television. See you tomorrow, chump.’

  Phil left Jack at the table and strolled nonchalantly towards the bar and the two waiting girls. Jack quickly emptied his glass and left. He’d lied to Phil. He had no girlfriend, but he sure as hell didn’t want to find one in that desperate place.

  The next day, Phil mentioned nothing of the evening to Jack, and neither did Jack ask him anything. It was as if the time they’d spent together had been airbrushed from both their lives. Fortunately, in case Phil ever did decide to ask him out for another drink, the weatherman met his imaginary girlfriend at a colloquium on two-winged flies.

  Flies

  The first day of the Diptera conference had been devoted to mosquitoes, the second day to sand and black flies, and the third day to midges. The conference organisers had invited Neil Murray, a leading authority on Scottish midges, to give the keynote speech on the final day. He’d been a controversial choice of speaker, but his standing in the fly community, and reputation as the wild man of Scottish entomology, ensured that the auditorium would be full to capacity when he strode on to the platform.

  For the many delegates who had never seen Murray before, his actual physical appearance came as a huge disappointment. They had wrongly presumed that a Scottish wild man and authority on Scottish midges would at least have looked and sounded Scottish. Though none would have admitted it, they had fully expected to see no less a character than Rob Roy climb on to the stage that Friday afternoon, dressed in a kilt, wearing a sporran and with a set of bagpipes carelessly thrown over his shoulder. Murray sported none of this apparel – didn’t even throw his audience the sop of wearing a Harris Tweed jacket. Rather, he wore a quiet suit and, when he spoke, betrayed only the slightest hint of a Scottish accent. What he lacked in appearance, however, Murray more than made up for in presence: his enthusiasm for midges was unbridled, passionate, and covertly fortified with swigs from a flask containing fifteen-year-old single malt whiskey.

  Once the Scottish entomologist had settled at the podium, his performance commenced. He started by pacing the platform slowly and deliberately, but then quickened his tempo and became animated. Without warning he leapt from the platform, raced up the aisle on the right side of the hall, exited through the rear doors, and then rushed back into the auditorium down the left-side aisle before climbing back on to the platform. He did this several times during the next hour-and-a-half, while simultaneously haranguing his audience on the subject of midges. Sometimes he would come to an abrupt halt in front of, or next to a delegate, and lecture him or her on a one-to-one basis for an entire minute; other times he would simply stand there in silence and salute them.

  Murray waved his arms to portray the midge’s mandibles and maxillae piercing and then cutting deeper into the skin of its victim. He dramatically fell to the floor and lay on his back mimicking the same scissor-like cutting action with his legs, before suddenly rolling on to his side to avoid the imaginary blood spurting from a broken capillary vessel. To represent the midge’s food canal, he curled the day’s printed agenda sheet into a narrow tube, put it to his mouth and pretended to suck blood from a delegate’s arm or head. He then mimicked the midge preventing its newly-sourced blood from clotting, by spitting mouthfuls of saliva into the air. The audience was left mesmerised, off-balance and, some of them, wet.

  Murray told his captives that of all the world’s midges, the fiercest lived in Scotland, and of the thirty-four varieties living there, the Highland Midge or Culicoides impu
nctatus was the most merciless. This midge, he told them, with something verging on pride, had probably caused more discomfort, misery and pain than any other midge in the history of mankind; in doing so it had also conserved the natural beauty of its habitat from the ravages of human activity. For this, he argued, the midge was owed a debt of gratitude, and he encouraged the delegates to rise from their seats and give the small fly three cheers. The delegates duly obliged.

  Murray thanked his audience, told them he looked forward to meeting them individually at the reception that evening, and then sat down.

  In attendance at the reception was a middle-ranking administrator from the Faculty of Sciences called Laura Yandell. She had no interest in flies. She was there as one of several women invited by the organisers to counter-balance the largely male complexion of the Diptera conference, and to bring a touch of glamour to the evening’s proceedings.

  Laura Yandell had the reputation of being able to talk to anyone and feign interest in anything. She bridged social and educational divides effortlessly, and laughed easily – if sometimes a little too soon. For this reason, she’d been introduced to Neil Murray and asked to keep him sober until it was time for the delegates to take their seats for dinner.

  ‘I’m afraid I missed your address, Professor Murray, but I gather it was well received.’

  ‘Yes, it went well enough, thanks, but bearing in mind the previous speaker was a Nicaraguan blabbering on about sand flies in his second tongue, then you have to figure the odds were stacked in my favour.’

  Laura laughed and accused him of being too modest. ‘Do you mind if I say something about the midge, Professor?’ The Professor indicated he didn’t. ‘It’s their biting that puts me off. Why do they have to bite people?’

  Neil Murray’s eyes lit up when he mistook Laura’s inane and time-filling question as a sign of genuine interest.

  ‘It’s only the females that bite, Laura, and they don’t simply bite for the fun of it: they do it for the sake of their unborn children. If their eggs don’t get a blood-meal, their eggs die, and if that happened year after year, eventually so too would their species. It’s the only way they know how to survive. And it’s not as if they drain a person dry: the most they ever take is one ten-millionth of a litre of blood. I think we can spare them that, Laura, don’t you? What’s that small amount to a person with 5.6 litres sloshing around inside them? Drop in the ocean, my dear!’