by Brad Willis
We find these children early one morning in a dry riverbed that threads through the city. They’re living in holes they’ve dug in the clay with their hands. They work in the city from shortly after sunrise to sunset for the dealers, then crawl into their holes at night to smoke basuco, the only pay they receive. Within a few years, the toxic paste destroys their nervous systems. Most of them never make it to their teens.
We film an interview with a boy named Alejandro, clearly the dean of the riverbed. He is twelve years old, but he’s so small and thin that he barely looks eight. The dark circles around his eyes are haunting. And the basuco has given him a form of palsy. It’s painful to watch him struggle to coordinate his spasmodic arms and head as he fills his pipe, fights to get the stem between his lips, lights it, and sucks in a long hit.
“My parents threw me on the streets when I was five. I was the youngest of many brothers and sisters. They could not afford to feed me,” says Alejandro as he exhales a plume of deadly smoke that eerily wisps around his face.
His words are garbled and hard for our interpreter to understand, but a deep intelligence still manages to come through. “This is my home. I have lived here seven years. Longer than anyone else. I know I’m dying now. I don’t care. All I want is my basuco. They can push the clay over me when I’m dead.” With his head shaking, hands quivering, and eyes spasming, Alejandro takes another hit and drifts off into a world of his own. As we say good-bye, I wish I could lift this boy out of his hole in the riverbed, carry him in my arms to an airplane, whisk him home, help him recover, and give him a new life.
With Alejandro in Cochabamba, Bolivia, 1990.
My final day in South America, still in Cochabamba, Bolivia, I feel my back catching on fire again. I still have some Motrin, but I’m out of Valium. I’m on a major story far from home, and so the prospect of a serious flare-up scares me to death. I find a drugstore that looks more like a corner newsstand, with a half-dozen sheets of Valium pills sitting on an outdoor table by the entryway, each encapsulated in a little plastic bubble. The sheets hold two dozen pills apiece and cost next to nothing, and I don’t need a prescription here. I buy them all and quickly punch three or four from one sheet and dissolve them under my tongue, anxious to get the muscle-relaxing drug into my bloodstream as quickly as possible.
Within fifteen minutes, my body begins to feel like jelly. I’m a little woozy as Dennis and I sit down to dinner. After a few glasses of wine, the pain is only a memory. This is such a logical and necessary course of action that if you told me it looked like Alejandro and I had something in common, I’d think you were out of your mind.
CHAPTER 7
30 Rock
SPRING OF 1990 BRINGS another bitter Boston winter to an end. Thousands of cherry trees blossom throughout the city in brilliant hues of pink. I’m at my desk, leaning as far back as possible in my chair without falling over. This takes the pressure off my back as I gaze out the window at my favorite cherry tree glistening in the midday sunlight. A hummingbird hovers at one blossom, drinks nectar, then zips away in a flash.
“Willis, come to my office!” Stan Hopkins firmly calls out from across the newsroom, breaking my reverie. It’s a tone I’ve never heard from him.
“Sure, I’ll be right there,” I respond, getting up from my desk and taking my usual pause: pressing my palms into my lower back, rolling my shoulders a few times, checking in on the pain, and reassuring myself I’m ready for any new assignment Stan might want to discuss. But his tone was strange, and I wonder if something is wrong.
Stan pauses deliberately as we sit down in his office. My mind races through the possibilities. The news budget is being slashed. He’s been fired. Or…they’ve found out about my back problem and I’m being benched. I can’t take it anymore and ask, “Is everything all right?”
He regards me with a sober face. “I’ve got a problem with you,” he says. This puts me over the edge. It’s my back. Somehow the news got out. I stare at my feet, about to admit the whole thing before he says another word. Then Stan smiles. He says, “Don Browne just called. He’s now the executive news director of NBC News. He wants my permission to offer you a job.”
NBC News. A rush of joy explodes throughout my entire body. This is it. I’ve finally made it.
Then I remember the network always seeks to cultivate good relations with its local affiliates, especially a powerhouse like WBZ-TV. If Stan tells Don Browne he’d rather keep me in Boston, there won’t be any job offer.
“You’re a top reporter,” Stan says. “You have a great career here. I’d like you to stay around.”
My heart starts to sink, but then he smiles again.
“But I’m not going to hold you back. Do you need time to think about this?”
About as long as it takes to exhale. “Stan, you’re the best news director I’ve ever worked for, and a great friend. You’ve supported me in every way, even put your career on the line for me. I’ll never forget it, but this is the only thing I’ve wanted since I first set foot in a newsroom.”
“I thought so,” he replies. “I already told Don it’s okay to move forward. Here’s his number. Go give him a call.” I wisely repress the urge to jump up screaming with delight and run back to my desk, bad back and all.
It takes a month before Don Browne can see me at NBC headquarters at 30 Rockefeller Center in Manhattan. It’s the longest month of my life and I get antsier by the minute until the day finally comes. The shuttle flight from Boston to New York is always a quick trip, but I want to ask the pilot to step on it. As the New York skyline comes into view from my window, it feels like the plane will never land. I anxiously deplane at La Guardia airport, rush down the endless corridors, and see a chauffeur holding a little white sign with my name neatly printed on it as if I’m someone important. It’s almost impossible for me to believe what’s happening.
The driver is clad in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. He takes my luggage and politely guides me to his sleek, black limo sedan, opens the back door for me so I can slide onto the plush seat as he places my bag in the trunk. We listen to classical music as he cruises toward Manhattan. As we cross the Triborough Bridge, I feel a rush. I’m so close to fulfilling my dream I can taste it. As we pull up to the Omni Berkshire Palace Hotel on West 52nd in Midtown, just a few blocks from NBC, I almost float out of the limo.
The Omni is a hotel of understated elegance, dignity, and decor. The impeccable concierge lets me know that the room, meals, and incidentals are covered by NBC and to call him if I need anything. He tells me to enjoy the stay, and I almost blurt out “No problem,” then remember how dignified this place is and politely thank him. A bell captain promptly guides me to a luxurious suite. I’d love to go out on the town, but I order room service instead to save my back for the big meeting in the morning. Then I click on the TV just as NBC Nightly News begins.
“Good evening. I’m Tom Brokaw. Topping the news tonight…”
I can hardly believe this is really happening. I’m a kid from a middle-class family who fled the suburbs, tried to drop out of the whole world, went to an obscure state college, and one day drove into the parking lot of a small-market TV station on a whim. I’m now in a swanky hotel in the Big Apple, awaiting filet mignon with gorgonzola sauce, julienned carrots with green beans, and a pricey bottle of vintage cabernet, on the cusp of a dream-come-true.
It’s a beautiful, crisp East Coast morning as I walk the few blocks from the Omni to NBC News. Down West 52nd Street. Right on Avenue of the Americas. The city is bustling. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper. Endless honking. Crosswalks are thronged. Magnificent skyscrapers tower over it all like massive redwood trees of stone and steel. I can feel the energy of the city in every cell of my body as my heart pulses to its staccato rhythm. Left now on 49th. There it is—30 Rock. A seventy-story Art Deco masterpiece. It’s the centerpiece of Rockefeller Plaza, and one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan.
I see the renowned outdoor Rockefelle
r Center Ice Skating Rink. Lording over it is a gilded statue of Prometheus, the Titan in Greek mythology who defied the will of Zeus and brought fire to Earth, becoming the champion of humankind. He holds the fire in his right hand as he soars across the sky. A golden circle around him contains the signs of the zodiac and symbolizes the heavens. The golden mountain beneath him represents the Earth.
To me, Prometheus is holding the light of wisdom, bringing the power of knowledge to our world. He is the archetype of a network news foreign correspondent, the ambassador of NBC News beckoning me to enter. Me, the overly ambitious kid, now almost forty years old, who still types with two fingers. As I stare at the statue, I feel dumbstruck, then remember not to be late and hurry to the entrance.
The 30 Rock security center looks like a bigger version of the reception desk at my hotel. A tall gentleman in black coat and tie with perfect posture gives me a formal glance. “How may I help you this morning?”
“Brad Willis. I’m here for a meeting with Don Browne of NBC News.”
“One moment, please.” He scans his computer, hits a keystroke, walks over to a nearby printer, folds something together in a small plastic case, and brings it back to me.
“This is your identity badge. Please wear it at all times. The elevators are around that corner to your right. You’ll find Mr. Browne on the third floor.”
When I realize I’m fifteen minutes early, I start to wander through this extraordinary building. There’s a breathtaking mural wrapping around the west wall of the Grand Lobby. It’s entitled American Progress, by Spanish artist Josep Maria Sert. It depicts an elaborate scene of workers constructing modern America and contains the figures of Mahatma Gandhi, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Abraham Lincoln, all childhood heroes of mine. I almost feel like they know I’m here as I glance at them and whisper, “I made it!”
The elevator banks are works of art, with shiny bronze frames and panels of polished mahogany. Hundreds of people line up here every afternoon, hoping to get a seat at the taping of Saturday Night Live. The red-velvet theater ropes hanging from stanchions are already being set up to contain the crowds. Another security guard checks my badge and I’m allowed to step toward an elevator just as it opens. I slip in and punch the button for the third floor. I decide to hold my breath the whole way just for fun. When the elevator stops on the second floor and someone else gets in, I almost turn blue, but keep holding my breath anyway.
The NBC newsroom is expansive, with long rows of desks forming open corridors that serve as pathways for producers and editors rushing back and forth. There are windowed offices on either side of the room for the executives of the various news shows. The set for Nightly News, which Tom Brokaw has anchored for eight years, is in the middle, surrounded by floor cameras. I see Brokaw’s chair sitting there like a throne. The seat of a living legend. Chills run up my spine.
A woman in a perfect business suit walks up. “You are here for the appointment with Mr. Browne?” The security desk must have called ahead.
“Yes, thank you.” I’m still gazing around in awe and I wonder if my jaw is dropping toward my chin. I straighten into my very best posture. At least I’m wearing a conservative suit and tie instead of boots and jeans like my first TV job interview.
“This way, please.”
As we walk down a long hall to another wing of the building, I fumble with my back brace to ensure nothing is showing. We pass Don Browne’s office, then Brokaw’s, then a large suite for the president of network news, Michael Gartner. This must be the power corridor. I smile, wondering if I should pause and genuflect at each door. We stop at a reception desk, where I check in with a secretary and have a seat. Less than a minute later, the secretary stands up and says abruptly, “Come with me. The morning editorial meeting is underway and Mr. Browne wants you to sit in. Please be quiet when we go inside.”
As I enter the conference room, there’s a group of men and women gathered around a large oval table. Coffee cups are clinking, some are having doughnuts, others are sharing pithy jokes and loud guffaws. It’s anything but quiet, but I do my best to be a wallflower and observe the ritual. Don Browne stands up at one end of the table to welcome me and makes brief introductions: the heads of the foreign and domestic desks, the Nightly News producer, the New York Bureau Chief, show producers, script editors, and assistants. I walk around the table slowly and firmly shake hands, my heart pounding so loudly I think everyone might be able to hear it.
As I take a seat in a lone chair against one wall, large black conference boxes on the table start barking. “Hong Kong Bureau here with you. London here, too. Miami is on. Atlanta. Los Angeles…”
“Okay,” Browne takes charge. “What have you got?”
Each bureau pitches its stories, everyone jockeying for a slot on Nightly News.
“Hold that one for the weekend,” a producer says, rejecting the first pitch.
“Not enough for Nightly, pitch that to the Today Show,” another producer redirects the second offering.
“Yes, we want that spot tonight. Make it a minute-fifteen.” Someone else likes what London has.
“We need some more on that one before we consider it.” This story is completely shot down, and I can almost feel the pain of the person pitching it from halfway around the world.
The entire meeting is an elaborate dance. They are all brilliant. Confident. To the point. The foreign desk spars with the national desk for primacy. National spars back. They know the drill by heart. Everyone making their case. Promoting, analyzing, probing, playing devil’s advocate.
Suddenly, toward the end, Tom Brokaw walks into the room and sits down. Everyone becomes silent.
“Here’s what we have, Tom.” Don Browne gives him the rundown.
Brokaw ponders, then softly adds or subtracts this or that in his deep, melodious voice. It’s over. The story lineup is settled. Prometheus has spoken.
“Do you prefer covering domestic or foreign news?” Browne asks as we settle into his office after the editorial meeting.
“Foreign news.”
“You know, even though we’re a global news organization, domestic news usually takes priority. Foreign correspondents have a harder time getting on the air unless they have a major story.”
This fact was clear in the morning round table. The foreign offerings lacking an urgent punch were pushed to other shows or shelved. The domestic news prevailed, even stories with no urgency at all. Getting on the air is the name of the game. The more name recognition a correspondent has, the more airtime he or she gets. More airtime translates into job security and a better salary down the road.
“Either one is great for me,” I respond. “But if you offered me the choice, I’d go overseas.”
“I thought so,” Browne replies with a wry smile. “I’ve been watching your work for a while, especially from the drug summit. You hustle. Work hard. I like that.”
He explains how different the network is from local news, reminding me I won’t get the three to four minutes for my reports that I’ve become accustomed to. A minute-fifteen is tops. “And you’re talking to several million people, a national audience. You need to synthesize, focus, write so someone living anywhere in the country understands and relates to what you’re saying.”
After an hour, Browne tells me he has other meetings. “We’ll have lunch at noon. Go wander around and get familiar with the place. Introduce yourself to people. Ask questions.”
It’s my nature to be gregarious, but I’m in awe being here, so I choose to sit in the newsroom and observe. A few famous faces wander in. Science Correspondent Robert Bazell. Andrea Mitchell, one of the greatest political reporters alive. Garrick Utley, anchor of the Sunday Nightly News. Maria Shriver from Dateline. They are sophisticated, graduates of top universities, global citizens, reminders that I come from a little college in the Redwoods and will need to work harder than ever to keep pace with this crowd.
At noon, Browne takes me to lunch at the famous Rainbow Room
restaurant on the 65th floor of 30 Rock. The Art Deco dining room is ornate, formal, and dazzling with its panoramic views of Manhattan. I feel like I’m on top of the world as we’re joined by the senior producers for domestic and foreign news I met at the morning meeting. As we dine on a sumptuous lunch, it’s all light talk. I’m being looked over. Felt out. I have no doubt that the powerful majesty of this news organization is silently posing the question, “Do you belong here?” I’m surprised at how relaxed and at home I feel, but I’m still careful not to spill soup on my gold-and-black striped tie.
After lunch, I meet with selected producers and editors in the newsroom. Each explains how the NBC system works, what they need in a story and want in a correspondent. They’re insightful and supportive, but I realize I’m still being measured. In the late afternoon, I have a final moment with Don Browne before heading to the airport for the shuttle back to Boston.
“What do you think about Miami?” That’s the bureau Browne used to run and where he made his name. It’s a hybrid: a foreign bureau headquartered in the States but covering all of Latin and South America.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Only well enough to order a meal, be polite at a hotel, tell the taxi to step on it…Maneje más rápido.”
“I appreciate your honesty. It’s no worry. We have plenty of interpreters. But I’d bone up if I were you.”
Browne stands up and shakes my hand, gives me his famous electrifying stare and says, “Have your agent call me tomorrow.”
It’s unspoken, but I know it’s a done deal. My agent helped me get to Dallas and Boston. Now he’ll be negotiating the job of my life. It’s a good thing, because I’d work for free if they asked me to.