by S. W. Capps
The woman smiled, an efficient smile that told the world she was going places. “Terrance sent us.” He still looked confused. “Terrance Meeks. Our news director.” He glanced at the pin on her chest—a gold 8. “He needs you back at the station to go live at noon.”
Live? On day one?
He handed her the camera and turned for the car.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He looked back, having no idea what she was talking about. She smiled again. “Your tape.”
“Oh…” Stacy felt like an idiot. “…right.”
He punched the EJECT button. When the cassette unspooled, he pulled it out and walked away. “You might want to hustle, sweetie. You’re on in half-an-hour.”
***
Meeks shoved the tape in a machine. “Okay…” He glanced at the clock, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “…we’ve got fifteen minutes to air, and you’re the lead. I’ll have Randy slam this together while you write the script.”
Stacy felt his heart race again. He’d come here for a simple interview, and now, an hour later, was about to walk onto a set and tell thousands of people about the most horrific thing he’d ever seen. Could he really do this?
If he expected to make it in this business, he’d better do it.
“Here.” Meeks grabbed a Steno and ripped away the top page. “I phoned Avalon P.D. and got some more details.”
Stacy stared at the scribbled notes. Shooting began at eleven. Motive unknown. 4 bodies. It wasn’t much to go on, but he’d seen enough in person to fill in the gaps.
“Shit!” Stacy looked up to see Meeks adjust the monitors, both a dull dark blue. Deep within the azure sea, he saw silhouettes—police officers, the front of a market, the Super-K sign.
“What’s wrong with the TVs?”
As Randy the editor sneered, Meeks took a drag. “What did you white balance on?”
Stacy’s palms grew moist. In college, he’d shot all his stories on VHS. The tapes were inexpensive, the cameras simple. Just focus and shoot. He had no idea what a white balance was. “I…uh…”
“Randy…” Meeks’ brain kicked into high gear. “…we shot a feature at Super-K last month. Throw some exteriors together and we’ll run with it.” As the man darted off, Stacy swallowed hard, his boss offering a conciliatory smile. “No worries, kid. I’ll take the fall for you on this one. Just don’t let it happen again.” He flicked ash, cutting his eyes to the clock. “You better get busy.”
Stacy nodded, heading to a typewriter. As he fed the machine, he stared at the page, mind blank. “No,” he whispered. Not writer’s block. “Not now.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, the clock ticking unmercifully. Ten minutes to twelve. Nine-and-a-half. “Come on, think.” He’d written hundreds of stories in school, thousands maybe. If there was one thing in the world he felt comfortable doing, it was writing. He glanced at the notes. 4 bodies. A sentence bloomed. FOUR PEOPLE ARE DEAD, THEIR ONLY CRIME—BEING IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME.
The rest of the story flowed easily. As he typed the last word, someone strode into the room. “Where’s my lead?” Stacy yanked the script. The man had blonde hair and orange skin, Kleenex protruding from his collar like the peels of an onion. “Raul Guttierez.” Funny, he didn’t look Hispanic. “I anchor at noon and six. You ready?” Stacy nodded, grabbing his coat. “What about makeup?”
“Makeup?”
Raul reached in his pocket and pulled out a compact. “You can use mine today, but you’ll need to get your own.” Stacy took it—reluctantly. “Bathroom’s up the hall. Make it quick.” He headed for the set, Stacy staring at the thin pink canister in his hand.
This would be a first.
To his relief, the restroom was empty. He looked in the mirror, applying makeup to his forehead and cheeks, then rolled his eyes. His face had an orange tint to it. He could’ve passed for Raul’s brother. As he ran a comb through his hair, the door flew open, a skittish floor director leaning in. “Two minutes.”
***
Stacy trembled as he took his seat at the anchor desk. It would’ve been easy to blame the air conditioning, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was scared to death!
“You’ll do fine,” Raul spoke up. “Just wait for my cue.” Stacy nodded, looking around the room. The set was small and sterile, the flimsy walls painted with italicized 8s. To the left, a green screen dwarfed everything in front of it. To the right, a separate set featured two chairs and a plant. There were three cameras in the room, one for the establishing shot, two for close-ups.
“Minute-thirty,” the floor director announced.
“You want to run through this once?” the anchor asked.
“You read my mind!” Meeks butted in, snuffing out a cigarette on his way to the set. “First time out, never hurts to do a run-through.”
“I’ll say it doesn’t.” The three of them turned, a hawkish man in an expensive suit approaching from the left. He had an air about him that said, ‘I’m better than you, and don’t forget it.’ “Thad Barker. Meteorologist.” He smiled, one eyebrow arched. “Why, I’ll never forget my first—”
“I’m sure it’s a great story, Thad,” Meeks humored him, “but we’re fighting the clock here.” The man shrugged and walked off. “Okay, let’s try it.”
Raul read the lead-in with mock enthusiasm. As he finished, he turned to Stacy. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Stacy Zwardowski.”
“Stacy…Zu—?”
“That’s not going to work,” Meeks intervened. “First name’s too effeminate. Last name’s too…Polish. What’s your middle name?”
“My what?”
“One minute,” the floor director barked.
“Your middle name. What is it?”
“It’s…” Stacy hesitated. “…William.”
“Okay, you’re Bill Stacy.”
“What?” Stacy was aghast. William was his father’s name, and he had no desire to share it—or anything else—with the man. “Hold on—”
“Gotta give ’em the name upstairs.” Meeks bolted for the door. “Trust me, the C.G. op’ll love you.”
Stacy turned to Raul, shaking his head. “I like it,” the anchor offered. “My real name’s Paul Goldberg.”
“Thirty seconds. Mic check, please.”
Stacy clipped a mic to his tie, then shoved an IFB listening device in his ear. When the others finished speaking, he recited a line of script.
“Fifteen seconds,” the floor director cut him off. Stacy drew an icy breath. He could do this, he told himself. “Ten.” The lights grew hotter, the air thicker.
“Hey, Stacy,” Barker hollered at the last possible moment. “Don’t pull a ‘Cindy Brady’ on us.” He laughed at his own joke, then composed himself.
“Five…four…three…”
“Ready camera one,” the director called from the booth. “And roll intro.”
Stacy heard music in his ear, followed by the words, “This is the Channel 8 Noon Report. With Anchor Raul Guttierez. Meteorologist Thad Barker. And Chett Starr with Sports.”
The music built to a crescendo, then faded. “Take one. Cue talent.”
Raul smiled. “From the Oklahoma oilfields to the Texas plains, a good day.” His expression grew ominous. “Texomaland is in shock at this hour…”
Stacy glanced at his script, a backup in case the teleprompter crashed. His hands were two blocks of ice. His stomach roared like the Red River. Just look at the camera and read the prompter, he told himself. No different than the newscasts he’d practiced in school. Like hell! No classroom held this many people!
“…Reporter Bill Stacy joins us, back from the tragic scene. Bill.” Stacy nodded, ready to utter his first words on TV.
“Thank you, Raul.” Not exactly Masterpiece Theater, but at least he didn’t stutter. “Four people are dead…”
In the booth, Meeks held his breath. “Roll tape,” the director whispered, careful not to throw his young reporter off. As
the T.D. nailed his cue, the producer crossed her fingers. But Stacy’s delivery was flawless. True, he looked a bit nervous, but that was to be expected. After all, this was his one and only television debut.
“…we’ll have more details as they become available. Raul.” Stacy turned to the man on his right, relieved—overjoyed actually—that he made it through without fainting.
“Thanks, Bill.” The anchor smiled, pivoting back to camera. “In other news…”
Stacy sat quietly till the segment ended. When he heard, “Clear,” he gathered his script and made a beeline for the restroom. Racing into the stall, he grabbed both sides of the bowl, revisiting his ninety-nine-cent ham-and-egg breakfast. Coughing and spitting, he didn’t hear the door wheeze open, Thad strolling in to check his hair.
When Stacy emerged, they stared at one another, the weatherman fighting a turgid smirk. “Welcome to Channel 8, Bill.”
Chapter 2
September 1987
(NEWSWIRE): AMERICA CELEBRATES 200TH ANNIVERSARY OF CONSTITUTION ... SEN. JOSEPH BIDEN DROPS OUT OF PRESIDENTIAL RACE WHEN PRESS UNCOVERS PLAGIARISM IN SPEECHES ... NASA CONFIRMS DEPLETION OF OZONE, BLAMING MAN-MADE CHEMICALS
“First off, let me apologize for yesterday.” Terrance Meeks pulled a Salem from the pack on his desk, searching his pockets for a match. “I never send a green reporter into the field without a thorough review of the gear.” He paused, out of pockets. “You don’t have a light, do you?” Stacy shook his head. “Good. Nasty habit.” He shoved the cig behind his ear. “But if I’ve learned one thing in my twenty years in the business, it’s never say never.”
Stacy nodded, sitting uneasily in his boss’ office. “Well…” He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “…at least it can’t get any worse.”
“I’ve learned never to say that either.” Meeks walked to the Mr. Coffee behind his desk and filled a mug. Paperwork cluttered the credenza, along with a photo of his unattractive wife and equally unattractive kids. “We work in a strange market here. Half our coverage area’s in Oklahoma. The other half’s in Texas.” He pointed to a map on the wall. “Welcome to Texomaland. Three hundred thousand viewers sprinkled over an area ten times the size of Long Island. Half pissed off when we do a Texas story, the other half mad when we report from Oklahoma.” He sipped coffee as he walked back to the desk. “Every inch of land is devoted to farming or oil. The economy stinks. That’s why I believe in useful news. Employment outlooks. Economic reports. That’s what our viewers need.” He peered into Stacy’s eyes. “These are good people. Hardworking people. They just need some help, that’s all.”
They needed more than help. They needed hope. And Terrance Meeks was doing his best to give it to them, even if it meant bumping splashier stories and bigger headlines for what he deemed useful news. When he said he cared about these people, he meant it.
Stacy, on the other hand, cared little for people. As a kid, he’d mostly kept to himself, making few friends in high school, even fewer at Portland State where he graduated Summa Cum Laude with a Journalism degree. “Did you grow up here?”
“Born and raised. Got a job at KAVN out of college. Came to work here a few years later. If I have my way, I’ll never leave.”
“Never say never.”
The news director smiled. “You’re a quick study. Any questions?”
“Well…I would like to know what I’m making.”
“Oh, Christ, Stacy, I’m sorry.” He set his mug down. “First thing I should’ve told you. We start all our reporters at $5.75 an hour.”
$5.75? That was a quarter less than he made at Burger Town, and a dollar less than Howell’s Books. “Is that negotiable?”
“’Fraid not.” He pointed to a pillar of tapes. “If you won’t work for that, one of them will.”
Stacy stared at the leaning tower. He had high hopes when he began sending out tapes three months ago. His plan was simple. He’d land a reporter’s job in a top-100 market and work his way up. But things soon unraveled. When top-100 markets said no, he turned to top-150 markets, then top-200, receiving nothing for his efforts but form letters and shipping bills. When he got the call from Meeks, he ran straight to the library. The Nielsen index listed Avalon as the 170th largest market in the country. That put him at least three stops from respectability—and real money.
“Are there any benefits?”
“Just one. The opportunity to hone your craft and move on.” Stacy planned to. And quickly. “Come with me.”
He followed his boss into the newsroom, hearing the last few words of a conversation between Thad Barker and Randy the editor. “…biggest fuck-up since Igor took the wrong brain!” The two men burst into laughter, composing themselves as they looked up. “Oh…hey, Bill, how are you today?”
“My name’s Stacy.”
The pompous weatherman shrugged. “Okay, Stacy it is. Most of us use our TV names, but whatever floats your boat.” He left the room, snickering.
“All right, everyone. Listen up.” Meeks spoke with his back to a grease board. “We’ve got a busy day ahead, but first I want to introduce the newest member of the Channel 8 team.” Stacy faced the crowd. All but two of them were smoking, and even they appeared to be looking for cigarettes. “This is Stacy Zwardowski. Bill Stacy when you address him on air.” As Meeks rattled off names to his new hire, “Phil Twitchell, Connie Callaway, Jennifer Riggs,” Stacy’s eyes moved to a cabinet in the corner. There were dozens of ¾” tapes inside. He wondered if anyone kept inventory. “Our camera ops, Terry Perkins, Darryl Rogers, Bub DeSpain.” Stacy glanced back with indifference. He wasn’t here to make friends. “Amy Chow, our producer, and last but not least, Texomaland’s favorite reporter, Katie Powers.” As the crowd feigned applause, the attractive journalist shot them the bird, winking at Stacy. He looked away.
“Settle down, folks.” Meeks turned to the board. “Katie, I want you to handle the follow-up on yesterday’s shooting. Jennifer, you and Darryl…” For the next few minutes, he doled out assignments, pairing reporters with cameramen, sending others out alone. As the crowd thinned, he turned to his new employee. “Stacy, we’ll go easy on you today. You’ll be with Phil and Terry. I want you to do a feature on leasing a new vehicle. I’ve already lined up your interviews. Both sponsors. Nice guys.”
Stacy nodded. Not exactly demo tape material, but Meeks was the boss.
“Remember gang…” He raised his voice as they filed out of the room. “‘News You Can Use’. That’s what we’re here for. We must never lose sight of that.”
***
“I’ve been here two years, but I’ve got tapes all over the country.” Trapped in the back of the Ford Escort, Stacy stared at the man in the passenger seat. Phil Twitchell was older than his on-air mates, and there was a distinct sadness about him, an almost pathetic aura that said dreams—his dreams—were merely that. “First offer I get, I’m gone!” He hummed the Movin’ On Up theme from The Jeffersons, then guffawed.
Stacy looked to the horizon, remembering what a college professor once said, “A reporter’s average stay in a beginning market is fifteen months.” If that was true, Twitchell had overstayed his welcome. Stacy had no desire to do the same.
“How about you, Terry?” Twitchell asked. “You ready to move on?”
Terry Perkins stared through the bug-caked windshield. He wore a denim jacket despite the heat, his hair styled in a mullet. “Nyi don’t know.”
Twitchell guffawed again. “Case you haven’t noticed, Terry doesn’t say much.” The man had his reasons. Born with a harelip, he’d faced more than his share of ridicule. “’Course, we can’t say that for everyone at Channel 8.” Twitchell turned. “Watch what you say to Jennifer. She sleeps with Raul, and Raul tells Meeks everything! Connie and Randy have been known to mess around. And we think Amy Chow’s a lesbian.”
Stacy nodded, studying his car lease notes. “What about you, Phil?”
Twitchell’s cheeks reddened. “Well…I’ve never had much luck with
the ladies.” Shocking. “But I do sorta have my eye on Katie Powers.” Stacy looked up. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’re not seeing each other or anything. But we come from the same little town in Texas.”
“How long’s Katie been here?”
“About six months. Long enough to realize that she, like the rest of us, is getting screwed.” Stacy raised an eyebrow. “No health insurance. No overtime pay. And the story assignments…Jesus!” He moved closer. “Take it from me, start building a file for slow days.”
Stacy made a note in his Steno as they passed a city limit sign.
“Durant, Oklahoma,” Twitchell announced. “Pronounced Doo-rant by the locals. Not as big as Avalon, but it’s the Bryan County seat. There’s a college. A movie theater. Make a right at the light, Terry.” The cameraman set his blinker. “Your first interview’s with the Chevy dealer. But be careful. He’s good friends with Wilhelm.”
“Wilhelm?”
“Dick Wilhelm. He owns Channel 8. Owns three other stations in Texas, too. Unfortunately, he lives near Avalon, so we get the ‘pleasure’ of his full-time company. You’ll meet him the first time you screw up.”
“I already screwed up.” It pained Stacy to admit it. “Came back to the station with blue video yesterday. Lost a close-up of the Super-K gunman getting shot.”
“That’s a shame, but Meeks wouldn’t have used it anyway. He doesn’t go for all that blood and gore stuff. ’Course, the competition doesn’t exactly agree with him. And between you and me, neither does Wilhelm.”
The Escort shuddered to a stop at the courthouse. “Well…” Twitchell climbed out. “…good luck.”
***
“Just one more shot, Mr. Hatchet.”
“Take yer time, boys,” the gregarious car dealer bellowed, a crowd of salespeople behind him. “Long as ya make me look good, ya can take all day!”