by S. W. Capps
The insincere laugh that followed made him sound like…well…a used car dealer.
“Ready, Terry?” Having finished the interview and two-shot, the quiet camera op aimed his lens at Stacy. “We use this shot for editing. If you can just spell your name.”
“It’s Lamont Hatchet. L—A—M…” The reporter took fake notes, looking serious for the camera. When the man finished, Stacy thanked him. “Who else y’all interviewin’ today?”
“Mort Taylor…” Stacy unhooked the mic. “…at the Ford dealership in Avalon.”
“Mort Taylor?” He sounded indignant. “Y’all be careful. Them Ford dealers’ll lie to ya.” He laughed again, looking to see if anyone heard. No one did. “Ah, well, just make sure I get more airtime than ol’ Morty!”
Stacy turned to go, stopping at a row of new Cavaliers. “Mind if we get some footage in your lot, customers looking around, cars lined up, that sort of thing?”
“Shoot all ya want, fellas. This is free advertisin’!”
Stacy frowned. This was supposed to be news, not free airtime for local sponsors, at least that’s what he was taught in Journalism school. Still, no matter how he spun the story, it came off sounding like a commercial. He thought for a moment, then turned to his cameraman. “Phil said there was a college in town?”
The man’s eyes were vacant.
“You know, a university?”
Still vacant. He apparently needed subtitles.
“Okay…get me some B-roll. I’ll be right back.”
As Terry manned the camera, Stacy headed for a payphone.
“Hello, this is Stac—” He checked himself. “Bill Stacy from Channel 8 News.” He hated his cheesy TV moniker. “I was wondering if I could speak with someone in the economics department.”
***
Stacy watched from the back of the studio as the Channel 8 News Team signed off. His was the last story to air, following Thad Barker’s weather forecast, Chett Starr’s sports report, and Raul Guttierez’s feature on lawn bowling. When the floor director yelled, “Clear,” they left in three different directions.
“Stacy.” The reporter turned to find an anxious Meeks in the doorway. “Mr. Wilhelm wants to see you…immediately.”
“Wants to see me?”
“Yeah, and it’s best not to make him wait.”
The reporter followed his boss, buttoning his collar and re-tightening his tie. As they made their way up the hall, Stacy wondered what he’d done.
“Okay, listen…” Meeks stopped in front of the man’s office. “…don’t interrupt him, act humble, and tell him it’ll never happen again.”
“What’ll never happen again?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just nod and show remorse.” He tried to smile, but it looked like a gas pain. “No worries, kid.”
Stacy watched him leave, the air turning cold. After a pause, he cleared his throat and knocked. “Come in!” The voice was loud and brash, the hair on Stacy’s neck standing. He stepped inside.
The man behind the desk matched the voice, forehead protruding like a bill over colorless eyes, hair and mustache black. “I understand that, Mort,” he spoke into the phone, glaring at the man who’d just entered his office. “Of course not.” Although wrinkles invaded his face, he refused to acknowledge them. That would be a weakness. And if there was one thing Dick Wilhelm hated, it was weakness. He pumped his finger at a chair. Stacy sat. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
As the man groveled, Stacy took a deep breath—Johnson’s Wax—his nervous eyes scanning the room. It was impeccably neat. Matted photos, spaced and aligned, covered the walls. One of Wilhelm with Oklahoma Governor Henry Bellmon. Another with ex-President Lyndon Johnson, a station owner himself. A polished bookcase held fake plants, all recently dusted, and an 8 X 10 of two men holding a Wilhelm & Son: General Contractors sign.
“Count on it, Mort.” The G.M. nodded, tapping his flawlessly-arranged desk. As he hung up the phone, he leaned back in his chair. “Well, son, you’re off to a rip-roaring start. Just what the hell were you trying to prove today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We sent you out on a fluff piece. ‘A Good Time to Lease a New Car’. Does that sound like something for 60-Minutes?”
“Sir…I’m not—”
Wilhelm stood, walking to an open cabinet. The files inside were color-coded, labeled, and arranged in alphabetical order. He removed one. “This is what pays my salary. It’s what pays your salary. If we have pissed off advertisers, we have cancelled contracts. Cancelled contracts mean people lose their jobs. Capiche?” Stacy nodded, the man shoving the file back in place. “What in the world made you put that goddamn economics teacher in your package?”
“Well…I just thought the piece was a little one-sided without—”
“One-sided?” Wilhelm chuffed. “Son, the Fairness Doctrine is dead, or didn’t you get the memo?” He walked back to his desk. “I just spent the last ten minutes kissing Mort Taylor’s ass, and while I was on the phone with him, Lamont Hatchet called and left a nasty message.” Stacy cut his eyes to the desktop, the first he’d seen without an ashtray and pile of butts. “If I can’t figure out how to appease them, what do you think’ll happen?” Stacy shrugged. “They’ll take their money elsewhere!”
He stomped to the bookcase, picking up a canister of fish food. “There are three stations in this market. KPXZ Channel 2. KYTF Channel 7. And us.” He sprinkled food into three separate bowls, each with a Siamese Fighting Fish inside. If kept in the same tank, the innocent looking creatures would tear each other to shreds. “For the past two years, our newscasts—the six and the ten—have finished dead last in the ratings. That means fewer advertisers, less revenue, and smaller paychecks for you and me.” He wiped his hands with a handkerchief and walked back to the desk. “But that’s all going to change.”
Wilhelm sat, leaning forward. The anger in his face was gone now, replaced by something else. “What’s the most important ingredient in TV news?”
“Well…I’d have to say good writing.”
“Twenty years ago, I might’ve agreed. But not today.” He pulled a remote from the drawer and powered up a monitor, Mary Hart spewing box-office drivel. “Today, our job isn’t to inform.” The screen changed from a close-up of the anchor to a Victoria’s Secret photo shoot. “It’s to entertain. TV’s a visual medium. And pictures are everything! That’s why viewers go ape-shit over fires, police chases, murders. The more visual, the more graphic—the better. People eat this crap up!”
“But…” Stacy was confused. “…I thought our motto was ‘News You Can Use’.”
“News is what I say it is!” His tone was impassioned, his stare razor sharp. Stacy looked more bewildered than ever. “Look…” The man’s eyes softened as he powered down the TV. “…the news business is changing. If we don’t change with it, we’re as dead as the dinosaurs. There’s a whole new breed of programming out there. Donahue. Geraldo. A Current Affair. Watch them. Learn from them. They’re the future of television in this country.”
The man stood, his lecture winding down.
“I realize you’re new here and have a lot to learn.” Stacy stood, too, legs wobbly. “But if you remember one thing from our little discussion—just one—let it be this. Don’t ever make one of my sponsors look bad, even in the interest of ‘fairness’.”
Stacy nodded, trying to look humble. “It’ll never happen again, sir.”
“You’re right. It won’t.” As Wilhelm sat again, Stacy turned to go. “Oh, by the way…” The shell-shocked reporter looked over his shoulder. “…I watched your piece tonight. You’re a damn good writer.”
***
Stacy scanned the empty street. He’d been waiting outside the Ferndale Apartments for an hour. He was sure the woman on the phone said eight o’clock. All around him, crickets chirped at the moon, silencing themselves when a killdeer shrieked.
The bird was as agitated as he was. He’d never rented an apartment before. In college, he�
��d lived at home with his mother. And though he knew this was all part of growing up—the apartment, the job, the life away from her—it was a tough transition.
He slipped on his coat, the nighttime air beginning to chill. Two weeks had passed since his arrival in Avalon. It felt like a year. During that time, he’d botched his first assignment, looked like a fool in front of coworkers, and been reprimanded by the owner.
On the positive side, he’d logged ten stories, appeared twice on set, and cashed his first paycheck, using the money to settle his motel bill and reserve the apartment. The bland complex featured four units attached like boxcars, a vacant lot on either side. The place was by no means attractive, but the price was right—$350 a month, all bills paid—and it was furnished.
A pair of high beams split the night, moving past the Super-K and veering to the curb. Stacy watched an elderly woman step from the car. “Sorry, I’m late. The old man needed a bottle.” She trudged up the walkway, head down. “Got first and last month’s?”
Stacy froze. “They told me all I needed was a twenty-five-dollar—”
“Well, they told ya wrong,” she snapped, turning to face him for the first time. “Hey, you’re that news guy!” She was the first person to recognize him.
“Yeah…I work for Channel 8, but I don’t get paid again—”
“Don’t sweat it, darlin’.” She smiled, her dentures slipping a bit.
This celebrity stuff wasn’t bad!
She fished a ring of keys from her housecoat, shoving one in the lock. As they moved inside, Stacy looked around. The living room featured a sofa, end table, and chair, the kitchen cozier than most closets. There was a small bathroom. And the place smelled like rotting hamburger. “Where’s the bedroom?” The woman reached down and pulled a sleeper from the divan. With a sigh, he finished surveying the room. It had a TV. A kitchen table that could double as a desk. And a phone—he could finally call home without saving up coins. “I’ll take it.”
He signed the lease, committing to three months in this shit-hole, not one day more. He was sure he’d be gone by then. She handed him a key. “Well, if ya paid the cleanin’ deposit, you’re good to go.” He showed her out, grabbing his suitcase and heading back inside.
As the door slammed, the room went quiet. The smell was definitely getting worse. He made a note to buy some air freshener. “Home,” he uttered. In the distance, a lonesome train chugged deep into the night.
***
Stacy glanced at the clock—5:45. He had fifteen minutes to put his story to bed.
“Sorry to bother you, Bill.” He looked up to see Norma Howard, the portly receptionist with the gray beehive. “The UPS man left some packages for you. I had him stack them next to my desk.”
“Thanks.” He went back to work, shuttling tape. As he hit PLAY, he heard the familiar countdown. “In three…two…one…”
“By the way,” she prated on, “you’re doing an excellent job. Maybe we could have dinner sometime.”
“I’m sorry.” He hit the AUTO-EDIT key. “Did you say something?”
She flushed red. “We’ll talk later. Ciao.”
Ciao? Stacy watched himself on the monitors. He stood in a windswept field, oilrig pumping behind him. “…produced 137 million gallons last year, the lowest totals since 1940. Bill Stacy. Eight News.” Finished—and with ten minutes to spare.
Plenty of time to make a copy.
He walked to the cabinet and grabbed a tape. His oil package was by no means an Emmy candidate, but all he needed was a few good stories. He envisioned his next stop—Colorado Springs, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas maybe.
When the dupe finished, he went back to work, cutting his package down to a VO/SOT for the ten o’clock report. The shortened version was designed to give the late news a different look than the early. He wondered how many people watched one newscast, let alone two.
As the news wound to a close, he grabbed his coat and hurried to the lobby. The boxes were huge, but in his mother’s defense, she’d warned him. He picked one up, straining all the way to the car.
“Y’all need some help?” Chip Hale, Channel 8’s technical director, was enjoying a post-news smoke—and from the smell of things, it wasn’t a Marlboro.
“Uh…sure.” Stacy popped the trunk, the man tossing his joint.
“What’re ya, robbin’ the place?” He looked to be in his mid-thirties with a ragged ponytail and permanent smirk. “How many ya got?”
“Just four.”
“Oh, is ’at all?” he joked, his accent screaming Oklahoma. The pair walked back to the lobby, grabbing the other boxes. “What is this stuff anyhow?”
“Some things from home.” They made their way back to the car, filling the trunk.
“There’s a party tonight. Everythin’ ya could ask for—wine, women, and weed!”
That was Chip’s mantra.
“Oh…no thanks.” Stacy could count the parties he’d been to in life on one hand, with several fingers to spare. “I’ve…got a lot to sort through.”
“Suit yourself. If ya change your mind, it’s at Connie’s place. B.Y.O. whatever!”
Stacy climbed in the car and rolled out of the lot. A few minutes later, he pulled up to his apartment, the sky beginning to rumble. He wasn’t used to thunder. Despite all the rain in Portland, electrical storms were rare. Luckily, he got all four boxes inside before the first raindrops fell.
As he opened the packages, it felt like Christmas in September! Clothes. His clothes. For a month, he’d gotten by on the meager collection in his bag. Now he stared at a clean pressed mountain of options. Along with his things, his mother had sent him a new suit. Stacy’s eyes grew moist. He knew she couldn’t afford it. He also knew she’d never let him pay her back. As he mined the remaining treasures, he found shoes, a basketball, and two 5 X 7 frames. The first held a black-and-white photo of Stacy and his father, the child in the picture no more than a year old, the next a photo of him and his mom. There was a note attached—FOLLOW YOUR HEART.
It was her favorite saying, one she took every opportunity to repeat.
He set the frames down and attacked the final box, having a pretty good idea what was inside. As rain hammered the roof, he tore back the tape, revealing the item he’d longed for—the Underwood No. 5.
He’d written every story in school on the old typewriter. Crafted his cover letters. Even addressed his demo tapes. He checked the levers and clamps. Despite his best maintenance efforts, the thing was in sad shape, the H and Y keys missing completely. He’d searched every antique shop in Portland for replacements but never found a match. Setting the machine down, he reached for the final item. His mother had included a fresh ream of paper, along with another note—WORK HARD.
It was her second favorite saying.
Smiling, he glanced at the clock, then fed a sheet in the typewriter. After a pause, he began to type, rewriting his oil story with subtle improvements. His mother was right. If he was going to make it in this business, he’d have to ‘work hard’. His coworkers at Channel 8 might have more experience, might even be better skilled.
But they could never outwork him.
“Thanks, Mom,” he whispered. “For everything.”
Chapter 3
October 1987
(NEWSWIRE): VICE PRES. BUSH ANNOUNCES PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDACY ... STOCK MARKET DROPS 500 POINTS ON ‘BLACK MONDAY’ ... U.S. AND CANADA SIGN PACT TO ELIMINATE TARIFFS BY YEAR 2000
“Drug bust, Stacy,” Meeks announced in a restive voice.
Stacy hurried to his desk, the assignment an upgrade from the chamber luncheon he was scheduled to cover—and a serious candidate for his demo tape. “Where?”
“East of town.” Meeks lit a cigarette. “I talked to the undersheriff this morning. They arrested two people and nabbed a pretty good sum.”
“Of what?”
“Marijuana.” The news director took a hit. “Darryl’s already packed.”
Stacy headed for the door. “You
want me back by twelve?”
Meeks looked at the board. “Radio in. We’ll cover it with a reader at noon, then do a set piece at six and ten.” He flicked ash. “And remember, ‘News You Can Use’.”
Rushing outside, Stacy glanced at his watch—8:45. He’d already learned that arriving early paid dividends. First, if a story was breaking, you got dibs. Second, in a profession wrought with deadlines, every minute counted.
He hopped in the Escort, Darryl Rogers pulling out of the lot. The man sat low in the driver’s seat as if ducking a punch, his posture the residue of an overbearing mother. Ironically, he’d chosen a mate just like her. “Think I’ll have time to call my wife before we start shooting?” Stacy shrugged. “She keeps pretty close tabs on me.”
After stopping at a payphone, Darryl veered off Highway 199 into a pasture, six sheriff’s vehicles and two news vans marking the turnoff.
Once again, Channel 8 was last on scene.
Stacy grabbed his Steno and climbed out of the car. A reporter from KYTF was interviewing one of the deputies, a cameraman from KPXZ shooting the old farmhouse. “Well, if it ain’t the boys from Channel 8!” Stacy turned, spying a pole-thin officer in a bur-covered uniform.
“How do you do, sir?” The reporter offered his hand. “I’m Bill Stac—”
“Hell, I know who ya are. I watch ya ever’ night.” The man grinned, putting Stacy at ease. Despite the badge, he had a friendly face. And his eyes, the same metallic color of his gun, held Stacy like they’d done so before. “Marvin T. Bridges. Dexter County Undersheriff. You can call me Marv.”
“Nice to meet you, Marv.” Stacy watched as Darryl hooked up the deck. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Few weeks back, we got us a tip these folks was growin’ more’n alfalfa. One a’ our undercover guys made a buy, so last night we got us a warrant an’ popped ’em both.”