Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “We’re going to turn Texomaland on its ear! People don’t watch the news to be informed. They watch it to be entertained. Wowed. And that’s what we’re going to do. Wow them!” He downed the water like a shot of whiskey, crumpling the cup.

  “What about ‘News You Can Use’?” a brave soul asked.

  “Fuck ‘News You Can Use’!” Toole barked, Wilhelm smiling like an alley cat. “We want our viewers glued to their sets. Rushing home to catch the six. Staying up to watch the ten.” He looked around the room. “Who here can name the best-selling newspaper in the country?” Two people responded with the New York Times, another USA Today. The brazen news director shook his head. “It’s the National Enquirer, folks.” Stacy’s stomach gurgled. “Say what you want, but that little rag is changing the face of newsgathering in this country. And so are its television counterparts.” He took the ratings sheets from Wilhelm. “These reports tell us something. They tell us we’ve been doing it wrong. Well, it’s time we start doing it right.”

  “Bravo!” Wilhelm trumpeted, Toole lighting a cigarette.

  “But Rome wasn’t built in a day. Righting a sinking ship, especially one that’s spent years in the shitter, takes time. But I promise, in two short months, you won’t recognize this place.” Smoke rose like a pestilent cloud, several people coughing. He walked to the grease board and grabbed a pen. “As you all know, November is ratings month.”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” Thad interrupted. “I’ve got some great weather planned.” A few people laughed, none harder than the pompous meteorologist.

  Toole ignored him.

  “As much as I’d like to implement all my plans, it isn’t possible given the time frame we’re up against. But that doesn’t mean we can’t start skewing the numbers.” He penned his first bullet point—MOSs. “I’m a big fan of Man on the Street interviews. Not because I give a shit about what people have to say. But because it’s a great way to make them tune in.” He smiled, smoke escaping his lips. “Think about it. Who doesn’t want to see themselves on TV? The yokels we interview at the mall will tell their friends, their neighbors, their relatives.” He paused to flick ash. “They’ll all be watching. And one of them just might have a Nielsen box.”

  He scribbled his next bullet—TOWN HISTORIES. “Now I know this sounds like bullshit but hear me out. There are hundreds of towns in our coverage area. And everyone has a story. A story and a potential Nielsen family.” He looked to the wall calendar. “There are thirty days in November. That’s sixty newscasts, folks, not counting the noon. We’re going to highlight sixty towns.” Bub DeSpain grinned, thinking of all the dining possibilities.

  Toole snuffed out his cig, adding a final point—BREAKING NEWS. “And now for the big one. One of the reasons this station continually sucks the hind tit is its lack of attention to breaking stories. Shit happens, folks. And it’s our job to make sure we don’t miss it.” He looked at Stacy with eyes the reporter had seen before—the eyes of a bully. “Reporters and cameramen, I’m going to ask you to eat, drink, breathe, sleep, and shit the news. From now on, you’re like firemen, ready to perform when needed, sunup or sundown. You’ll carry a camera in your personal vehicle. Take home tapes, batteries, everything you need to file a story. And most importantly…” He walked to a stack of boxes. “…everyone gets one of these. Your own personal scanner. I want it plugged in next to your bed—volume on high!” It seemed a lot to ask of people making $5.75 an hour. “News doesn’t keep a nine-to-five schedule, folks. We can’t afford to either.”

  Toole moved to the center of the room. “I’m excited to be here. This is a great opportunity for all of us, but we’ve got work to do. Look around.” He smiled, but the expression in his eyes didn’t change. “The people you see are here because they deserve to be. But no one’s safe. Reporters, you’re only as good as your last story. Producers, your last newscast. Camera ops, your last close-up. If you’re not cutting it, someone else will.” More cigarettes blazed, the room a toxic cell.

  “That’s all for now. I’ll be choosing a co-anchor soon. Consider the next few weeks an audition.” He turned the board over, exposing the day’s assignments. “Now get to work.”

  Chapter 4

  November 1987

  (NEWSWIRE): SUPREME COURT NOMINEE DOUGLAS GINSBURG WITHDRAWS AFTER ADMITTING HE SMOKED POT ... ARAB LEADERS BACK IRAQ IN PERSIAN GULF WAR ... LT. GENERAL COLIN POWELL NAMED NAT’L. SECURITY ADVISOR; FIRST BLACK TO HOLD POSITION

  The question of the day was, “Should Oklahoma have a state lottery?” Stacy spoke to ten people at the mall, four outside Taco Bueno, six more at the Chickasaw Motor Inn. The answers ranged from “Hell, yes!” to “Over my dead body!” But none of it mattered. Channel 8 wouldn’t be airing the footage.

  Larry Toole knew from experience how to ‘boil a frog’. You couldn’t just toss it in hot water—the damn thing would jump out! No, you had to ease it in, then slowly and meticulously turn up the heat. That’s what he was doing. Introducing his techniques in small doses. Getting employees comfortable with the new direction at Channel 8 before he asked for more. Much more.

  Stacy thought he was already asking a lot. The news director wanted twenty MOSs a day from every reporter, two stories, and a host of unplanned scanner runs, which meant chasing down breaking action to see if it was newsworthy. More often than not, it wasn’t. As a result, Stacy was working twelve-hour days. And his nightly writing ritual had become a thing of the past.

  “Jesus!” A scissor-tailed flycatcher swooped past the hood. As the news car sped on, Stacy shook the cobwebs. It was the third time he’d nodded off today. He clicked on the stereo, Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now afflicting the airwaves.

  He’d spent the morning interviewing teachers at a rural high school. Voters were deciding the fate of a bond issue that would pay for a new gymnasium. Educators were confident the measure would pass, but Stacy wasn’t so sure. Yes, local residents wanted better education, but over the past five years, fifty thousand oil jobs had dried up, many in Dexter County. For families struggling to put food on the table, a new gym seemed like a luxury.

  “Good morning, Avalon! I’m Nate Shefler with a KAVN news update.” Stacy hiked the volume. “Channel 8’s longtime news director, Terrance Meeks, was given the axe…” He shut it off, shaking his head. Apparently, twenty years in the news business didn’t buy any professional courtesy.

  The Escort rattled to a stop, Stacy spying an antique shop. The little store was the only one open in a deserted town square, the window featuring an old sewing machine, two washboards—and an Underwood No. 5!

  A bell tolled as he rushed inside, the shop filled with old clocks and Victrolas. “Help ya?” A man emerged from the back, his face a graph of wrinkles.

  “Can I see the typewriter?”

  “Sure can.” He moved with the speed of a tightrope walker, Stacy wondering if he used every item in the store when it was new. “This ol’ girl belonged to m’ brother.” He struggled to carry it, the room smelling of dust and mold. “Bet he typed a thousand letters on ’er.”

  Stacy stared at the timeworn machine. Several keys were missing, including the H and Y. Even for spare parts, it wasn’t worth forty dollars. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Base to Mobil 3!”

  Stacy rushed back to the car, grabbing the handset. “Mobil 3 here.”

  “Stacy. Larry Toole. Someone just robbed the Hardee’s in Kingston.”

  Stacy was already late for his next interview. He had more B-roll to shoot. And Chett needed a bite from the football coach. He had about as much chance making it home before ten as the old man in the antique shop winning a footrace. “On my way.”

  ***

  Stacy pulled the almanac from the stacks. He loved libraries. As a kid, he’d spent most of his time in one. “How’s it going, Darryl?”

  The henpecked camera op swapped one photo for another. “Couple more.”

  Stacy’s first town history assignment was Avalon, the infor
mation bountiful. Originally part of Chickasaw Indian land, the unnamed outpost became a vital, albeit bland, stop on the Santa Fe Railroad. Agents, perhaps as a joke, named the community after the Avalon of Celtic legend, the island paradise where King Arthur and his court went after death. Stacy couldn’t help wondering what the ex-monarch and his pals would think of Avalon, Oklahoma.

  Scanning the book, he jotted down notes. In 1889, the first business was established. In 1925, a tornado destroyed half the buildings in town. A Sulphur firm won the contract to replace them. Wilhelm & Son—there was that name again—erected twelve in all, among them the courthouse, hospital, elementary school, and library.

  “Did you know Wilhelm’s grandfather built the building we’re standing in?”

  “Yup…” Darryl zoomed. “…and just about every other in Texoma.”

  Something beeped, Darryl reaching in his pocket. “Is that a—?”

  “Sure is.” He held up a pager. “Now when my wife wants me, she just dials a number and hits two zeros, our secret code.”

  “But Darryl…” Stacy ignored the ‘two zeros’ comment. “…the only people who carry those are doctors.”

  “My wife wants a mobile phone, too…you know, the ones built into a briefcase.” Stacy shook his head. “Not sure if they’ll catch on though. I mean, why would anyone carry a phone around when there’s one on every corner?”

  He had a point.

  After ten minutes at a payphone, they were back on the road. In addition to the town history, Toole wanted a follow-up on the failed bond issue, two pick-up shots for an AIDS piece, and, of course, the twenty MOSs.

  “Pull over!” Stacy barked, his startled camera op cutting the wheel. They lurched to a stop in front of Calvary Church. Someone had spray-painted the word SATIN—an illiterate attempt at honoring the Archdemon —on the huge double-doors. Stacy’s mind raced back to his childhood, to the house on 78th Street. He came home from the library to find POLACK carved in the door. He’d spent the next two hours sanding it off before his mother got home.

  “Get me a shot of that, would you?” He was sure Toole would approve.

  As Darryl set up gear, Stacy found the minister. The man, who wore the last surviving leisure suit, agreed to speak on-camera. “Friends,” he declared in his most anguished lilt, “despite your inequities, I forgive you. This congregation forgives you. God forgives you.” Not exactly what Stacy was looking for, but he thanked him anyway.

  As Darryl packed up, Stacy asked the preacher if he knew who was responsible. “One of the ignorant little fucks in the neighborhood, I reckon!”

  Stacy stared, at a complete loss for words. If he’d learned one thing in his short time in Avalon, it was this—things weren’t always what they seemed. And neither were people. Not even in a town named for an island paradise.

  ***

  He grabbed the tapes and headed for the door. Stacy had waited for the newsroom to empty before making copies—ten in all—each with his best three stories at Channel 8. By tomorrow, they’d be stamped and on their way.

  As he moved up the hall, he heard his own voice coming from the lobby—Cindy had failed to kill the television again. Stopping at the sofa, he watched his ten o’clock package, a report on cemetery vandalism. As usual, the writing was crisp, but he worried about his delivery. He needed more inflection. More modulation. More something. “…residents are asked to contact local police. Bill Stacy. Eight News.”

  “Good thing it was a cemetery piece. I looked like a damn corpse!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He wheeled to see Katie in the hallway. “It takes time to feel comfortable on camera.”

  “Even for ‘Texomaland’s favorite reporter’?” he groused.

  “I was only trying to help.”

  He stared at her, tasting the heel of his shoe. “Sorry.”

  “You might try glancing away from the camera once in a while. It sorta breaks the monotony of a long standup. Makes you look more natural.”

  “Thanks.” He thought about adding something but left it at that.

  Her eyes shifted to the tapes. “Looks like someone’s ready to leave.”

  He glanced down self-consciously. “I…guess.”

  “So you’ve learned everything there is to learn?”

  “I…uh…” He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You really don’t like it here, do you?”

  “No…I mean…” He glanced up the empty hall. “…I just…” Why was he stammering? “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? ‘Hone our craft and move on’?”

  She powered down the TV, then made her way to the door. Without turning, she spoke to his reflection in the glass. “You’re off tomorrow, right?” He nodded, wondering what that had to do with anything. “Meet me here at eleven.”

  Before he could respond, she slipped into the night.

  ***

  “Wow.” He stopped at the brink of a limestone pool. Fifty feet away, the waters of Honey Creek spilled over age-old rocks to form a picturesque waterfall. “This is beautiful.”

  Katie smiled, enjoying his reaction. He’d arrived at the station as told, only to be whisked away in her red Mustang. Twenty minutes later, they rolled up to Turner Falls, picnic supplies in tow. “I told you there was more beauty here than meets the eye.” She led him down a dubious path. “You want to spread the quilt?”

  He looked at her and sighed. If he wanted to leave Avalon, a relationship—any relationship—would only complicate things. Stay focused, he told himself, unfurling the blanket.

  “You should see it in springtime. The falls are much fuller. And the Judas trees bloom. Little pink blossoms everywhere.” She lowered herself to the quilt, her chestnut hair catching the breeze.

  After a pause, he joined her. “What made you think of a picnic? I mean, it was forty degrees yesterday.”

  “There’s an old saying, ‘if you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, wait till tomorrow!’” He nodded, trying to look comfortable. “Besides, we work with the best meteorologist in Texomaland. When in doubt, ask Thad Barker.”

  “Yeah, well…” Stacy’s eyes narrowed. “…I’m not too big on Thad.”

  “Oh, he’s not so bad. A little vain maybe, but everyone in the industry is.” He couldn’t argue. “I suggest you make friends with him though. Come tornado season, you’ll need to keep pretty close tabs on the weather.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He shifted in his seat, searching for another subject. “So…what do you think of our new boss?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” she responded. “I’m still numb from all the firings. I talked to Phil on the phone this morning. He’s a complete basket case.”

  Stacy shrugged. He felt bad for the others, but he was far more concerned with himself. “I guess we are lucky to still have jobs.”

  “Don’t ever forget that, Stacy.”

  It was a strange thing to say, but he nodded anyway, reaching for the basket. “What did you make us?”

  “I didn’t make anything,” she giggled. “I don’t exactly cook, so I went to the deli and picked up two of everything.” He raised the lid, revealing subs, grapes, brownies, and sodas. “I didn’t want you to go hungry. You’re a big boy.”

  Stacy’s face grew hot. “How did you…get the day off?”

  “I switched with Jennifer. She’s anchoring tonight. I’m anchoring Sunday. It’s what I really want to do, become the full-time co-anchor at Channel 8, then work my way up to network.” He nodded, suspecting as much. “What about you, Stacy?”

  “I want to report. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “Well, you’re good at it, sweetie.” She picked a grape and placed it in her mouth. “But we didn’t come here to talk about work. Tell me about yourself.”

  It was the one question he dreaded. Who was Stacy Zwardowski? In his twenty-two years, he’d yet to find a suitable answer. Was he a dedicated honor student? A hopeless loner? They were apt descriptio
ns, but they didn’t define him, did they? No more than high school basketball player or POLACK. Truth is, he knew little about the Zwardowski name, even less about its history, his mother unable to enlighten him.

  “Not much to tell really.”

  “Sure, there is. I want to hear about your childhood. Your parents. Friends.”

  Stacy peered at the blue-green water, wishing he was back in his apartment. “I… was born in Oregon,” he finally began. “Little town called Newport.” She popped a soda and handed it to him. “Don’t remember much about it really. Mom and I moved to Portland when I was two. Lived in six different rental houses, some decent, some not so decent.” A memory flashed. He suppressed it. “She was always there for me. Even home schooled me for a while.”

  God, he sounded pathetic!

  “What happened to your father?”

  Stacy watched a blue heron take flight. He’d never forget the day his mother told him. She took him out for ice cream, then, with tears in her eyes, whispered, “Daddy’s flying with the angels now.” Stacy was so young. The two scoops of Rocky Road took most of the sting away. But he never forgot the words.

  “He died.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you miss him?”

  “No.” He could’ve elaborated. Could’ve told her how his father left when Stacy was young. How he died in Alaska a few years later. Or how the experience ruined his mother. Instead, he tossed a pebble in the water and watched the expanding rings.