After my news unit spontaneously combusted, I need a beer. It was male stripper night at The Cotton Gin, the only bar in Alexandria not inhabited by old cotton farmers, and that was good enough for me. Weathered siding, faded feed store signs, and rusted tractor parts outside led newcomers like me to expect both kinds of music, Country, and Western. Inside, a day-glo pink palm tree guarded a Plexiglas dance floor which was lit from beneath by red, green, and blue Christmas-tree lights. Speakers on either side of the disc-jockey booth acted as a stage for go-go dancers and lubricated patrons who thought they were Michael Jackson.
And the music, a mix of .38 Special, Led Zeppelin, and Madonna attracted the strangest mix of mouth-breathers, wannabe sluts, and farmer’s daughters I had ever seen. Not your typical after-work bar, unless your workday ended when the credits rolled on the late news.
The dance floor jiggled and bounced with horny female flesh revved-up and ready to party with the eager-to-score poon-hounds flooding into the club after the show. Sure it was a meat market, but I wasn't looking for someone to grow old with, just something to erase the last two days. I grabbed a long neck at the bar before venturing into the fray. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Couldn’t resist another chance to take your clothes off?” Little flecks of gold sparkled in her eyes. It took the edge off another long humiliating day better than a Bud Light.
“Nah, I do all my stripping on busy highways when the TV cameras are rolling. Which show did you like better?”
She squeezed her shoulders forward swelling her cleavage. Susan grinned a devil’s smile, “I was hoping for my own private show.”
She was the only good thing to happen to me all week. And she still hadn’t happened yet.
Her face was unremarkable. She had pairs of all the necessary parts: ears, lips, nostrils. It was her eyes that held me captive. Even in a dark and smoky night club, they glistened. Little flecks of gold swam in two pools of honey. And every time she smiled, they seemed to shower the room in droplets of light like a disco ball.
Her auburn locks were teased and starched like surf, frozen in time, over her forehead, a conscious rebellion against the grunge fashion of the day, as were her clothes. Painted on blue jeans accentuated the curve of her hips, and a red bustier revealed everything else I needed to know – her taste was way above my six-dollar-an-hour pay grade. Her smile, at the same time shy and sly, insisted that I give it a shot.
“Got any ones left?” I arched my back and leaned my hips forward bumping her thigh with my crotch.
She reached inside her bustier for a wrinkled bill, rolled it length-wise and pulled it slowly through her fist. Then she slipped the dollar inside the waist of my jeans and giggled, never breaking eye contact.
The music segued from Madonna to Twisted Sister “Ooh, I love this song.” She grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the dance floor.
She jumped and bounced and threw her fists in the air and screamed along with Dee Snider. “We’re not gonna take it any-mooooore!”
I must have been crazy to follow her. Women like this didn’t pay any attention to struggling photographers like me. They went after the pretty-boy reporter with the telegenic grin and thick wallet. But there was something about those eyes.
She didn’t care that we were the only ones on the dance floor. All I could do was watch as he tore into an air guitar solo. She whipped her hair in gonzo circles as she pounded her invisible axe. The crowd egged her on.
I wanted to leave, but I caught a glimpse of her devil’s smile. She stuck a defiant pose and slowly lifted her head. Her eyes glued me in place as they traced a straight line up my chest.
Maybe she did want me.
The world around us vanished. It was just me and the girl with the golden eyes. Butterflies fluttered inside my stomach like pterodactyl wings and the room spun around us.
I wobbled on one leg and caught my balance. It wasn’t the room; I was spinning. I stopped just in time to meet a corn-fed country boy with shoulders as wide as a John Deere. His fist was cocked all the way back into the next parish.
“Ernie, no!”
I don’t remember much after that.
When I opened my eye, I was outside. Sharp edges, like fingernails clawed at my face. The gravel in the parking lot crunched as I rolled onto my back.
Susan stooped to help me up. “Are you okay, Brock?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. I lied. Blood trickled from a cut under my eye and I fingered my aching cheek. My head throbbed. My ribs felt like a side of beef in a Rocky movie. And I actually saw cartoon birdies floating in circles around my head.
“Damn Ernie.”
“Wait,” I forced myself upright. “I just got my ass kicked by a guy named Ernie?”
“I’m the only one who calls him that. He’s my ex, Earnhardt Waltrip Petty.”
“Folks were big NASCAR fans, eh?” I pushed myself to my feet and slapped the dust off my jeans. My left eye had already swollen shut. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story, but ends with a jealous streak – ”
“Not with you two," I squinted through the haze inside my head. "Inside. What happened in there?”
“Oh, that. He does it every time we break up.”
“Every time?”
“You should get that looked at.” Susan prodded around the growing bulge under my eye. “Thank God for Nubby.”
“Nubby?”
“Duh, the one-armed bouncer. He pulled Ernie off before he killed you.”
“So you’re telling me a guy named Ernie just kicked my ass, and I was rescued by a one-armed bouncer named Nubby?”
“That’s about the size of it.” she winked and laughed. “Let’s get you out of here. I’ve got a bag of black-eyed peas in the freezer at my place.”
I threw my arm over her shoulder and leaned heavily on her all the way to her car. It was mostly an act, but for the first time all week, things were looking up.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
LESSON NUMBER ONE (the end)
part one
The Bentley Hotel was an homage to finery: gray stone walls and tall fancy columns, brass-framed glass doors, and a fancy-pants doorman dressed in a colorful uniform. I parked at the door and jetted inside to check things out, no use bringing all that gear until I knew where I was headed.
The lobby was just as lush: mahogany desk, elaborate chandeliers, Persian rugs, and a winding marble staircase to the second floor. “Hey buddy, where’s the Chief Justice speaking?” I asked the first bellman I saw.
The bellman took one look at my blue jeans and snubbed me.
“We require proper attire in the lobby sir.” A cheerful voice came from behind the desk.
I turned to see hypnotizing golden eyes eyeing my “attire” with disdain. There was something familiar about her gaze. Where had I seen her before?
“Oh, Brock, it’s you. You can’t just pop in to see me like this. Especially dressed like that.”
“Uh, yeah.” I fumbled for my next line hoping the blank look on my face didn’t betray my clulessness. “I . . . uh . . . forgot that you worked here.”
“Well, I guess I can forgive you. We were both pretty trashed.”
The girl from the bar. What the hell was her name?
“I don’t usually get that wild,” she giggled.
And what the hell did we do?
She leaned across the reservation desk and her cleavage peeked through her swelling blouse.
“Me either.” I stared at her chest . . . for a name tag. “Susan, I’m working too. I’m here to shoot the Chief Justice.”
“Do I have to call security?”
Still flirting. Must have been pretty good. “With a camera. I’m working for KALX.”
“That’s different. The Bar Association is lunching in the Pelican Ballroom, second floor.”
“Thanks.” I turned to dash back to the Taurus for my gear.
“Hey, I had fun last night. Wanna do it again?”
“Yeah,” I called over my shoulder. “Gotta go. Can’t keep His Honor waiting.”
---
Heavy velvet drapes and plush burgundy carpet sucked every foot-candle of light out of the Pelican Ballroom. I barged right in, mid-introduction. Every eye in the place bored through my cocky shell. I knew someone was going to sue me for disturbing the “speech,” but I soldiered on.
I stooped in the darkest corner I could find to assemble my gear. Icky clicked into its lock on the tripod. The big blue multi-pin umbilical cord stretched from Icky to my recorder. I connected the 30 volt sun-gun to the battery belt strapped around my waist, and bolted it to the camera’s light post.
I’d never seen so many stuffed suits in my life. Every lawyer in the state must have been there. They crowded around tables covered in frilly, white table cloths, their hair receding; their stomachs distending. They stood in unison as Chief Justice Wallace Christophe strode to the podium.
I squeezed my way between chairs and tables slapping my recorder against attorneys and counselors all the way to front of the room and set my tripod fifteen feet from the dais.
The judge opened a manila folder containing his speech, and I switched on my light.
They call it a sun-gun for a reason.
About a ga-jillion watts hit the judge square in the face. He raised his hands and swatted at the rays like they were a hoard of angry mosquitoes. His face squinched like he’d bitten a green persimmon, and he tried to blink gathering tears from the corners of his eyes.
My heart pounded against my ribs. I just blinded a judge. At least he couldn’t see me on the dark side of the light.
“I’ll see you in court,” the judge warned in a scholarly voice, “if I ever see again.”
The room erupted with laughter. I wanted to hide under my tripod. When the attorneys had all taken their seats, the judge lowered his head and barreled right into his speech.
It happened about three minutes in.
Hey new guy.
The Chief Justice froze.
Damn voice pager!
Blow off the judge.
Weaver’s words echoed in my head. “It’s a voice pager. It’s great.” Great my ass. The brazen voice in the little box on my hip drowned-out anything His Honor was trying to say.
We don’t want him.
I melted into a puddle and tried to soak through the heavy carpet.
“I don’t want you either, New Guy.” The judge said like he’d issued his decree from the high court’s bench. The lawyers guffawed and pounded the tables.
I grabbed my shit and oozed out, banging every lawyer’s chair along the way. The girl with the golden eyes called after me as I rushed through the lobby. I didn’t even bother to wave. I just wanted to be gone.
I threw my gear into the trunk without disconnecting anything. The sooner I could be out of there the better.
Inside the car, the two-way was already calling. Hope the judge hadn’t started talking yet. Just come back, Boyd needs a photog.
“The judge was in the middle of his speech. You told the entire room we didn’t want him.”
Sorry. You ought to turn your pager down when you’re shooting.
"Now you tell me." I threw the car into gear and floored it. My tires squealed, and I was gone in a puff of blue-gray smoke, jumping ever speed bump in the parking lot. I hoped no one took that “How’s my driving” sticker on my bumper seriously.
I took the long route back to the station to cool off so I didn’t kill someone when I got back.
Hey new guy. It was the radio. Someone just called from their car phone. They say your driving’s fine, but your trunk is smoking.
I checked the mirror. Thick white smoke billowed from the edges of the trunk lid.
“Holy shit, I’m on fire!”
I threw the car into park and jumped out in the middle of MacAuthur Boulevard. Cars zoomed past like it was normal to see a smoldering news unit on the main drag.
New guy, you okay?
I fumbled for the radio. “No, I’m not okay. I’m on fire!”
There’s a fire extinguisher in the back seat.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher, threw the trunk open, and put the fire out. It was minor, but my rain gear was now melted to my sun gun. The stupid light must have switched on when I jumped that damn speed bumps.
On cue, the hangover I’d been waiting for all day erupted inside my head.
I had been a photog for two days. I’d been stripped and hosed, fired, hired, humiliated by a judge, and caught fire. I could only hope the words Weaver had spoken were true and tomorrow none of this would matter.
I somehow doubted it.
The Bentley Hotel was an homage to finery: gray stone walls and tall fancy columns, brass-framed glass doors, and a fancy-pants doorman dressed in a colorful uniform. I parked at the door and jetted inside to check things out, no use bringing all that gear until I knew where I was headed.
The lobby was just as lush: mahogany desk, elaborate chandeliers, Persian rugs, and a winding marble staircase to the second floor. “Hey buddy, where’s the Chief Justice speaking?” I asked the first bellman I saw.
The bellman took one look at my blue jeans and snubbed me.
“We require proper attire in the lobby sir.” A cheerful voice came from behind the desk.
I turned to see hypnotizing golden eyes eyeing my “attire” with disdain. There was something familiar about her gaze. Where had I seen her before?
“Oh, Brock, it’s you. You can’t just pop in to see me like this. Especially dressed like that.”
“Uh, yeah.” I fumbled for my next line hoping the blank look on my face didn’t betray my clulessness. “I . . . uh . . . forgot that you worked here.”
“Well, I guess I can forgive you. We were both pretty trashed.”
The girl from the bar. What the hell was her name?
“I don’t usually get that wild,” she giggled.
And what the hell did we do?
She leaned across the reservation desk and her cleavage peeked through her swelling blouse.
“Me either.” I stared at her chest . . . for a name tag. “Susan, I’m working too. I’m here to shoot the Chief Justice.”
“Do I have to call security?”
Still flirting. Must have been pretty good. “With a camera. I’m working for KALX.”
“That’s different. The Bar Association is lunching in the Pelican Ballroom, second floor.”
“Thanks.” I turned to dash back to the Taurus for my gear.
“Hey, I had fun last night. Wanna do it again?”
“Yeah,” I called over my shoulder. “Gotta go. Can’t keep His Honor waiting.”
---
Heavy velvet drapes and plush burgundy carpet sucked every foot-candle of light out of the Pelican Ballroom. I barged right in, mid-introduction. Every eye in the place bored through my cocky shell. I knew someone was going to sue me for disturbing the “speech,” but I soldiered on.
I stooped in the darkest corner I could find to assemble my gear. Icky clicked into its lock on the tripod. The big blue multi-pin umbilical cord stretched from Icky to my recorder. I connected the 30 volt sun-gun to the battery belt strapped around my waist, and bolted it to the camera’s light post.
I’d never seen so many stuffed suits in my life. Every lawyer in the state must have been there. They crowded around tables covered in frilly, white table cloths, their hair receding; their stomachs distending. They stood in unison as Chief Justice Wallace Christophe strode to the podium.
I squeezed my way between chairs and tables slapping my recorder against attorneys and counselors all the way to front of the room and set my tripod fifteen feet from the dais.
The judge opened a manila folder containing his speech, and I switched on my light.
They call it a sun-gun for a reason.
About a ga-jillion watts hit the judge square in the face. He raised his hands and swatted at the rays like they were a hoard of angry mosquitoes. His face squinched like he’d bitten a green persimmon, and he tried to blink gathering tears from the corners of his eyes.
My heart pounded against my ribs. I just blinded a judge. At least he couldn’t see me on the dark side of the light.
“I’ll see you in court,” the judge warned in a scholarly voice, “if I ever see again.”
The room erupted with laughter. I wanted to hide under my tripod. When the attorneys had all taken their seats, the judge lowered his head and barreled right into his speech.
It happened about three minutes in.
Hey new guy.
The Chief Justice froze.
Damn voice pager!
Blow off the judge.
Weaver’s words echoed in my head. “It’s a voice pager. It’s great.” Great my ass. The brazen voice in the little box on my hip drowned-out anything His Honor was trying to say.
We don’t want him.
I melted into a puddle and tried to soak through the heavy carpet.
“I don’t want you either, New Guy.” The judge said like he’d issued his decree from the high court’s bench. The lawyers guffawed and pounded the tables.
I grabbed my shit and oozed out, banging every lawyer’s chair along the way. The girl with the golden eyes called after me as I rushed through the lobby. I didn’t even bother to wave. I just wanted to be gone.
I threw my gear into the trunk without disconnecting anything. The sooner I could be out of there the better.
Inside the car, the two-way was already calling. Hope the judge hadn’t started talking yet. Just come back, Boyd needs a photog.
“The judge was in the middle of his speech. You told the entire room we didn’t want him.”
Sorry. You ought to turn your pager down when you’re shooting.
"Now you tell me." I threw the car into gear and floored it. My tires squealed, and I was gone in a puff of blue-gray smoke, jumping ever speed bump in the parking lot. I hoped no one took that “How’s my driving” sticker on my bumper seriously.
I took the long route back to the station to cool off so I didn’t kill someone when I got back.
Hey new guy. It was the radio. Someone just called from their car phone. They say your driving’s fine, but your trunk is smoking.
I checked the mirror. Thick white smoke billowed from the edges of the trunk lid.
“Holy shit, I’m on fire!”
I threw the car into park and jumped out in the middle of MacAuthur Boulevard. Cars zoomed past like it was normal to see a smoldering news unit on the main drag.
New guy, you okay?
I fumbled for the radio. “No, I’m not okay. I’m on fire!”
There’s a fire extinguisher in the back seat.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher, threw the trunk open, and put the fire out. It was minor, but my rain gear was now melted to my sun gun. The stupid light must have switched on when I jumped that damn speed bumps.
On cue, the hangover I’d been waiting for all day erupted inside my head.
I had been a photog for two days. I’d been stripped and hosed, fired, hired, humiliated by a judge, and caught fire. I could only hope the words Weaver had spoken were true and tomorrow none of this would matter.
I somehow doubted it.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
LESSON NUMBER ONE (part one)
The sun burned holes through my ZZ Top Cheap Sunglasses as I waited outside the wrought iron gate. I was beginning to regret partying all night. I slid my fingers behind the dark frames and rubbed my bloodshot eyes while trying to shake off the remnants of my beer-induced buzz. I couldn’t help but gawk at the scene beyond my windshield. It was like nothing I had seen before – not the gate, the TV station behind it – and I had been in the business a whole week.
KALX-TV stood before me like the proverbial gleaming city on the hill: a sprawling, single story building of sparkling steel and glass. A massive orange and white broadcast tower, like an erector set on steroids, grew from the center of the building. Fifteen American flags waved down the long gated driveway to the front doors. Below each flag, a second flag bearing the KALX-TV 5 logo announced, “This is KALX Kountry.”
I cranked down my window and pressed the button on the speaker box. “Nicholas Brock, here to see Jim Weaver.”
“Yes, Mr. Brock, I’ll buzz you in.”
The receptionist buzzed me through the front gate, and my rusty Dodge Charger sputtered to a parking place near the tinted glass. I shook my head as I headed for the door. Was I dreaming? Was I still drunk from last night? I was about to start my second job at my second television station in two days. Another buzz and I was inside.
“I’ve told Mr. Weaver that you are here. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Mister Weaver? I squinted in the dim light waiting for my eyes to adjust, “Thank you, Miss, uh,” I searched for the name plate on marble half-wall that hid everything but the receptionist’s head, “Johnston.”
“Call me Jeanne,” she said with all the perkiness of Katie Couric, while she fished for something inside her desk. “Mr. Weaver asks that you please have a seat and fill out this application.”
So this was how the other half lived? No ragged out carpet. No leak-stained ceiling, no crappy RCA cabinet television from the 50’s. Unlike my former digs, the KALX reception area shined of polished marble and glass. My sneakers squeaked against the marble tile floor as I crossed the room to a leather and chrome arm chair. I dropped the application on an asymmetrical glass coffee table. Across the room, on a large television screen, sand drained through an hourglass as the announcer introduced the next soap opera, “. . . so are the Days of Our Lives.”
Then I saw it. I could feel my eyes getting wider. My pulse quickened. I stood and took a few tentative steps. The orange glow in the corner called to me like a siren’s song. Plaques and statuettes with names like Murrow, Peabody, and DuPont stared back at me from the chrome and glass trophy case. There must have been a dozen of them. And standing tall in a beam of white light atop the case, a gold-plated, winged woman in a flowing robe, her back arched, stretched her arms toward the ceiling. She lifted a gilded, wire-frame globe for all to see. The inscription read, “EMMY, Excellence in Television News Photography, Jim Weaver.”
I felt someone watching me stare. I jerked my head around to see Weaver grinning like a mule eating briars. “Just admiring the hardware.” I said, checking my chin for spittle.
“It’s just a regional,” Weaver apologized.
“It’s a freakin’ Emmy.”
“Just a shiny hunk of tin that says I did good work two years ago.”
I stammered at a few words in protest, but Weaver cut me off.
“Rule number one, yesterday’s story, no matter how good or bad, is gone. Nobody remembers it. Nothing matters but the story you shoot today. You hang on to that attitude and you’ll have your own shiny dolls to play with. Now, let’s get you signed in.”
I followed Weaver into the cavernous main hallway. Larger than life-sized photos of anchors and reporters smiled at me we I drifted past.
“That’s the Gripper,” Weaver explained as we passed the first head shot, “Bob Grip. He anchors the five, six, and ten. The blonde next to him is his co-anchor Darla Darling – cheesy name. Consultants picked it – but she knows her shit.” And so it went all the way down the hallway, “That’s Sarge; she’s an institution. Dick Hicks, nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Lou James, he does the weekend show. Watch out for him. Hammy, sports guy extraordinaire, and his side-kick Bump. And that’s Boyd Leffingwell. He’s a fuck-up. But he’s our fuck-up.”
The newsroom was as opulent and immense as my previous digs were ratty and cramped. Framed prints by Manet or Monet, or some other long-dead, famous foreign artist graced the walls. The assignment desk stood as mountain of granite in the center of the room. The news director and assistant news director holed-up inside glassed offices at the back of the room.
Weaver just stood there and let me take it all in. “It’s like the Taj Mahal of newsrooms,” I finally sputtered.
“Nah, that’s in Baton Rouge, but it’s comfortable. It’s time to get you signed in, Ass Man has an assignment for you, and you still need to meet Icky.”
“Ass Man?”
“Assignment Manager, never met one who wasn’t an asshole. You would be to if you had to direct whining reporters and grumpy photogs all day.”
Weaver steered me to the back hallway and into the equipment room, where he opened the last locker and pulled out something big and orange. “This is Icky, the Ikegami 730. Nothing makes a prettier picture. And it’s a whole lot lighter than that TK you were driving.”
“It’s orange.”
“You’ll forget about the color when you get it on your shoulder.”
Weaver handed me Icky like it was made of gold. I threw it on my shoulder. He was right. Icky was light, well-balanced, and comfortable, almost like it belonged there.
“Now gear-up. The judge is waiting.” He tossed me a set of car keys. “Unit 7, it’s the Taurus sedan in the back lot. Oh, and you’ll need this.” Weaver pulled a silver cube the size of a matchbox off his belt.
“What is it?”
“It’s the latest thing in beepers, a voice pager. If the desk needs you, they call the number, leave a message, and it comes out of this little speaker. No need to fumble with buttons or fight to read a phone number while you drive. It just spits it out. It’s great.”
I put the beeper on my belt, loaded the Taurus and radioed the desk.
Hey new guy, the radio crackled back. Head to The Bentley Hotel, the Chief Justice of the Louisiana Supreme Court is speaking to the Louisiana Bar Association. Just shoot the speech; a producer will pick out the sound when you get back.
And I was on my way to my first real story.
KALX-TV stood before me like the proverbial gleaming city on the hill: a sprawling, single story building of sparkling steel and glass. A massive orange and white broadcast tower, like an erector set on steroids, grew from the center of the building. Fifteen American flags waved down the long gated driveway to the front doors. Below each flag, a second flag bearing the KALX-TV 5 logo announced, “This is KALX Kountry.”
I cranked down my window and pressed the button on the speaker box. “Nicholas Brock, here to see Jim Weaver.”
“Yes, Mr. Brock, I’ll buzz you in.”
The receptionist buzzed me through the front gate, and my rusty Dodge Charger sputtered to a parking place near the tinted glass. I shook my head as I headed for the door. Was I dreaming? Was I still drunk from last night? I was about to start my second job at my second television station in two days. Another buzz and I was inside.
“I’ve told Mr. Weaver that you are here. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Mister Weaver? I squinted in the dim light waiting for my eyes to adjust, “Thank you, Miss, uh,” I searched for the name plate on marble half-wall that hid everything but the receptionist’s head, “Johnston.”
“Call me Jeanne,” she said with all the perkiness of Katie Couric, while she fished for something inside her desk. “Mr. Weaver asks that you please have a seat and fill out this application.”
So this was how the other half lived? No ragged out carpet. No leak-stained ceiling, no crappy RCA cabinet television from the 50’s. Unlike my former digs, the KALX reception area shined of polished marble and glass. My sneakers squeaked against the marble tile floor as I crossed the room to a leather and chrome arm chair. I dropped the application on an asymmetrical glass coffee table. Across the room, on a large television screen, sand drained through an hourglass as the announcer introduced the next soap opera, “. . . so are the Days of Our Lives.”
Then I saw it. I could feel my eyes getting wider. My pulse quickened. I stood and took a few tentative steps. The orange glow in the corner called to me like a siren’s song. Plaques and statuettes with names like Murrow, Peabody, and DuPont stared back at me from the chrome and glass trophy case. There must have been a dozen of them. And standing tall in a beam of white light atop the case, a gold-plated, winged woman in a flowing robe, her back arched, stretched her arms toward the ceiling. She lifted a gilded, wire-frame globe for all to see. The inscription read, “EMMY, Excellence in Television News Photography, Jim Weaver.”
I felt someone watching me stare. I jerked my head around to see Weaver grinning like a mule eating briars. “Just admiring the hardware.” I said, checking my chin for spittle.
“It’s just a regional,” Weaver apologized.
“It’s a freakin’ Emmy.”
“Just a shiny hunk of tin that says I did good work two years ago.”
I stammered at a few words in protest, but Weaver cut me off.
“Rule number one, yesterday’s story, no matter how good or bad, is gone. Nobody remembers it. Nothing matters but the story you shoot today. You hang on to that attitude and you’ll have your own shiny dolls to play with. Now, let’s get you signed in.”
I followed Weaver into the cavernous main hallway. Larger than life-sized photos of anchors and reporters smiled at me we I drifted past.
“That’s the Gripper,” Weaver explained as we passed the first head shot, “Bob Grip. He anchors the five, six, and ten. The blonde next to him is his co-anchor Darla Darling – cheesy name. Consultants picked it – but she knows her shit.” And so it went all the way down the hallway, “That’s Sarge; she’s an institution. Dick Hicks, nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Lou James, he does the weekend show. Watch out for him. Hammy, sports guy extraordinaire, and his side-kick Bump. And that’s Boyd Leffingwell. He’s a fuck-up. But he’s our fuck-up.”
The newsroom was as opulent and immense as my previous digs were ratty and cramped. Framed prints by Manet or Monet, or some other long-dead, famous foreign artist graced the walls. The assignment desk stood as mountain of granite in the center of the room. The news director and assistant news director holed-up inside glassed offices at the back of the room.
Weaver just stood there and let me take it all in. “It’s like the Taj Mahal of newsrooms,” I finally sputtered.
“Nah, that’s in Baton Rouge, but it’s comfortable. It’s time to get you signed in, Ass Man has an assignment for you, and you still need to meet Icky.”
“Ass Man?”
“Assignment Manager, never met one who wasn’t an asshole. You would be to if you had to direct whining reporters and grumpy photogs all day.”
Weaver steered me to the back hallway and into the equipment room, where he opened the last locker and pulled out something big and orange. “This is Icky, the Ikegami 730. Nothing makes a prettier picture. And it’s a whole lot lighter than that TK you were driving.”
“It’s orange.”
“You’ll forget about the color when you get it on your shoulder.”
Weaver handed me Icky like it was made of gold. I threw it on my shoulder. He was right. Icky was light, well-balanced, and comfortable, almost like it belonged there.
“Now gear-up. The judge is waiting.” He tossed me a set of car keys. “Unit 7, it’s the Taurus sedan in the back lot. Oh, and you’ll need this.” Weaver pulled a silver cube the size of a matchbox off his belt.
“What is it?”
“It’s the latest thing in beepers, a voice pager. If the desk needs you, they call the number, leave a message, and it comes out of this little speaker. No need to fumble with buttons or fight to read a phone number while you drive. It just spits it out. It’s great.”
I put the beeper on my belt, loaded the Taurus and radioed the desk.
Hey new guy, the radio crackled back. Head to The Bentley Hotel, the Chief Justice of the Louisiana Supreme Court is speaking to the Louisiana Bar Association. Just shoot the speech; a producer will pick out the sound when you get back.
And I was on my way to my first real story.
to be continued
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
EAGER
“You’re the naked cameraman from TV!” She screeched with sudden recognition, and shrank behind a rack of novelty bumper stickers, then peeked out. “Did I really say that out loud?”
“Yes, I am, and you did.” I punched the price of her cold drink and newspaper into the cash register. “One twenty-seven.”
Her eyes shifted nervously from the bumper stickers to my belt buckle to the front page photo. There I was, in all my black and white glory, hands raised like a suspect at gunpoint, but it was a fireman’s hose holding me at bay. Water droplets glistened in the tight curls of my frizzy mullet. No shirt, no pants, and a scrap of sheet stretched in front of the good parts. Emergency lights behind me created a halo-effect around my torso and projected a shadow of my twig and berries on the small sheet. A strategically placed black bar made the picture fit to print in a family publication.
She handed me two dollars and strained at a shy grin. “Must have been pretty cold.”
I nodded.
It had been that way since I’d arrived at work that morning. Just forty-five minutes into my shift and I was ready to crawl under a rock. I could handle the men; a bawdy comment about shrinkage was usually enough. But how do you answer a grandmother or co-ed?
“Yeah,” was all I could muster. I dropped seventy three cents into her hand.
“It must be fascinating being a cameraman. Running to wrecks and murders and meeting all those interesting people.” Gold flecks sparkled in her big brown eyes.
She was trying to flirt, but I just wanted her to leave. “I wouldn’t know. KELC fired me. And they had never actually hired me in the first place.”
“That sucks.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Nobody else would even answer the radio. I lugged all that gear three blocks, to get shots of that damned overturned tanker. Then, that bastard Weaver from the competition shows up, grinning like a possum eating shit and shoots my little striptease.”
“Sorry I brought it up.”
“Nah, I’m sorry. You didn’t come in here to listen to a minimum-wage cashier bitch and moan. It’s just that bastard Weaver took my gear when they packed me in the ambulance. Then, he uses my shots in his story. That son-of-a-bitch.”
“I thought he was a bastard.” She joked putting the change into her purse.
“He’s both. I wouldn’t piss on his guts if they were on fire. I’m sorry. Bitching again.”
“That’s okay. It sounds like you got hosed . . . Sorry, bad pun.” Her lips hitched between a wince and a smile.
“Yeah, really bad.” I shook my head and tried to disguise a smile. “But look, it’s my first smile of the day. Thanks.”
“If you need some cheering up, there’s a big party tonight.”
“I think I’ll stew in my own juices for a while.”
“If you change your mind, it’s at The Cotton Gin. You should come – it’s dark in there. Nobody will recognize you.” She dropped the change in her purse and bounced out of the store.
The slap of another newspaper on my counter dragged my attention back from the door.
“Good thing I’m not on fire.” Jim Weaver laughed from the other side of my counter. “You got balls.” He set his cold drink counter. “Not that I could see ‘em.”
I had met Weaver once before he made my privates public. He was a round man with round eyes, an uneven mustache, and bristly gray hair half way around head. His right shoulder sagged a little lower than his left, and his left eye squeezed into a permanent half-wink from years peering through the lens of a television camera.
“Really, I looked at your video last night.”
“Looked at it? It was all over your story.”
“You expected me to just hand it over to KELC? You needed a tripod, but it was good for a rookie. You’ve got a good eye – too good to be ringing-up newspapers in a shop-n-rob. You might make it in this business.”
“Tell that to Cranch. He fired me for the ‘over exposure.’”
“Yeah, I feel pretty bad about that, but I couldn’t not shoot it.” Weaver dug his hands in his pocket and shifted from one foot to the other. “Hell, you even shot it yourself. Or tried to.”
I had almost forgotten that I had rolled tape too.
“The focus was soft, and it was a little dark, but I used it in the story for the morning show, just to piss off Cranch.” Weaver grinned slyly. “Like I said, you got balls, kid.”
I wanted to jump across the counter and beat the crap out of him, but it was hard not to like Weaver.
“How’d you like to rub his face in it?”
“What do you mean?”
“One of my guys walked off the job two weeks ago. The News Director wants me to hire some hot-shot college grad who thinks he’s Edward R. Murrow and Cecil B. DeMille all rolled into one. I want you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been doing this long enough to know that hiring a photog is like looking to score at The Cotton Gin – eager beats pretty, every time." He laughed at his own joke. “Anybody can point a lens and hit record. But you’ve got an eye, and what you did to get those shots – taking your own car, hiking in with all that gear, sneaking out of the command post – that tells me you’ve got the fire that makes a good photog.”
“How do you know about all of that?”
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you. You want the job or not?”
“When do I start?” I practically jumped over the counter, this time to hug him.
“Don’t be too eager. We ain’t talked money.”
“Look around. It would be illegal to pay me less than I get here.”
Weaver laughed again and shook my hand. “When do you get off?”
“I can be off now.”
He shook his head. “No, no. Come see me tomorrow.” Weaver headed for the door.
“Eager, I like that,” he called over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.
“Yes, I am, and you did.” I punched the price of her cold drink and newspaper into the cash register. “One twenty-seven.”
Her eyes shifted nervously from the bumper stickers to my belt buckle to the front page photo. There I was, in all my black and white glory, hands raised like a suspect at gunpoint, but it was a fireman’s hose holding me at bay. Water droplets glistened in the tight curls of my frizzy mullet. No shirt, no pants, and a scrap of sheet stretched in front of the good parts. Emergency lights behind me created a halo-effect around my torso and projected a shadow of my twig and berries on the small sheet. A strategically placed black bar made the picture fit to print in a family publication.
She handed me two dollars and strained at a shy grin. “Must have been pretty cold.”
I nodded.
It had been that way since I’d arrived at work that morning. Just forty-five minutes into my shift and I was ready to crawl under a rock. I could handle the men; a bawdy comment about shrinkage was usually enough. But how do you answer a grandmother or co-ed?
“Yeah,” was all I could muster. I dropped seventy three cents into her hand.
“It must be fascinating being a cameraman. Running to wrecks and murders and meeting all those interesting people.” Gold flecks sparkled in her big brown eyes.
She was trying to flirt, but I just wanted her to leave. “I wouldn’t know. KELC fired me. And they had never actually hired me in the first place.”
“That sucks.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Nobody else would even answer the radio. I lugged all that gear three blocks, to get shots of that damned overturned tanker. Then, that bastard Weaver from the competition shows up, grinning like a possum eating shit and shoots my little striptease.”
“Sorry I brought it up.”
“Nah, I’m sorry. You didn’t come in here to listen to a minimum-wage cashier bitch and moan. It’s just that bastard Weaver took my gear when they packed me in the ambulance. Then, he uses my shots in his story. That son-of-a-bitch.”
“I thought he was a bastard.” She joked putting the change into her purse.
“He’s both. I wouldn’t piss on his guts if they were on fire. I’m sorry. Bitching again.”
“That’s okay. It sounds like you got hosed . . . Sorry, bad pun.” Her lips hitched between a wince and a smile.
“Yeah, really bad.” I shook my head and tried to disguise a smile. “But look, it’s my first smile of the day. Thanks.”
“If you need some cheering up, there’s a big party tonight.”
“I think I’ll stew in my own juices for a while.”
“If you change your mind, it’s at The Cotton Gin. You should come – it’s dark in there. Nobody will recognize you.” She dropped the change in her purse and bounced out of the store.
The slap of another newspaper on my counter dragged my attention back from the door.
“Good thing I’m not on fire.” Jim Weaver laughed from the other side of my counter. “You got balls.” He set his cold drink counter. “Not that I could see ‘em.”
I had met Weaver once before he made my privates public. He was a round man with round eyes, an uneven mustache, and bristly gray hair half way around head. His right shoulder sagged a little lower than his left, and his left eye squeezed into a permanent half-wink from years peering through the lens of a television camera.
“Really, I looked at your video last night.”
“Looked at it? It was all over your story.”
“You expected me to just hand it over to KELC? You needed a tripod, but it was good for a rookie. You’ve got a good eye – too good to be ringing-up newspapers in a shop-n-rob. You might make it in this business.”
“Tell that to Cranch. He fired me for the ‘over exposure.’”
“Yeah, I feel pretty bad about that, but I couldn’t not shoot it.” Weaver dug his hands in his pocket and shifted from one foot to the other. “Hell, you even shot it yourself. Or tried to.”
I had almost forgotten that I had rolled tape too.
“The focus was soft, and it was a little dark, but I used it in the story for the morning show, just to piss off Cranch.” Weaver grinned slyly. “Like I said, you got balls, kid.”
I wanted to jump across the counter and beat the crap out of him, but it was hard not to like Weaver.
“How’d you like to rub his face in it?”
“What do you mean?”
“One of my guys walked off the job two weeks ago. The News Director wants me to hire some hot-shot college grad who thinks he’s Edward R. Murrow and Cecil B. DeMille all rolled into one. I want you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been doing this long enough to know that hiring a photog is like looking to score at The Cotton Gin – eager beats pretty, every time." He laughed at his own joke. “Anybody can point a lens and hit record. But you’ve got an eye, and what you did to get those shots – taking your own car, hiking in with all that gear, sneaking out of the command post – that tells me you’ve got the fire that makes a good photog.”
“How do you know about all of that?”
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you. You want the job or not?”
“When do I start?” I practically jumped over the counter, this time to hug him.
“Don’t be too eager. We ain’t talked money.”
“Look around. It would be illegal to pay me less than I get here.”
Weaver laughed again and shook my hand. “When do you get off?”
“I can be off now.”
He shook his head. “No, no. Come see me tomorrow.” Weaver headed for the door.
“Eager, I like that,” he called over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
BEND OVER 2
Part one
“We’ve got a man down here!” A fireman wearing a white captain’s shirt shouted above me. “You okay buddy?”
“Yeah,” I puffed from all fours. “Just carried . . . this shit . . . three . . . blocks.”
“What are you doing here? This is a hot zone – emergency personnel only.”
My oxygen-starved brain strained for a plausible explanation that wouldn’t get me thrown out. “Shooting evacuation . . . Wrong turn . . . too much gear, too tired . . .”
“You can stay here till you catch your breath. Stay out of the way, and don’t let anyone see you. Then go back to your vehicle.”
Bingo!
I kept my face down not to show the captain my ear-to-ear grin and waited until he had rejoined the swarm of other police and firemen before pulling myself to my feet. I scanned the street beyond the parking lot for the inner perimeter of police cars; that’s where I always saw reporters on the news.
The tanker rested on the far shoulder of the northbound lanes, in the middle of the only section of McArthur that bent east to west. Apparently, it had managed the first half of the double-S curve leading into the first of Alexandria’s two traffic circles and flipped on its side while preparing for the second.
Two Louisiana State Police SUV’s parked akimbo blocked the south bound lanes of McArthur Boulevard. If I could get between them, it was a clean shot to the tanker, and an unobstructed view of the command post, the empty streets, and the ambulances. I had my spot. But I’d never make it there with all that gear. I decided to ditch the battery belt and tripod. The photogs in the movies never used tripods anyway.
I casually walked past firemen and E.M.T.’s scurrying at the edges of all the chaos. No one seemed to notice the gear-toting robot with the hitch in his stride. I kept to the shadows until I reached the service road, then crossed the small ditch separating it from the south-bound lanes, and slipped between the two trooper vehicles.
With the flip of a switch, TK’s eye cup blinked to life. Wisps of chemical fog evaporated from the blacktop around the crippled tanker less than 100 yards away. Strobe lights reflected off its red, black and white hazard placard.
I crouched down, balanced Icky atop the tape deck, and rolled tape: first a wide shot of the empty street and the semi. I toggled the zoom servo all the way across the median and the north bound lanes, for a tight shot of the truck. A trickle of clear liquid ran past the truck’s leaky valve and splashed onto the blacktop. “This is good shit.” I caught myself talking to no one.
Next, I trained my lens on the command post. Half a dozen moon suits erected a decontamination area complete with kiddie wading pools and showers. Brown-suited police and blue uniformed troopers hovered around the mobile command camper, and E.M.T.’s dressed in green and white loaded lawsuit-seeking drivers into a procession of waiting ambulances. At the back of the crowd, an overly logoed van with a telescoping mast and dual golden rod antennae parted a sea of emergency personnel.
KALX.
“Dammit!” I cussed under my breath. The competition had arrived. Didn’t matter. I’d beat them. They’d never get a good shot from there.
Then my curiosity got the best of me. Why hadn’t trooper inside come out to shoo me away?
I stretched my neck to look inside. Nobody home. I crept to the truck blocking the other south-bound lane. No one there either.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Hey you! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass outta there!”
Dammit.
“Hey! Get outta there!” The incident commander who was so helpful earlier hollered from the parking lot like a drill sergeant. “You’re contaminated. Get the hell away from there!”
I grabbed my gear and gave a nonchalant wave. Before flunking out of college, I had been a chemistry major. I had played with sulfuric acid. My eyes didn’t burn. I could breathe normally. My skin was the same ecru color it was earlier that morning. I was quite fine, and I had the shot.
“What the hell were you thinking? Move your ass!” The incident commander screamed the whole while I made the trek back, across the north-bound lanes, through the ditch, across the service road, and into the command post.
“STRIP!” The incident commander yelled, purple with rage.
“What?” I huffed, setting my recorder on the ground.
“You heard me!” He leaned in nose-to-nose with me, just like Sergeant Carter in those Gomer Pyle re-runs we aired after midnight. “You are contaminated! Now strip!” He turned to call a hoseman, then back to me. “Shirt, NOW!”
It was obvious I wasn’t getting out of this without at least a little embarrassment, so I laid my recorder flat on the ground and placed TK on top of it. I slipped my wallet under the front of the camera to tilt it up just a little and punched her record button before backing away. Hell, this could be the best video of the night.
I peeled off my sweat shirt and tossed it to Sarge.
He threw his hands up and jumped back like I was throwing the plague at him. “On the ground. You’re contaminated.”
The hoseman moved in.
“Holy shit!” Mist-like ice rained down, each droplet so cold it burned my skin and crushed my lungs. I sucked hard for a breath. Rivers of ice water ran down my chest and into my pants. Big Jim and the twins sought refuge somewhere in my abdomen.
“Turn around!”
I slowly complied with Sarge’s orders. Cold water sapped my strength. Goosebumps packed themselves tightly on my arms and chest, like legions of storm troopers in a Spielberg film. I completed my pirouette in time to see the lens of the blonde still shooter from the newspaper, and the sun-gun camera light of Jim Weaver, KALX chief photographer. He shined me a gotcha smile, then blinded me with his light.
“Pants!” Sarge barked.
“No way.”
“I said PANTS Goddammit! You’re contaminated!” A little blue vein bulged at the tip of his nose. I swore I saw steam rising off his buzz cut.
Maybe it was the fire shooting from his eye sockets, maybe I was caught-up in the moment, or maybe I wanted to prove to the other media that Nicholas Brock was no pussy, but whatever the reason, I loosened my belt and dropped trou in the middle of the parking lot. The hoseman moved in and we tangoed once again, he in his asbestos coat, me in my skivvies.
The water didn’t burn as much this time, probably because I was already a snowman.
“Underwear!”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“Those briefs are contaminated. Now, STRIP!” He yelled it with gusto, like he enjoyed it.
Two E.M.T.’s rushed over with a gurney sheet, to shield me from the gaggle of motorists waiting for an ambulance. They stretched it taut – all two-and-a-half feet of it – between me and the cameras. At least it hid the essentials.
Until Weaver turned off his light.
Between the strobes and the work lights behind me, I was nicely back lit, and the tight white sheet made a perfect screen for an obscene shadow puppet.
After the hoseman did his thing again, the E.M.T.’s swaddled me in the sheet and crammed me into an ambulance with six other victims, none of whom were naked.
“Don’t worry about your gear.” Weaver shouted over the roar of the engines. “I’ll hold it for you.”
What a prince.
When I left the emergency room, I headed straight for the station.
Bend Over. Another day in broadcasting has begun. The blue and white sign over the sports guy’s desk that had welcomed me on my first day in the newsroom and the big tub of Vaseline beneath it mocked me. They were the first things I noticed when I set foot in KELC-TV one week earlier. I was instantly hooked on the aura of the shabby little station and its crew of small-town rejects. It was going to be the start of an exciting life – my ticket out of the corner shop-and-rob and into a career chasing history. Now, I fidgeted on bent folding chair inside Mr. Cranch’s tiny, glass-walled cubicle. A small ivy withered on the corner of his desk. Mr. Cranch sat staring holes through a faded Leroy Neiman Olympic print behind his desk. He rocked ever so slightly as was his habit, even when he was on camera.
I watched two flaps of Naugahyde separated by a diagonal rip across the back of his formerly expensive-looking executive chair.
“You’re fired.”
I waited for more. But that was all he said.
“I’m an intern. I work for free. You can’t fire a slave.”
“You violated protocol. Why didn’t you call someone?”
“I screamed on the radio for what felt like hours. Nobody answered. I buzzed Roosevelt’s pager. He never called back.”
“You took station equipment without permission. You lost your camera.” Mr. Cranch’s words clicked like a grandfather clock.
“Weaver’s got it. I just have to pick it up in the morning.”
“You crossed police lines. You exposed this station to criminal charges. And speaking of exposed . . .” he spun in his chair to face me. “You exposed yourself to the entire viewing area.”
“Yeah, about that –”
“You’re fired. Get out.”
Couldn’t he see that I was saving the day? Going the extra mile? Taking the bull by the horns and a hundred other business clichés? I wanted to explain, but it all felt empty. I sighed as I stood from the squeaky folding chair and marched through the silent newsroom.
At least I still had my job at the shop-and-rob.
“We’ve got a man down here!” A fireman wearing a white captain’s shirt shouted above me. “You okay buddy?”
“Yeah,” I puffed from all fours. “Just carried . . . this shit . . . three . . . blocks.”
“What are you doing here? This is a hot zone – emergency personnel only.”
My oxygen-starved brain strained for a plausible explanation that wouldn’t get me thrown out. “Shooting evacuation . . . Wrong turn . . . too much gear, too tired . . .”
“You can stay here till you catch your breath. Stay out of the way, and don’t let anyone see you. Then go back to your vehicle.”
Bingo!
I kept my face down not to show the captain my ear-to-ear grin and waited until he had rejoined the swarm of other police and firemen before pulling myself to my feet. I scanned the street beyond the parking lot for the inner perimeter of police cars; that’s where I always saw reporters on the news.
The tanker rested on the far shoulder of the northbound lanes, in the middle of the only section of McArthur that bent east to west. Apparently, it had managed the first half of the double-S curve leading into the first of Alexandria’s two traffic circles and flipped on its side while preparing for the second.
Two Louisiana State Police SUV’s parked akimbo blocked the south bound lanes of McArthur Boulevard. If I could get between them, it was a clean shot to the tanker, and an unobstructed view of the command post, the empty streets, and the ambulances. I had my spot. But I’d never make it there with all that gear. I decided to ditch the battery belt and tripod. The photogs in the movies never used tripods anyway.
I casually walked past firemen and E.M.T.’s scurrying at the edges of all the chaos. No one seemed to notice the gear-toting robot with the hitch in his stride. I kept to the shadows until I reached the service road, then crossed the small ditch separating it from the south-bound lanes, and slipped between the two trooper vehicles.
With the flip of a switch, TK’s eye cup blinked to life. Wisps of chemical fog evaporated from the blacktop around the crippled tanker less than 100 yards away. Strobe lights reflected off its red, black and white hazard placard.
I crouched down, balanced Icky atop the tape deck, and rolled tape: first a wide shot of the empty street and the semi. I toggled the zoom servo all the way across the median and the north bound lanes, for a tight shot of the truck. A trickle of clear liquid ran past the truck’s leaky valve and splashed onto the blacktop. “This is good shit.” I caught myself talking to no one.
Next, I trained my lens on the command post. Half a dozen moon suits erected a decontamination area complete with kiddie wading pools and showers. Brown-suited police and blue uniformed troopers hovered around the mobile command camper, and E.M.T.’s dressed in green and white loaded lawsuit-seeking drivers into a procession of waiting ambulances. At the back of the crowd, an overly logoed van with a telescoping mast and dual golden rod antennae parted a sea of emergency personnel.
KALX.
“Dammit!” I cussed under my breath. The competition had arrived. Didn’t matter. I’d beat them. They’d never get a good shot from there.
Then my curiosity got the best of me. Why hadn’t trooper inside come out to shoo me away?
I stretched my neck to look inside. Nobody home. I crept to the truck blocking the other south-bound lane. No one there either.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Hey you! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass outta there!”
Dammit.
“Hey! Get outta there!” The incident commander who was so helpful earlier hollered from the parking lot like a drill sergeant. “You’re contaminated. Get the hell away from there!”
I grabbed my gear and gave a nonchalant wave. Before flunking out of college, I had been a chemistry major. I had played with sulfuric acid. My eyes didn’t burn. I could breathe normally. My skin was the same ecru color it was earlier that morning. I was quite fine, and I had the shot.
“What the hell were you thinking? Move your ass!” The incident commander screamed the whole while I made the trek back, across the north-bound lanes, through the ditch, across the service road, and into the command post.
“STRIP!” The incident commander yelled, purple with rage.
“What?” I huffed, setting my recorder on the ground.
“You heard me!” He leaned in nose-to-nose with me, just like Sergeant Carter in those Gomer Pyle re-runs we aired after midnight. “You are contaminated! Now strip!” He turned to call a hoseman, then back to me. “Shirt, NOW!”
It was obvious I wasn’t getting out of this without at least a little embarrassment, so I laid my recorder flat on the ground and placed TK on top of it. I slipped my wallet under the front of the camera to tilt it up just a little and punched her record button before backing away. Hell, this could be the best video of the night.
I peeled off my sweat shirt and tossed it to Sarge.
He threw his hands up and jumped back like I was throwing the plague at him. “On the ground. You’re contaminated.”
The hoseman moved in.
“Holy shit!” Mist-like ice rained down, each droplet so cold it burned my skin and crushed my lungs. I sucked hard for a breath. Rivers of ice water ran down my chest and into my pants. Big Jim and the twins sought refuge somewhere in my abdomen.
“Turn around!”
I slowly complied with Sarge’s orders. Cold water sapped my strength. Goosebumps packed themselves tightly on my arms and chest, like legions of storm troopers in a Spielberg film. I completed my pirouette in time to see the lens of the blonde still shooter from the newspaper, and the sun-gun camera light of Jim Weaver, KALX chief photographer. He shined me a gotcha smile, then blinded me with his light.
“Pants!” Sarge barked.
“No way.”
“I said PANTS Goddammit! You’re contaminated!” A little blue vein bulged at the tip of his nose. I swore I saw steam rising off his buzz cut.
Maybe it was the fire shooting from his eye sockets, maybe I was caught-up in the moment, or maybe I wanted to prove to the other media that Nicholas Brock was no pussy, but whatever the reason, I loosened my belt and dropped trou in the middle of the parking lot. The hoseman moved in and we tangoed once again, he in his asbestos coat, me in my skivvies.
The water didn’t burn as much this time, probably because I was already a snowman.
“Underwear!”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“Those briefs are contaminated. Now, STRIP!” He yelled it with gusto, like he enjoyed it.
Two E.M.T.’s rushed over with a gurney sheet, to shield me from the gaggle of motorists waiting for an ambulance. They stretched it taut – all two-and-a-half feet of it – between me and the cameras. At least it hid the essentials.
Until Weaver turned off his light.
Between the strobes and the work lights behind me, I was nicely back lit, and the tight white sheet made a perfect screen for an obscene shadow puppet.
After the hoseman did his thing again, the E.M.T.’s swaddled me in the sheet and crammed me into an ambulance with six other victims, none of whom were naked.
“Don’t worry about your gear.” Weaver shouted over the roar of the engines. “I’ll hold it for you.”
What a prince.
---
When I left the emergency room, I headed straight for the station.
Bend Over. Another day in broadcasting has begun. The blue and white sign over the sports guy’s desk that had welcomed me on my first day in the newsroom and the big tub of Vaseline beneath it mocked me. They were the first things I noticed when I set foot in KELC-TV one week earlier. I was instantly hooked on the aura of the shabby little station and its crew of small-town rejects. It was going to be the start of an exciting life – my ticket out of the corner shop-and-rob and into a career chasing history. Now, I fidgeted on bent folding chair inside Mr. Cranch’s tiny, glass-walled cubicle. A small ivy withered on the corner of his desk. Mr. Cranch sat staring holes through a faded Leroy Neiman Olympic print behind his desk. He rocked ever so slightly as was his habit, even when he was on camera.
I watched two flaps of Naugahyde separated by a diagonal rip across the back of his formerly expensive-looking executive chair.
“You’re fired.”
I waited for more. But that was all he said.
“I’m an intern. I work for free. You can’t fire a slave.”
“You violated protocol. Why didn’t you call someone?”
“I screamed on the radio for what felt like hours. Nobody answered. I buzzed Roosevelt’s pager. He never called back.”
“You took station equipment without permission. You lost your camera.” Mr. Cranch’s words clicked like a grandfather clock.
“Weaver’s got it. I just have to pick it up in the morning.”
“You crossed police lines. You exposed this station to criminal charges. And speaking of exposed . . .” he spun in his chair to face me. “You exposed yourself to the entire viewing area.”
“Yeah, about that –”
“You’re fired. Get out.”
Couldn’t he see that I was saving the day? Going the extra mile? Taking the bull by the horns and a hundred other business clichés? I wanted to explain, but it all felt empty. I sighed as I stood from the squeaky folding chair and marched through the silent newsroom.
At least I still had my job at the shop-and-rob.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
BEND OVER
I talked myself down.
If there was one thing the big tub of goo that called himself my supervisor had taught me in my first week on the job, it was to stop and think. Rushing led to mistakes. A mistake was something I couldn’t afford tonight. This was going to be my big break – the break that would send me from mild-mannered intern to actual employee.
I patted my TK's barrel in the passenger’s seat and ran through my gear in my head. I should have done it back at the station before I left, but there was no time. The way dispatch was shouting on the scanner, this had to be the end of the world.
I could see it all in my head: the flashing lights, the hoses, bodies strewn across McArthur Boulevard, acid eating a twelve-foot hole in the city’s main drag, and the lone camera of the competition capturing it all and broadcasting live while my station played MASH reruns. I could get the story for KELC-TV and save the day.
I fingered TK's blue umbilical and hoped I’d remembered everything.
I’d spent the last week watching Roosevelt and the others, studying their actions, mimicking their stance, marveling at their war stories, practicing their hundred-yard stare. Tonight, I’d earn my own.
Red, white and blue emergency lights ricocheted off reflective logos of the police and fire department vehicles ahead. A rookie cop with a flashlight and a whistle stopped me two blocks from the scene. He puffed up his chest and waved his flashlight, “Road’s closed.”
“Nicholas Brock, KELC-TV.” Dammit, I wish I had a press ID. “Lemme through.” I turned on the dome light inside my Ford Bronco and raised Icky so he could see I was a television photog.
“Emergency personnel only.” His voice squeaked as he tried to sound tough.
“I’m the press. Lemme through.”
“The area is hot. Nobody gets in.”
It never happened like this on TV. The biggest story of my week-long career was blowing up around me. Barney Fife wasn’t going to stop me. I threw my Bronco into reverse. I had to find another way in.
Barney faded from my rearview mirror, and I made a hard left into the neighborhood that backed up to the Albertson’s Shopping center. The streets were empty except for a few police officers knocking on doors, and one bed-headed resident stumbling across his lawn. I slipped into an empty driveway and turned off my lights.
The night sky glowed orange up ahead. An eerie peace had settled on the neighborhood. None of confusion from the spill site or Barney’s barricade wafted this way. I popped the hatch and loaded up: First I cinched a battery belt around my waist. Next, I loaded the tape deck’s pouches with extra batteries, locked my camera's umbilical cord into its multi-pin connector on the bottom of the tape deck, and slung the deck over my right shoulder. I dropped my tripod on top of that, threw my TK-76 on my left shoulder, and turned toward the street.
I took one leaden step.
The tape deck bounced back and forth against my left leg. My shadow looked like a bulky sci-fi robot spasming in the streetlights. My steps were just as mechanical. How the hell did the other photogs carry all this crap?
I steadied myself and took a short cut through the yard to the next block. I was missing all the good stuff: the haz/mat team in their white moon suits, thin streams of poisonous fog drifting from the crippled tanker, E.M.T.’s herding motorists chocking on toxic vapors into ambulances. My knees snapped, crackled, and popped like breakfast cereal, but I ran as best as I could with an extra sixty pounds strapped to my torso, ducking a branch here and dodging a tricycle there.
My heart pounded in my ears. Adrenaline flooded my veins. My breath erupted in short thick clouds of fog in the chilly October air. No more fetching Mr. Cranch’s coffee for me. No more strolling a darkened newsroom at night imagining myself the overnight photog -- the maestro of mayhem, rushing to fires, robberies, and the occasional drive-by “shoutings” in sleepy little Alexandria, Louisiana. This was my foot in the door, and I was about to kick it in. Good-bye shop-and-rob clerk. Hello television.
I paused trying to catch my breath before rounding the corner of the grocery store.
Generators coughed and sputtered to life. Trees of emergency work lights flooded the parking lot and the street beyond. Emergency vehicles from every agency in the city spilled into the streets almost exactly as I’d imagined it.
I took one step and promptly collapsed.
If there was one thing the big tub of goo that called himself my supervisor had taught me in my first week on the job, it was to stop and think. Rushing led to mistakes. A mistake was something I couldn’t afford tonight. This was going to be my big break – the break that would send me from mild-mannered intern to actual employee.
I patted my TK's barrel in the passenger’s seat and ran through my gear in my head. I should have done it back at the station before I left, but there was no time. The way dispatch was shouting on the scanner, this had to be the end of the world.
I could see it all in my head: the flashing lights, the hoses, bodies strewn across McArthur Boulevard, acid eating a twelve-foot hole in the city’s main drag, and the lone camera of the competition capturing it all and broadcasting live while my station played MASH reruns. I could get the story for KELC-TV and save the day.
I fingered TK's blue umbilical and hoped I’d remembered everything.
I’d spent the last week watching Roosevelt and the others, studying their actions, mimicking their stance, marveling at their war stories, practicing their hundred-yard stare. Tonight, I’d earn my own.
Red, white and blue emergency lights ricocheted off reflective logos of the police and fire department vehicles ahead. A rookie cop with a flashlight and a whistle stopped me two blocks from the scene. He puffed up his chest and waved his flashlight, “Road’s closed.”
“Nicholas Brock, KELC-TV.” Dammit, I wish I had a press ID. “Lemme through.” I turned on the dome light inside my Ford Bronco and raised Icky so he could see I was a television photog.
“Emergency personnel only.” His voice squeaked as he tried to sound tough.
“I’m the press. Lemme through.”
“The area is hot. Nobody gets in.”
It never happened like this on TV. The biggest story of my week-long career was blowing up around me. Barney Fife wasn’t going to stop me. I threw my Bronco into reverse. I had to find another way in.
Barney faded from my rearview mirror, and I made a hard left into the neighborhood that backed up to the Albertson’s Shopping center. The streets were empty except for a few police officers knocking on doors, and one bed-headed resident stumbling across his lawn. I slipped into an empty driveway and turned off my lights.
The night sky glowed orange up ahead. An eerie peace had settled on the neighborhood. None of confusion from the spill site or Barney’s barricade wafted this way. I popped the hatch and loaded up: First I cinched a battery belt around my waist. Next, I loaded the tape deck’s pouches with extra batteries, locked my camera's umbilical cord into its multi-pin connector on the bottom of the tape deck, and slung the deck over my right shoulder. I dropped my tripod on top of that, threw my TK-76 on my left shoulder, and turned toward the street.
I took one leaden step.
The tape deck bounced back and forth against my left leg. My shadow looked like a bulky sci-fi robot spasming in the streetlights. My steps were just as mechanical. How the hell did the other photogs carry all this crap?
I steadied myself and took a short cut through the yard to the next block. I was missing all the good stuff: the haz/mat team in their white moon suits, thin streams of poisonous fog drifting from the crippled tanker, E.M.T.’s herding motorists chocking on toxic vapors into ambulances. My knees snapped, crackled, and popped like breakfast cereal, but I ran as best as I could with an extra sixty pounds strapped to my torso, ducking a branch here and dodging a tricycle there.
My heart pounded in my ears. Adrenaline flooded my veins. My breath erupted in short thick clouds of fog in the chilly October air. No more fetching Mr. Cranch’s coffee for me. No more strolling a darkened newsroom at night imagining myself the overnight photog -- the maestro of mayhem, rushing to fires, robberies, and the occasional drive-by “shoutings” in sleepy little Alexandria, Louisiana. This was my foot in the door, and I was about to kick it in. Good-bye shop-and-rob clerk. Hello television.
I paused trying to catch my breath before rounding the corner of the grocery store.
Generators coughed and sputtered to life. Trees of emergency work lights flooded the parking lot and the street beyond. Emergency vehicles from every agency in the city spilled into the streets almost exactly as I’d imagined it.
I took one step and promptly collapsed.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
BLAME AND FORGIVENESS -- the end
Gerald’s head jerked as the guard swung the injection table upright. Leather wrist and arm straps dug into his flesh. Chest restraints tightened around his bare chest keeping him from sliding to the floor in a heap. He had no strength to fight it.
The white floor and walls magnified the bright fluorescent lights till everything in the tiny room glowed. The air was cold and sterile. A rubber tube hung from a needle in the vein inside his left elbow, another from his right foot. In the corner, next to the EKG machine, Reverend Rob recited Psalm 23.
“Won’t be long now Rev.”
Reverned Rob stopped praying just long enough to answer. “There’s still time to reconcile yourself with God, Gerry.”
Warden Johnson leaned over to whisper in Gerald’s ear. “I’m going to open that curtain. You’ll be able to see the witnesses on the other side. This is your chance to get right.”
Warden Johnson drew back the curtain. Gerald searched the small room beyond the glass for familiar faces. The district attorney sat on the front row. Gerald recognized two attractive, blonde television reporters and the frumpy newspaper man who covered his trial and appeals. He squinted to see into the last row. She was still hot after all these years.
A black fishnet veil hid Jennifer’s big blue eyes. Gerald smiled at the cleavage she flashed from her low-cut black dress. Daddy's little whore.
Warden Johnson moved a microphone in front of Gerald’s face. Gerald cleared his throat. “I guess,” the words hung hollow in the small room. “I guess I should say how sorry I am for what I done to Chastity. She was a special little girl. I loved that girl like she was my own. I ain’t never meant to hurt her.” Gerald stopped to glance at the back row.
“The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want…” He heard Reverend Rob begin Psalm 23 again.
“I ain’t never meant to hurt her.” Gerald’s voice was almost a whisper. He breathed deep, so deep it tugged at his chest straps. All those years of torture and pain ripped at his heart. “But it wasn’t my fault! She wanted it! She begged for it!”
Father Rob clenched his fists. His face flushed bright red. He prayed louder. “Yeah, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.” His voice quivered, but he continued. “For Thou are with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.”
“That little whore. Best I ever had!” Gerald felt ice in his veins. He checked the clock above the window, twelve seconds past midnight. His thoughts sloshed in a flood of anesthetic. It had begun. His eyes were already feeling heavy.
“Rev!”
“Yes, Gerry.” Reverend Rob rushed to his side.
“Is it too late?”
“It’s never too late, Gerry.”
“I shouldn’t have done that to you and Jennifer.” His speech was slurred. “I hope ya’ll can fin’ peace in my death. After what I done to your daughter.”
“Are you asking for forgiveness? There is no peace without forgiveness. Please Gerry, ask the Lord for forgiveness.”
“Rev,” his voice was barely a whisper. “She liked it.”
****
More than a trench, there’s a chasm between blame and forgiveness. Gerald Blount skirted the rim of that pit for 25 years. He could never forgive himself for the way he tricked Jennifer into marrying him just to get close to Chastity. Or for convincing himself that Chastity wanted and deserved what he had done to her. He could only blame the person who took his son Gerry Junior’s future and caused his wife Lisa to commit suicide, the same person who forced Gerald to rape and kill a 13-year-old girl.
Gerald leapt into that chasm with a smile on his face, his unrepentant soul left to weigh heavy on the heart of the priest who molested 11-year-old Gerry Junior, Reverend James Robichaux of The Resurrection Episcopal Church.
The white floor and walls magnified the bright fluorescent lights till everything in the tiny room glowed. The air was cold and sterile. A rubber tube hung from a needle in the vein inside his left elbow, another from his right foot. In the corner, next to the EKG machine, Reverend Rob recited Psalm 23.
“Won’t be long now Rev.”
Reverned Rob stopped praying just long enough to answer. “There’s still time to reconcile yourself with God, Gerry.”
Warden Johnson leaned over to whisper in Gerald’s ear. “I’m going to open that curtain. You’ll be able to see the witnesses on the other side. This is your chance to get right.”
Warden Johnson drew back the curtain. Gerald searched the small room beyond the glass for familiar faces. The district attorney sat on the front row. Gerald recognized two attractive, blonde television reporters and the frumpy newspaper man who covered his trial and appeals. He squinted to see into the last row. She was still hot after all these years.
A black fishnet veil hid Jennifer’s big blue eyes. Gerald smiled at the cleavage she flashed from her low-cut black dress. Daddy's little whore.
Warden Johnson moved a microphone in front of Gerald’s face. Gerald cleared his throat. “I guess,” the words hung hollow in the small room. “I guess I should say how sorry I am for what I done to Chastity. She was a special little girl. I loved that girl like she was my own. I ain’t never meant to hurt her.” Gerald stopped to glance at the back row.
“The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want…” He heard Reverend Rob begin Psalm 23 again.
“I ain’t never meant to hurt her.” Gerald’s voice was almost a whisper. He breathed deep, so deep it tugged at his chest straps. All those years of torture and pain ripped at his heart. “But it wasn’t my fault! She wanted it! She begged for it!”
Father Rob clenched his fists. His face flushed bright red. He prayed louder. “Yeah, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.” His voice quivered, but he continued. “For Thou are with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.”
“That little whore. Best I ever had!” Gerald felt ice in his veins. He checked the clock above the window, twelve seconds past midnight. His thoughts sloshed in a flood of anesthetic. It had begun. His eyes were already feeling heavy.
“Rev!”
“Yes, Gerry.” Reverend Rob rushed to his side.
“Is it too late?”
“It’s never too late, Gerry.”
“I shouldn’t have done that to you and Jennifer.” His speech was slurred. “I hope ya’ll can fin’ peace in my death. After what I done to your daughter.”
“Are you asking for forgiveness? There is no peace without forgiveness. Please Gerry, ask the Lord for forgiveness.”
“Rev,” his voice was barely a whisper. “She liked it.”
****
More than a trench, there’s a chasm between blame and forgiveness. Gerald Blount skirted the rim of that pit for 25 years. He could never forgive himself for the way he tricked Jennifer into marrying him just to get close to Chastity. Or for convincing himself that Chastity wanted and deserved what he had done to her. He could only blame the person who took his son Gerry Junior’s future and caused his wife Lisa to commit suicide, the same person who forced Gerald to rape and kill a 13-year-old girl.
Gerald leapt into that chasm with a smile on his face, his unrepentant soul left to weigh heavy on the heart of the priest who molested 11-year-old Gerry Junior, Reverend James Robichaux of The Resurrection Episcopal Church.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
