2
A
t the staff meeting, I stared across the table at the usual sea of bleary eyes. Some people, you see, are better at adhering to our established work schedules than others. While I scheduled dinner dates in order to catch the early-bird specials, some of my coworkers still acted like they were on spring break in Barcelona. Take Sam, for instance. Sam was probably up late last night watching the game. Didn’t matter what game. If it could by any stretch of the imagination be called a sport—from football to synchronized swimming to canine agility—Sam was all over it. Ironically, he couldn’t so much as dribble a basketball himself, which was an ongoing disappointment to anyone who was ever looking for a pickup game or an office league, as Sam was six-foot-five. On the plus side, he could always be counted on to fill out our schedule with sports stories. I wondered how long Sam would last at Channel 9. He was too good for this show.
And I liked to think he wasn’t alone there.
“Becky?” said my boss, Oscar. “Why don’t you start us out with what you’ve got.”
I slid out my latest file. “There’s a state spelling bee champion—”
“Spelling bee?” one of the other producers asked dubiously.
Oh, just you wait. “A
deaf
spelling bee champ,” I clarified. “She’s deaf, see? And so she can’t hear the word, so they sign it to her in ASL, and then she
finger-spells
it for them. It’s a great story.”
Oscar looked unmoved. “But if she’s signing, and it’s a spelling bee, how can the audience tell if she’s right?”
Bingo. I smiled. “She has a brother. He translates.”
Oscar nodded once.
And I hadn’t gotten to the really good part yet. “He has a lisp.”
Oscar’s eyes lit up.
“You’ll cry,” I promised. Everyone would. I saw Daytime Emmys flash before Oscar’s face.
“Sounds terrific,” said Oscar. “Go for it. Now, who’s working on this Board of Education thing?”
I piped up again. “They’re having a meeting on the eighth. I’m going down there. Looks like there could be some firings in Newark.”
“Great.” Oscar turned to Sam. “And how’s it going for the horse race remote on Tuesday?”
“We’re all set,” I said at the same time as Sam.
Oscar raised his eyebrows.
Sam shrugged. “I, uh, asked Becky to help out since she’s done so many of these.”
“We’re renting a mini-rig,” I said. “It’s cheaper and we can get close to the action. I was even thinking we could get someone in the winner’s circle and—”
“That’s a great idea!” said Sam. He loved winner’s circles. “But how would we—”
“We’ll just get the crew to duck under the ropes, and then try to nab an interview with the winning jockey.”
“Or the horse,” said Anna under her breath.
I kicked her beneath the table.
After the meeting, I dropped by the studio control room to check on the broadcast. Channel 9 was not what you’d call the cutting edge of commercial broadcasting. The set decor was a little too
Mad Men
for my taste. However, since we hadn’t updated in half a century, I supposed we could enjoy the perks of being retro-chic.
Behind our anchor, Ralph, I could see a strip of paint peeling right off the backdrop.
Was there such a thing as
shabby
retro-chic?
Ralph was another relic. He’d been doing the broadcast here for at least five sets of toupees, if the hair and makeup records were to be believed. He was also solid as a rock, and said things like:
“Good morning, New Jersey, it’s four thirty-eight
A.M
.”
As if it was the first 4:38
A.M
. he’d ever announced on air, instead of the four thousandth.
“Taking a quick look at traffic,” Ralph was saying, “the Holland Tunnel is still backed up due to an overturned big rig in the right-hand lane. Officials say it should be cleared up within the hour.…”
His coanchor, Louanne, was another story. Things hadn’t been the same at the show since she gave birth to those twins eight months ago. I yearned for the time baby Oliver and baby Madelyn would start sleeping through the night. More sleep for them meant less sleep—
on-set
sleep—for Louanne. Speaking of which …
“Oh, Jesus, not again.” She was catnapping on-screen. Or wait—what had her doctor called it after her last performance review? Microsleeping, right. Whatever.
I whispered to the director, “Go to a single on Ralph.” I pressed the button for the stage manager’s earpiece. “Fred,” I said. “Look lively.”
Louanne’s head started to tilt sideways.
“… But until then,” Ralph was saying, “expect delays from Ridgefield Park to Route 78. And that’s a look at the traffic and weather. Coming up next, we’ll be talking to an expert who says the vitamins in our medicine cabinets may be filled with toxins. Join us for an inside look at the hidden dangers in your own home.”
A pad of Post-it notes zinged across the desk, thwapping Louanne squarely in the side of the head. She jerked awake.
Fred stood at the edge of the set, a pencil in one hand and an apple in the other, ready to fire off those missiles next if the Post-it warning shot didn’t do the job.
Suitably chastened, Louanne smiled at the camera. “All that and a look at sports at the top of the hour.”
I shook my head and pressed the earpiece button again. “Nice shot, Fred. You’re a stud.”
A stud who’d probably done the sixties paint job himself. The grizzled Fred gave me a grin and juggled the apple and pencil. “No problemo.”
Anna waved me over from the weather station, and I met her just as the very white Harold the Hip-Hop Meteorologist went into his spiel.
“The rain will fall, when you go to the mall, bring an umbrella, and a jacket for your fella.…”
Anna winced. “Really, with this guy?”
I lifted my shoulders. “People love him.”
“Later it will clear, warmer it will feel …,” Harold rapped. Lord knew why, but people
did
love him.
“I’m people,” Anna grumbled. “I don’t. And ‘clear’ does not rhyme with ‘feel.’ ”
“It’s assonance.” I cocked my head at Harold as he warned our viewers about canceling their duck hunt due to the approaching cold front.
“And ‘Warmer it will feel’?” Anna said. “He’s been getting a little Yoda lately.”
I sighed. “People love Yoda, too.”
“So,” said Anna, “did you hear they got the budget approved to move someone up?”
I completely lost track of the weatherman’s rhyme scheme. “What? How do you know that?”
“I talked to Raymond in HR.” Raymond in HR would do anything for Anna. Raymond in HR didn’t seem to realize that Anna would only date him after an international pandemic rid the world of 98 percent of the male population. Raymond in HR was actually pretty cute, but he’d probably only date
me
if an international pandemic rid the world of 98 percent of the
female
population. This was due to a long-standing argument we had over my refusal to hire anyone he sent me who called it “Alannic City.”
“He said the company is reorganizing all the stations and they’ve budgeted
us
for a senior producer.”
Harold the Hip-Hop Meteorologist could have finally found a rhyme for South Orange and I wouldn’t have noticed in that moment. “Wait a second,” I said. “Are you sure?”
Anna grinned. “He said they pulled your employment records. You’re getting it, Becky. You’re finally getting The Job.”
The Job
. The one I’d wanted ever since leaving Fairleigh Dickinson for Channel 9. My own show. My own studio. Senior Producer of
Good Morning, New Jersey
. My very own kingdom. Or queendom. Or something. Oh my God.
I floated back to the cameras near the head desk. My head desk. My cameras. Maybe I could get the set repainted. I wondered how much of a raise I was looking at. Not much, given our microscopic budget, but still.
Louanne’s caffeine pill seemed to have kicked in. “Police say the dog was stolen from the pet store while workers were cleaning the cages.”
Of course, with stories like that to report, it was little wonder she was falling asleep.
“The puppy, a Chinese Crested, is worth over six hundred dollars and answers to the name ‘Manchu.’ ”
There was another change I could make once I was the executive producer. Better stories, with more substance.
Oscar came over as I watched the broadcast with an eye toward improvements. “Hey, Becky. Can you come by my office right after the show?”
I tried my best to radiate surprise. “What? Me? Yes, of course.”
I turned to the monitors, trying to catch my reflection. Was my hair mussed? Was there lipstick on my teeth? I wanted to look as nice as possible for the The Moment When I Got The Job. If only my dad had lived to see this day. When I was little, we used to sit and watch the evening news together every night. My father and me and on the TV, Mike Pomeroy, the old IBS evening news anchor. As far as Dad and I were concerned, he was the best news anchor of all time. Too bad he wasn’t on the air anymore.
In the hallway on my way to the office, I was stopped and accosted by Anna and some of the other producers.
“Wait a minute, Becky,” Anna said, shoving a gift bag at me. “We thought you might need this.”
I poked at the tissue paper coming out of the top. “This had better not be a box of condoms again. I still have the old one.” I opened the bag and pulled out a T-shirt. Huge block letters across the front read
I ACCEPT
!
“Awww, guys. This is so sweet.”
“Put it on,” Anna coaxed.
“No,” I said, and balled the T-shirt up again. “I can’t. That would be too weird.”
“Come on,” said Anna. “We’re proud of you. And we just hope that when you’re a big superstar someday at the
Today
show, you’ll still answer our emails.”
I laughed. The
Today
show? Not likely. But I’d take
Good Morning, New Jersey
and be happy with it.
“Come on,” Anna repeated. “Oscar will love it.”
I laughed and headed to the bathroom. From behind me, I heard one of the other producers whisper to Anna, “She
is
going to get it, right?”
“Oh, Jesus, I hope so” was Anna’s reply.
I decided to send up a prayer of my own.
Oscar had the nicest office at Channel 9. Actually, Oscar had the only office at Channel 9, while the rest of us managed with cubicles. I wondered if, now that they’d budgeted for a senior producer, they’d also budget for a senior producer’s office. There was that empty supply closet on the second floor. No windows, but I could see repurposing it. I started to bounce, then stopped myself. Cool. Calm. And professional.
I tugged my blazer closed over the T-shirt Anna had made me wear and stepped inside.
Oscar was seated at his desk, and he looked up as I entered. “Becky …”
“That’s me,” I squeaked, then got ahold of myself. “I mean, you know that. Never mind, I—” I plopped down on the chair across from him and took several deep breaths.
Try to look like a senior producer, you moron
.
Oscar didn’t seem to notice my flub. “You’re a terrific producer, you know that, right?”
“Well, I try,” I said awkwardly. Of course
I
knew it. The question was, did
he
? And was he willing to recognize it?
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You really, really do. And you’ve been here a long time. You started as an intern when you were what?”
“Seventeen,” I pointed out. Company loyalty. Dependability. Experience. Dedication. Vote for Becky Fuller for Senior Producer!
“Seventeen.” Oscar shook his head in disbelief. Exactly. You didn’t see that kind of long-standing relationship these days. I was Channel 9—born and bred. “And you’ve always been outstanding.”
I nodded my head demurely. “Thank you.”
He was silent for a moment, no doubt wishing to draw out the anticipation of The Moment When I Got The Job. I gave him my most encouraging smile, the one I used on reluctant interview subjects. He stood up and walked over to the window.
I straightened in my seat and undid the buttons on my blazer. Oscar would get a kick out of this. We’d laugh about it at his retirement party in ten years. It would pass into Channel 9 lore. The Senior Producer Who Accepted Her New Job Via T-shirt.
I ACCEPT!
“And you see, Becky,” Oscar was saying, still facing the window.
Here it comes. Here it comes. I opened my arms. Ta-da!
I ACCEPT!
“We have to let you go.”
I ACC
—I gasped. What?
No
. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. I hugged my blazer closed around myself.
“I’m really sorry, Becky—” Oscar turned around and saw me struggling to close my blazer around the T-shirt. “What are you—”
“I …” I choked. “I don’t understand.”
Oscar began speaking very quickly. “Corporate wants us to reduce our overhead. We’re making big cuts.”
Big … oh, God.
“And they want me to hire a senior producer with more business experience to manage the contraction of the show. Even though it means we can’t afford everyone.”
The contraction of the show? Of
my
show? I wasn’t being promoted? I was being …
contracted
?
Why didn’t that mean what it sounded like?
I tried to breathe, but it came out more like a gulp. “But you told them you can’t do that, right? You told them you can’t do that because … because I’ve been here so long, and I’ve worked so hard, and I know
Good Morning, New Jersey
like it’s my own child.…” I mean, if it weren’t for
Good Morning, New Jersey
, maybe I’d
have
my own child.
“His name is Chip,” Oscar said.
Chip?
Chip?
They were giving my dream job away to some scrub named Chip?
“And he starts Monday.”
I slumped, helpless against the onslaught.
“He has an MBA and a journalism degree from Columbia.”
Wow. That was pretty good. I mean, nothing compared with three years at Fairleigh Dickinson and a frickin’
lifetime spent pouring out blood sweat and tears at this very studio
, but, hey. Pretty good. Had this supposedly fabulous Chip person ever been to New Jersey in his life? Had he interviewed Bon Jovi at the opening of the Prudential Center? Did someone with a name like Chip even know who Bon Jovi was?