Stay Tuned

Chapter 11

Most Fridays, producers all over America scrambled for news. We brainstormed and dreamed up spin-offs on health care reform, global warming, and the latest identity theft schemes. Some producers I knew actually prayed for natural disasters (without loss of life). Personally, I preferred to let Mother Nature handle things. It was better that way.
    
The National Weather Service, however, couldn’t have predicted Friday’s crisis.
    
The now-infamous “event,” captured live on WSGA’s ten o’clock show, was hands-down, the biggest of the year. Ask anyone. They’d agree.
    
That night, for one hundred and fifty thousand loyal and unsuspecting WSGA viewers, the fist-to-face connection commanded shock and awe.
    
For me, the directors, cameramen, and everyone who slogged it out behind the scenes, the TKO was long overdue. Payoff, you might say, for the chaos that erupted most evenings, minutes before airtime.
    
Elbows on the counter, I chewed the corner of my newly manicured thumbnail, and chided myself. Everything was fine. Like every show before this one, I had gone through the scripts line by line, put the stories in order, timed out segments to the last second.
    
Sometimes, putting together a newscast was like solving a complicated puzzle. Tonight, though, everything had fallen into place. A big meth bust, a dramatic water rescue, and school budget woes rounded out the A-block.
 
    
Joe cued Alyssa and Tim.
    
Both anchors read their parts, taking turns, with just the right amount of concern. Alyssa pouted and preened her way through each story. Tim was the perfect balance, serious and broad-shouldered, with a jaw chiseled like a sculptor’s creation.
So far, so good.
    
The first commercials ran without a hitch, I noted with satisfaction. Then, the third spot ran twice in a row, putting us thirty seconds over our budgeted news time.
    
The Carpet King owners, who paid for the advertisement, would be thrilled, of course. Free publicity. The new kid, however, would probably catch hell for the goof-up.
    
I scanned the rundown for something to cut. “We’ll trim weather.”
  
    
Joe nodded his agreement, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Ten seconds.” he cued the anchors. It was time to go back on-air.
    
The mistake hadn’t been missed in the studio. Even though their mics were off, it was easy to see Alyssa and Tim were miffed at something. Likely, it was the commercial snafu.
    
Alyssa narrowed her eyes and jerked a finger at the television next to the anchor desk. Tim shook his head. Alyssa, her mouth moving, pointed again, this time with more emphasis.
    
“Five seconds, people. Let’s get through this.” At the sound of Joe’s sharp reminder, Alyssa and Tim resumed their happy demeanors.
    
Joe glanced in my direction, pointed to his headphones, raised an eyebrow, then rolled the health and fitness segments. I half-watched the video, now curious what Joe had heard.
    
“What?” I raised an eyebrow.
    
“Some lover’s spat over that commercial.” Joe pulled his headphones back, then stroked his wiry beard. “It seems the Carpet King girl has been seeing Tim in her spare time.”
    
I wasn’t surprised in the least.
    
“Can’t resist the ladies, that Tim. Drives Alyssa crazy,” Joe added with a shake of his head. “I heard she chased him with a baseball bat, but got his car instead.”
    
Not what I wanted to hear.
    
“Tim hasn’t fixed the windshield yet.” Joe chuckled. “Probably shouldn’t bother with the mood she’s in tonight.”
    
I winced. Alyssa and Tim needed to get through another ten minutes.
    
Sure enough, after a few humorous sports bloopers, the pair resumed their playful banter.
    
I exhaled my worries. We made it! Alyssa and Tim had pulled it together. Brilliant job.
Until the Carpet King commercial ran a third time.
    
Before I could blink, Alyssa’s face faded to ash gray and then flushed scarlet. She stared at the monitor, eyes narrowed into slits, while Tim tugged at his collar with one finger, intently focused on a speck of dust on the anchor desk. Alyssa pursed her collagen-injected lips and jutted her chin.
    
I’d seen that look before. It wasn’t a good sign. Like the space shuttle countdown gone terribly wrong. T-minus ten, nine, eight…
    
“She’s gonna blow!” Joe whispered and leaned into his mic, throwing me an apprehensive glance. He pushed one of a million black buttons. “Twenty seconds,” he warned. Only Tim responded with a nervous nod.
The tiny hairs on my arm stood at attention. I swallowed hard and prayed for something, anything. My mind raced with possible options. Divine intervention? A lightning strike? A power surge? Anything to knock out the signal in our entire viewing area.
   
 
Then it happened.
We were back on air. Mics open, video cued, we waited. Alyssa, now purple-faced, slammed both hands down on the desk. Tim, poised to read from the teleprompter, jumped at the sound. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
As if in slow motion, Alyssa stood up and raised one perfectly creased arm of her ivory linen suit. She molded her shell-pink manicured fingers into a fist. Tim turned and reared back in horror at the look of pure menace on Alyssa’s face.
    
She cold-cocked him. Blood spurted from Tim’s nose. He fell back like Humpty Dumpty.
    
We went to commercial.