Morning Glory Page 2

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?

  “They’re grooming him to run the whole station in a few years. I wish I could afford to keep you, Becky—but with your seniority …”

  My insides felt hollowed out. I looked at Oscar in shock. He looked back at me, pitiful little undereducated me, with my stupid T-shirt and my stupid hopes and my stupid decade of living for this damn place. I couldn’t stand being seen that way. I plunged my face into my hands.

  “Shit,” I mumbled against my palms. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

  “Oh, Becky,” Oscar said. “I’m so sorry. I fought them as hard as I could.” He came back around his desk and put his hand on my arm. He probably meant it to be comforting, but it plopped there like a cold, dead fish.

  “The only thing that makes this okay for me,” he said, “is that I know you’ll land on your feet.”

  Well, glad it’s okay for you, I almost snapped, but for me it’s a real bitch. But that would hardly have been professional. Hardly have been worthy of someone who was supposed to “land on her feet.”

  Ha! In this economy. With an education that apparently wasn’t even good enough to guarantee security at a job I’ve had since before I was legal.

  “Me?” I managed to reply. “Of course. Yeah, definitely.” Let me just go polish up my resume. I mean, make a resume. I mean, learn how to make a resume.

  Shit.

  3

  I stumbled into the hall, half blind with the tears I’d utterly failed to hold back. Fired. I’d been fired. Or laid off? Or … I didn’t have a job. Either way.

  It was dawn in New Jersey, and I didn’t have a job.

  Anna was waiting at my cubicle clad in a T-shirt that said WAY TO GO, BECKY! Well, at least she had that part right. I had a long, long way to go.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, the smile fading from her face as she got a good look at mine.

  I filled her in on the details and watched her expression go from shock to outrage to bafflement. “What are you going to do?” she asked. The unspoken part of her question hung in the air: What are you going to do if not even this place will have you?

  “I’m going to get a box,” I replied. “And I’m going to empty out my desk. And you’re going to help me.”

  She nodded, somber. “Right.”

  “But first”—I grimaced—“we’re going to change our shirts.”

  After more than ten years at the station, I had a lot of stuff to load in the car, and I made everyone I found wearing one of those stupid WAY TO GO, BECKY! T-shirts help me pack up. Oscar was giving me six weeks’ pay but had offered, oh-so-generously, to let me not do the six weeks of associated work, to give me time to find a new position.

  A new position, away from Channel 9. The thought was inconceivable. Where would I be without this place? Who would I be? I’d been employed at Channel 9 since before Mom had sold her house and moved to the Sunshine State. I’d been at Good Morning, New Jersey since the year I’d lost my virginity. I’d been a production intern here when other folks my age were folding sweaters at the Gap. They probably wouldn’t even hire me at the Gap because the only, only thing I’d ever known how to do was produce the morning news.

  What in the world was I going to do now?

  I tamped down my panic as Anna approached, then slapped on my bravest smile. She gave me a mock salute. “All packed up, chief.”

  “Great,” I said. I took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

  “You’re going to make it,” she said. “I know you will.”

  I shrugged, like I hadn’t even noticed that my entire professional life was a shambles. “You know what?” I said. �
�This is actually good news.”

  “Sure,” Anna said, not entirely convinced.

  “There are a lot of terrific opportunities out there.”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed, though we both knew that was a load of bull.

  I floundered. “Look at Chip. He got one.”

  “Uh … yeah,” said Anna.

  We stood in awkward silence for a moment.

  “In fact,” I said, trying my best to rally, “this is just what I needed. A little push from the nest. I’ve been here way too long.”

  “Right.” Anna pumped her fist in the air, playing the supportive friend role as hard as she could.

  I grabbed the very last box. “I need to take myself to the next level.”

  “Totally.”

  “Maybe to a network.”

  “Definitely.”

  “After all,” I said, “it’s only work. It’s not my whole life, right?”

  Anna opened her mouth to agree with me again, but this time, nothing came out.

  The next morning, at 1:29 A.M., my eyes opened to darkness. I sat up pole-straight in bed and blinked until I could make out the details in my room. The shine of the TV screen on my dresser, the one on my bookshelf, the third on my storage chest. All dark and silent. I looked at the glowing numbers of my clock as it clicked over to 1:30. Nothing happened. No alarm. No music. No news to start the day. I had no reason to be awake. I had nothing to do.

  I reached over and flipped on the light, then folded my hands in my lap. Nothing whatsoever to do.

  My laptop lay on my bedside table. I’d been working on my resume the previous night before I went to bed. There really wasn’t much in the way of content. One company, several titles, a smattering of local broadcasting awards. Oscar would give me an excellent reference, I knew. The trick would be translating that into opportunity.

  I clicked through to my news bookmarks out of sheer habit, wondering if I should call Anna to make sure they were covering the minor earthquake rumbling through Nevada. But I was sure they would be. Plus, she’d probably berate me for not taking this opportunity to sleep in.

  If there was a heaven, my dad was probably there shaking his head at me right now. I know Mom was, down in Florida. She hadn’t said much when I’d left Fairleigh to take the assistant producer job all those years ago. After all, she’d never been to college, money was tight after my dad’s death, and a bird in the hand was worth the two that might be in the bush when I and the other 150 FDU communication majors graduated with BAs. The way we both saw it, I was getting a jump on the competition. At least, that’s what we’d thought back then. Apparently, a bigger jump could have been had if I’d had a trust fund and ten years to net myself an Ivy League MBA and a journalism degree. What was real-world experience compared with a string of letters after your name?