He knew why. Like children, they were growing up and proud of it but also worried they might be punished. They weren’t. Not by him. He only wanted the best for them.
If someone in his newsroom seemed unhappy or frustrated, he’d tell them, “Hey, if you want, I’ll make some calls for you.” He wanted them all to be happy even if it meant helping them find another job.
Only the most frustrated and the angriest of them asked him to make those calls. That only happened a half a dozen times in as many years.
“I want you to be happy,” he would tell them before they left the station. “Be happy. That’s all that counts. Right, guy?” If only they could all be happy.
He believed most of them were, these kids, these great hardworking kids. He laughed when he thought about them.
Sometimes you did have to pull them up, tell them the way it was. Sometimes, like with Clifford, you had to do what was best for all of them. Clifford was a slow editor, not too much imagination. And, there was something about Clifford that made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure why but he did have the feeling Clifford didn’t like him.
Clifford was his second black photographer. The first went on to another job. They did have a black woman reporter, Cynthia Reid. She had been there two years, their only on-air black.
He liked her and he liked Clifford. He really did. He liked and cared deeply for all his people. They would fight and swear and stomp around outside his office. Some would come in, all of them at least once, and yell about things they thought were wrong. But, have an emergency, a flood, a prison break, and they would come together like a machine and he would run it all. They were his army, an army that might be sloppy or slow in peace but boy, could they come together to fight the war. That’s how he saw it, a band of soldiers.
He even liked Ellen Peters. The thought brought a small smile to his face. Sure, she was mouthy and loud but she was one heck of a reporter and she was going to stay. He knew that. You had to have one pushy woman, he supposed.
He nodded thoughtfully. There was some outstanding photography in Debbie’s story. He’d have to tell Clifford that and he would. Sometime in the next couple of days he would say to him, “Nice work on the Indian story, fella.” If he saw him, that is, if he actually passed him in the hall.
15
He checked the clock again, resisting the urge to stand and pace his office. He was looking forward to this call.
The phone rang exactly on the hour.
“Hi,” came her soft voice.
“How are you, Debbie?”
“Great. I’m great.”
“That’s good to hear. And, thanks for the letters. It’s sounds like you are making a good life for yourself out there.”
“Yes, yes, things are good,” she said, her voice stronger.
“So, why did you decide you needed a session?”
“You know, like you said, for a tune-up, a check-up.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, no, everything is fine,” she said brightly. “There are a lot of nice people at the station and I have a nice apartment. I had this little garden too, but it was too hot to grow anything. I didn’t think it was going to be so hot.”
“Hotter than Bakersfield?”
“Hotter than anywhere.”
He chuckled.
“It’s a city,” she said and he could almost see the small lifting of her shoulders.
“Is there something on your mind, something we should talk about?”
Seconds passed.
“Sometimes I don’t think I’m very happy,” she said finally. “It sounds stupid, I guess. And, it isn’t all the time, only sometimes.”
“That sounds normal, doesn’t it? No one is happy all the time.”
“I know. You’re right, but sometimes I don’t know how much I like television, the job, the whole idea of it.” There was a slight tremble in her voice.
“I mean, it’s good most of the time and I like the people I work with but, well, I don’t think it’s all that great. It sounds so silly.”
“You wrote me about that story you did on the radioactive spill,” he said. “You enjoyed doing that.”
“Yes, but …”
“But?”
“You see that’s not what you do all the time. That was special and even that didn’t turn out right. Not really. And, that is not what you do all the time.”
“But, it is part of it, right?”
“Yes, I guess.” There was a slight hesitation before she began again.
‘You see, most of the time you are doing these nothing stories everyday and people come up and say, ‘Oh, your job must be so interesting,’ but it isn’t, not all the time.”
“Almost all jobs have a day-to-day routine, Debbie.”
“Yes, I know, but a lot of the things we do aren’t much fun. They’re boring or awful and the people, the ones we report on, they can be awful too.” She gave a startled laugh.
“What that’s about? You laughed.”
“I didn’t know,” she almost sang. “I didn’t know that I felt that way, that it can be awful.”
“What? Tell me what is so awful.”
“Well, there are a lot of stories about accidents and women getting raped or about abortion clinics.” The words tumbled after each other. “Or about kids nobody wants. Or we go to these meetings like city council meetings and we sit there for hours and nobody says anything and we have to make a story out of it.”
“Every job has its boring parts, Debbie. But, it seems to me that television can also be exciting. You get to use your mind, your talents. You can be with people, meet new people.
