Television news had replaced Hollywood as the golden road to fame and fortune. Parents swelled with pride when a new reporter was born. The opposite sex fluttered with excitement, the same sex stewed with jealousy. Hollywood agents now advised new clients to try television news. The work was steady and if they made it to the big time, to that anchor seat, the agent’s cut was nothing to sniff at. Rumor had it William Morris was taking on news reporters as clients. At The Best reporters were now making shadowy calls to talent agents on the East Coast who specialized in television news.
“Damn lucky,” Carter would tell them as a group or individually. “Damn lucky.”
It wasn’t the money that drew them. There wasn’t any, not really. If Carter had a hundred tapes on his desk and piled on his shelves, he could pay whatever he pleased and they took it with a nod of relief and appreciation. This was usually their second or third stop on the way to the real glory hole. Nobody, nobody good, planned to stay. Two years was about the limit. More than that and you were in trouble unless you were an unattractive street reporter, male, with two kids and a wife who stayed at home or held a low-paying, part-time job. If you were, you kept thinking this was the place to settle down because the choice had finally been taken away from you.
At the beginning it was the ego, the excitement of being there with the cops or the politicians. It was the thrill of being almost as important as the people who moved and shook the city, the people who made news. Eventually, with the help of consultants, came the realization that you too were important. You might even be more important than the stories you covered. After all, you were the one deciding who was going to be on and for how long and most of the time you were on camera more than anyone else in the story.
You did stand-ups. You stood in front of the camera and talked. You added some information or repeated, in slightly different words, what the person you interviewed said only seconds before.
You closed the story with “Some things will never change,” or “Things will never be the same here again,” or “How this will all end remains to be seen.” You said your name and the station’s call letters or the consultant-designed sign-off and the last face they saw before the anchor’s was yours.
“Reporter involvement,” news director Jim Brown insisted. “That’s what they want, reporter involvement.”
That meant shots of the reporter walking in the field, down the road, talking to people, driving a car, riding a horse, holding a dying man’s hand. It meant, and no one made any bones about it, the reporter was as much a part of the story as the person or event he was sent to cover. That’s what they wanted, the management boys and their consultants Back East. That’s what they told Jim Brown and that’s what he told his newsroom.
To the reporters, it meant more work, yes. It also meant more airtime. Out of a minute-thirty story they would take at least thirty seconds of it either talking to the camera or doing those walking, driving, handholding shots.
It all depended on looks, looks the audience liked. For the most part, that meant reporters who were solid American, non-threatening, happy and attractive. It meant someone like Frank Kowalski had a problem.
*
More than anything, Frank Kowalski wanted to be an anchor. He wanted that one moment when all the cameras moved, froze, a hand sliced the air in front on him, and he could say, “Good evening. I’m Frank Kowalski and this is the news.”
He never got close. He did get to give a few, “Thanks, Tom,” or “Yes, Jean Ann.” That was it.
“Workhorse reporter,” Ellen Peters described him to Debbie Hanson. “You know, day in and day out, covering the stories. Every newsroom has to have one. A good, average reporter. Consistent.”
He was balding with small dark eyes. He was of average height and had a strong, square jaw but the face was also small and the forehead’s only height came from the loss of hair. And, his shoulders were too narrow.
He did win awards, at least one spot-news award a year. He figured it as the law of averages. He did two or three stories a day, five days a week. He had to win at least one award a year.
He made twenty-two thousand dollars. Across the Street he might get twenty-five or twenty-six but nobody was making him any offers. He wasn’t about to call. He wanted anchoring. At The Best, he had a chance. Across the Street he had jack shit even if they were interested, and they weren’t. Like Carter said, reporters were a dime a dozen.
He adjusted his tie. It was wide, bright blue with big pink flamingos. He liked to make the guys laugh and to give Carter a reason to swear and shout that they all needed to “dress like professionals.” He kept a dark tie in his desk for the times, the few times, he went on-set with that prick Carter and Jean Ann.
Jean Ann was okay. A bit of a bimbo, that was true, but most bimbos were blond. Look at Paige Allen. Now, there was a bimbo with great tits. He gave his crotch a pat, then a scratch. He wondered about her bush. It couldn’t be blond. Paige was a bleached blond. Nevertheless, he wondered about blond pussy.
God, he wanted to be an anchor. He worked his way through college in Scranton, PA, busing tables, working fast-food kitchens, delivering pizza. He copped a few hours every weekend doing college radio and damn near sucked dick to rip the wires and write copy at the local TV station for minimum wage. They agreed and damn lucky, damn lucky, they told him.
Damn
