Ed Gorman: Serpent's kiss

Finally, when he'd got all the mileage out of the drawer he could, he said, "You really look nice in that blue suit, Chris."

"How would you know? You haven't looked at me yet."

"When you came in I looked."

"Oh, I see."

He said, "Why don't you go grab us a couple cups of coffee and then sort of hang around my office awhile. I want to talk to you a little bit." He smiled. "You really do look nice in that suit. You really do, Chris."

By this time, she was trembling. Literally. And feeling a little queasy.

My God. What was going on?

Then he virtually jumped up from his desk-still not looking at her-flung an arm in the direction of the hall, and said, "Pit stop. Be right back."

"Can't you just tell-" she started to say.

But he'd already dived for the door very much in the manner of Ron Pendrake himself.

She spent the next fifteen minutes sitting like a dutiful woman in the pea green armchair he kept for visitors. In the meantime reporters, men and women alike, came and went. Those assigned to regular beat-City Hall, the police precincts, the school board-came and went without saying much. They covered the same people every day, knew pretty much what to expect, and only occasionally requested more airtime for a story they felt would be of wide public interest (airtime, the number of seconds a story is actually on the tube, is the most precious commodity a TV reporter possesses). Other reporters really needed to talk to O'Sullivan. These were the folks who needed permission to follow certain rumours down-hints of corruption or some new information about an unsolved murder or the spectre of hard drugs at a posh health spa. These required O'Sullivan's specific approval to pursue and, if pursued, had to be done so on the reporter's own time-the rest of the day being too busy with breaking stories-fires, terrible car pile-ups, missing children. On the rear wall of O'Sullivan's office was this giant sized blackboard. On this was a line for each reporter and the story he or she had been assigned to that day. Careers were made and broken on O'Sullivan's blackboard.

Some of the reporters who came and went spoke to Chris, some acknowledged her with little more than furtive nods; TV reporting being a singularly competitive enterprise, hard feelings in the newsroom were not uncommon. And it wasn't always just over who got the best story, either. A reporter named Dave Tuska, for instance, was still not speaking to Chris seven months later because Chris had requested Channel 3's neophyte camera person, Jenny Thomas. At the time, none of the other reporters had wanted Jenny and Chris was afraid that if no reporter requested her, the girl would get fired in one of the budget cuts always going on at the station. Well, Jenny proved to be the best camera person in the station-innovative, creative, fun to work with. The rest of the camera people were dull hacks by comparison. It was conventional wisdom that the most important single asset a reporter could possess was a good camera person-one who made you look good, not bad. Jenny became Chris's own camera person. So, Dave Tuska bore a grudge.

O'Sullivan finally came back. He sat down behind his desk.

"Maybe you should close the door, Chris."

"Will you quit calling me Chris?"

"Isn't that your name?"

"Not to you. To you my name's always Holland."

"Oh."

"May I have a cigarette?"

"How many does that make today?"

"One."

"Bullshit."

"Two."

"Bullshit."

"Please, Walter, I'm really nervous about this. Something's wrong and I can tell it. Otherwise you wouldn't be calling me Chris."

She went and closed the door. She came back and sat down across from him. On the desk between them was his pack of Camel filters. She pointed to the pack and he nodded. She took one and lit it and took smoke deeply and luxuriously into her chest. She could hear her lungs screaming mercy. She told them to be still.

She said, "Just say it."

"Just say what?"

He was actually, even despite the excess weight, a nice looking guy, prematurely grey hair, a noble nose, intelligent and wry blue eyes.

"Whatever's bothering you. God, Walter, you should see yourself. You look like hell."

"Thank you."

"You know what I mean. You look hangdog and afraid. You're not going to tell me my little puppy's been run over by a car, are you?"

"You don't have a little puppy."

"But that's what you look like, Walter."

He reached over and helped himself to one of his cigarettes and then he said, "You saw Pendrake?"

"Why doesn't he go over to Channel 5? They're not an empire anymore, in fact, they're a joke now. All those fat greasy salespeople and that joke of a production department. They need his help. We don't."

"Ron's been doing a lot of focus groups and-" He shook his head. "Well, you know how things can happen in focus groups sometimes."

There were maybe half a dozen television consultant groups in the country. They were hired by TV stations to improve the ratings, particularly in the area of local news, which is the single biggest money maker for most local outlets. Consultants are not a beloved group. First of all, management-only too eager to have supposedly wiser heads make the decisions-gives the consultants enormous power. Many times, consultants have the authority to hire and fire both on air talent and key administrative people such as news directors. They are constantly shaping and reshaping the look and substance of news shows in order to attain higher ratings. One of their primary tools in all this is focus group testing-taking a theoretically average group of people-and having them sit around looking at videotape of various on air news teams and making comments. Based on what they hear in these groups, the consultants then make sweeping recommendations to the stations about which air person is popular, and which is not. So not only do reporters have to worry about the regular TV ratings, they also have to worry about what a doctor or garbage truck driver or minister might say about them during the course of a focus group. It was widely suspected by reporters and media observers alike that these focus groups were often dishonest-you carefully select a certain group of people who will say exactly what you want them to say-but if management suspected anything, they kept their suspicions to themselves. They were too busy thanking the consultants for taking all this responsibility off their backs.

"And?" she said.

"And-" He looked at her for the first time. "And you're going to be reassigned."

"Reassigned?"

"We're starting a new segment."

"A new segment?" She realised she was repeating everything he said; she also realised she was semi-hysterical (her world was about to come crashing down) but she couldn't stop herself.

" Holland on the Town ." He smiled but it was a sad and defeated smile. "I kind of like that, don't you?"

"What the hell is Holland on the Town ?"

"Events."

"Events?"

"Yeah, you know, stuff that goes on in the day. It'll be on the six o'clock strip three nights a week"

"It's a community bulletin board, isn't it?"

"Huh?" he said, feigning stupidity.

"It's a goddamn community bulletin board. That's what you're talking about, isn't it, Walter?"

"Now, Chris, I wouldn't go that far. I-"

She stabbed out her cigarette. "Maybe you haven't noticed, Walter, but I'm a reporter."

"But this segment-"

"I report news, Walter. I don't report on DAR meetings or bake-offs or garden clubs."

"But, Chris, I-"

She held up her hand like a traffic cop in the middle of a busy intersection. "Don't say anything more. Please. Not right now."

So he didn't. He sat there and stared at her and looked ashamed of himself.

After a time she said, "You got me the Holland on the Town thing, didn't you?"