J. Wachowski - In Plain View

Edit bays are the cold, dark, primordial wombs of electronic storytelling. Cold keeps the machines happy, and light creates glare on the monitors. All the walls are covered in dark egg-crate foam to absorb any stray sound waves. The rooms are usually small and made smaller by stuff-blocks of players in various formats, switcher technology, playback monitors, audio controls, oscilloscopes and miles upon miles of connecting wires. The finished product may be seen by millions but most of the work is done alone, with an engineer assisting on the final cut. Two chairs on wheels are all you need.

It’s a slightly different kind of darkroom, but one I’d also learned to love. When I’m developing film, I can almost convince myself each photo is one hundred percent my creation. In the edit bay, I can never forget that creation is a team effort. Keeps me humble.

Well, most of the time.

“Staff meeting in sixteen minutes,” I reminded Ainsley. “Let’s see what you got.”

He flicked a little glance over his shoulder at me, are you ready for this? and hit Play. I watched it all the way through once and felt myself flatline a bit with surprise.

“Again.”

Rewind. Play. Same images.

Not bad, not half bad, is what I was thinking. What I said was, “Shit, College. You are awful tight on some of these.”

He’d framed most of the interview as an extreme profile close-up of the farmer’s face. I hit the freeze frame. The close-up highlighted the rough skin and deep lines of Lowe’s face and revealed the unique patina of the working man. He might not be Tom Jost’s father, but it was clear he knew the cost of a young man’s death.

“I like to shoot tight,” Ainsley answered.

I released the freeze. “Unfortunately, you’re out of focus every time he moves.”

“I figured we’d work around it with B-roll.”

“Did you shoot me any B-roll?”

B-roll is filler, supplemental shots, extra footage, whatever’s left over. Right now, I didn’t have enough A-or B-roll to even fill air time.

“Um…”

“You have a reason for shooting tight?”

“I kind of like the way it looks.” He shrugged and kicked back in his wheeled chair to stretch his long legs in front of him, like an over-sized retriever relaxing into a sprawl.

“Not good enough.” If he had a reason, I might listen. If he was just showing off- “I don’t need artsy-fartsy, College. I need clean and clear. That means in focus. Got it?”

“Yeah.” He turned his back to me and punched a few buttons. Hard. “Got it.”

“Next time give me some head room.”

“Fine.” He jerked his chin.

After thirty seconds of sulk, I tacked on, “I like the shot of the kids.”

“You do?” He spun around on his chair, eyes bright, smile starting to glow. In the darkness of the booth, the contrast hurt my eyes.

“I said I did.” I checked my watch. “Time to hit the staff meeting.”

“Okay. I’m looking forward to this,” he answered with gusto. “They cater these meetings, you know.”

“Well, eat fast. We got a lot to accomplish today. I’m planning to blow out of this place as soon as we can,” I told him, as he led the way through the building, past the kitchen-Ainsley slowed but didn’t stop-to the conference room. “I found a possible address for Tom Jost.”

“Cool.” Looking more eager than an address usually warrants, he added, “This is my first time at a manager’s meeting.”

In my experience, manager meetings are best handled like amputations. Strive to remain unconscious while the big shots lop off a few hours, and pray the whole thing doesn’t cripple the entire remainder of the day.

I gave him a pat on the back. “It’s never good the first time, College. But I’ll remind them to be gentle.”

The boy ducked his head, denying the rise of pink to his cheeks more so than the grin as we entered the conference room.

Gatt saw us and frowned suspiciously in my direction. I gave him the what? shrug. Ainsley paid no attention to this side play. He went straight for the counter with the bagel extravaganza and hot caffeine.

The guy standing next to Gatt stared me down. Typical sales guy: buffed nails, french cuffs and more teeth than a sports announcer. His cologne reeked from eight feet away. In my experience, any man wears that much perfume is full of shit and laying down cover.

“This must be our latest acquisition,” the guy thundered loud enough for everyone in the room. “Get over here. I want to shake your hand. Jim Schmed, sales manager here at WWST. You’ve got to be Maddy O’Hara.”

“That’s right.”

“Love your work. Great stuff. How’d we get so lucky eh, Gatt?”

Schmed gave me the Grip-o-Death handshake-the one they exchange right before the ref calls “…and come out swinging.”

“Really great to have you on board,” he schmoozed. “Can’t wait to see what you do for us once you settle in. Love to get some promo materials from you, soon as you’re able.”

Everybody’s heard of love at first sight. In my case, hate at first sight is a lot more common. Sales guys never make me warm and fuzzy, but this was something else. My last name and my coloring come from my father. My first name-Magdalena-and my hostile intuition come through my mother’s blood.

Schmed raised every hair on the back of my neck.

“Why would you need promo material from me? I thought the promotions department was going to work off my stuff?” I turned to Gatt to clarify.

“No, no, not on the show. On you.” Schmed winked at me. “You’ve made yourself quite a name, honey. And it’s my job to sell that name to advertisers. Right, Rich?”

“That’s right.” Gatt rubbed the flat of his free hand across his bald head and frowned.

“I am not doing personal promos.”

“Sure you are, hon.” My resistance piqued Schmed’s interest. He’d stopped scanning the room for admirers and focused all his attention on me.

“No-” I tried to make it sound equally cheerful, “- hon, I’m not.”

Schmed the Sales Shark and I played a quick round of who’ll-blink-first?

Then he barked a laugh. “Is she busting my ass?” he asked Gatt. “She’s been here, what?-five minutes, and she’s busting my ass already? Are you kidding me?”

I wasn’t thinking of the first five minutes, but of the five million to come when I forced myself to suck in a calming breath.

“I’m not busting your ass, Jim. I’m just saying, I don’t do on-air. Never have.”

Like any good predator, he kept his eyes on me and slowly edged in closer. “Why not? You’d be great. Pretty girl like you. Camera would love you. Camera would eat you up.”

“Thanks, but no. That’s part of my charm, Jim. I let the pictures and the people making news tell the story. I stay off-screen.” It also made me unique in the freelance world. By staying off-air, I could produce a story for any network, any station that wanted to foot my bill. My face and voice never became the commodity. Only my work.

“Gotta have promos, O’Hara. How else am I gonna sell you? Make up for what-all you cost us, right, Gatt? Cost us a pretty penny to hire a professional with your reputation. Am I right? Jesus-Priest, I can’t sell you, if I don’t have product.”

Ah. Apparently, rumors of my potential salary had ruffled the Sales King’s feathers before I’d even walked in the door. CDB, I reminded myself, cost of doing business. Nothing personal.

I started us off on a round of chuckle-chuckle.

Gatt looked back and forth, one to the other, before he joined the merrymaking. We all laughed together.

The sound faded.

As if I was full to brimming with good humor, with a last gasp of mirth I asked, “So…you renewing your contract soon then, Jim?”