Suddenly, the door to the control room slammed open, jolting Hugo out of his meditative state. Roarke stood in the doorway, gasping for breath, eyes wide. Trying to catch his breath, he finally managed to say, “I’ve got breaking news.”
Chapter 10
The stunned silence in the control room was the first indication that what was happening was real. At first Hugo thought it must be a hallucination or some out-of-body experience or maybe he’d fainted and was dreaming. But as he looked around the small room, everyone stared back at him.
“The what exploded?” someone asked from behind him. Hugo was moving his mouth, he realized, but nothing was coming out.
Roarke looked down, like it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say. “The…the, um, the wastewater treatment plant.”
Hugo still couldn’t speak. It was like his mind was playing in slow motion.
Someone else asked, “Do you mean the sewage plant?”
Roarke said, “Uh, yeah. Except it’s more acceptable to say wastewater treatment plant. Ed’s on his way…can be there in eight minutes with live pictures. Jill’s less than two miles away, but the traffic is tied up with a stalled car. The chatter is that there’s a huge fireball, and everyone nearby is being evacuated.” Roarke’s sad eyes made Hugo realize there was really no choice to be made. This was the story they had to cover.
And before Hugo knew what was happening, he was slapping his hand against the desk and yelling obscenities the likes of which he had never uttered, ever, in front of another human being.
“How could this happen?” he cried, his hands out, pleading with the room. “A sewage plant! That’s what’s going to undo us? A sewage plant?!” There was such a disturbing metaphor there that he could hardly get his mind to wrap around how real this was. They were back to a typical news day. They no longer had the exclusive story.
While still ranting, he glanced to the back of the room and saw Hayden standing there with her eyes closed and a single hand in the air, praying.
Hugo must’ve stopped, because there was silence all around him again. Then Willis asked, “What do you want to do? We’ve got three minutes until we’re on.”
A sheet of sweat poured down Hugo’s face, and inside, he knew he was going to have to pull himself together. He berated himself for having held his expectations so high. Then he said, “We’re going to roll with it. Get pictures up as soon as possible. Send Jill and Trent over there now. Roarke, get me the facts now. Someone get online and pull down information on the plant. Gilda, you’re opening with what we know, and you’re going to have to keep talking until Ed can get those pictures and we can get Jill out there live.”
“All right, Hugo,” Gilda said. Roarke was already out the door to gather the facts. Hugo watched the screen as the two anchors shifted notes and watched the computer monitor embedded in the desk for new information as it came available. It seemed like an eternity, but Roarke finally sent word that Jill was on the scene.
“She’s saying it’s quite a sight,” Willis said. “A lot of people running.”
“Any other stations there?”
Willis looked up at him. “Channel 10. We’re on in a minute and a half.”
Hugo’s heart pounded frantically. He took a step back to gather himself, he was still in shock that he’d lost his composure. Then he grabbed the microphone to talk to Gilda. “Gilda?”
“Yes?”
“Gilda, I need you to stay calm, give the viewers the facts as you get them, and do what you do best. Just stay calm, okay?”
Hugo looked at the monitor and saw her smiling at him. “Don’t worry, Hugo. We’ll be fine. I’m calm.”
“Okay…” Hugo stepped back and let Willis prepare as much as he could in the short time he had. Ed was feeding back the live pictures, and Jill was getting into place in front of the plant, which lit up the dark sky. Trent wasn’t there yet, but he’d been assigned the task of trying to get interviews.
As Willis began the official countdown to airtime, Hugo felt a lump form in his throat. Nobody noticed; everyone’s attention was elsewhere. Hayden was still praying in the back, and it started to make Hugo angry. He almost marched back there to tell her to knock it off when Willis gave the ten-second cue.
Hugo leaned forward and watched the monitor carefully. Something didn’t seem right with Gilda, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. She didn’t look ready. In fact, she looked…amused? Why would she—?
“Cue opening,” Willis said. Their opening music played, and then the zippy sound effect that indicated breaking news.
“Good evening,” Gilda said, still looking amused. “I’m Gilda Braun, and we have breaking news tonight. There has been an explosion at the wastewater treatment plant. We are at the scene live, still gathering information about this dramatic situation that is unfolding even as we speak.” Hugo blinked. What was wrong with Gilda? Was that a smile? Was she actually smiling?
“Cut to Ed,” Willis said.
Gilda was still talking, rambling off what little facts they knew.
“What is wrong with her?” Hugo asked.
“Gilda?” Willis asked.
“Is it me, or is she smiling? Tell her she needs to be more serious.”
“Gilda, we need a more serious tone,” Willis said as Gilda paused for a moment. “Cut back to Gilda,” Willis instructed. Now Gilda’s face was back on the monitor, but again, she was looking like she might start singing show tunes. “Pitch it to Jill when you’re ready,” Willis said into Gilda’s IFB.
“We’re going to go live now to Jill Clark, the first reporter to arrive on the scene. Jill, what can you tell us?”
The picture cut to Jill, who stood in front of…the Channel 10 news truck? Was that the only picture she could get?
“Well, Gilda, we don’t know much at this time. Firefighters are still assessing the situation and determining whether anyone is still inside. They are trying to account for all employees, who raced out of the building as soon as they heard the explosion. Right now, there are only two fire trucks at the scene, but we can hear sirens in the distance.”
Channel 10 is playing dirty, Hugo thought. Blocking the view with their truck. Hugo studied Gilda, who still looked like she was about to crack a joke.
“Let me talk to Gilda,” Hugo said. Willis patched him through. “Gilda!”
“What?” Gilda asked, looking up into the camera.
“What are you doing? This is a huge news story. There could be tons of people dead!”
“I know that. Why are you telling me that?”
“Because you’re smiling. You were smiling all the way through the first piece.”
“I am not!” Gilda said.
“Jill’s pitching it back to Gilda,” Willis announced.
Gilda sat up straight and looked into the camera, “Thank you for that report, Jill. We’re now going to go to Ed Klawski, who is bringing us some amazing pictures from Chopper 7.”
Willis quickly cut to the pictures. Hugo felt like his chest was about to explode. He’d take Tate’s smirk right now. Maybe Gilda was high or drunk or—
“All right, Ed’s pitching it over to Trent, who is trying to speak with someone who has come out of the plant,” Willis said.
“This is an amazing scene,” Trent said into the camera. He had a better angle than Jill, but the flames were barely visible over Trent’s shoulder. Suddenly Trent looked to his left. “Sir…sir, please, can you speak with us about what you saw?” Trent reached out for someone as the camera zoomed out for a wider shot. The man Trent wanted to interview looked sweaty and frantic. He also looked like he didn’t want to talk.
“Come on, Trent! Give it all you’ve got! Don’t take no for an answer!” Hugo coached.
“Sir, what can you tell us?”
“I don’t really…um…” The man looked around and tried to step away, but Trent took his arm.
“Please, sir. I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal, but can you give us some
idea what it’s like in there?”
The man was shaking his head and glancing nervously at the camera.
“Come on, Trent! Pull it out of him!” Hugo yelled.
“Were you in the building?” Trent asked.
“Uh…yeah,” the man replied.
“Good!” Hugo said. “Keep the questions coming!”
“Can you give us an idea of what’s going on?”
The man paused, shaking his head. “There’s just a lot of smoke and people running around screaming.” The man wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“Are there any people trapped?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“What part of the plant do you work in, sir?”
“Great question! Keep ’em rolling!” Hugo said to the monitor. But he noticed the man looked confused by the question.
“Sir,” Trent said in a calm voice Hugo had never heard before, “I understand your apprehension. But there are many people sitting at home right now, wondering if their friends or relatives are okay. You can give them some information. What part of the plant do you work in?”
“I don’t work for the plant.”
“You don’t? Do you work in a building nearby? How did you get in the building?”
Again, the man looked unsure that he should answer. But Trent jabbed the microphone in his face and finally the man said, “I’m the live truck operator for Channel 10. Our cameraman got inside the building and nearly got us both killed, but the pictures are breathtaking.”
Hugo’s mouth dropped open just like Trent’s. Trent slowly turned toward the camera as he mumbled, “Uh…thank you. Back to you, Gilda.”
Hugo slapped his hand against his forehead. He could practically hear people grabbing their remotes and switching to Channel 10 for those “breathtaking” pictures. Hugo fell into the chair he hoped was still behind him.
“Let’s run Ray’s piece,” Hugo said.
Willis said, “Gilda, tell everyone we’ll be back to the scene as soon as we get more information. Pitch Ray’s piece.”
Hugo furiously rubbed his temples. He watched Gilda smile her way through the pitch, but he couldn’t manage to watch Ray’s segment, the one he’d been so excited about just a few minutes before.
As Ray’s segment rolled, Gilda’s voice came booming through to the control room. “This is your fault!” she screeched. “Hugo Talley, this is all your fault!”
“What is my fault?” Hugo blurted as Willis was careful to make sure all the mikes at the anchors’ desk were closed.
Gilda raised a finger like she was about to make a point, then pointed straight to her forehead, where it came to rest between her eyebrows. “I can’t frown!” Gilda, though suddenly crying, still looked perfectly dreamy. “I can’t frown!” she shouted again. “My face, I can’t frown. I can hardly move my cheeks and my mouth feels numb…” Gilda was now hysterical, and her mascara was running as fast as her mouth. She was gesturing and wailing. Next to her, Tate looked like a pale statue. Ray’s segment finished, and Willis had no choice but to cut to Ed, who was doing his best to continue pointing out that the sewage plant was burning.
“Get Gilda out of there,” Willis instructed one of the grips, who quickly made it to the anchor’s desk and escorted her away. Willis turned his attention to Tate. “Tate, snap out of it. In a few seconds, we’re going to cut from Ed. You’ve got to pitch it to commercial.”
Tate blinked.
Hugo grabbed the mike. “Tate, listen to me. We cannot go down in smoke, do you understand me? This is important. We’ve got to do this flawlessly. You’ve got to end this segment before commercial in a way that makes the viewer not want to change the channel. You have got to hook them, okay? Stay calm and poised. This is a serious story, but don’t look panicked. Look like you’re in control of the entire situation. Make your final comments before commercial count for something, okay? You can do this, Tate. I know you can. And try your best not to smirk, okay? No smirking. Frown but don’t scowl. Okay? Am I making sense? Are we clear here? You’ve got about ten seconds. Think about what you’re going to say. Think about that hook that will leave the viewer pondering the situation.”
Tate nodded through it all, his eyes wide enough to see white all the way around the iris.
Willis directed, “Ed, pitch it back to Tate.”
“And that’s the view from up here. Tate, back to you.”
Tate turned toward the camera, and for a moment, he paused. It seemed like an eternity, but he suddenly found the exact right expression. His eyes bounced from his notes to camera one. He leaned forward and said, “Thank you, Ed. Amazing pictures from the sky. From the beginning of this breaking news story, Ed was there and you can see the result. Live pictures that are nearly beyond words.”
Hugo stepped back to breathe. Tate was handling it. He was doing it. It was a minor triumph, but at this point, he was going to take what he could get.
But before Hugo could take another deep breath, Tate said, “And folks, this begs the question, will my toilet flush when I get home? Stay tuned.”
And then he smirked.
Chapter 11
You’re going to have to up my dosage. It’s not working anymore. I might as well be taking a placebo. Maybe it is a placebo. Is it a placebo?” Hugo sat in the exam room of his doctor’s office fully clothed yet feeling like he was wearing a hospital gown backward. He had yet to discover whether his vulnerability was willingly on display or not, but nevertheless, he figured it was the only way he was going to get through to Dr. Hoffman.
“Look, Hugo—”
Hugo held up his hands. “I know you think I’m overreacting, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see me. I completely lost my mind. It was some sort of nervous breakdown. I mentally snapped.” Hugo twirled his finger around his ear. “Went totally bonkers. All because I didn’t take my pill. Now listen, I’ve done my fair share of Internet research on my disability, and I know that the little pill can sometimes stop working at certain dosages—”
“Hugo, you don’t have a disability.”
“Then what do you call last night? What was that?”
“A stressful situation, from everything you’ve told me about it.”
“Look, the fact of the matter is that I think I need to change antianxiety medication. Switch up brands, you know? Why not try that Purple Pill with the green monster? You know the one. Says something about the monster attacking any hope for peace in your life, and the monster walks around making irritating comments to illustrate what it feels like to live with generalized anxiety disorder. I don’t really want to be on the one with the triangle character. He looks kind of dopey.”
Dr. Hoffman crossed her arms as she leaned against the cabinets behind her. “Hugo, do you want to know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you’re depressed.”
“Depressed? I am not depressed! I haven’t cried since the day I stopped smoking.”
“You don’t have to cry to be depressed.”
“I am not depressed. And if I were depressed, it’s because you won’t diagnose me as anxious.”
Dr. Hoffman sat down on a stool and rolled closer to Hugo, who was sitting on the examination table. “Hugo, tell me about your home life. How is your home life?”
“My home life is fine.”
“Are you happy with your situation at home?”
“Sure.” He stopped her next question. “Look, let’s keep on track with the subject matter here. Last night was a disaster, and I was not able to handle it. I have to be able to handle stressful situations. I don’t have the luxury of removing stress from my life, so the only other option is to be able to face it calmly with a clear and medicated head.”
“Well, let’s put some things in perspective first. You say things went badly last night, and you didn’t handle yourself in the best manner. What’s the worst that could happen? You get fired? People get fired every day and bounce back.”
“Seriously, Hugo, let’s name the fallout from this.”
“For one, I will probably, for the rest of my life, have an aversion to toilets flushing.” He resisted the urge to stand and pace the room. “Dr. Hoffman, I once watched a three-hour show on the Discovery Channel where doctors removed a two-hundred-pound tumor from a woman, and you’re trying to tell me there’s nothing you can do to fix me?”
“I don’t have any magic pills.”
“I’m not asking for a magic pill. I’m asking for the two-milligram version of what I’m on.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Hugo. I don’t take things like this lightly. My advice to you is that you take a long look at your life and figure out what’s causing you to feel this way.”
Nearby, Hugo heard a toilet flush.
Throughout most of the night and into the early morning hours, Gilda Braun had stood in front of her mirror at home, trying to work her brows into a furrow. At precisely 3:00 a.m., they folded inward slightly, enough to make her face take on a more serious expression. She’d finally collapsed into bed, hoping that by morning she would be able to do more than look perpetually surprised.
Apparently all the Botox in the world couldn’t keep her eyes from looking puffy, so she rubbed on some cream and wandered into her kitchen for coffee. Her appetite was shot, and she certainly didn’t want to watch the show again. Since the VCR was invented, Gilda had always recorded the ten o’clock news to watch the next morning, trying to refine her skill. But last night was nothing she wanted to see again. She didn’t have to imagine. Staring back at her in her rearview mirror on the way home was a very sad, dejected woman who looked like she’d just won the lottery.
Over the decades, Gilda had certainly seen her share of mishaps. In the few years that she was a reporter, she’d stumbled over lines, misquoted people, and even got her station sued by forgetting the word “allegedly” while reporting a story about a bank robber.
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