How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  “They’ll be there,” Albie answers, “and they’re expecting you. I’m not sure about the rest of their staff. As you know, Edwin’s billed you as the Second Coming, so be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I’m hoping Albie is from the there-are-no-stupid-questions school.

  “Let’s just say, part of your job is to figure out your enemies.”

  I would have thought “competition” or at most “rivals,” but “enemies”?

  “Look, some people want you to succeed, some don’t. Some are willing to keep an open mind, and some aren’t. You have to figure out who’s who. But know this: they’re not always going to show themselves at once, and they don’t all share the same playbook.”

  I wish I had a playbook. “I’m going to prove I deserve to be here.”

  “It’s news. We’re all proving ourselves all the time. Don’t think it’s ever going to stop. I’ve been at this thirty years, and look at this office.”

  “I was sort of wondering about that.”

  “I knew what I was getting into.”

  “Which is?”

  He gives a half smile. I haven’t seen a full one yet. “You brought me out of early retirement. I’m a hired gun. I don’t work on any show, I’m just assigned to you.”

  So that might mean he knows as little about what’s going on here as I do.

  “Welcome to journalism boot camp.” He opens his desk drawer and lifts out a large stack of books, placing it on the desk next to my elbow. “This is your curriculum: politics, business and economics, crime and the legal system, education. There’s a short runway, and then you’ve got to fly. That means you’ll need to be able to speak off the cuff and hold your own.”

  My chest tightens, but I try not to panic. I remind myself, I was valedictorian.

  In Tulip.

  “Read these books,” Albie says, “and then you’ve got to watch every TV show on our network, going back to the beginning, which, lucky for you, is only fifteen months ago. See what stories they’ve followed, and the point of view. That’s what you do in your off-hours.”

  I nod and swallow hard.

  He looks directly into my eyes for the first time. “You live up to your potential, and we won’t have any problems.”

  He must be an incredible journalist, because he’s onto something I’ve never admitted to anyone: at Stanford, I gave up. Not entirely, of course. I graduated. But when I felt the intensity of the competition, I lost a lot of the fire I’d had throughout my life, the fire that Edwin said a female broadcaster needs. I need to get it back, quick.

  Edwin believes in me, and Albie’s here to help. Unlike Stanford, this is not a solo enterprise. As Edwin said, we all rise and fall together here.

  But he didn’t say anything about enemies.

  The first staff meeting I attend inside the glass-walled conference room is for the call-in show Breaking It Down. Rayna and Quill, the married hosts, boast an encyclopedic knowledge of politics, as well as the ability to improv. I never met them on my tour, and it’s a little intimidating to see them in the flesh.

  Quill is handsome in the old-school, Waspy anchorman mold, and Rayna is darkly exotic. While they’re both avowed independents, they often play devil’s advocate to each other, like a sexy debate. Each takes the liberal position sometimes and the conservative at others. They’re in pursuit of the truth, they remind viewers, wherever it’s found, and they like a good fight. They give off the distinct impression that the heat follows them home and into the bedroom.

  Albie had explained that Edwin was inspired by the early days of CNN, when they were making it up as they went along under the renegade billionaire Ted Turner, when it was seat-of-the-pants, groundbreaking journalism. I hadn’t even known that there was a time before CNN was the establishment; I’d imagined CNN was born fully formed, not a baby but a baby boomer. One of the first shows on CNN had been a call-in, and Breaking It Down is Edwin’s flagship.

  According to Albie, when CNN launched in 1980, management brought aboard a bunch of recent grads from journalism school, paid them peanuts, called them videojournalists (VJs), and had them do anything and everything. They were thrown into the deep end of the pool where they’d either sink or swim. Now INN has its own VJs, and its own pool. Here’s hoping I don’t drown. From what Albie said, I have to make sure no one holds my head underwater.

  Quill and Rayna introduce themselves to me and then introduce me to the staff. Of course I can’t help thinking it (How many of these people have seen me naked?), but I remember Albie’s advice. Any attempt at wit or charm could serve to confirm whatever negative impressions might have been generated when they googled me, so best just to smile around.

  The welcome is pleasantly professional. Then the producers and the VJs are tossing out topics for discussion so quickly that I can barely keep up. Quill and Rayna ask for more information or clarification, taking notes, and then they decide what’s in and what’s out. No one seems especially happy when their pitch is chosen or wounded when it isn’t. The train keeps moving.

  The executive producer, Judd, stands at the whiteboard, tracking which pitches make the cut and where they’ll be placed. I’m trying to glean basic information about how a show is put together. There are A, B, and C segments, which ranks how much time they’ll be given, and Judd is doing some preliminary stacking, which means putting the segments in an order that will flow and hold the viewers’ interest.

  Judd looks to be in his midforties, while both associate producers appear to be in their early thirties. The VJs are my age or at most a few years older, and there are two male and two female, all of equal attractiveness, which is to say average. The women both have straight dark hair pulled back in low ponytails and wear little to no makeup. All are in jeans. They possess a fierce and demonstrable intelligence, speaking with a brisk authority whether they’re delivering their own pitches, adding to someone else’s, or critiquing. They’ve already forgotten I’m here.

  I feel like all I need is one probing question or cutting insight. But Albie told me to stay quiet, and he should know. It could be that whatever I say, the people in this room thought it already. In high school.

  Before adjourning, Rayna looks at me with a very slight smirk. “Do you have anything to add?” Her tone is mild, but there’s a challenge in it. No, a presumption that I couldn’t possibly have anything substantive to share.

  Unfortunately, at this moment, it’s true.

  “I’m just taking it all in,” I say. “Thank you so much for having me.”

  Is Rayna an enemy? Or is she merely sizing me up, as anyone in her position might do? A certain amount of testing is understandable.

  I don’t have enough information to reach a conclusion. I have to do what Albie said: keep my eyes and ears open. It’s good training for my new profession.

  Judd wraps it up, and the staff files out, all except Quill, Rayna, and me. The next staff meeting is going to start soon. Rayna has me on edge. Why aren’t they leaving?

  “How’s it going so far?” Quill asks me with a smile.

  “Pretty well. I’m lucky to have a mentor like Albie.”

  “A mentor,” Rayna says icily. “How nice for you.”

  “Albie’s been around forever,” Quill says. “He’s an institution.”

  “Frankly,” Rayna says, “I’m surprised he wanted this assignment.” She gives me an appraising look and seems to find me wanting. “But then, Albie’s always liked a challenge.”

  “So do I,” I say.

  When are they going to leave?

  Then I remember: The next pitch meeting is for The Media Is the Message, and Quill and Rayna are the temporarily fill-ins. The last anchors departed suddenly, with a lot of speculation but no confirmation, and the replacements haven’t been named. That means another hour with Rayna.

  I may need a new game plan. Saying little might not be enough, if she’s going to try to undercut me with the staff. What would earn their respect, and hers? I hav
e to stand up to her, subtly. I have to outfox her.

  Shit. Can I take a bathroom break and text Albie?

  Too late. A man walks in and introduces himself as Luke, the executive producer. He’s in his thirties, not half bad–looking with tousled brown hair, in jeans and a plaid button-down shirt with rolled sleeves and ink stains on the pocket, which feels a little affected (who carries pens? or is the shirt legitimately that old?).

  I’m wearing a loose silk blouse in impenetrable navy, but it’s like Luke has X-ray vision. He’s not even bothering to conceal his ogling. Quite the contrary. He wants me to feel it, a painful reminder of what caused me to retreat from social media, and from life, just a short time ago. I don’t even have to ask whether he’s already seen me naked.

  You wouldn’t think he could do that so brazenly in this post-Weinstein world, but he makes sure I’m the only one who sees it, and I’m the only one he’s directing it toward. He’s cordial and entirely professional with the rest of the women. That means I just have to prove myself, and he’ll keep his eyes to himself.

  Still, it’s disappointing. When I’d followed my father’s advice on the tour, listening in throughout the newsroom, I hadn’t picked up on any sexualized interactions. Women were toiling alongside men, their equals, and that’s what I’d wanted to be a part of. I didn’t realize I had to earn the right to have men look at my face and not my chest, that I wasn’t guaranteed basic respect. Does Luke do this to all women in the beginning, or is it reserved for those of us who haven’t been to journalism school, who’ve been handpicked by Edwin, or who look like me?

  It’s not the whole newsroom, I remind myself. It’s one man, on one show. One rotten apple.

  As the meeting begins, I ignore him and focus on what’s going on around me. The tagline for The Media is “Follow the money.” It’s about the death of investigative journalism at the hands of not just corporate interests but also the government, which limits journalists’ access based on how favorable or unfavorable of press they’re receiving. The net result is that journalists are pressured to tell the stories the government wants out there, often by their own editors and news directors who have to play their own political game. The Media combats crony journalism and holds the media itself accountable for the stories it won’t tell.

  In the pitch meeting, the heft of the topics is a good reminder that this isn’t about me; it’s about the mission. What’s a quick peek down my blouse and a smirk from Rayna compared to labor violations, veteran abuses, toxic waste, fracking, failed disaster relief, and mortgage scams? The show is exposing cover-ups and cozy relationships between corporations, government, and the media. Many of the pitches seem to be based on leads from obscure blogs, or at least, they’re obscure to me. From what I can intuit, the VJs spend a lot of time following random internet links, like tributaries searching for the river.

  I begin to see that I don’t have to worry about Rayna, not in this meeting. In the eyes of the staff, I’m not the interloper. They seem close-knit and wary of the stand-in anchors. I have a sense they’re still loyal to those who came before. They might even think Quill and Rayna overthrew their less telegenic predecessors.

  The staff members continually reference the past and which stories the old anchors would have pursued, and in what way. Quill and Rayna adopt a deferential manner, in stark contrast with the meeting before, where they were holding court. They seem a little afraid to challenge anyone, as if they might have a mutiny on their hands.

  So much for the campfire Kumbaya portrait Edwin had painted.

  Given how Rayna treated me in the last meeting, I can’t help but feel a touch of schadenfreude. I do feel sorry for Quill though. He seems like a good guy.

  Everyone’s incredibly dialed in, including Luke. I can feel that he’s one of them, hardworking and well liked. I might have misinterpreted him earlier. What used to be outright paranoia after the viral video has softened into heightened awareness. I’m hoping the vigilance will serve me well as a reporter, that it’ll be like a Spidey sense.

  As the meeting breaks up, Luke dawdles. When it’s down to the two of us, he asks, in an unmistakably lecherous tone, “So how was it for you, Cheyenne?”

  “It’s a great day,” I say, as brightly as I can, with zero flirtation in my tone. Luke’s no Professor Trent; he’s one of the enemies Albie warned me about.

  “Glad to hear it.” He smiles. “Look forward to seeing you around.”

  I’m left at the conference room table, fuming, yet knowing that the fear is not far behind. It’s a sequence I became accustomed to not so long ago.

  Two meetings, two enemies.

  But whatever I’m feeling, I can’t let it show. I’m on display, surrounded by glass. Exposed. Even though no one seems to be looking in from the newsroom—they’re all involved in their computer screens, or their phones, or conversations with one another—they could turn this way at any moment, and when they do, they’ll see whatever they want in me. It doesn’t have to be true. I’ve learned that sometimes people prefer their fictions.

  But I have to remember that glass is two-way, and I can see out too. I can observe, and I can make notes, and I can use whatever I find.

  Like right now, I see Rayna and Luke in a corner, his lips close to her ear. It’s a marked departure from how Rayna was treated during the meeting by Luke’s staff. They part quickly, and neither looks back at me. Yet I wonder if I’m part of what unites them. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. They both tried to humiliate me today. Different styles, same intent. Same motive?

  I’m feeling a bit jagged for the next meeting. But the show is Truthiness with Beth Linford, and Beth couldn’t be kinder. “Cheyenne, come sit next to me,” she says, patting the seat beside her. “I’m so excited you’re here.”

  Beth is in her early fifties with shoulder-length hair that’s impossibly straight, dark, and glossy, almost like a very expensive wig. She has more wrinkles than you’d expect on a TV personality, but it works for her. She’s also softer and curvier than the average female broadcaster, attractive without the pinched face that comes from chasing youth. Her métier is interviewing. On her show, she comes across as genuinely worried about the future of the country in a way that could best be described as maternal. That’s until she goes for a guest’s jugular. There’s an involving tension as you watch each interview, not knowing when—or with whom—she might snap. Beth doesn’t suffer fools, that’s for sure.

  During the pitch meeting, though, she couldn’t be more lovely, and it trickles down to her associate producers and VJs. Everyone is smiling at me with genuine warmth. They include me in the discussion, asking what I think about the various pitches with true curiosity. I’m trying hard to follow Albie’s advice about saying as little as possible. It’s tough, but I manage to pull it off with various jokes about being here to gather intel and needing to remain impartial and independent. It’s an easy crowd, quick to laughter. No one pins me down.

  Beth’s EP is the hardass in the room, the taskmaster who refocuses the group when they’re drifting off into small talk and laughter. Beth’s response to every pitch is a smile and one of two phrases: either “Tell me more” or “Think on that some more.”

  Watching Beth, just feeling her energy in the room, activates a yearning I haven’t felt in so long. It’s the desire to be mothered. While I used to like that my father never brought women home and that I got all his attention, as I grew older, I sometimes felt what had been lost: a female perspective, a feminine nurturance, a shared understanding. I also became more conscious of what my father must have been missing: adult companionship, intimate connection, partnership. He claims he missed out on nothing, that he has a full life with more than enough friends. Some, I suspect, are friends with benefits. Still, I wouldn’t have minded a stepmom like Beth.

  I wish the meeting would go on and on, but it’s time for Khalif. He’s incredibly handsome, his skin darkest ebony, offset by the crisp white button-down shirts he wears
for every broadcast. His smile is beautiful, a reward. He’s soft-spoken, so much so that I’ve found myself leaning into the TV screen during his show. Yet his monologues are often full of quiet, quivering rage.

  His show takes the “non-Eurocentric” perspective. I’ve read that he has the smallest audience, but it’s devoted, as well as distinctive: it’s composed of people who don’t watch any of the other shows on INN, or other news networks. So in that sense, Khalif is quite valuable.

  He’s just as soft-spoken in the pitch meeting as he is on-air. I notice that his staff has the only black VJs. The intellect in the room is staggering, as everyone has a deep grasp of politics and history, complemented by a dizzying array of pop culture references, from myriad cultures.

  Khalif is the only anchor I’ve heard turn down stories because they’re not in keeping with the show’s integrity. His sorrowful disappointment is evident as he shakes his head, and the staff member behind the rejected pitch appears chastened.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says.

  “No, no,” Khalif answers. “Don’t apologize. Just remember, for the future: that’s a story for Ty Fordham.”

  As in, Ty will do what Khalif won’t touch. Nothing is beneath Ty.

  Speak of the devil . . .

  “So you saved the best for last,” Ty Fordham deadpans. I don’t think he’s actually kidding, in that he appears to be surrounded by a vapor of ego. The network adds to the mist. I’ve heard multiple times in other pitch meetings, “I think Ty’s doing that one,” and then it gets dropped. The message is that if Ty wants it, it’s his. It was only said as an insult by Khalif.

  Ty is in his standard outfit: expensive gray suit, light blue shirt, no tie. His skin is more mottled than it appears on TV (they must put some heavy makeup on him), but he’s also better-looking. On the air, he’s full of kinetic energy, fueled by an outrage that can verge on the manic. In person, he’s very still, mesmerizing in a different way. His light brown hair is heavily gelled, his lips are full, and his blue eyes are piercing.