by Holly Brown
In each pitch meeting, the tone has been set by the anchor—or anchors, in the case of Rayna and Quill—and with Ty, it’s one of detachment. He takes notes on a yellow pad, rarely looking up. His staff is sharp and savvy, though his EP is a total sycophant named Rich. “Ty?” he asks often, with a simpering smile. “How’s this one sit with you, buddy?” You would hope someone would outgrow that kind of sucking up by the time they’re in their fifties.
Ty never asks for additional information. He judges entirely on the pitch as presented, with either “Yes” or “Next.” It means that his staff delivers the most succinct, informative, and persuasive pitches of any that I’ve seen today. It also means that Ty’s on-air wild-man persona is shtick. I guess Edwin is okay with less authenticity if it equals higher ratings.
Regardless of the verdict, Ty doesn’t smile or frown; his expression never changes. It’s a lot more “Next” than “Yes.” A producer named Graham delivers more pitches than anyone, and his hit rate is higher too. He’s short and nerdy, but in such an extreme way that it seems like shtick, too, like he’s this close to a pocket protector. As he talks, he waggles fuzzy black caterpillar eyebrows. He’s the only one who didn’t say hi to me; I never even earned a glance.
The meeting ends abruptly, with everyone exiting the conference room as the EP babbles about what a great job they all did. I’m exhausted as I approach my workstation for the first time. I should be glad that my appearance seemed irrelevant. I don’t want to be objectified, but I hate admitting this particular truth even to myself: that the whole time I kept waiting for the kind of additional attention that generally comes from how I look. Other than with Luke, it never came.
It’s my dirty secret. I walk into a room and I’m stuck being noticed, and usually I don’t want it, but I look for it. When it doesn’t happen, it can be like I’ve ceased to exist. What do I have without that? I didn’t set out to flirt with any professors, and I never intentionally tried to elevate my grades; I never meant to lead Professor Trent on, and I still feel ashamed of how I screwed that whole situation up. While I want to be judged on my nonphysical merits only, I’m afraid of what will happen when I am.
The newsroom is a large space with a high level of ambient noise. Each show has its own pod: a cluster of low-walled cubicles where the VJs and producers work alongside one another. My workstation is cordoned off, a pod unto itself. I’m surrounded by brilliance, yet clearly set apart, largely unnoticed.
Scratch that. Someone noticed. Resting on my keyboard is a large manila envelope with my name on it. Inside is a stack of papers, with a typed letter on top.
Dear Cheyenne,
I wanted to extend my congratulations. You might not have meant to, but you beat out many, many others. You’re in a coveted position, but don’t confuse that with enviable. What you need is an education, and that’s where this diary comes in.
It’s important to take your education very seriously. Those who don’t learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. They’re doomed to have it repeated on them.
Of course your story isn’t going to be the same as the one you’re about to read, and even if you think you know hers, there’s a whole lot more to it. Anyone can edit a Wikipedia page, after all. Read carefully and stay alert for similarities, because no matter how far you think you’ve come, how far you think women have come, there’s still a long way to go. That’s the story you’re part of. The history. The herstory. Think now about how you want it all to end.
You’ve become a member of an exclusive sorority. It might not feel like it. At times, it might feel more like a fraternity party that you’ve crashed. And while there may be plenty of women around, that doesn’t mean they know what you’re going through. It doesn’t mean they want to see you succeed.
I do.
That’s all. No signature.
I look around, hoping someone is looking back at me. But, no, I’m all alone.
Chapter 7
I don’t feel safe reading the diary in the newsroom. Perhaps it’s because the purported feminist who’s left it for me, the one who’s supposedly rooting from the sidelines, has chosen to remain anonymous, like so many internet trolls before her. Or him. I don’t know the identity of this person, or their intentions. So I have to proceed with caution.
Back in my apartment, I reread the letter, searching for clues. The envelope doesn’t contain the whole diary, just one photocopied entry dated July 1, 1991. Is the author of the letter the same as the author of the diary? Could it be from, say, Beth and it’s about when she was just starting out in journalism? The timeline seems right.
But if that’s the case, Beth could have given me her diary outright. There’d be no need for the cloak-and-dagger.
Is it from one of my known enemies, Rayna or Luke? Or perhaps it’s Rayna and Luke together, and that’s what their little powwow was about. Or it could be another enemy altogether, one operating from a very different playbook. This might be someone’s idea of a joke.
Whoever it is has access to INN. The envelope wasn’t mailed. They want me to know they can get to me.
There’s that paranoia again. Maybe I should just take the diary at face value. Someone has something to teach me, and I do have a lot to learn. That, or I could throw it away, unread. I have a whole curriculum to study and back episodes to watch.
But as I cross the room to toss it in the trash, my curiosity gets the better of me. I’m a journalist now, and this is from a source. If I don’t read it, I’ll never know whose diary it was. Even if it is from an enemy, I could still learn a lot. People aren’t always in control of their messages.
I’ve come to fear the anonymous. If you have something important to say, announce yourself. Getting sucked into this could be a very bad idea.
Against my better judgment (or perhaps with the instincts of an intrepid reporter), I pick up the pages. The diary entry is college-ruled, the handwriting a girlish cursive.
July 1, 1991
Every day, I’ve been killing myself, trying to get my reads just right. My delivery needs to be flawless, every time, to prove that I deserve to be at Morning Sunrise, that I should be the one saying, “Back to you, Scott and Trish!” I have to prove that Dennis Graver was right to choose me. After all, what were the odds that the head of the network news division would be in Pittsburgh, of all places, for a business trip, and would turn on the TV and see me anchoring, just as he was scouting for a replacement for a morning show newsreader? Slim, right?
I never want to get sent back down to the minor leagues. I’ll do anything to keep that from happening.
I got a new perm the week before I came to New York. It was like a security blanket. I remember when I got the first one in high school, that it was the equivalent of losing 25 pounds, and when I returned to school in September, everyone treated me like a new person. A beautiful person. I’ve never looked back.
If you don’t count the terror and the stalking and all the rest, I’ve been lucky a lot: graduating from college with a great reel that led to a small-market anchoring job and then not even two years later, along comes Dennis Graver.
I’ve never liked the word “ambition.” It sounds so venal, and I’m not about money. Yes, I’d like to live well, just like anybody, but more than that, I want to do something really well. Corny as it might sound, I want to connect with millions of viewers. I want to help them start their day in a good mood. In a world where the news is often scary, you want it to be told to you by a friend. I try to be that friend.
I hope Mom was watching today, or taped it. I was telling a story about this Finnish company called Radiolinja that had just launched a mobile phone. The slogan was “So Finns can talk more.” It seems kind of crazy that people can’t wait until they get home, or get to a pay phone, or a car phone even. The mobile phone looks like a behemoth cordless, with a really prominent antenna. My script had me turn to the anchors and ask, “What do you think? Will Americans be walking down the street someday with ph
ones glued to their ears?”
“They have enough trouble watching where they’re going now,” Scott said. “Imagine walking down Fifth Avenue in the future, where everyone’s got a mobile phone.”
“Oh, Scott,” Trish said. “You always think the worst.”
That’s when I ad-libbed: “Let’s just see how it goes for the Finns. They can be our guinea pigs.”
Scott let out this genuinely delighted laugh. It was my first time contributing anything other than the initial prefab question, and it seemed like he really liked what he heard. Trish chimed in just a beat later.
The rest of the show went by in this fizzy rush, and I have to admit, I made a point of lingering by the corner of the set. I’m only a few weeks in so I’m sure this is going to change, but so far, I’m kind of an island, the only one of my kind, and no one’s really been talking to me—not the producers or writers and not Trish and Scott themselves. I overheard someone making a mean joke about how newsreaders are like trained monkeys, so I guess they don’t realize how much is involved in reading your copy well. As if a monkey could have pulled off an ad-lib like mine!
So I was waiting there after the show, thinking someone was going to compliment me, or maybe invite me out for lunch or happy hour. Getting Scott to laugh had to mean something. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Scott and Trish finishing up their conversation.
Then Trish was headed right for me.
I froze. I didn’t know if I should make eye contact or smile. Should I be the first to speak, or should I wait?
I went for a vague smile with my eyes slightly averted, like in submission, and that’s why I’m not entirely sure what happened next. Maybe Trish stumbled as she rounded the corner. But when she said, “Excuse me,” it was almost a growl, so different from her usual dulcet tones on-air. Like it wasn’t actually an “excuse me” but a “get out of my way.” Like Trish was marking her territory.
That can’t be it though. Trish is the coanchor, and I’m just the newsreader. Every day, out on the street in front of the building, the autograph seekers mob her; I’m an afterthought.
But then, who predicted that Deborah Norville would unseat Jane Pauley? And no one expected Deborah Norville to tank and be replaced by Katie Couric. If a shake-up like that can happen, then no one can feel totally safe.
I decided to celebrate. I pulled my hair back in a scrunchie and washed the heavy makeup from my face and changed out of the newsreader pastels into a fluorescent pink blouse, miniskirt, and pink jelly sandals. I was a woman about town.
I wandered around in search of a place where I wouldn’t feel conspicuous eating alone and settled myself at a restaurant bar. Through the bottles of expensive liquor, I could see the mirrored reflection of the bustling eatery at my back.
“Could I buy you a drink?”
The man who’d sidled up beside me smelled as expensive as his suit looked. It was a complicated scent, not one I necessarily liked. R.G. used to wear Davidoff Cool Water, clean and oceanic. I’d bury my head in his neck and think, This is what a man is supposed to smell like.
The guy beside me was no R.G. He looked more than ten years older than me, with craggy features. He probably thought I was just off a bus from Iowa or something, and he could take me back to his place for some afternoon delight.
“No, thanks,” I said, meaning to reject the drink, and everything else.
He nodded, taking it in stride. Instead of retreating, he signaled for the bartender and named a whiskey I’d never heard of, neat. I tried not to look at him, either directly or in the bar mirror, but I could feel that he was still attending to me in some peripheral way. I shifted on my stool, uncomfortable. Any sort of pursuit raises my hackles, since Lyndon.
He tapped a cigarette from a very sleek pack. “Mind if I smoke?”
“I do. It makes my hair stink.”
“You’ve got a lot of hair. I get it.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and laid it down on the bar. His drink arrived, and he didn’t thank the bartender, just took a sip. He gave me a sideways look. “You’re good, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“On TV. You’re a big improvement over that last woman.”
“You spend a lot of time watching morning shows?” I asked.
“I have to.” He took another sip, and then he slid me a card that had been concealed in his palm the whole time. His name is York Diamond, and he’s an agent. “I know talent when I see it.”
York Diamond. I’d never heard a phonier name in my life. He’d lured me into the conversation under false pretenses. Looking to get laid seemed honorable by comparison.
How likely was it that he just happened to notice me from across the restaurant, dressed down as I was, my hair back? New York has plenty of curly-haired women. I’m not that distinctive. He had to be looking for me.
He must have followed me from the studio, like I’m prey.
Not again.
I stood up and went to grab my purse from the floor, banging my head on the bar on the way back up. I fished around in my wallet, grabbing bills. Too much money was fine, as long as I didn’t have to wait for my check.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” York—or whatever his real name is—said, but his voice held no remorse.
“You didn’t upset me.” I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I just have somewhere I need to be.”
I went outside to the humid, honking, assaulting boulevard. As I raised my arm to hail a cab, I realized it was trembling. My whole body was. That happens sometimes when I’m at the news desk, when nerves get the best of me, but somehow, I can always control it then. I can confine it to my lower body, beneath the desk. But standing there on the street, I couldn’t control it at all. It was like my body remembered everything I went through. It was saying, Never again.
Chapter 8
Even someone with as little investigative experience as I have can figure out within a minute whose diary it is. Plug in a few keywords (Morning Sunrise, 1991, newsreader) and I’ve got a name: Elyse Rohrbach. Since the anonymous letter mentioned Wikipedia, that must be where they want me to start.
Honestly, the diary feels like a relic. Sure, I know what it’s like to look over your shoulder, but beyond that, Elyse and I have very little in common. I might be a fish out of water, but I’m not all gosh-gee-willikers like Elyse. And sure, Elyse and I both want to impact the world, but Elyse thought she could do it by reading the news with the right intonations. My role at INN is going to be a whole lot more than that.
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Morning Sunrise
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Morning Sunrise was an American morning television show. It debuted on September 24, 1981, and was canceled at the end of 1991. It was filmed in New York City and aired from 7 a.m. to 9 a.m. in all U.S. time zones (live in the Eastern time zone and on tape delay everywhere else).
History
Throughout its history, Morning Sunrise lagged in the ratings behind The Today Show and Good Morning America . . .
Notable On-Air Staff
The first anchors were Martin Breyer and Hillary Stein.
The last anchors were Scott Field and Elyse Rohrbach, though Elyse’s tenure was brief due to the brutal attack . . .
Controversy, and the Demise of Morning Sunrise
Elyse Rohrbach began as a newsreader in 1991, known for her blond curls and sunny disposition, hailed by Tom Shales of the Washington Post as “the next big thing” . . .
. . . a rivalry that both denied . . .
. . . sexual harassment . . .
. . . alcoholism and domestic violence . . .
It came to light at the trial that . . .
The show was subsequently canceled with the following public statement . . .
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Elyse Rohrbach
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Elyse Marie Rohrbach wa
s a newsreader at Morning Sunrise who made headlines after a brutal attack that galvanized the movement to pass antistalking legislation in the state of New York . . .
Early Years
She was born March 15, 1966, in Stanton, Pennsylvania, to an accountant father and a stay-home mother . . .
College Years
She attended Pennsylvania State University. She majored in journalism. Fellow students describe her as friendly but inaccessible—“hard to know” was a common phrase . . .
She was an on-air anchor at the campus television station for all four years. She has said that she was grateful for her time there as she gained varied experience . . .
That was where her “long stalking nightmare,” as she termed it, began . . .
Broadcasting Experience
Shortly after graduating from college, she was given a job in Pittsburgh. Her boss has said that he knew she “was destined for great things” and was “unsurprised” when she left for a national market . . .
She was recruited by Dennis Graver to be the newsreader at Morning Sunrise, which he later stated was “a mistake, given her baggage” . . .
There was reportedly on-set tension from the start . . .
. . . fear and threats . . .
. . . jockeying for position . . .
. . . sexual harassment, which he denied . . .
. . . some blamed Elyse herself . . .
The Attack
On August 23, 1991, Elyse Rohrbach was attacked . . .
Questions remain as to what really happened leading up to the attack. Could the network have done more to prevent it? Were the right people on trial?
The trial itself was described as a “media circus” and, by some, a “miscarriage of justice” . . .
It’s believed to have directly led to the cancellation of Morning Sunrise . . .
Holy shit. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of Elyse Rohrbach before. I suppose that’s a sign of how little I really know about broadcasting history. The letter’s right, I do have a ton to learn.
