“Real-world experience.” That wasn’t all I’d dreamed television news was back then, watching the evening news with my dad. I’d seen Mike Pomeroy almost get blown to bits in Kosovo. I’d stared in rapture at the screen as he’d braved Hurricane Andrew to report in Florida. I’d listened as he’d interviewed Nelson Mandela days after his election in South Africa. And I knew that television news was where I belonged.
I clicked through to YouTube and typed “IBS evening news Nelson Mandela” into the search box. Forget C-SPAN and FOX News this morning. If I was going to get back in the game, I needed a little old-school inspiration. Four weeks later, I was zero for forty on job applications. I’d started with the big guys, of course, though in retrospect, I probably should have waited on a few of those until I’d finessed my resume a bit. Or at least, that was the impression I’d gotten from the hiring manager at Good Day, Tampa Bay. After I’d taken her very helpful suggestions, I’d gotten written rejections from the next few places I’d tried.
Today, I was planning on following up with Eyewitness News in Tulsa and Action News in Pittsburgh. And if that didn’t work, I was going to nail down the folks in Phoenix once and for all.
As soon as I was done at the Laundromat. Right now, my only clean shirt said I ACCEPT. Which was very much unacceptable attire, at least until I got a new job.
While waiting for my whites to brighten in the industrial washers, I started making calls. The results were rather less than heartening.
“… So if you hear of anything …,” I said to one very apologetic HR staffer.
“Sure, Ms. Fuller. But you know, in this economy, and with the Internet …”
“Or, you know, if anyone you know hears of anything …,” I went on.
“Have you considered starting a blog?” asked the dude from the evening show in New Haven. “We just hired this really excellent blogger. Or vlogger. Or something. New media is totally the wave of the future.”
“Is it now?” I asked wearily. I didn’t think my laptop even had a webcam.
“Yeah.” The guy lowered his voice. “In fact, I think I’m leaving for Gawker.”
I wrote down Gawker on my list of possibilities. I was hip. I was with it. I could swing my smartphone with the best of them.
Not that people necessarily appreciated it when I did. Don’t even get me started on my three rounds with American Morning. Oscar had used all his connections to get me a name to email my resume to, and then … I waited. And waited. And got tired of waiting, which is when I learned that not only do they not like smartphones at CNN, they don’t like persistence, either.
Round One: “See,” I explained, “on my BlackBerry it shows you opened the email, so I just wondered. Yeah, it shows … hello? Well, no, I didn’t hack your system!”
Round Two: “Hi there, Becky Fuller again. Yes, I called yesterday, but I updated my resume last night”—this was after the hints from Tampa—“and I thought you might want the latest—oh, okay. Cool, I’ll check with you some other time. How’s tomorrow sound?”
Round Three: “When I called yesterday, your secretary was pretty sure you’d read the email. Yes, we resolved the whole issue with my BlackBerry notification. Well … oh. You filled the position? Oh. That’s … terrific. Congratulations.”
So much for moving south.
I bought books on finding jobs and tried to decipher metaphors about cheese and parachutes. I tried to adjust my circadian rhythms to a more diurnal schedule but gave up after two weeks of looking like a zombie and waking up at 1:30 A.M. no matter what I did. I reasoned with myself that it would be a waste of time anyway. As soon as I succeeded at resetting my internal clock, I’d get a new job and have to go back to my usual schedule. I thought a lot about a story I’d done two years ago on dealing with unemployment. I remembered the psychological expert talking about managing the fear and humiliation of being jobless during the job search, a time where you were supposed to project the most self-confidence.
I could not, unfortunately, recall any of her proposed solutions.
And then one afternoon, more than a month after my severance package with Channel 9 ran out, I was sitting on a park bench having my eighty-fifth pointless conversation with my eighty-fifth hiring manager. I’d exhausted every city with a broadcasting station in the United States and was probably paying roaming charges to chat with the polite and extremely apologetic employee of Wake Up, Manitoba.
“And by any chance do you think any other positions might be available soon?” I asked.
The guy laughed. “It’s pretty much me and the cameraman up here.”
“Who does your weather?” I asked.
“Local moose.”
And just then, the call-waiting beeped. I checked the readout. A 212 number. Manhattan?
I quickly bid my adieus to the Canuck.
“Hello?” I asked cautiously.
“Is this Becky Fuller?” asked an unfamiliar voice. “This is Jerry Barnes, from IBS.”
IBS? The IBS? I blinked, and my mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish that can’t figure out where all that nice, life-preserving water went and why there’s a hook in its gills.
“Yes,” I croaked. “This is Becky.” Had I sent my resume to any HR manager named Jerry Barnes?
“I’m an old friend of Oscar’s,” said Jerry. “We worked together in the early days, and he passed your name along to me.…”
God bless Oscar! So he had been looking out for me.
“Anyway,” said Jerry. “I’ve got this opening at my morning show—”
An IBS morning show? Awesome. “Tell me more!”
“Well,” Jerry warned, “I feel I should tell you, it’s a really tough gig—”
“I like tough.”
“So Oscar told me,” said Jerry. “When are you available for an interview?”
I somehow resisted saying that now worked just fine.
4
There I was, standing before the imposing doors of the famous IBS building. You could have the totally overexposed 30 Rock, you could have the CBS building, Eero Saarinen design and all. Maybe they had more history, more gravitas. But they didn’t dominate the skyline. This glass monolith on Bryant Park was all I needed to be happy.
As long as they gave me the job.
I checked my reflection one last time in the glass door. No lipstick on my teeth, auburn hair still neat and sleek in its chignon. I’d trimmed my bangs this morning—a dangerous prospect, I know, but they’d turned out great. Maybe that was a good omen. Black suit. Power pumps. My mother’s tiny diamond drop pendant for luck … I was ready.
After receiving my guest pass, I was ushered by an assistant into the sleek and very cold office of Jerry Barnes, this old friend of Oscar’s who—judging from the square footage in this room alone—had clearly done much better in life than my former boss. Jerry was tall and fit, with network exec hair and a network exec suit, set off by a surprisingly un-network-exec-like pair of brown, horn-rimmed glasses. After dispensing with the formalities, he scanned my resume as if he hadn’t already seen it, and gestured for me to sit down across from him.
“Oscar says you’re very talented and you work incredibly hard,” said Jerry, as if he didn’t quite believe it. “Says you’re the most promising producer he’s ever fired.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “I think.” Because what did that say, really? That I was good—but not as good as the other senior producer he’d hired?
“So,” he asked, as if it was the most casual question in the world, “you’re a fan of our morning show?”
I smiled broadly and lied my ass off. “It has many interesting—”
“Yeah, we know. It’s terrible.” Jerry waved a hand at me. No bullshit here. “You know morning news shows are usually the cash cows. The foreign bureaus? The breaking coverage? All the political convention crap? Morning news pays for all of that. Evening news looks down on daytime programming, but it foots their bills.”
“Great,” I said in what I prayed was a simultaneously sage and supportive tone.
“Except,” said Jerry, “for our network.”
“Ah.”
“Our show is perpetually in fourth place behind the Today show, Good Morning America, and that thing on CBS, whatever it’s called.”
Yeah, no one watched that show either.
Jerry sighed. “The anchors of our show are difficult and semi-talented—”
I pursed my lips and shook my head. “Colleen Peck is a pro—”
“Hei—nous!” Jerry snapped.
Well, at least she didn’t fall asleep in the middle of the broadcast. “Paul McVee,” I said. “Fine reporter.”
Jerry shot me an incredulous look. “He’s foul.”
“Look, Mr. Barnes,” I said.
“Jerry.”
“Jerry, I—”
But he wasn’t finished. “Daybreak’s facilities are antiquated, it’s understaffed and underfunded, any executive producer who works there will be publicly ridiculed and overworked, and, oh, the pay is awful.”
I raised my eyebrows. “How awful?”
“About half of what you were making over there at Hey, How the Hell Are You, New Jersey.”
“Good Morning, New Jersey,” I corrected.
“Whatever.” He waved at me again. “I’ve offered this job to twenty-two people already and they’ve all turned me down.”
Twenty-two. I swallowed. Really? I wondered how many of those twenty-two were being headhunted away from current jobs, and how many were, like me, unemployed. How many people did he want for this position more than he did me? People who might be out there snatching up any other available job?
“Yes,” I said bravely. “But I—”
“Frankly,” Jerry admitted, “if I could find someone who was qualified, you wouldn’t be sitting in that chair.”
I reeled back in that chair as if I’d been slapped.
He counted off my disqualifications. “You’ve never been an executive producer, you’re too young, no one’s ever heard of you, and your education?” He shot me a look of disdain. “Three—not four—years at Fairleigh Ridiculous?”
“Dickin—”
“Did I miss anything?” He folded his arms.
I cleared my throat. “No.”
“Okay, Becky Fuller,” he said. “So. Speak.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. This might be my only chance. “Is Daybreak a shitty show? Yes. But it’s on a network, and not just any network—this is one of the most legendary news divisions in the history of television.”
Jerry gave me goggle eyes.
“All this show needs,” I continued, my tone turning passionate, “is someone who believes in it, who understands that a national platform is an invaluable resource, that no story is too low and no story is too high to reach for.” I stopped, a little breathless.
“Are you going to sing now?” Jerry asked.
“Daybreak needs exactly what I need,” I cried. “Someone who believes it can succeed. Trust me, I know there’s no reason you should believe in me except that I work harder than anyone else. First in. Last out. I know a shitload more about the news than someone whose daddy paid for them to smoke bongs and take semiotics at Harvard.”
For once, Jerry had gone quiet. Oh, crap. I checked above Jerry’s desk for any sign of a diploma. Please tell me he didn’t go to Harvard.
“And I devote myself completely to my job,” I said quickly, while the Harvard crack lingered. “It’s all I do. It’s all I am. You can ask anyone.”
“Well, that’s …” Jerry grimaced. “… Embarrassing.”
“It is,” I agreed. “It’s also true.” Dear God, was it true. And for the past two months, the daily five hours between my waking up and the advent of dawn I’d spent doing absolutely nothing had totally driven home that fact. I needed the news far, far more than I’d needed anything. Except coffee. Or maybe a boyfriend.
Actually, God, if I get this job, I promise I’ll stop complaining about the boyfriend.
He studied me for a moment, arms folded, the horn-rimmed glasses the only thing keeping his gaze from turning skanky. I stared back, chin lifted. I was dead serious about what I’d said. And this was so obviously my only shot.
Finally, he said, “I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” I said, and rose. I began backing out the door. “I’ll just … show myself out, then. When do you think—”
“I’ll let you know,” he repeated, and turned back to his work.
“Do you have … All my info’s on the resume.” Oh God, I hoped I was backing out the actual door. I risked a look behind me. Yep. Door. “Okay!” I said. “Bye! Thanks for … thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look up. Was that a bad sign? Did I screw up? Sound too eager? Too desperate? Too oddly obsessed with the very idea of morning news shows?
I walked to the elevator in a daze, going over every nuance in Jerry’s expression post–impassioned speech. Was he impressed? Disgusted? Scared? Had I screwed up my only chance? The door opened and I stepped in. Should I have reminded him about how I was applicant number twenty-three—acted, like the applicants before me, like I was too good for Daybreak?
A man stepped into the elevator beside me. About my age, with six inches on me—even in my heels—and absurdly handsome, with good hair, chiseled features, and an untucked dress shirt of matching quality. At the very least, he hadn’t just flubbed a major job interview. He looked from me to the elevator control panel and then back to me.
“It’s these buttons right here,” he said.
“Oh.” I snapped out of it. “Um, lobby, please.”
He pressed the button. “Good day so far?”
“Don’t think so,” I said, too rattled to be anything but candid. “Talked too much. Ruined it.”
“Making up for it now?” he said, mocking my tone.
The elevators doors started to close when a hand slid in and stopped them. The doors reopened, and in walked Mike Pomeroy.
I gasped. Ohmigod. Mike Pomeroy. Mike Pomeroy! A little older, perhaps, than when I used to idolize him on the nightly news, but still impressive, with silver hair and a rugged face and intelligent eyes and oh wow, oh wow, Mike Pomeroy is standing in the elevator with me right now.
Mike Pomeroy gave a perfunctory nod to the cute guy as the elevator began its descent. I opened my mouth to speak, then bit my tongue. I tried to stare at the floor numbers on the monitor, but MikePomeroyisstandingnextome he’sbreathingmyair MikePomeroyohmigod.
“Sir,” I said, turning to face him. I couldn’t help myself. “I … wow. I am … such an admirer, sir. I … Just wow.”
The other man looked amused by my outburst.
“Big, big fan. Big. Huge. We watched you growing up … my whole family did. Of all the anchors I ever saw, you were by far the best reporter. I mean it. When you were in Kosovo, I was in Kosovo. You know? Wow.”
Mike Pomeroy looked at the other guy. “She work for you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m just here to teach her how to use the elevator.”
The door opened at my back. Mike turned back to me. “You done?”
“Yes,” I said. Wow, Mike Pomeroy was addressing me. “Sorry. Yes.”
He gestured past me, to the exit. “May I?”
“Oh.” I scooted out of the way. “Yes. Sure. Of course. Sorry.”
Mike Pomeroy left. As the doors closed, I sighed. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just … do you know him?”
The elevator dinged again and the doors opened. “Yes,” said the man, his face and tone equally stiff. “He’s the third-worst person in the world.” Then he got off.
I struggled to collect myself all the way down to the lobby.
Well, I suppose my visit to IBS wasn’t a total waste of time. After all, I’d been face-to-face with Mike Pomeroy. Probably made an even bigger fool of myself to him than I had to Jerry Barnes, but still. It had been worth it. Mike Pomeroy!
Guess that was my first and last chance to be in an elevator with him, though. I trudged across the IBS plaza, no longer caring if I scuffed the toes of my power pumps. I pulled off my IBS guest badge and tossed it in the nearest trash can. The pedestrian traffic flowed around me, busy New Yorkers, with jobs, livelihoods, boyfriends. Reasons for existing.
My BlackBerry started buzzing in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the number.
IBS.
I answered, heedless of the city noise and the sound of the fountain in the plaza and the fact that it was not superprofessional to shout “Hello!” into a phone.
“Okay,” said Jerry. “Let’s do it.”
“Really?” I cried.
“I told you it didn’t pay much though, right?”
He had indeed. Less even than my old job, and I’d have to relocate to Manhattan. Still, right now I was being paid nothing and I wasn’t working in television. So it was still a step up.
“I’ll take it.”
“Be here Monday.” He hung up.
For a moment I was utterly still, a high heel–clad rock in the river of Manhattan foot traffic. And then I leapt for joy. I started whooping and screaming, scaring at least ten pedestrians. I twirled around a few times for good measure, then danced down the street toward the nearest entrance to the subway.
Becky Fuller, Executive Producer of IBS’s Daybreak.
I’d done it.
I was already trolling craigslist for apartments on the ferry ride back to Jersey.
“No, I don’t have any pets,” I explained to the dude with the promising-sounding studio. “Loud parties?” I laughed. “Not unless you think me and some raw cookie dough is a party. And I don’t mind the lack of a view. I actually find looking at a wall kind of soothing.”
Morning Glory Page 3
