by Amy Patrick
I shook his hand, finding his grip surprisingly firm, considering what had happened to him. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you. How are you feeling?” I darted a glance at his left leg. The entire calf was blue and purple, with dark, nearly black, streaks extending almost down to the ankle. Gross. Fang marks at least two inches apart centered the dark area.
“Well, I feel a whole heckuva lot better than I probably should. I couldn’t find my snake boots this morning, so I wore my muck boots. I didn’t see any turkeys, but I sure found myself a big ole timber rattler. Bit right through my pants and the boots.”
“A rattlesnake. That’s what bit you, huh? Does it hurt?” I asked.
“Not right now. They’ve got me doped up real nice.” He gave me a happy smile. “But it felt like somebody took a full swing at my leg with a baseball bat when it happened. I’m lucky to be here.”
Aric set up the camera, and I clipped a lavalier microphone on Buddy’s gown. When Aric told me he was rolling, I began the interview.
“Did you see the snake?”
“Oh yeah—I got a look at ’im. That sucker was about six foot long.” Buddy stretched his arms as wide apart as they’d go in an attempt to represent the snake that struck him. “I was all by myself. I knew the hospital was twenty minutes away, and I’d have to walk back to where I parked my truck. I wasn’t sure I could make it.”
“You must have been terrified,” I said.
“I gotta admit—I was pretty scared. I sent up a prayer, you know? I’ve got a family, and I was thinking of them. I knew I had to calm down and stop my heart from pumping so fast because all I was doing was helping the venom get through my system faster. I got my venom extraction kit out of my turkey vest. I’d been carrying it around for ten years and never needed it. I had to read the directions first because I’d never even opened it up.”
Buddy explained how he’d used the kit to extract several cups of his own poisoned blood from the wound before limping to his truck and driving himself to the medical center. “The doctor told me I’d gotten a pretty good dose of venom. He said I’d have died before I ever made it back to my truck if I hadn’t had that extraction kit.”
After we finished interviewing Buddy and shooting some video of him and his wound, I interviewed the doctor who had treated him, and Aric and I left the hospital.
“I have an idea for my stand-up—let’s stop along the road when we get to a stretch of woods.” I was almost giddy at the prospect of being able to get something other than a static shot of me just standing in front of the camera with a microphone.
Aric pulled over when we found a good spot. He lifted the gear out of the trunk and followed me to the tree line. “So—are we looking for snakes? Cause after hearing Buddy’s story, I have to say I’m not too excited about that plan.”
“No.” I giggled. “We’ll only go a few steps into the woods. You’re going to be the snake.”
“I think I’ve been insulted.” He laughed.
I demonstrated my meaning with my hand low to the ground, representing the camera. “You’ll move the camera through the grass and leaves here at snake level, see? And my legs will come into view. Then you’ll sort of strike out at my leg with the camera real quick, like it’s biting me, then pull back wide and pan up my legs to my face. I’ll just keep talking the whole time.”
“Oh, I get it—snake-eye view. Good idea. That’s going to look cool.”
“It might take us a few tries to get the timing right. I’ll count down and walk into frame. When I get to one, you can start your movement.”
Aric got onto his knees, checking around him first (for snakes, no doubt) and took a couple of practice runs with the camera before nodding to me and pointing.
“Ready? Three, two, one… hunter Buddy Harris didn’t find any turkeys this morning, but something found him—a six foot rattlesnake.”
On cue, Aric moved the camera in a quick dive for my leg, then jerked it back and tilted the lens up toward my face.
I continued speaking, “Buddy said he’d never felt any pain like it in his life. He didn’t have to see the two fang-holes in his boots to know he’d been bitten, and to know it was bad.”
We got a few more shots in the woods for cover video before returning to the car for the thirty minute ride to Starkville. I felt like skipping, anticipating the fun of editing the stand-up in with Buddy’s sound bites. And this story would go right on my escape tape.
Aric glanced over at me after fastening his seatbelt and starting the car. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Like what?”
“So happy. You can’t stop smiling. You really love the job, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, when it’s like this. It’s fun to do it right, you know? To do something good. Viewers might actually learn something helpful from this story, and we get to do it in a creative, interesting way. I wish it was like this all the time.”
Aric checked his mirrors and pulled out onto the highway. “It will be when you make it to a big market. Which I have absolutely no doubt you’ll do.”
I blinked and looked at him, feeling myself flush with pleasure at his remark. “Thanks. You too. I mean, you’re already too good to be here. Why did you even take this job? It’s your second one, right?”
“Right. Well, I was just a sports reporter in Mankato, and the sports director and weekend sports anchor had been there forever. They were from the area and had no intention of ever leaving. So I didn’t get to anchor much. I needed more anchoring experience and more anchoring clips for my reel. You know how it is—people want to see you doing it before they’ll consider hiring you to do it. Plus—I’d never been to the South. I thought it would be an adventure.”
“You’re brave. What do you think so far?”
He gave me a flirty glance. “Well, I have to admit, there’s a lot to love about the area—” My ringtone interrupted.
“Sorry—it’s my dad. He’s probably calling about my car.” I hit the button. “Hi Daddy.”
My father told me he’d had my car checked out by a mechanic after towing it this morning and that everything was working well. He and my brother Tee planned to drop it by the station for me later in the afternoon.
“Okay. Maybe I’ll see you then. Thanks, Daddy.”
After I hung up, Aric shot me an amused glance. “You call your father ‘Daddy’?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It makes you sound about five years old.” He lifted a finger and added quickly, “Don’t get offended. I think it’s cute.”
I shrugged. “It’s a Southern thing. Everyone calls their dad ‘Daddy’ here—even guys. Why? What do you call your father?”
“Peter.”
“You call him by his first name?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like a California thing or anything. He thinks Dad, or Pop, or whatever makes him sound old… and the one thing Peter Serrano can’t tolerate is being thought of as old. He’s been in full midlife crisis mode for the past, oh, twenty years.” He glanced over at me and answered my unspoken question. “He left us when I was three. I don’t even remember him living with us.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Yeah. Sure. We get together, hang out sometimes when he can get away from New York or I can go there. But he’s more like a buddy than a father, you know?”
I didn’t. I couldn’t picture such a parental relationship. “No brothers or sisters?”
“Nope—it was just us three, and then the two of us after he left.”
“Wow, I can’t imagine having such a small family.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve got a smaller circle of people, you know, but once someone’s in, they’re in—nothing could make me give up on them.” He glanced away from the road to look at my face, then back. “Sometimes I wished for a brother or two, but my mom didn’t get remarried until a few years ago—nice guy.”
“And your dad?”
“Nope, never married again. He like
s his freedom too much. I used to think his wild, no-roots kind of life was really fun. Now… I guess now he seems a little pathetic.” Aric huffed an unamused laugh. “It’s kind of funny his name is Peter, actually—I’ve always wondered if he took Peter Pan a bit too seriously.”
“I do think people subconsciously live up, or down to their names. It’s like a self-fulfilling prophesy. You wouldn’t believe how many sex offenders we’ve reported on who are named Chester.”
“What?”
“Seriously. Think about it—how many times when they were growing up did they hear ‘Chester the Molester’?” I mimicked a childlike bratty tone as I said it. “I’m not kidding. We’ve had like three or four of them. Promise me you’ll never name your kid Chester.”
He held up one hand like he was taking a vow. “You got it. I’ll probably never have kids anyway.”
“Like, never? Do you hate kids or something?”
“No. Not at all. Kids are fine. It’s this career, you know? I mean I like the idea of having a family someday, more people to love—but how do you do it with the constant moving, working nights, weekends, holidays? It’s not fair to the kids.”
“You’re right. Imagine poor little Chester, growing up without a father.” I laughed, but Aric didn’t. He winced.
“Oh, sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said quickly.
“It’s okay. It’s just—that’s exactly my point. Kids need a dad who’s there. Not someone who’s constantly gone or uprooting them every couple of years.”
“You said you moved a lot as a kid, right?”
“Yeah. It was kind of lonely. Not all bad though—it teaches you to be strong, makes you flexible. You realize you can go anywhere and be okay, and then when it’s time to go, you can just pick up and do it all over again.”
And it gives you a short attention span, makes you someone who can break ties without a thought. “Well, it sounds kind of cool—to get to see all those different places. Not boring, anyway.”
“Right. What about you? Planning to crank out a rugrat or two?” He slid his eyes over to me then back to the highway.
“Oh, God no. I’m like you. I want to focus on my career. Besides, gotta be married before you start thinking about babies. Or, at least that would be my preference.”
“Colleen says you practically are. Married. To some, like, plantation owner or something. What was his name—Kale?”
I shot him a withering glance. “Hale. And we’re not practically married. We’re not even engaged. In fact—” I stopped short, remembering the story I’d relied on so heavily since meeting Aric. The farce of having a boyfriend was unnecessary now I knew Aric had someone special in his life, but I’d already said it, and I didn’t know exactly how to un-tell the lie.
When I didn’t pick up and finish the sentence, Aric tried finishing it for me. “In fact… you’re what? Getting engaged soon? Engaged to be engaged? Don’t worry—I’m sure old Kale is planning some big stunt—like he’ll rent a suit of armor and come riding across the plantation on a big white horse with an armful of roses.”
Aric’s mocking tone irritated me. “His name is Hale. And it’s not a plantation. It’s just a… really big farm. And he doesn’t have a white horse.” I sniffed. Hale’s favorite horse was a Palomino, so she was actually an off-white color. I continued, enjoying pointing out how wrong Aric’s assumptions were. “And—Hale never gives me flowers.”
Aric blinked. “Really? You’ve been together how long?”
“Almost four years.” I lifted my chin in defiance, though he wasn’t looking at me.
“And he’s never given you flowers. Don’t you like flowers?”
“Of course I do. I’m a girl.” I shrugged. “But Hale thinks it’s stupid because they’ll only die in a few days and it’s a waste of money. He’s very practical. He’d be more likely to drive me out to see a pretty pasture full of wildflowers than to send some from a florist shop.” Though, now that I thought about it, he’d never done the pasture thing either. Suddenly, I was tired of this conversation.
Thankfully, we’d arrived on the State campus and it was time to get back to work. We fought our way through the game-day traffic, parking in a reserved media spot outside the stadium.
As we unloaded our gear from the trunk, Aric pulled out a white plastic bag. “So, I told you I’d bring everything we needed.” He reached into the bag and produced two scraggly fake beards, one blond to match his hair, one brunette like mine. “Check it out.”
I laughed. “What are those for?”
“It’s Beard Day at the game. You know, like the players?”
Most of the players on the MSU team had allowed their beards to grow this season, making them look like a band of identically-dressed, heavily-padded lumberjacks on the field. I hated the look but had to admit it was pretty funny. A few die-hard fans had grown their facial hair in support, and others had started sporting fake beards during the games. The beard-wearers were featured almost every Saturday in televised coverage.
“So everyone’s supposed to wear one of these today?” I asked.
“If they want to get in for a buck.”
“That’s hilarious. I wonder if anyone will actually do it?”
“Come on. Let’s find out.” Aric slammed the trunk and lifted the tripod.
I got my answer as soon as we turned the corner and saw the stadium gates. Everywhere I looked, people sported beards. Men, women, children, infants. Beards made of construction paper, cotton, pricey costume-store pirate beards, one fashioned from what looked like dryer lint. One guy walked by with a post-it stuck to his face. On the paper he’d written the word “beard” in black marker.
“Okay.” Aric turned back to me. “I see the perfect people to interview. Come on.”
I followed as he forged a path through the crowd toward our target. It was obvious why he’d chosen them. Aric approached the couple surrounded by their three adorable boys, all of whom appeared to be under eight years old. All wearing strap-on beards. In the mother’s arms was a baby girl. She turned her head. There was a beard drawn onto her tiny chin. Man, I hoped that was washable marker.
Aric slid his beard onto his face, the plastic band depressing his hair in the back. “Excuse me. Hi. How are you all today? Great beards.”
“Thanks.” The dad’s eyes flicked to the camera equipment, to me, clearly wondering what Aric wanted.
“Would you guys be willing to talk to us for a minute? This is for the ten o’clock news tonight. I’m Aric.” The two false-bearded men shook hands as they agreed to the interview.
“This is Heidi.” Aric turned to look back at me. “Hey.” He tugged at his beard and raised a brow significantly, urging me to put mine on as well.
Oh well, while in Starkville. I strapped on my silly beard and set up the camera. I’d learned to shoot in college and was pretty decent at it. Of course, like reporting, it was so much easier when that was all I had to focus on rather than trying to do everything at once.
I indicated we were rolling, and Aric asked the family questions, starting with the parents and moving to the little boys. He kept it very casual, setting the family at ease so their responses were funny and real rather than forced or nervous. I followed with the camera, slowly zooming in on each young boy as he responded, widening the shot again as Aric moved with his microphone to another family member. Lastly, he pretended to interview the baby girl.
“So tell me, Cassie, how long did it take you to grow this fine beard?” He used the sweetest possible voice to talk to her, and she stared up at him with wide brown eyes that seemed to drink in every detail of his face. Can’t blame you there, kiddo.
The baby reached out for the stick mic, grabbing a handful of the foam windscreen covering it. Her mom scolded her and tried to pry her tiny hand away. “No, no, Cassie.”
“It’s okay. She can’t hurt it,” Aric reassured. He cupped the baby’s downy head, his large hand covering the entire back o
f her skull. As he cooed in her face, the baby gazed at him as if he was all that existed in the world. “May I please have this back, Cassie? Can I? Are you going to let me have my microphone back?”
She released her grip and gave him a wide gummy grin dotted with two tiny front teeth.
“Oh, thank you.” Aric stroked her plump cheek.
Oh my God. I’m envious of a baby. I shook my head to clear it. I really needed to get a hold of myself. Especially now that I knew Aric was involved with someone long-distance and he believed I was in a committed relationship. I had to work on my just-friends attitude and banish the improper thoughts that insisted on popping up every few minutes when I was with him.
We finished the interview, Aric thanked the family, and then we talked to a few students on camera, getting some good usable sound bites and some that would never make air. One group of frat guys we met had clearly started the party early. They were loud and happy and flirted with me outrageously.
“You’re beautiful,” slurred a lanky guy with a mop of platinum hair and a maroon blazer. He looked like a freshman and teetered over me like a skinny tree that might go down with the next strong breeze.
“She is, isn’t she?” Aric said in a clipped, impatient way. “Okay guys, just a couple of questions—”
Another one of them, a stocky guy in a wrinkled button-down and crooked tie, ignored Aric completely and pushed things a step further. His whiskey-soaked breath surrounded me as he crowded my personal space. “You’re way cuter than you are on TV. They should make the news desk see-through. You have great legs.”
The guy lurched back from me as Aric stepped in and gave him the buddy-slap on the shoulder, employing more force than seemed necessary. “Okay, friend. Time to move along. This one’s spoken for.”
Aric’s voice sounded even deeper than usual. Though he’d obviously been referring to Hale, the protectiveness of his tone struck a shameful chord of pleasure in my midsection. I hadn’t actually been afraid—we were in a crowd of people in broad daylight—but there’s something almost magnetic about a guy whose instinct is to stand up for you.
