Morning Glory (15 page)

Also, mismatched socks. I turned my eyes heavenward, then realized, remembering Ernie’s fan base, that they’d probably find that endearing as well.

“Yes, it’s exciting,” Ernie was saying. “We’ve strapped the camera to our seat so that now, courtesy of
Daybreak
, you’re about to see, along with me, exactly what this ride is like!” In the background, you could hear the steady
chug-chug-chug
as the car was pulled up the first hill. “So far,” he said, looking around, “it’s quite a beautiful ride. I’ve got an amazing view from up here. All blue sky except for a few cumulus clouds …”

In the control room, a few people snickered. Leave it to Ernie to work a weather report into a story about a roller coaster. What was next, a statement about the windchill factor?

“I’m heading for the first loop now!” he called.

“Good luck, Ernie,” Colleen said.

The coaster car continued chugging, the sound growing faster and higher as Ernie reached the crest. Puffy white cumulus clouds framed his face. He looked like a Renaissance cherub. Well, if Raphael had ever painted one strapped to a vinyl roller coaster seat.

“This is so exhilarating!” Ernie was saying. “This is—”

The chugging stopped. The camera pulled tight on Ernie’s face. Screams started up in the background as Ernie’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of stark terror.

“Oh my God,” he cried. “Ohmygodohmygod.”

“Yeah, no,” Lenny said to me. “It’s a great idea.”

According to the diagram I’d seen of the Manhandler, Ernie should be falling into his first of three barrel rolls by now.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—,” Ernie screamed.

Merv dived toward the mute button. “Got it.”

But Ernie was apparently still screaming his head off on-screen. We watched him twist around the loops, his hair flying up and down, his jowls flapping in the g-force as he spun. It was incredible. It was stunning.

I hoped people were seeing this. Otherwise, it was entirely possible I’d just killed my meteorologist on a whim.

“Has he stopped cussing?” I asked Merv. He turned on internal audio. “Mommy!” Ernie was crying. “Mommy! Help me!”

I laughed. “Okay, you gotta put that one on.”

“You got it.” Merv flipped the switch.

A few moments later, the ride was done. We watched Ernie, chest heaving, eyes wide and watery, pull around the final corner of the coaster and back to the loading zone. His hair was blown off his face, his cheeks and nose were pink.

“Ernie?” Colleen asked nervously. “How you doing?”

A huge smile broke out on the meteorologist’s face. “Can I go again?”

 16 

E
veryone was riding high that afternoon. Everyone, that was, except Mike.

He stormed off after the broadcast, sat in stony silence during our lunch meeting, then cornered me afterward at the Craft Services corridor.

“How is this journalism?” he cried. I was surprised he wasn’t shaking his fist at me. “What are you going to do to him next? Plant electrodes on his balls?”

“To what end?” I asked calmly, as if I were genuinely curious.

This only infuriated him more. Good. “You know, I actually feel sorry for that animatronic puppet asshole.”

“Don’t waste your pity,” I shot back. “Ernie’s thrilled. We’ve got eighty thousand hits on YouTube already.
And
”—a fact that was much more important to me—“a bump in the minute-to-minutes. He’s a superstar.”

“He’s a clown,” Mike corrected.

“Lighten up.” I surveyed the muffin selection. Pretty picked over, by this point. The only ones left were bran. And no Danishes. Darn.

“You know what I’ve noticed?” Mike leaned in, voice lowered. “People only say ‘lighten up’ when they’ve got their fist up your ass.”

Really? IBS execs basically had their fists up mine, but I hadn’t heard anything of the sort. I turned to face him. “I hate to break this to you, Mike, but the fact is, the nation—no, the
world
—has debated news versus entertainment for years.” I slapped a muffin on my plate. “Guess what? Your side
lost
.”

“You’re wrong.” For once, Mike looked as angry as I felt. “People are smart. They want information, not junk—which is all you want to give them.” He picked up a glazed donut and waved it in my face. “Junk! Sugar, sugar, and more sugar.”

I picked up my muffin. “What do
you
want them to do?” I shoved my muffin at him. “Eat bran all day? Fiber, fiber, fiber?”

We shook our foodstuffs in each other’s faces for a moment more, until we were interrupted by Lenny. He cleared his throat and reached past us for an apple. “This is an awesome work environment,” he said.

I put down my muffin and took a deep breath, hoping to bring my status down from
lunatic
to merely
stressed
. “We have to get ratings, Mike. We have to, or we can have a lot of high-minded ideals and
not be on the air
.” Didn’t he remember what that was like? Not being on the air? Not doing any news at all, no matter how silly or petty some of it might seem? Wasn’t this better than nothing?

Why couldn’t I make him see that?

I stepped even closer to him. “This show might go down, Mike, but not because I’m not trying my hardest. Do you hear me? I don’t care what you do anymore, but
I am not giving up
.”

“And then, when he started screaming?” Anna giggled and took another sip of her chardonnay. I’d invited her over to my postage-stamp apartment for a girls’ night in. “Man, that was brilliant. I don’t know how you got around him cussing like that.”

“Apparently the amount of time between the F and the muted K was so long, the IBS lawyers classified it as separate and distinct utterances.” I reached for the bottle balanced precariously on the edge of my storage chest–cum–coffee table and poured its last few drops into my glass.

“We must have watched it five times at work. Classic Becky Fuller.”

Classic? I raised my eyebrows. I’d never strapped Harold the Hip-Hop Meteorologist into a roller coaster at
Good Morning, New Jersey
. Though maybe if I had, he would have stopped rapping. Perhaps I should suggest it to Anna.

“How is work?” I asked her instead.

“Fine.” Anna shrugged. “Chip’s sort of in-the-box about things. And we did have to explain to him where New Providence was last week. He thought we were talking about Rhode Island.”

I groaned. “Didn’t he think to bring a map with him when he took the job?”

“Guy’s not from Jersey,” said Anna. “He’ll catch up. Sometime.”

“Sometime before you leave?” I asked.

She laughed. “Why, Becky? You hiring?”

“I wish I were!” It would be great to have Anna back on my team. Just talking to her over a bottle of wine was doing wonders for my mood. But even if I did manage to buy the show an extra few months to improve ratings, there’s no way I’d have the ability to buy it a new producer.

Anna rose from the couch and walked two steps to the far wall. “Becks, I’m going to level with you. Your apartment would fit in my driveway.”

“My apartment would fit in the car I had to sell to afford it,” I replied. “This is not news. What kind of news show employee are you?” I shook the wine bottle, upside down, over my glass.

“Clearly not one doing my investigative best,” she replied. “I haven’t grilled you about this Adam guy yet.”

“Adam,” I said, “is dreamy.”

She hopped back on the couch. “Go on!”

“And sweet. And smart. And supportive.”

“Adam,” she said, “is imaginary.”

I laughed. “Actually, you know when I realized I really liked him?”

She leaned in, eyes alight. There was nothing Anna Garcia liked more than a good romance. It’s why she had so many of them. “When?”

“When he answered his BlackBerry in the middle of our first date.”

She blinked in disbelief. “He
what
?”

“I know!” I grinned. “I realized then we were perfect for each other.”

“So he’s as crazy as you, is what you’re saying.” Anna polished off her glass.

I stared into the bottom of mine, thinking of what I had planned for tomorrow. “No, honey. No one’s quite as crazy as me.”

.  .  .

Early the next morning, I was staked out in front of a ritzy apartment building on Central Park West. My sources told me that this target—a hot hip-hop artist sure to drive up ratings—tended to sleep in late. I drank an entire large coffee while waiting, but then started to worry that this wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe he’d prefer if I went for vitamin water?

I watched folks go in and out of the building, and each time, my hopes rose, but it was never him. Finally, when I’d almost given up and gone in search of a bathroom—large coffee, remember?—I saw my prey exit his building and head for a waiting black Cadillac Escalade.

I raced to intercept him. “Excuse me!” I called, then froze. Should I call him by his real name? His stage name? What was appropriate here?

The man in question turned and gave me a deadpan glare. For some reason, the only thing I could think of was how this dude had been in prison. What was it with me and stalking folks who carried firearms?

“Sorry to bother you,” I said quickly to my target. “I’m a big, big fan.”

“You.”

“Oh yeah.” I snapped my fingers and started to sing. I have to admit, I’m not much of a rapper.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one,” he said, his tone flat.

“Such a classic,” I said. “Anyway—my name is Becky Fuller, and I’m the executive producer at
Daybreak
?”

“At what?”

“Wow, you’re funny, too!” I exclaimed with false cheer. “We’d love to have you on our show. We’ll give you twice as much time as
Today
and we’ll let you sing four songs from your new album. Think about it.”

He squinted. “What’s your show?”

“
Daybreak
? On IBS?”

“Oh, uh … yeah.” By which he meant, “Oh, uh … no.”

I handed him my card. “Give me a call anytime. We’d love to have you!”

“Right.” He stuck the card in his pants pocket and climbed into his chauffeur-driven car.

I held back my squeal and dance of triumph until after he pulled away.

The next day at
Daybreak
, we readied ourselves for Ernie’s next “Atmospheric Adventure.” The segment title had actually been Sasha’s idea, but I liked it. Tied his official duties in with our new angle.

At least we had the pattern down pat. Once again the shot was tight on Ernie’s face and upper torso. The viewer could tell he was being strapped into something. The viewer could tell he was nervous. But what the viewer couldn’t tell was what was about to happen.

“Stay tuned,” said Colleen, “for Ernie’s latest ‘Atmospheric Adventure.’ ”

If our new YouTube followers and Facebook friends were anything to judge by, they would. The minute-to-minutes looked good, and I was keeping my fingers crossed that the next ratings report would bear out the trend.

When we returned to Ernie, the shot zoomed out as we heard him say, “These fighter jets exert amazing stress on their passengers, with g-force measurements sometimes reaching—”

A loud whine filled the screen as the engines roared and Ernie took off. His smile wavered at the edges as the plane tilted back.

“All right, guys, here we go! Here we go, folks! Here we—”

“Um, boss?” Merv asked. “Do we cut away for barf?”

“Yes,” I said. “But that’s going to be a vomit-only policy. Hold on a nosebleed.”

“Got it.”

On-screen, Ernie was starting to freak out. “Oh fuuuuuu …”

“Cut the sound,” I cued. Merv cut.

But then, better than a nosebleed, and prettier than vomit, we got our money shot: Ernie fainted dead away.

I was going over the minute-to-minutes when Colleen caught up with me in the hallway. She didn’t look pleased.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “About Ernie.”

I eyed her with suspicion. Had Mike somehow gotten to her? Was she about to give me some ridiculous impassioned speech about the sanctity of the news?

“You too?” I sighed. “Why is everyone so worried about him? He’s a grown man, he’s signed all the release forms, his life insurance is totally paid up—”

“You bet I’m worried,” Colleen said. “Ernie’s a hack and you know it. Yet you keep giving him all the good stuff.”

I stopped walking and gave her my full attention.

“I would have
killed
on that coaster,” said Colleen. “And tomorrow’s bungee expedition? Come on now. Who’d you rather see scream?”

She had a point there. She might even have those magic three quarters of a point we’d need to keep the show on the air.

Colleen came closer. “Look, I see what you’re doing and I think it’s great. It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Put me in, Coach. Sign me up. Whatever you want to call it. I’m in.”

I smiled. “Great,” I said. “Any particular ideas?”

Colleen rubbed her hands together with glee. “Well, now that you mention it …”

The following day brought a special treat to early morning pedestrians passing by the IBS plaza. Colleen Peck, coanchor of the morning show
Daybreak
, was decked out in an enormous foam rubber sumo wrestler’s suit, grappling in a makeshift ring with an actual sumo wrestler.

Lenny and I watched the proceedings from the control room. His expression remained doubtful.

“What?” I said, gesturing to the screen. Behind Colleen’s fake girth, I could see a steady crowd forming. Some of them were on their cell phones, no doubt informing their friends and family back home that they just had to turn on IBS. Others were holding up said cell phones, trying to get their own video record of the event. It was a certifiable success.

“She’s … 
grunting
an awful lot, don’t you think?” Lenny asked, wrinkling his upper lip.

Grunting? Great. I turned to Merv. “Can you hike up the sound?”

The day after that, we had happy fun animal time in the studio. Sasha was in seventh heaven as she ushered the animal handler onto the living room set, where Colleen was primed and waiting. We’d had to pack on a little extra makeup to hide the bruises this morning, but she was a sport about it. Who knew sumo wrestlers were that tough?

Colleen introduced our guest and her charge: a tiny little squirrel-looking thing called a sugar glider. Apparently, they were all the rage as celebrity pets.

“These are adorable,” Colleen cooed as the handler held the creature out to the camera. “So, they’re marsupials?”

I pressed the button that turned on Colleen’s headset. “Pick it up,” I suggested.

Colleen obeyed.

The handler looked mildly alarmed. “You just want to be careful you don’t bring them too close to your face.”

Colleen cast a quick glance at me, then nestled the marsupial against her cheek. “Aww, it’s so soft. You cute widdle—”

The sugar glider wriggled out of Colleen’s grasp, then vanished up the arm of her blazer. She shrieked and began hopping around the set, desperately attempting to shake the animal loose from the strap of her bra.

Eventually, she fished it out of her cleavage. “Well,” she said, holding the creature at arm’s length, “aren’t they a fun time for the whole family.”

Score.

The Web buzz was building to match the minute-to-minutes and the latest ratings report was showing a very definite—if very slight—bump. This was working. I just had to keep it up. Push the envelope a little further.

The day after that, Colleen participated in a tumbling act with a bunch of local children who were part of a dance troupe that raised money for charities. Usual fare for the morning show crowd, to be sure, but Colleen kicked it up a notch by dressing like the children in a Pepto-Bismol pink body stocking and matching giant tutu.

Her YouTube hits began to give Ernie’s a run for his money.

I avoided Mike as much as possible. There were only so many stony glares of disapproval a girl could take. He kept delivering the news in his usual dry manner, and his expressions of disgust at my tactics, both on and off set, were so ubiquitous as to have grown invisible. No one even paid attention to him anymore. And why would they, when they could watch the infinitely more entertaining spectacle of Ernie Appleby getting a tattoo on his ass.

Yes. Tattoo. Ass. Live television. God, I’m good.

Ernie was such a sport. He sat there on the table, all relevant parts covered except for one creamy, broadcast-friendly flank.

My meteorologist addressed the camera with equanimity, holding up a sketch of a tornado with two lightning bolts coming out the top. “The thing is, tattoos can be quite painful, depending on the sensitivity of the area you’re stabbing with a needle.” He chuckled. “Which is why I’m choosing a place with a little extra padding.”