Page 6 of Good Days Bad Days

Greg

WQRX Studios

Janesville, Wisconsin

“Give a warm welcome to Donald Hollinger, our new station manager,” Mark says, standing at the front of the conference room filled with our small cast and crew from WQRX. The employees erupt in aggressive applause, and it takes me a tick to join.

Don Hollinger takes Mark’s spot, hands clasped in front of him in a sign of gratitude. He’s young, a few years older than I am. Not a traditional-looking “bigwig.” Though he wears a suit and fancy silk tie, he also has a dense beard and hair that touches his ears.

We all know Don isn’t our friend. He’s from the new Epistle Broadcasting Network.

EBN is a television network that intersperses nationally broadcast content with locally sourced news and programming.

EBN bought out WQRX with the promise of taking us into the future of television, but we know this change will inevitably lead to layoffs and replacing the old guard with the new.

Yet, here we all are, cheering him on like he’s a returning hero.

Mr. Hollinger quiets the room before I can get more than a couple of claps in.

“Thank you. Thank you. What a warm welcome. I’m honored to be here officially at the helm of a ship you all have built and captained for a decade.

We’d not be where we are at WQRX if it weren’t for the fine work you’ve all done here.

” More applause. Don stops us and adds, “Yet more must be done. We are facing a new decade. Ninety-five percent of Americans now have a television in their home and look to their local stations for their news before a newspaper. We, my friends, carry that remarkable responsibility.”

If I were in a private room with Mark, I’d roll my eyes and we’d talk about what a blowhard this guy sounds like, coming from a national news network and lecturing us on our station’s importance. But I keep my head down like always.

Don continues.

“But we aren’t just here for news. We also want to provide entertainment. We’ll start some new special programming. For now, keep doing what you’re doing and keep focused on growth and change. Sound good?” Everyone claps gratefully, again. I join them briefly before Mark excuses us.

I follow my coworkers out of the conference room.

Larry Torrence, our head anchor who thinks himself a local celebrity, is chatting with Don like they’re old friends.

Mark gives me a brief look that I know means he’s dying to get away from both of them.

I nod emphatically, glad that I’m not in a position requiring that I do all that hand shaking and fake friend kind of BS.

“Gosh, this is exciting,” Martha Smith says to me.

Martha’s a bright, ambitious production assistant who started here before I did.

If she were a man, she’d be at least an associate producer by now.

I think Mark keeps assuming she’ll get married and leave the station to have kids, but Martha’s a staunch feminist, determined to have a career even if she has a family one day.

I don’t know how we’d get on without her and her level head, so I’m glad she’s avoided Mark’s predictions.

“Uh, yeah,” I say to Martha, tongue-tied as usual.

“I heard Mr. Hollinger is taking pitches for new programming.” Martha’s eyes sparkle with excitement. Though she’s not beautiful in a traditional way like the women Mark drools over, when she’s alive with a new idea, she’s as beautiful as any woman I’ve laid eyes on.

“I . . . I heard that, too.”

I push my hands into my pockets and keep walking toward the stairs, where she’ll go up to her office and I’ll go down to the studio where I have my locker.

“I think I’m gonna do it. Pitch, I mean.

What do you think? Am I crazy?” I shake my head, confident in her abilities.

“Oh, good. ’Cause I’m dying to try something new.

To be honest, I was considering applying to KSTP-TV in Minnesota.

They have an open producer position there and I was thinking I’d put my hat in the ring . . .”

At the door to the stairwell, she stops to face me.

I hate the idea of Martha leaving WQRX. Mark used to tell me I should ask her out, that he thought Martha had a “thing” for me, but it felt strange.

I’d be asking out my own boss. Besides, what do I have to offer her?

What would she see in me? I can’t imagine.

“So, what do ya think?” she asks, looking up at me. All I want to say is I think you should stay, but do I have any right to tell her what to do?

“I think . . . I think they’d be lucky to have you.”

Martha’s eyebrow raises, and she tilts her head to the side as if she’s confused and a little hurt. I think she wanted me to tell her to stay. It’s possible Mark was right after all. Maybe I made a big mistake. My mouth goes dry like it always does in tense situations.

“Wait. So, you think I should go for the Minnesota job?”

“No,” I correct myself, stuttering, “I . . . I think you’ll be great at whatever you try.”

“Ah. OK. Well, I think I’ll try to pitch a project here first.” She runs the toe of her pointed brown shoe over the lines in the linoleum and then adds, “Would you want to work on it with me? Like, pitch it together?”

“Me?” The question explodes out, unlike most of my responses.

“Yeah, you.” She looks up at me from under her curled brown bangs.

We’ve worked together on multiple projects; one took us out in the field to cover the aftermath of a tornado in Whitewater.

The piece was nominated for a Midwest Broadcasters Association award, but not because of anything special on my part.

I followed her directions and so did the reporter who was the face of the segment.

“I . . . I’m not sure what good I’d be.”

“Well, I am sure, so that’ll have to do.” She checks her watch. “Dang. I’ve gotta run to my next meeting, but let’s chat soon.”

“All right,” I say as she dashes up the stairs.

I head in the opposite direction, stunned.

I’ve never really aimed for a job outside of the safety of the camera.

I mean, I have plenty of ideas, millions of them, really, but I gave up a long time ago on trying to say them aloud without having a heart attack.

Six hours later, her offer is still on my mind as I walk across the glossy marble floors of the lobby, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the old walls of the repurposed bank like they’re being released from the abandoned vaults.

I have nearly nothing in my cupboards in my little apartment on Court Street, so I take a left toward the diner.

I’ve been back to Ike’s nearly every day since my run-in with the pretty girl who lost her keys.

It’s not like I’m hoping she’ll show up, or at least that’s what I tell myself.

The curbs are lined with parked cars, and the street is nearly as packed with moving vehicles filled with every type of worker, but mostly those from the General Motors factory anxious to get home to their families after a long shift.

I have no such urgency. All that waits for me at home is a fern named Jerry and the Steinway upright piano that’s kept me company since I was a quiet child growing up in a loud family.

My mom used to say the piano was my voice.

“Hey, Greg. Slow down, man,” Mark calls from behind me.

I consider pretending I don’t hear him, but he’ll catch up with me as soon as we reach the diner anyway.

Although we have plenty to discuss from the morning meeting, I was kind of hoping to avoid a conversation with my talkative friend tonight.

Mark is a nice guy, but sometimes I appreciate being alone with my thoughts, especially when they involve things I’m not ready to share yet, like Martha’s pitch and her invitation to join her.

“Hi. Sorry.” I slow my pace, which is a challenge with my long stride.

“Damn, you walk fast.” Mark is huffing and puffing when he reaches my side.

“Guess I’m hungry.” I attempt a joke.

“Good. You could use a few dozen hearty meals. Put some meat on those scrawny bones.”

“Oof.” He pokes at my ribs, and I dodge his second jab.

Mark isn’t exactly fit, but he’s healthy looking, with large shoulders.

He plays basketball at the YMCA a few times a week, and his charm completes the image.

On the other hand, I am awkwardly tall and lanky.

As much as I wish to fade into the background, I stand out like a stooped and slender sore thumb.

“So, what do you think of the new boss man?” Mark asks, bringing up a topic adjacent to the one I’d like to avoid.

“He seems . . . motivated.”

“Motivated. Yes,” Mark says with a negative undertone. “Motivated to get rid of half of us at least.”

“Half?”

“Yeah, I mean, don’t spread it around, but EBN wants to cut as many of us as possible and bring in their own crew. I think that’s what those BS pitch things are about. It’s their way of assessing the talent pool here so they can make cuts.”

My mind immediately shifts to Martha and her hopeful eyes looking up at me.

“What if . . . what if someone were to pitch and not get picked up?”

Mark hikes his thumb over his shoulder.

“Gone. No way am I gonna be stupid enough to put my neck on the line with one of those proposal things. Keep your head down and do your best. I’m sure you’ll be safe. That’s my plan at least.”

Keep my head down.

Usually, I’m good at that. My mom used to say, “Greg, stand up straight. You look like a candy cane all hunched over like that. You’re a handsome boy. Let everyone see it.” But what my mom never seemed to understand was, I didn’t want everyone to see me.

But—I can’t say no to Martha.