Home > Necessary People(4)

Necessary People(4)
Author: Anna Pitoniak

There was a relatively new channel called King Cable News. It had no ideological bent, nothing that made it stand out, except for a wealthy owner—Mr. King, of King Media—who was happy to run the company in the red for as long as he had to. For the decade of KCN’s existence, Mr. King had been poaching stars from other networks, wooing them with massive paychecks, complete editorial independence, and equity in his privately held media conglomerate. When King Media eventually went public, the star anchors wouldn’t be wealthy in the usual multimillion-dollar-contract way. They’d be wealthy like tech titans, or hedge funders. KCN had won several Peabodys and Emmys in the past few years and had started gaining respect in the industry. Their audience was growing, too; they were often in third place, sometimes in second. More to the point, they were the place that offered me a job.

Rebecca Carter had been a network star, a White House correspondent and then a morning show anchor, and one of Mr. King’s original hires. Her innate seriousness, which she’d had to shelve for morning television, was on full display at Frontline with Rebecca Carter, the flagship program in the 8 p.m. hour. And it worked: she was on a hot streak lately, moderating a primary debate in the last presidential election, scoring big sit-downs.

After arriving at KCN’s headquarters in Midtown on my first day in August, I took the elevator up to the floor that housed Frontline. There had been no instructions about an orientation or who to ask for. Within seconds, a woman spotted me—and the bright lanyard that held my new ID badge—and shouted, “Intern!”

“Me?” I said.

“Who else? I need you to photocopy this.”

She was waving a sheaf of paper like an urgent white flag. I took it from her, but before I could ask where the copier was, she had disappeared.

“Over there.” At the desk next to me, a guy with his phone pinned between ear and shoulder gestured across the room. “The copier’s around that corner.”

“Ah—thank you,” I said, and ran toward the copy room. As I was squinting at the machine’s instructions, my forehead pricking with sweat, panicking at the options to collate and staple and double-side, the woman reappeared. “Actually, I need ten copies of that,” she said. She snapped her fingers. “Now, not yesterday.”

After leaving the copies with her, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Across the bullpen, the nice guy who’d given me directions was now off the phone. I walked back over.

“Success?” he said, eyes glued to his computer screen, typing with disarming speed.

“Thanks again,” I said. “It’s my first day. I’m an intern.”

“I’m Jamie,” he said. He had a Southern accent, and it came out like ahm Jay-mee.

“Violet,” I said. “I’m not sure who I’m supposed to report to.”

“It doesn’t really work like that,” he said. “People will figure out who you are and they’ll just tell you what to do. Although you’re lucky. You’re starting at a quiet time.”

“Really?” I said, looking around the newsroom—the ringing phones, the people running back and forth. There was a guy on crutches, following a group into the conference room. Even he was hobbling as fast as he could.

“Relatively quiet,” Jamie said. “Rebecca’s on vacation until Labor Day. It’ll get a lot busier when she’s back.”

“But that’s three weeks from now,” I said.

“Correct.”

“Well, I thought anchors hated being off the air for that long.”

Jamie stopped typing. He looked at me for the first time. “Violet what?”

“Violet Trapp.”

“You did your homework, Violet Trapp. Most anchors hate being off the air. But Rebecca would rather be on vacation. Normal people don’t care. That’s what she says. The only people who care about anchors taking long vacations are those rabid media-watcher types. And they’re all out in the Hamptons right now, too.”

“Oh,” I said. “Smart lady.”

“The smartest.” His phone started ringing. “All right, next thing. Could you run down to the cafeteria and get four coffees? Two black, two with milk and sugar. Keep the receipt.”

 

 

The days went fast. There was no time to train the interns, so we were assigned to the simplest tasks: fetching coffee, answering the phone, running scripts to the control room. Or seemingly simple, because the tasks had to be done perfectly and they had to be done now. On Friday, one of the production assistants approached our cluster of interns and said, “Which one of you made it through the week without fucking up?”

The other five interns had each been reamed out by somebody and laughed nervously at the question. Except for me. I stepped forward. “What do you need?” I said.

The assistant was maybe a year older than me, but hierarchy was hierarchy. “Bring the guest from the green room to the set before the D block,” he said. “You can handle that?”

“I’m on it,” I said, ignoring his snotty tone.

The guest was a consumer safety expert, there to talk about the latest changes in airbag technology. The executive producer wanted the anchor to stretch the interview to fill the block. It was amazing how much could be learned just by eavesdropping.

“Here you are,” I said, pushing open the swinging door that led to Studio B. Terrance, the substitute anchor while Rebecca was on vacation, was shuffling papers on the desk and humming to himself. He looked up at the guest and nodded, then went back to his notes. Terrance wouldn’t bother engaging until the cameras were on. It was a waste of energy.

“Hey, lady,” the floor director said. “Are you staying or leaving?”

“Am I allowed to stay?” I said.

“As long as you stand in the back and don’t get in anyone’s way,” he said. “But if you’re staying, close the damn door.”

It was dark around the edges of the studio, and freezing cold. The cameraman to my left was wearing a fleece sweatshirt and a hat, and the one to my right was drinking hot tea. The consumer safety expert squinted into the bright stage lights. “Can I get a glass of water?” he said.

“Two minutes back,” the floor director yelled. “Water’s under the desk.”

The door swung open. “Home stretch, Hank,” Jamie said, cuffing the floor director on the shoulder. “Almost the weekend.”

“Airbags,” Hank said. “Christ. They didn’t have airbags when I was a kid. You just had to hold on.”

“Did they even have cars when you were a kid, Hank?” Jamie grinned. Then he spotted me, standing at the back. “You’re staying to watch?” he said.

“Is this your segment?”

“Yup,” Jamie said. “How’s the first week been?”

“Good. Great, actually. It’s been fun.”

“Thirty back!” Hank the floor director yelled.

Jamie stepped forward. “Hey, Terrance. You’re giving us a quick intro, throwing to package, then four minutes for the interview. Got it?”

Terrance narrowed his eyes. “I’ve done this before, James.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Jamie said.

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