Slumberland Page 2

  Mark raises his hand with all five fingers extended.

  Kurt stops his fidgeting and lifts his head with a smile.

  Doug and Olivia both brighten up and stretch a grin across their faces.

  I flip over the stack of papers and set down my pen, showing my bright teeth to the camera.

  As the music comes close to the end, Mark counts down aloud bending a finger with each number.

  “Five… Four… Three… Two…”

  The one is always kept silent but his index finger points to Doug and Olivia.

  “Good morning,” says Doug, “and welcome to Channel six morning news.”

  While the monitors show only Doug and Olivia, I can go back to doodling my circles.

  “Our top story this morning,” says Doug, “Local restaurant and bar, Dotty’s Tavern, is undergoing some major renovations with extensions for a nightclub. Channel six will have an exclusive interview with the staff on what to expect from the new venue that’s already the talk of downtown.”

  “Boy, I’m excited to get to that story,” says Olivia.

  “Sounds like fun,” Doug replies, nodding to her.

  He goes on to mention in national news, a spokesperson for The A-Corporation is set to hold a press conference regarding an information leak.

  “Details of this report are not certain but we will keep you posted,” says Doug.

  As Doug continues, Kurt’s fingertips flip through his game notes and his lips move, silently rehearsing his intro.

  Our producer, Randi West, speaks through our hidden earpieces. Through the studio lights and control room window, her faint outline can be seen sitting at the soundboard. She runs the show, giving direction to everyone, including the camera operators. We rarely see Randi unless we can catch her in her office. Like the camera operators, the viewers never see the people in the control room, so they dress in street clothes. Randi is a fair boss, but she’s tough. You definitely wouldn’t want to end up on her bad side.

  “Get ready to change to Sierra,” she says, in everyone’s earpiece.

  Mark’s camera turns back to me. Setting down my pen, I perk up and adjust my posture.

  Olivia cues up, “Right now we go to our channel six friendly forecaster, Sierra Preston with today’s weather.”

  Mark counts down from five, using only his fingers. When he gets to one, he flips his middle finger instead of his index to signal me to start. Smiling and relaxed, the words fall from my tongue just as smoothly as the they scroll across the teleprompter.

  “Thank you, Olivia. Today is going to be cold. Winter isn’t over yet. But later this afternoon, the sun will ease some of these bitter temperatures. Old Man Winter seems to be packing his bags for the Spring as warmer days are expected to make their way in to Kansas City as early as next week. I’ll have more details of your forecast coming up after the break.”

  “Not again,” Randi’s voice says through her microphone.

  Is she speaking to someone else or referencing my forecast? I’m not able to react since we’re live on the air.

  “Stand by, open camera,” she adds.

  And then we switch to a wide shot of the desk, the four of us together.

  “I’ll bet the construction crew renovating Dotty’s Tavern will appreciate that,” says Doug.

  Under the table, the fingers of his left hand rest on my leg. With his thumb, he caresses my skin and teases at pulling back the bottom of my skirt and slips his palm between my thighs. He tries to be covert about it, and the only one who sees this is Olivia. She’s able to refrain from expressing her disgust, not because we’re live on the air, but seeing Doug toy around with younger women is something she’s grown accustomed to. However, my restrain from reaction is something of a joke to Doug. It’s hard for me to stay still. His wedding band wouldn’t feel so cold if it wasn’t a symbol of loyalty to his wife.

  “So, things aren’t expected to get rough and wet for us?” he asks.

  Since we’re live, I smile and remain professional. In my ear, Randi tells the second camera operator to line up his shot on Kurt. My arm has to make a subtle movement, tossing his hand back to his lap.

  “Zero percent chance,” I reply.

  The red light on Mark’s camera goes dark and on the television of the viewers at home is an animated transition to present the opening for the next segment.

  “Alright, Sierra, we’ll see about that,” says Doug. “And now, our very own Kurt Stevens with the latest in sports.”

  Even off camera, I refuse to acknowledge Doug’s sexual advance. I’m quick to go back to doodling red circles. Kurt’s sportscast is nothing but white noise to me. As the tip of my pen starts drawing another, I can feel Doug watching.

  “Stand by for the teaser,” says Randi.

  Music begins to play and Doug looks away as he smirks.

  “Coming up on News Six at Six,” says Olivia, “A man from San Diego may lose his Guinness Record for longest sleep deprivation. Find out why, coming up.”

  Then Doug begins speaking his lines.

  “Imagine what you would benefit from learning the language of the universe,” he says. “We’ll have a look at what one local woman discovered after receiving a crash course in advanced mathematics.”

  Still scribbling on my page, I mouth the words he says next:

  “All of this and more when we come back.”

  A NEAT TRICK

  2

  The morning news begins at five o’clock and repeats at six. The same stories. The same reports.

  The rest of the morning lineup is filled with soap operas. Over dramatized issues with the rich and famous. Cheesy love scenes with the most beautiful half-nude bodies. Murder mysteries with the most dangerous and desperate criminals. Glamorous but fictional characters.

  Then come the talk shows. Stories from the trashiest real people. A young girl from the trailer park having to choose between two men, either of whom could be the father of her baby.

  The networks cash these people in for ratings. Once in a while, they catch a doozie with a twist. The person you suspected turns out to be the wrong one. When the paternity results come in, it’s discovered neither of the two men are the father. The cheating trailer park girl is even more devastated. What better place to show your humiliation than on national television?

  Like soap operas, talk shows are the same drama. Even though the talk show people exist in real life and the soap opera people are fake, the person watching from home does not often make the distinction.

  You see other stories about the children born with a silver spoon in their mouths, the rich, the fortunate, being interviewed by some interventionist because they developed a drug habit at a young age and now live homeless on the street. Their family’s disowning them because they spend any money given to them on drugs.

  To most people, lives like these, they’re not real. It’s not real because it’s on TV. It’s simply… entertainment.

  Still, I’d hate to imagine a life like that. Poor choices made that could easily take you in a different direction. I suppose I’ve been fortunate. There was one tragedy I can recall with my family. It changed my life and led me to where I am today.

  My parents and I once owned a dog, a silly little pug named Bart. They bought him as a puppy right after I was born. My pug Bart grew up with me. We even shared the same birthday. When he died, I was still in junior high school. It was like having a member of the family pass away. For days, I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t focus on assignments. I cried all the time. It was, for lack of a better word, rough. For the longest time, all I ever wanted in the world was my dog back.

  At that time, Bart suffered a tragic accident. For our birthday, my parents had bought him a new collar. It was light blue with repeating patterns of moons and stars and his name stitched in yellow. We had taken a long afternoon walk through the neighborhood playground and were heading back home. The other kids stopped to pet Bart. They’d say how cute he was and how they wish
ed they could have a dog like him. Even the two older kids, high school aged, stopped riding their bicycles to come and say hi. The girl with long black hair and her friend. He was nice. He didn’t say much but he smiled a lot, especially when Bart would lick his face. It would leave streaks on his thin-framed glasses.

  A few other kids played off in the distance, one I remember being cute. He was my age. I remember his curly brown hair and his cheesy smile. Still, he never said anything to me. When I saw him, that’s when the winds began to pick up. The sky turned a strange greenish-gray tint.

  An older woman stood in her front yard watering the flowers in her garden. She’d wave and laugh. Had she known a storm was coming, she could have let the rain do the job for her.

  “What a cute dog,” she’d say.

  As the wind blew specks of dust and leaves, she pressed both sides of her head to keep the gusts from unrolling her curlers. A blast of air, like the shockwave from an explosion, sent the woman running to her porch for cover.

  The other kids scattered back toward the streets hoping to make it home before the weather turned bad. The winds had gained so much force, it knocked down power lines. A transformer, mounted at the top of a pole, threw sparks in every direction as the cables broke free of it.

  It was all unexpected. A storm no one knew was coming. Bart and I were still blocks away from our house when the downpour began. Heavy drops of rain plummeted the grass and sidewalks. It made the leash slick and hard to grip. We were nearing our block when the power lines fell across the street, electrifying anything around them. Bart must have thought he needed to help somehow. He took off running like a horse out of the gate at a racetrack. His force pulled me along, trying to stretch every step as far as I could to keep up.

  “No, Bart! Stop!”

  Luckily, it wasn’t the fallen power lines that killed him.

  First thing after going off the air, I change clothes.

  As a meteorologist, I don’t anchor the headlining stories. Any time I report in the field, it’s usually to promote a side-story. Maybe a local event in the city. Today, it’s the beginning of renovations for Dotty’s Tavern. What was once a tiny pub is now making space for a bigger nightclub. This is the talk of the town and yours truly has been assigned to do the coverage. What we record today will air on tomorrow’s morning news.

  When I do these interviews, there’s no reason to wear the same outfits I wear in the studio. Since I mostly sit or stand behind the camera, there’s no need to dress up. Normal, everyday presentable street clothes do the trick. Blue jeans. A nice shirt. I’m the weather girl, not a celebrity. There’s no red carpet. No stretch limousine. This lets the people who watch see the real me and not just a face on television. But it’s fun to see people get star-struck. It’s nice to know I brighten their day.

  The door handle of my dressing room rattles after a brief knock. Doug knows I’m supposed to be in here changing, but this time, I locked the door. He’s too late anyway. I finish tying my Chuck Taylors and let him in.

  His look of disappointment is somewhat pleasing to me. He says he was hoping to get me alone before I leave for the field.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “You know,” he says, “to give you a birthday present of my own.”

  Mark passes by in the hall. He sees us talking but says nothing.

  Gathering my things and pursing my bottom lip, I give Doug a pat on the shoulder.

  Too bad my birthday isn’t until tomorrow.

  That’s sarcasm by the way.

  By the time I catch up to Mark, he’s loading camera equipment in the back of the Channel Six News SUV. As he closes the back, I start running. It’s a race for the passenger seat. Whoever gets in first won’t have to drive. This late in the morning, Mark hates being behind the wheel. He gets stressed driving through downtown traffic in a company vehicle.

  I don’t mind it so much…

  “Fine. You win again,” I say.

  … but I like keeping him on his toes.

  Patience is a virtue most people don’t have these days. Everyone seems to be in a hurry. Being held back is frustrating to them. Moving one city block seems to take forever. Stoplights turn green and the cars move but only to stop at the next intersection. I tell Mark it’s not big deal. It’s a gorgeous day and what better way to spend it than with his favorite weather girl?

  Grumpy Mark stares out his window. He never has much to talk about.

  The Golden Rule: treat others as you want to be treated.

  In Mark’s case, it’s treating him like he treats me. But it’s all in good fun. I’m the little sister he never had. In a way, I’m required to give him as much crap as he dishes out.

  "That’s fine, Mister,” I tell him. “You can sit there, all gloomy. It doesn’t bother me a bit.”

  The awkward silence is broken with a beep from my cellphone.

  “Are you gonna get that?” asks Mark.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something, Grumpy Pants?”

  If it’s a text message from Doug, I have a pretty good idea of what it says. But since we’re stopped, I read it anyway. Doug’s message says I misunderstood him.

  By ‘gift’ he meant a nice dinner or a couple of drinks.

  “Are you going to go?” asks Mark.

  “Not a chance,” I reply. “Anything with Doug usually ends with an offer for sex.”

  Mark turns his head to me and points his index finger to the windshield. The light is green and he’s waiting for me to go.

  But it’s too late. My foot lets off the brake only to stop again for a police car rushing through the intersection with its lights on.

  Mark shouts an [Expletive deleted].

  At the corner, the police cruiser stops behind a van. The officer steps out and her long black ponytail sways with each step toward the driver. She’s only doing her job, but she’s cost us the light.

  Mark’s frustration finishes with a rather loud sigh. He bites his lip and shakes his head.

  “You drive like a grandma,” he says.

  Gasping, my jaw drops and I deliver a decent smack to his arm.

  Now it’s Mark who has trouble keeping a straight face.

  Our light changes and slowly, we move again. Behind the lookie-loo drivers watching the policewoman, I don’t give the engine much gas since we seem to barely be idling. Getting stuck in traffic can be frustrating but what can you do?

  Tapping my fingernails against the steering wheel gets under Mark’s skin and I find it amusing.

  “If you go any slower,” he says, “we’ll be moving backward.”

  My tongue sticks out as far as it can.

  “Complaining won’t make us go any faster, Grumpy Pants.”

  I show him a big grin and he cracks a smile but quick to hide it.

  “I hate you,” he says.

  My finger floats a couple of inches away from the side of his chest and he starts squirming.

  “Don’t touch me,” he says.

  We truly are like brother and sister. I’m not touching him. You can’t tickle yourself, not the way other people can. Because of this, tickling doesn’t require physical contact, only the threat of it. It’s a neat trick. With my silly faces and a threatening finger, Mark chuckles.

  “Stop,” he says. “You’re going to crash.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have let grandma drive."

  Finally, traffic moves faster and the calm between us returns to a silence, but not for long. Mark knows I’ll keep messing with him if he stays quiet.

  “So,” he says, “what’s with you and Doug?”

  "Doug is a harmless flirt,” I reply. “To assume anything more would be ridiculous. I’d be an idiot to get involved with a married man.”

  Mark purses his lip and bounces his head.

  “I do think you’re ridiculous,” says Mark. “I do think you’re an idiot.”

  “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that.”

  That’s sarcasm by the way.


  This street is a one-way and Dotty’s Tavern is ahead on the left.

  With the renovation site being fenced off and orange cones set across the lot, there’s no room for us to park. Mark tells me to make our own spot in the fire lane and turn the blinkers on. He believes we can park wherever we want since we’re the media. Unfortunately, the cars behind us do not agree. They honk as they pass by.

  Outside Dotty’s Tavern, inside the fence, construction equipment surrounds the building. Cranes and a bulldozer make their way in. A small group of construction workers gather on the sidewalk to converse, each of them wearing helmets and bright fluorescent vests.

  They all watch us pull up to the curb but only one of them catches my attention. He’s the shortest one of the bunch. His white hardhat covers his head and sunglasses cover his eyes, but there’s something about him. He seems to be the one in charge. He’s the only one smoking a cigarette.

  The others gather around him as he holds a blueprint and shouts to them over the loud noise from the machinery in the background. It’s hard to hear his exact words but a few of them make it to my ears.

  “Ya’ll better wake up! Keep your head out of the clouds! It’s best to be looking at the details now rather than catching them when it’s too late. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself having to go back and start over,” he says.

  Mark rolls his window down and leans his head out to ask the group where we can enter.

  The shorter man looks to us and takes a slow drag from his cigarette. The tip glows bright orange and fades as he pulls it away from his lips. Instead of answering, he and the rest of the group gawks like they’ve never seen a news truck before.

  “They’re not looking at the truck,” says Mark. “They’re looking at you.”

  For them to hear me, I’ll have to shout over Mark. He shoves his finger in his ear so he won’t go deaf from me asking the exact same question he’s already asked.

  From behind them, walking our way, is a slim and handsome young man in his late twenties. His short blonde hair and black suit wave in the wind. Passing by the zombified construction workers, he comes up to the SUV, leans into Mark’s window, and pulls down his sunglasses.