Morris has been denied entrance to the stage door by a member of the security detail that he himself had hired. Undeterred, Morris lets himself in through the will call office of the Graphite County Opera House. Shuffling through the littered confines of his office, he whiffs the feint aftermath of another of Verona Kendermants’ patchouli soap masterpieces. He checks the fax for anything vital that had come in since he’d been at the Anthracite Tonite preproduction meeting. Morris recalls a reality show he pitched Noreen not long ago in which employees took odd jobs to support themselves doing something that they truly loved. Noreen scoffed at his proposal, calling it hackneyed and without merit. Morris senses the same sort of scenario with members of the news crew. They have been busting butt at their day jobs, just so they can support the love of their lives: televising the local news. Morris wishes they wouldn’t take everything out on him, to the point of wanting to kill him. But that’s not even the worst part. The night suddenly gets a whole lot more hostile and unmanageable . . .

Making News the Old-fashioned Way

Not So Sleepy of a Town

I let myself in upstairs through the door of the former will-call office. I pause in my littered office to observe the aftermath of another busy, nonstop day. I haven’t really stopped working since 7:30 this morning. When you consider the after-party won’t get over until around 1:30, that doesn’t leave a lot of time for sleep. Oh well, it’s all a part of Daddy’s plan to make a man out of me.

I wonder how that’s working out for him.

Dead-end Market Offers Hope

Wading through mail strewn across the floor, I pause at the fax machine, wondering if anything hot had come in during the time I was at the production meeting at the Five-Points Highway Diner. Everything looks quiet. Subdued.

Not at all like the boisterous voices from the production crew down the hall. Everyone is in high spirits as they prepare for another nightly newscast. I have to keep reminding myself that these people are dedicated professionals. It is not their fault that they reside in a small market with no traditional network television presence. They have taken drastic means in order to make ends meet so that they can pursue their first love: bringing the nightly news to a needful and sleep-deprived public.

As Elusive as Job Security

Noreen and Dirkie Tirk and just about everyone else in the Chicago corporate office make fun of me for putting all this effort into producing the news every night. I maintain it is vital to provide the informational lifeblood to the viewership of our isolated market. No one has ever measured the ratings in the overnights. I can’t help but think that we’re pulling close to a 35 – though it sometimes feels like 35 total households . . . not a 35 share,

As a sign of his mounting frustration, Daddy doesn’t fork over much in terms of payroll or for field remotes, not unless the story has national implications and he thinks he can score some much needed points with the FCC (which, may I remind everyone, hasn’t happened yet).

So I’m saddled with a cast and crew who have a diverse roster of day and night jobs: cab drivers, EMT personnel, mechanics, laborers, contractors, counselors, exotic dancers and scads of retail workers. The general sales manager delivers pizzas. Account executives perform a variety of jobs including waiting tables, tending bar and detailing cars. When you are doing your errands there is no telling when one of them will pop up, like at the very BIG New Allentwon Costco.

But the fact they get tired out doing these other jobs engenders a feeling of frustration and hostility that sometimes erupt into bitter tirades on the set. I try to let it go in one ear and out the other, but sometimes the scathing rebukes hit pretty close to home.

The Jerk Stops Here

This whole scenario reminds me of a pitch I did recently. As usual, Noreen shot it down. The weekly one-hour primetime reality show dealt with a fictional boss, new on the scene, who pretended to be a tightwad and came off as arrogant, entitled, conceited and critical. Employees quickly reached their fill of the jerk and become angry, jaded and bitter.

The whole point was to show how anger and bitterness can eat you alive. We all have it in us to carry a grudge, just like we all have it in us to love. The overriding question is: which will you choose?

So during the arc of the show, we get a real feel for the makeup of people and how they react in certain situations – both positively and negatively.

Noreen claims this is a tired old hack of a storyline that’s been done a thousand times before – and besides I’m giving myself too much credit.

“What are you talking about?” I asked her.

“Don’t try to sandbag me, Morey. I know you want to play the part of the boss.”

I hadn’t really given it much thought until now, but maybe she was right. Maybe I did want to play the part of the fictional boss who appeared to have so much fun being such an insufferable jerk.

It’s Showtime! Gulp . . . 

I glance at the clock on my littered desk. My gut clenches. We’re less than four minutes to air. But it only gets worse.

Bruce Shellerdahl fills the doorway to my office. “Boss, you’re on the switcher tonight!”

The bottom drops out for me. “Not again!”

Bruce nods. “Fenton called off, so it’s all up to you!”

We meet some of the hardworking on-camera personnel who make up the tough-as-nails WXX Silt Ridge Midnight News broadcasts: It starts with a sprawling tailgate party with haddock tacos off a food truck as personalities gear up for another big night. Belinda Bessemer arrives in a late-model Mercedes limo, fresh from her first set at the Grilled Canary Gentlemen’s Club. Mindy Pentagee springs from the back of an ambulance, ready to deliver the latest weathercast, and Jerry Runcklastor rattles off a patented line that makes Morris think of a possible game show mixing batting averages and area codes. A security guard stops Morris from entering via the stage door, even though Morris is the boss and his dad owns the TV station. Morris resigns himself to entering the station another way, realizing that this is one more attempt on Daddy’s part to make a man out of him. He wishes it wasn’t so difficult sometimes. Now, he gears up for another gut-busting night of reporting the news, followed by an even more gut-wrenching after-party

Torture at Midnight: A “Typical” WXX Newscast

Let’s Get the Show on the Road (kill)

The snow lightens up as I drive slowly back through town from the Five-Points Highway Diner to the TV station. My sphincter clenches as I think about the upcoming upheaval of egos. Every edition of the Silt Ridge Midnight News is like a train wreck, where the passengers are akin to demonic trash-talkers. They may be stunned for a moment upon initial impact but then shake off the cobwebs and keep coming and coming like rude and determined zombies. Producing an installment of the WXX news would make a fine reality show, brimming with angst, egomaniacal drama and prima donnas run amuck; I just wish I weren’t the one starring in it.

Kicking It with Haddock Tacos

A glow rises above the back entrance of the opera house. Party lights are strung across the lot illuminating a bizarre form of tailgating. Bruce Shellerdahl, our food editor, fixes fish tacos for the hungry cast and crew from the warmth of his gourmet truck. Isn’t this grand? A knot clenches in my gut.

A Mercedes limo pulls up amid massive fanfare and pounding flashbulbs. Belinda Bessemer exits from the rear. She lights the cigarette dangling between her lush red lips and tugs at the revealing hem of her shear, tiger print kimono. I just hope like heck she changes into something more conservative before hitting the anchor desk.

As she struts in platform heels toward the stage entrance in back of the opera house, I wonder if I should question her most recent wardrobe choices. Then I pull up and realize I have bigger fish to fry. I hope against hope she doesn’t cross the threshold with that lit butt. Then I’d have to call the fire marshal, and man-oh-man, what a stink that would cause!

WXX Newscast: Tailgate Edition

An ambulance with siren blaring and its flashers on drifts into the dirt parking lot, ripping up clots of mud and snow. It skids to a clean stop beside Bruce’s food truck.

Mindy Pentagee, a competent and enthusiastic EMT, skips out the rear in heels and a way-too short skirt. It’s enough to make you blush. And she’s not even the stripper. Oops, I didn’t mean to say that. I’ve never seen Belinda at her place of business and I don’t know what she does – honest! I would never look, never in a million years!

Belinda, Belinda, Belinda! I glance around and see she’s detained at the side door, yakking with one of the horde of male stagehands who are always vying for her attention. She signs her autograph on his polo shirt, smiles dimly, blows smoke on him and grinds out the butt with a stacked heel.

I heave a big sigh of relief. Catastrophe averted.

I turn my attention back to Mindy. More blinding flashbulbs announce her arrival. I wave at her but she doesn’t wave back. It’s nice to have Mindy on set, because fistfights have broken out before, as well as people coming at you with exposed wires. Mindy always makes sure to pack some extra bandages.

Batting Averages vs. Area Codes

A Yellow Cab skids on a patch of ice, nearly sideswiping me. The tailpipe rattles after the engine shuts down. “Evening boss,” says Jerry Runcklastor, wrenching from behind the wheel with a butt dangling from his mouth. Jerry is our Sports anchor. “I feel a good one coming on tonight,” he says, blowing smoke. “I’m ballpark ready and home run hungry”

“Not bad,” I say. I mull it over in my head. “’Ballpark ready and home run hungry’.” I wonder if he’s taken out a trademark on that catchphrase. It’s definitely worth the money if he hopes to brand his sportscasts.

I get a flash for a new game show concept. It mixes batting averages and area codes. I don’t know if I should syndicate the show as a part of sportscasts or just fold it into a nightly syndicated offering in access.

Giving the Green Room a Wide Berth

As I step through the stage door, a security guy stops me. “You’re not allowed to go in there Mr. Crimpanfortis,” the burly man says. “I thought we agreed.”

“I know, I know,” I say sheepishly. “But that was then. This is now.”

“I’m with you, man,” the hulking man says. “I hear what you’re saying.”

“But you’re not going to let me through, are you?”

“You know the rules. You enter through your office and go down the main hallway, avoiding the green room.”

“The green room, of course,” I say. “But my father owns this station,” I remind him.

“I’m sure he’s a fine man,” the security guard says.

I strain to see past the maze of people, all carrying on and having a grand old time. I scream at them to knock it off and get ready for the newscast, but they ignore me. My voice is drowned out in all the mayhem. Here is the result of Daddy refusing to pay the news crew what they’re worth. They all need other jobs in order to supplement their incomes to do the thing they love.

Everyone knows Daddy is filthy rich and they blame me for withholding their paychecks, making them seek other forms of employment.

It’s just one more lousy excuse for them to beat me up.

Morris restores order at the overwrought production meeting for the Anthracite Tonite talk show. People have just been delivered a gut-punch by Honus Kryburn, who takes the opportunity to get up on his high horse and tell everyone that one day they will pay exorbitant tolls on everyday roads, including roads you take to the corner grocery store. Vick Banzler then gets into it with Wendy Tavares over the toxicity of certain species of reptiles. Wendy wonders why the production can’t employ “everyday garden snakes” to motivate celebrities to do proper “live” reads. Vick takes great exception to this and points out to Wendy she isn’t even calling the snake by its proper name. Inez Unkley has a “drop the mic” moment when she calls the set of Anthracite Tonite a “Sauna of Doom.” Tony, the aged Director of Catering and Crafts Services, wraps a soggy piece of coconut cream pie in used tinfoil, as Morris runs late for the taping of the Silt Ridge Midnight News. Morris engages in a full-on war of nerves and pitches his dinner in the smelly men’s room before staggering into the snowy parking lot . . .

The Pit Viper and the Coconut Cream Pie

Sometimes a Bent Spoon is All You’ve Got 

The crowd of wannabe executive producers crammed into the back room of the Five-Points Highway Diner becomes unruly. There are a number of factors for this: the restaurant has backed down the heat in order to save money, so that now you can see your breath; the meals are taking forever to arrive; and everyone is up in arms about the latest prediction from Honus Kryburn about every street in America becoming a toll road.

I need to restore order. “People! People, listen up!” I clang a bent soup spoon across the side of my smeared water glass. “We’re gathered here to discuss the business at hand. Namely, the direction of Anthracite Tonite.” I drop the spoon atop the table. “Me and Vick Banzler have already made great strides this evening, choosing a sidewinder as our snake of choice for the celebrity live reads.”

“Could you go over that once again please, chief?” Wendy Taveras asks.

“Okay.” I make sure everyone has quieted down before proceeding.

Reading a Commercial and Living to Tell About It

I patiently explain to the assembled crowd how every guest celebrity appearing on Anthracite Tonite will be required to do their own live reads of commercial announcements. If they flub up at any point along the way, they will have to deal with the snake. It fits in with my “Game Shows with Consequences” mantra. We give game show contestants way too much leeway. “They need to start sweating if they blow an answer of something like that.” I then bring up the part about the Vegas casinos; everyone has to cough up money in order to win something.

Getting into the Weeds with Snakes

“I don’t know,” Wendy cautions. “If you want to involve a snake, why can’t you do it with a garden snake?”

“You mean a garter snake, Ms. Taveras!” Vick Banzler, the Graphite County DA, snaps to attention. “I can’t tolerate people referring to them as garden snakes. It’s a ‘garter’ snake. And no, Wendy, to answer your question, a nonpoisonous reptile will not carry the gut-wrenching drama of a fully engaged pit viper ready to discharge. Do you realize the adrenaline this is going to produce – not only in our celebrity guests, but also our audience? People are going to be glued to this show, positively glued to it, I tell you!”

“Well what about the people who have to work on the set?” Inez Unkley queries. “I’m handling hair and makeup. It sounds like everyone’s going to be sweating up a storm. This is going to become a sauna of doom.”

“’A sauna of doom’,” Vick Banzler purrs. “I love it. That has quite a foreboding, yet voluptuous ring to it.”

“I get verklempt when I think of the groundbreaking aspects of this talk show,” I am humble yet defiant. “Once we launch, it will be the bellwether for television in the future. No longer a passive experience; this is going to manufacture adrenaline and leave the pretenders in the dust. Me and everyone in the room this evening, we’re all on the precipice of greatness.”

It Should Never Encroach on Your Coconut Cream Pie

Tony, our overworked waiter and the Director of Catering and Craft Services for Anthracite Tonite, slides a lopsided slice of coconut cream pie on the messy table before me. “Mr. Crimpanfortis,” he says, “management wanted me to inform you that you left the top down on your convertible and your interior is filling up with snow. Are you aware of that, sir?” He draws away from the table, barely straightening up. “And there’s also the matter of your unpaid account.”

I salivate over the jagged slice of coconut cream pie, then glance furtively at my watch. Reality sinks in. I get a sinking feeling, knowing that the Silt Ridge Midnight News is next.

“Can I have this to go Tony?” They all look at me. “What?” I shrug at them as I slide from the booth. “I need to use the men’s room.”

Production personnel for the upcoming nightly TV talk show Anthracite Tonite are in a festive mood on this dreary, windswept and snowy evening, proving how much we need the company of each other – particularly in the uncertain times brought about by the sporadic solar flare outbursts. Morris Crimpanfortis looks on happily as valued members of the production staff order freely off the menu. The tab for this evening will accumulate on the running total of the reciprocal trade agreement that Morris already worked out with the restaurant for airtime once the TV show is up and running (it has already missed its launch date twice). Amid all the decision Morris is being forced to make, including a heated search for a cohost, tonight he must choose a suitable substitute for desert, as the restaurant just announced it was out of peach pie – or “out of the peach” as they put it. Morris decides that “out of the peach” has a nice ring to it, and wonders how difficult it will be to trademark the saying for his exclusive use later on . . .

“Out of the Peach”

Free Dinner Attracts Wannabe Exec Producers

Other people show up for the weekly production meeting in the “Boca Grande Room” in back of the legendary Five-Points Diner: Wendy Taveras, Honus Kryburn, Wilmer Growens, Tink Herksely, Gandy Frommenkin, Fordham Oaknauer and Inez Unkley. Each has their own job title for the production of Anthracite Tonite accentuating their respective areas of expertise and spheres of influence.

The mood turns festive on this depressing winter eve, filled with the good cheer of friends and co-laborers. People start ordering off the menu, putting it on my tab. Since I’m broke, this will be a part of the preexisting restaurant trade with the TV station–I hope. Nothing is written in stone yet. I decide to splurge and go for a slice of coconut cream pie, since they’re out of the peach this evening.

Honus Kryburn Lets It Rip

Honus Kryburn, the chief automobile prognosticator and rant specialist for Anthracite Tonite, offers an unsolicited proclamation: “Can I have your attention? Everybody listen up” The radio guy’s grating voice echoes off the windowless wallpapered walls. “It’s time for another one of my copyrighted glimpses into the future.”

“I changed my mind,” shouts Fordham Oaknauer. “Can I have the rabbit stew instead of the pickled pike?”

Honus Kryburn rolls his eyes at the gauche interruption, forging ahead with another one of his patented visions. “You know, one day every road in America will be a toll road. And of all those toll roads, some will be designated unlimited speeds, like Germany’s mythical Autobahn.”

All about Self-hydration

Honus is heated up, talking about the future for drivers across the nation.

He goes on to explain how Americans will take the concept of the Autobahn and put their own spin on it. Being a market-driven economy, entrepreneurs and early adopters will sell knockoff Indy-style cars. If you are going to drive in the US, which in this case means “Unlimited Speeds,” you will be required to pilot one of the vintage racecar knockoffs.

You will also be required to dress appropriately. That means a Nomex head sock, Nomex leather-palm gloves, fire-resistant one-piece underwear, polyurethane-soled shoes, a three-layer fire suit, spherical safety helmet made of carbon fiber with a three millimeter sun-tinted visor, proper ear protectors and proof that you’ve properly hydrated yourself.

First Dibs on a Vapid Trademark

“Great Honus,” Fordham Oaknauer says. “But what’s that got to do with the price of vegetable oil?”

People start talking again, yammering about their children and their day jobs, trips to the teeming megalopolis of The Very B-I-G Allentown, anything but the business at hand. Wilmer Growens even goes so far to announce that he took the wife and kids moose hunting last weekend way out in Lank Holler.

I wonder if I should ask if they saw Bigfoot while they were holed up in the middle of nowhere like that.

“Now get this,” Honus says, oblivious to all the chatter at the big table around him. “Someday soon, even your rank-and-file motorist will be required to wear similar forms of safety equipment, just to go to the supermarket.” He nods ominously, letting it all sink in. “Mark my words.”

A Correlation with No Context

“Hey everybody,” I chime in. “I just thought of a new catchphrase I’m going to copyright: ‘Out of the peach.’ I don’t know exactly what it means, but I’ll think of something before filing the application with the Copyright Office.”

Everyone stops talking.

They don’t know how to respond to this.