Death of Television (eBook)

Prelude

Wednesday, July 14th, 2021

It was just before ten and Paula DeVong was wrapping up her nightly hour-long network news show. In the back row of the darkened control room, Executive Producer Jock Willinger was leaning back in his command chair not paying much attention to Paula’s face on the monitor. Jock was absorbed in his own world of problems. So far, the COVID pandemic had given him a long reprieve. The Network had not exactly stood by him, but had adopted a wait-and-see posture. Then last week, a lawsuit was filed in the Supreme Court of New York spelling out his history of sexual harassment at TVNews.

Something Paula was saying on-air caught his attention:

“And be sure to tune in tomorrow night. I’ll have an exclusive story that you will love. Or hate.” She was grinning and her eyes were shining with her trademark ruthlessness.

“Oh, fuck me,” Jock mumbled in the darkness. He wondered if Paula’s next big story was going to be about him and his legal troubles. How the Network would surely let him go. About how Paula herself would become executive producer.

God, I hate being played by that smug primping bitch.

Jock ran his lean fingers roughly through his thinning gray hair. He had always been gaunt, but now he looked old and faded. He still dressed the same every day: a black suit, white button-down shirt, and a very thin tie. He still chain-smoked, though only in his office. He wished he could find cigarettes that were still made in the UK, but those factories had moved out of England years ago. Like him. But he was beginning to think it might be the perfect time to move back home to Liverpool.

The end credits were finished and a commercial for a prescription drug came on.

“Good show, guys,” Jock said as he stood up. There were some murmured thanks. One of the writers turned around to watch him go. Jock had started to hate her. She was young and pretty in an athletic kind of way and good at her job. But Deni Diaz was one of the women who had brought the lawsuit against him.

“Deni,” he said, “tell Paula I want to see her upstairs. Right away.”

“Yes, Jock,” she answered measuredly.

“There’s a good girl,” he said patronizingly and left the room.

Deni clenched her teeth.

Her good friend Greg Schaefer leaned close to her and said, “Don’t let him get to you. He’s a shite, and you are not.”

She looked at Greg’s kind open face and smiled at his attempt to sound British.

“How is that man still here?” Deni muttered.

“The fifth ring of hell was all booked up. The governor got there first and took his room,” Greg said sotto voce. Deni laughed in spite of herself. Greg was her closest friend, and she loved how he could always make her feel better. He was cute and handsome and so together. He always dressed perfectly, looking casual but enough fashion-forward to earn the respect of the executives upstairs. He was the type of guy she would love to be with. But Greg was gay and proud of it.

“Don’t worry,” Greg said softly, “he’ll be gone by Monday.”

“You think so?” she asked hopefully.

“There’s no doubt,” Greg answered. “I’ve been told.”

“Wonderful show tonight, Paula!” Anna Canneli said too loudly as she followed Paula across the open newsroom floor. The staff was still there, gathered in relaxed groups letting go after the long day’s work. Paula ignored her assistant, strode up the few steps into her glass-enclosed corner office, pulled a tissue from her desk drawer, and blew her nose fiercely.

“You’re not sick, are you?” Anna whispered, horrified as she closed the door behind her.

“Of course not,” Paula snapped back. “My nose was just raped by a Q-tip. Again! Fuck this place!” She added as she sat with a huff. She was annoyed that the network had insisted that because of the Delta variant everyone in the studio would again have to be tested once a week. No exceptions. Paula had been able to duck it before the show. But it was Wednesday, orders were orders, and she was waylaid by the studio nurse as she came off the set.

“I know what you mean,” Anna said soothingly.

Paula looked at her. Anna was frumpy, chubby, and disliked by the rest of the newsroom staff. But Paula didn’t care. Anna had always been completely loyal to her and that trait made her irreplaceable.

“Are they fresh?” Paula asked.

“Yes.” Anna smiled proudly. “I bought them this afternoon.”

Paula opened a lower drawer and pulled out a small box. She tipped open the lid and studied the four milk chocolates inside. A puzzled look crossed Anna’s face but vanished after a moment as she watched Paula choose a caramel, take a bite, and grunt in happy approval. Anna beamed.

There was a light tap on the door and Paula said, “Come in.”

Deni Diaz opened the door and remained standing in the doorway.

“It’s Jock,” she said. “He wants you to come up and see him right away.”

“Thanks, Deni,” Paula said graciously. “And Deni, you did great tonight. I hardly knew Roxie was gone.”

“Thanks,” Deni said and she smiled widely. “Though I don’t need this kind of pressure in my life. I’m glad it was just for a night. Have you talked to Roxie?”

“No, but she texted,” Paula answered cryptically. “They’re driving back from his place in the Hamptons.”

“At least somebody’s gettin’ some.” Deni grinned wickedly as she left.

Anna fidgeted for a second before she timidly asked, “Who is Roxie getting some... from?”

“Never mind that,” Paula said as she picked up her laptop. “You come with me.”

“Me? To Jock’s office? Why?” Anna asked, looking completely lost.

“I think it might be good to have a witness. Come on,” Paula commanded and walked out. Anna followed at her heels like a faithful pet.

* * *

It was past eleven thirty when work was done and everyone was gone. It was rare for Paula to be the last to leave, but tonight she had a very important dinner to attend at midnight. In her private bathroom, she checked her makeup and adjusted her open-neck blouse so that her impressive rose quartz gemstone could be seen better. She loved the way it dangled on its silver chain so enticingly above her breasts. She remembered who had given it to her. And why. And she grew sad to think of what was about to happen to him. To Paul Marin. He was once so important in her life. But that was all done now.

Oh, well. Live and learn.

She straightened her shoulders, grabbed her purse, and walked out through the large quiet newsroom. Past the glass wall to the lobby, she got into an elevator and headed down to the street level. The desk attendant wished her a good night. She gave him a friendly wave and pulled on her cotton face mask. She hated wearing these things and wasn’t sure they did any good against COVID. But she did appreciate that it kept her hidden from the world. She used to love the way fans stopped her on the street, asked for her autograph, or posed with her for a selfie. But since the pandemic, all that contact just frightened her. So now, with her mask in place, she could move about unnoticed. Especially at night.

Out on the sidewalk, she turned south and started walking slowly. She had lots of time to get there. And this was a night she wanted to savor, to remember for as long as she lived. Tonight, papers would be signed making it official. Paula would be the new executive producer of the show, and her stories would no longer need the consent of the Slimy Limey Jock Willinger. Paula smiled.

And what a story I have!

It was still hot and humid. Paula slowed down. It wouldn’t do to show up all sweaty. And she was having a little trouble catching her breath. She stopped under a building scaffold to collect herself. She pulled her mask down and took a deep breath. She felt somebody watching her. In the shadows of the scaffold, maybe eight feet away, was a grizzled-looking man in dirty clothes and an aggressive stance. He started to come closer but stumbled and fell to his knees. She walked away quickly, her mask dangling from one ear. She felt that there were too many people everywhere. Some of them seemed to recognize her, but she ignored them and kept walking.

She opened a button on her blouse trying to cool off, and somewhere in the growing confusion of her mind, she registered annoyance that she was messing up her perfect look. She shook her head trying to clear her thoughts but that only made her feel dizzier. Suddenly, a couple of tourists with sticky ice cream cones stepped too close, a handsome man in a tuxedo gave her a nasty look, and an old woman sitting on a box with a hand-printed sign that said Psychic Readings: $2.00 looked up at her and laughed as she stumbled past.

Paula struggled to comprehend what was happening. It felt like she was taking up too much space. The sidewalk was hard to manage. She walked slower. An older balding man, all sweaty and hurried, had to break his stride as he tried to get past her.

“Darling, pick a lane!” he jeered as he pushed by.

She felt outrage at being bumped. Especially now. And by an asshole who wasn’t even wearing a fucking mask. She felt angry at herself that she must be getting sick. And of all times for that to happen.

Did anyone just get sick...