A cloud of smoke billowed from Arnold Knight’s mouth and out
the window of the moving WTMC news van. He took another drag and threw the
spent butt into the street. The energy pills he had bought at the gas station
down the road were just beginning to kick in. After twitching in his seat for a
moment, Knight reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. Once
again, he held the pack absently to the driver (who also happened to be the
cameraman) and once again, the driver shook his head.
“Jesus
Christ.” Knight spit the words, along with saliva, into the hot air outside.
“What the fuck did we do to deserve this assignment?”
Arnold
Knight had been an anchorman at WTMC for fifteen years. During his time with
the station, he had covered political scandals, murders, robberies, high
profile court cases, and even a few kidnappings. Unfortunately, a DUI arrest
followed by a nasty divorce, in which highly embarrassing personal details had
been divulged, had knocked Knight out of favor with the public. These days, he
was lucky to cover a dog show or street renaming. In fact, he was more likely
to be found at the Platinum Pony drinking tequila shots and harassing dancers
than at City Hall interviewing the mayor.
He received
his current assignment after returning to the station from covering a fundraising
event for the local high school. Today, he would have the honor of documenting
a cash giveaway at a failing supermarket in a bad part of town. The story would
run once during the early broadcast, near the end…and only if they were running
under time.
As he took
another drag, Knight flipped the visor down and the mirror-cover up. His white
hair, slicked back with gel, shone brightly in the early morning light. Knight
tilted the visor and caught a glimpse of his eyes; they were bloodshot and
weighed down by heavy bags. Though he was only fifty-four, his recent lifestyle
choices had aged him twenty years. He flipped the second butt out of the window
and reached behind him for his makeup kit. It would take nearly a pound of
powder to make his face TV worthy.
“I don’t
know how in the hell I’m gonna get this shit to stick to my face,” Knight
complained as he dabbed the applicator. “It’s gotta be a hundred fucking
degrees out here already.”
He turned
to elicit an agreement from the driver. All he got was a noncommittal grunt.
Knight returned to his kit and compact mirror.
“You’d
think after thirty fucking years of doing the weather that Charlie could get
something right occasionally.” Knight rubbed base under his eyes. “I thought he
said it was supposed to rain or something today.”
“I think
that was last week.” The driver’s tone struck Arnold’s ego.
Knight
turned to face the driver seat.
“How old
are you, son?”
“Twenty.”
“And how
long have you worked for the station?” Knight attempted to keep his anger in
check.
“Six
months.”
“Well,
then, son…” Knight wound himself up for another tirade against the injustices
of getting old and being divorced. He usually reserved his speech for last call
at the local hole in the wall. In fact, he had just given a brilliant recitation
four hours ago. The flashing red and
blue lights stopped him mid-sentence.
“What the
fuck is going on here?” Knight stared through the windshield. His eyes widened
and he dropped the powder-covered sponge to the floorboard.
“Isn’t that
the store that we’re supposed to cover?” The driver’s voice raised several
octaves.
The
entrance to the MegaSaver was bathed in the strobing lights of police cars,
fire trucks, and ambulances. Yellow tape was being strung around the building
to prevent the crowd of onlookers from interfering with the crime scene. From
across the street, Knight could see a sheet-covered body being wheeled out of
the supermarket and rolled into the back of a waiting ambulance.
“Drive!
NOW!” Knight slammed his hand against the dashboard several times, stirring his
driver into action. Before the van came to a complete halt in the lot, Knight jumped
from the passenger seat.
“Get back,
get back!” A police officer stretched his arms wide to block the reporter’s
charge.
“Arnold
Knight: WTMC!” The reporter’s voice boomed with excitement and authority. The
young cameraman stumbled into him, attempting to load a tape into the camera,
power it on, and focus it all at the same time.
“I don’t
care who you are, you can’t cross the tape.” The policeman shook his head and
took a step forward.
Suddenly, a
wild cry came from the entrance of the store. The reporter jerked his head
around towards the sound. Knight watched as police led a weeping man out of the
grocery store and off to the side. With another moan of anguish, the man ripped
his shirt open and threw it onto the concrete. As Knight stared in amazement,
the hairless man curled into a ball and rocked on the pavement. He couldn’t
quite make out the man’s crazed words, but he thought he heard something about
karma and gross profits.
“You better
be taping this shit, kid.” Knight stared at the naked man now contorting
himself into various yoga positions.
“Mr.
Knight,’ the cameraman pressed a Bluetooth set in his ear, “the station wants us
to go live in five.”
Knight
whipped his head around to face the camera. His eyes instantly sharpened; the
bags under them lifted. Knight’s posture straightened and he took command over
the situation. It even appeared that the blotches of uneven makeup vanished in
the bright light of the reporter’s rediscovered confidence.
The young
man steadied the camera on his shoulder and counted down the seconds with his
fingers. Despite the chaos that was unfolding behind him, and the lack of
official information to report, Arnold Knight cleared his throat and prepared
to relaunch his career.
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