Shooting

As I've said before, I work dayside on weekends, so despite the heavy workload I was home by 7:00 last night. Lucky for me, my pager sounded at 7:15.

"You're the closest," the producer said when I called in. I should explain our callout system. There is no specific person "on call" at any one time. We're all considered "on call" all the time. Spot news assignments are made based upon location. If you're the closest person to the damage, you get the call.

"There's a shooting," she said. "I'm sending the address to your pager."

I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with my gut. So far I have run on spot news five times, and every time I get a burning sensation deep down in my abdomen. I want to run right out the door, but I'm horrified by the idea of being stuck out somewhere without a toilet around if I don't take care of it before leaving. So I make a pit stop first, then feel guilty about not responding with all possible speed. One day I'm afraid I will have missed something major because I was on the crapper; that fear makes the need all the more urgent.

Anyway, that taken care of, I headed out the door to the scene of the crime. It wasn't in a great neighborhood, so I was simultaneously relieved and irritated that photogs from the other two stations had beaten me there. One of them was kind of young, like me. The other was an older guy who has been in the market for a while. I had been a little surprised that my station hadn't sent a reporter with me, and I was even more surprised that the other guys didn't have reporters with them either.

"Sunday night," the older guy said. "They won't drag out reporters for this. This is a VO."

I was excited by the story, my first real crime coverage. The other guys didn't seem that interested. In retrospect, I guess it wasn't really a great news story. Some guys got into an argument over drugs, and one shot the other.

Still, I was all over the place, shooting every angle of the house that I could get from behind the police tape. I shot cops walking around. I shot cop cars. I shot the ambulance. I shot people standing around. I shot everything while the other guys just hung around by the tape. After a while I was running out of things to shoot, so I called in to find out what more the producer wanted.

"Wait there 'til they bring out the body," she said. "Then come on back."

I joined the guys back at the tape just about the time the coroner's people were bringing out the corpse. I was all set to shoot it when the older guy said, "What are you doing? You don't want to shoot that."

I looked over, and both the other guys had turned their cameras away from the house and stepped away from them. "I always turn it away to let the cops know we're not shooting that shit," the older photog said. "Just shows some respect. There's enough to shoot without the body."

I hadn't thought about that. Something inside told me the producer would be pissed if I didn't get the body coming out. Something else told me this photog was right. I went with my gut (which had started to burn again) and turned my camera away too.

Curiously enough, it didn't become an issue. The producer was really busy, so she barely lent me her ear long enough to give her all the info for the story. I watched the story from home, and she didn't even use most of what I told her.

Still, I wonder if I should have shot it anyway.

Black Friday, Black Asphalt

Day 12 of 17 found me working dayside again and standing out in the parking lot of my local mall. It's Black Friday, so we had to do a story on shopping. The problem was that another crew was already doing shopping. Lizzie was counting on doing the shopping story herself, and her only other idea was to do a local story on the X-Box 360 overheating. The producers didn't like that, so Lizzie quickly found herself at their mercy for an alternative.

And what did one of them come up with for us?

Parking.

Our assignment was to stand out in the parking lot and get people to tell us what a tough time they had finding a place to park. "Find somebody who had to fight for a space, or maybe somebody who got a space snatched out from under them," the producer instructed. I may be new at this, but that really didn't seem like a great story to me.

It got worse. Our mall has a HUGE parking lot, with a multi-level deck off one end, built by the developer in anticipation of the hordes of people who would stay home to shop instead of traveling to a larger city not too far away. He anticipated incorrectly. This place was never able to attract the right stores, so people still drive out of town for big shopping trips. Back here, they never fill that lot. There are actually weeds growing up through the asphalt in the outer fringes. There were even spaces still left in the deck.

Thus, nobody had any trouble finding parking, and our story didn't exist. Lizzie called in to let the producer know what we had. I only heard Lizzie's half of the conversation.

"No, we don't have that... Because the parking lot's not full... No, it's not full... No, they're just driving to the empty parts... No, that's not happening... We did talk--... We did--... We DID talk to people... No, they aren't... Okay, but that's not going to happen... Because people aren't FIGHTING over spaces!... Okay, we'll do it... I said we'll DO it!"

"That didn't sound good," I said.

"Get this," she said. "She wants us to set up the camera over by the entrance and wait to get video of people fighting over spaces."

"But they AREN'T," I said.

"I told her that, but she doesn't believe me. She's convinced nobody went out of town to shop because of the gas prices. She thinks everybody HAS to be here."

"But the gas prices went back down," I said. They have. A few weeks ago we were running almost $3 a gallon; now we're at $2.19.

"Try telling HER that! She's got this picture in her head of people running down little old ladies to get spaces. She said she already has the parking story in her rundown, so we have to do it no matter what. "

So we asked a bunch of bewildered shoppers whether they had trouble finding a parking space. They looked at us like we were idiots. I can understand why. Then we turned in a boring two minute story about people having no problem whatsoever finding parking. Lizzie strung together eight different people saying they had no problems. I wallpapered it with people driving through the parking lot and parking in an orderly manner.

It was one of those stories I imagine the folks at home watching and saying, "What the hell was THAT all about?" I've seen these stories myself on television and just thought the reporters were stupid. I didn't realize how this kind of thing happens.

I feel bad about that now. So to all those reporters I've called morons through the television screen over the years, please accept my heartfelt apology.

Yellow Gravy

Here I am, in a small town hundreds of miles from home on a miserable Thanksgiving night. I'm exhausted, my parents are pissed off, my roommate's a slut and my truck is still dead so that I can't run away and join the circus.

I should start today's story with last night, when a good ol' boy frying a turkey caught the back of his house on fire. I should mention this was late last night. Why anyone would be frying a turkey at 11:45 at night is a mystery to me.

I was home after a long day at work when I got the call. "You're the closest, so I need you to check it out." Just like previous spot news situations, the excitement gave me an urgent need to use the toilet. I wonder if that ever stops happening...

I got video of flames. I got video of the guy being treated. I got the info. I got into the Hate Van and drove out to the station to edit. I finally got home a little after two this morning and couldn't go to sleep.

Unfortunately, the holiday schedule had me working dayside today, so I had to be back at 9:30 to work with a very perky reporter named Lizzie for the first time. We had a skeleton crew, but the morning meeting still took almost an hour and a half. What do they talk about in there for so long? Around 11:00 we headed out on our assignment: Thanksgiving dinner for the poor and homeless.

We were hardly underway before Liz started asking me questions about myself.

"I heard you room with Suzie," she said.

"Yeah, her and Emily."

"I don't know Emily," she said. "But what do you think of Suzie?"

"She's okay."

"Just okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's fine. Why?"

"I'm just wondering what you think of her."

"In what way?" I asked.

"You think she's attractive?"

"I guess so, but I'm not really attracted to her myself." Suzanne isn't unattractive, but I explained earlier about the dishes.

"Oh," Lizzie said.

"Why did you ask?"

"She'll sleep with you if you ask her," she blurted.

"Huh?"

"Suzie's the station bicycle," she said. I understood the metaphor and was prepared to ignore it, but Liz insisted on finishing it. "Everybody gets a ride."

"That's a little mean," I said.

"Oh, are you guys friends?"

"No, but... She IS my roommate."

"Oh, it sounded like you didn't really like her that much," she said. "But you could still sleep with her." She was grinning ear to ear.

"No, don't think so," I said.

From there the conversation consisted of a catalog of all the people at the station who have pedaled my roommate in the year and a half she's worked there. It's an impressive list. Apparently she has nailed multiple reporters, photographers, studio guys, a married producer and the sports anchor, among others. That last one supposedly denies it even though she told people about it herself.

"Well, if you get lonely," Lizzie said, "Just remember she's a possibility."

Fortunately or unfortunately at that point in the conversation we had arrived at our destination. I know I sound callous, but this story was unpleasant. It was a church feeding of poor and homeless people and families. The church made them sit through a service before they could eat. Then they fed them a very foul imitation of a turkey dinner, with mashed potatoes, greens and this runny (yes, runny) dressing that looked like vomit. They covered everything in gravy, but the gravy was actually yellow and looked gelatinous. How did they make yellow gravy?

We were greeted by a woman with the church whose hair and smile were equally stiff, like plastic. She smiled constantly and condescendingly, talking through her smile in a really creepy way.

Mrs. Plastic told us we could shoot anything there, but we had problems. I saw some kids playing around at the table, throwing things at each other, and moved in for a shot. Suddenly their mother, a redneck woman who had to weigh 400 pounds, started screaming, "I din't give you per mishin! I din't give you per mishin! Don' chu film my kids!"

Plastic hair came running over, smiling, and smiled an admonishment at the woman. "You hush up now," she said. "These people aren't bothering you."

About that time one of her kids turned around and flicked mashed potatoes at the camera. I reacted in time to save the lens, but I ended up with that nasty crap on my shoulder.

"Ha ha ha," the fat lady bellowed. "Git what chu deserve!"

By the time we finished I was feeling nauseated by the smell of that stuff. I didn't think I would ever be that anxious to get back to the Hate Van from a shoot.

"Well, that's Thanksgiving," Lizzie said.

Later on, I got a call on my cellphone while I was waiting for Lizzie to finish writing. I kept my phone when I moved here, but I should really get rid of it to save money. Anyway, it was my family, wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.

Or at least it was at first. Then it quickly degenerated into a guilt trip for not coming home for the holidays. In an earlier conversation, my dad had said he would pay for a plane ticket to come home. That made no difference, because I had to work. He said he didn't understand why I wouldn't take a couple of days off to come spend it with the family. I had the most difficult time making him understand that I simply couldn't take days off at will like he can at his company, because the television biz places different demands on its employees.

He started in on me about it again today. "You shouldn've taken a job where you can't spend the holidays with your family," he said.

By the time I got home tonight I was starving, because it didn't occur to me that even the fast food places would be closed today. NOTHING was open here, not even out by the interstate. My only opportunity to eat all day was when Mrs. Plastic offered me a vile plate of turkey and vomit with yellow gravy. I have been eating from a noodle cup while I write this. At least I saved some money.

However, seeing as how it's Thanksgiving and all, I should give thanks. I'm thankful that I have a damned cool job. I'm thankful that I HAVE a job, unlike so many of those people at the church today who couldn't afford to feed their families a decent Thanksgiving meal. I'm thankful also that I have parents that want me home badly enough to be pissed off at me. And I'm thankful that I have a roommate who would sleep with me if I asked, even though there's no way I would. I know lots of guys wouldn't mind being in my shoes.

But if you'll excuse me now, I need to go collapse.

A Very Long Week

I don't know if anyone's checking the site now, but if I do still have some readers I have to apologize for not keeping up with updates. You see, I'm in the middle of a seventeen day week.

That's right. I'm working seventeen days straight. Why? Bear with me, and I'll explain:

When I first started, I was on a Monday through Friday schedule dayside, but my ultimate schedule is supposed to be nights and weekends with Thursday and Friday off. I went to nightside this past week; but when I looked at the schedule on Monday, I was scheduled to work every day this week.

The news director explained that this was a "transition" week, and that they had still planned to have me working Thursday and Friday, but they had also already promised the guy who has been filling in on weekends that he would have Saturday and Sunday off. So that gave me seven days right there.

Then I got a look at the schedule for this coming week and realized I'm also working Thursday and Friday for the Thanksgiving holiday. The ND explained that everyone else already had their vacation request in for Friday, and since I'm the new guy, I have to work the holiday AND the day after AND my weekend shifts. That makes fourteen days. And that rolls right into the next week, giving me seventeen straight days before my next day off, the first of December!

The up side is that I can use the overtime. My paycheck is already small, but it was a shock to get that first check and get hit immediately with my $87 contribution to the health plan. I'm almost tempted to drop it, but I'm afraid I'll get hit by a truck and not only have to pay my own medical bills, but also cover the accident myself for the station.

On a more positive note, I have an interesting story to tell about Suzanne, one of my housemates. When I was first considering living here, I didn't know how the privacy issues would work out, having never lived with girls. I really didn't need to worry. Suzanne is not modest at all. She has no qualms about walking around the house in panties and a t-shirt, and she doesn't always bother to close her door when she changes clothes. Emily, our other roommate, isn't quite as carefree; but she doesn't seem to embarrass easily either.

You might think this would be sexy, but these girls aren't the most hygenic people on the planet. It isn't that they don't bathe. It's just that they let the house get nasty. I spent a lot of time cleaning up the kitchen and bathroom when I first got here, and I'm the only one who washes the dishes. They also leave their clothes laying around. Having to clean up after a couple of girls who won't do it for themselves is more of a turnoff than Suzanne's pink panties might overcome.

Suzanne works at the station, up in the studio, during the newscasts. Between the early and late shows she doesn't have a lot to do, so she often goes home for dinner. It's practical because we're only a few miles from the station. I thought that was a good idea, so when possible I have been dropping by the house in the evenings to make a sandwich.

Thursday when I dropped by, Suzanne's car was out front. I heard a great commotion as soon as I opened the front door. Her bedroom door was open, and when I passed it to get to my own room I got a really good look at her bent over the edge of her bed with her panties around one ankle while another guy from the studio named Brian pounded her from behind. They were completely oblivious to my presence. They were so far into their own world that I probably could have pulled up a chair and watched the show without their ever noticing me. Even with her face buried into a pillow, she's really quite vocal.

I had difficulty concentrating on making my sandwich. I had even more difficulty concentrating on editing when I got back to the station.

I really need to find a girlfriend.

Seventeen

My pager went off a little before 3 o'clock this morning. I was a bit surprised by it, because the overnight desk usually isn't staffed on Friday and Saturday nights since there's no Saturday or Sunday morning shows. During the week the desk is staffed by the morning show producer, and he doesn't usually arrive until 3am anyway.

So, as I said, I was surprised to be jolted awake. That pager has to be the most annoying sound on the planet, next to my friend Rob's constant whistling. The page instructed me not to call our desk, but to call our crime reporter at home. It turned out he had gotten a call from one of his police contacts about a bad car accident that he needed me to check out.

My first spot news. The excitement of it was a little overwhelming. I suddenly really needed to use the toilet.

A few minutes later I was out the door and on my way in the Hate Van. I'm still learning my way around here, so I had to stop twice and look at the map book again. Unfortunately my map book is four years old and is missing a few pages; CP Rick says he'll get me a new one soon.

I finally found the accident. The police had put up crime scene tape a good distance from the scene, around a curve where I couldn't see a whole lot. I was told to stay there. I didn't see any other photogs around, but a newspaper reporter was already there.

A little later an ambulance came around the curve. An officer pulled the tape loose on one end to let it out. It wasn't going very fast and didn't have its lights on.

"Not a good sign," the reporter said. "He's not in a big hurry."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means there's no rush to get to the hospital."

A few minutes later the public information officer for the police department came out to the tape. By that time a newspaper photographer had shown up, and the three of us were briefed by the PIO.

"What we have is a single car accident," he said. "The driver proceeded around the curve here at a high rate of speed, lost control of the vehicle and departed from the roadway."

"It was fatal," said the newspaper reporter.

"One fatality," the PIO confirmed. "We've made contact with his family, but we're not releasing the name yet. There were no other passengers."

"Can you tell us how old?"

"Seventeen."

This kid had been out late with friends. He had dropped them all off and was on his way home when he took the curve too fast. The cops said alcohol didn't appear to be a factor, just speed.

They kept us where we were a bit longer, then took the tape down and let us go around the curve to get pictures of the scene. The tow truck was already hooking up the car to take it away when we were finally let in.

When I saw the car, I was somewhat surprised. It was a newer model Mustang. It had left the roadway all right, but it had simply skidded up an embankment and rolled onto its left side. It had already been pulled upright by the time we got back there, so we could see pretty clearly that it had very little damage. I walked up close; there was no blood anywhere, and the airbag hadn't even gone off. It certainly wasn't how I expected a fatal accident to look.

I got the attention of an officer nearby. "I don't understand what happened," I said. "It doesn't look like enough damage for somebody to have died."

"See that dent in the door?" A large dent in the driver's side door was the only significant damage on the whole car. "That was where his head ended up, with the car on top of him."

I stared at the dent. "How did he end up like that?"

"Wasn't wearing his seat belt. When it rolled over, it slung him halfway out."

I don't know how it would have affected me if I had seen blood and guts everywhere, or if the car had been smashed into a crumpled mess. But all day today the stupidity of what I saw has been bothering me. There was absolutely no reason for that kid to die like that. If he had been wearing his seatbelt he would have walked away. Hell, he probably would have driven away after the car was back on its wheels. Seventeen years old.

I went back to the station, edited a VO and left the tapes for the producer. I was back in bed around six, but I didn't go back to sleep.

Shedding Some Light on the Matter

In an earlier post I mentioned the lack of lighting in the equipment package issued to me when I started here last week. There was no light on the camera. There were no lights to put on stands. There were simply no lights, because the few that had been in the kit had been pilfered by other photogs while the gear had been in storage.

This was worrying me a bit, since I am supposed to start the nightside shift next week. While I'm no great lighting genius, I would like to be able to see the subject I'm shooting. A top light would have been fine. I learned basic three point interview lighting in school, so a real kit would have been nice also.

Today when I returned from my shoot, CP Rick called me into the equipment storage area. "I have presents for you," he said, and handed me an Anton Bauer top light. It's actually bent a little, but it works fine.

"I don't know what became of your lights," he said. "So you can have these." He pulled a black case over to me. Inside I found two Lowell Omnis and two VIP Lights, with barn doors and stands.

"These are brand new," I said, quite pleasantly surprised.

"Well, not exactly. They've been riding around in the back of Billy's truck for the past two years."

"But the stands still have the paper on them!" In fact, the stands were still in the brown paper sleeves from when they were shipped from the factory.

"Yeah," he said, "Billy has no idea what to do with a light. But I figured you might, so you get 'em. If you don't use 'em, I'll give 'em to somebody else."

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it," he smiled. "I wouldn't want you to really think that I'm... What was it? 'Not a nice person?'"

Uh oh.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, I may be grouchy, but I don't think I'm really THAT mean."

Oh shit.

"And I haven't made up my mind yet whether you're an idiot."

Oh god no. He let it hang there for a minute.

"Jesus Christ," he said, as he started to crack up laughing. "I really wish you could see your face right now."

Oh, he IS mean after all, to actually be enjoying this, to be laughing to my face about it.

"You read it," I said.

"Yep."

Awkward pause while he just grinned at me.

"So... What does this mean?" I asked.

"I don't know. What does it mean?"

Now I'm confused. Obviously I'm in a world of shit at this point. But if I were really in trouble, would he be giving me brand new lights?

"Do I, uh... Do I have to take it down?"

"You damn well better not!" he said. "That was some funny shit. Especially that shit about Jake. I've seen him standing up there before. I think he just likes to watch it go around." He was grinning ear to ear.

"So you aren't mad about what I wrote... What I wrote about you?"

"Why would I get mad about that? I AM mean. You better get used to it too, because I'm gonna ride your ass. You keep bringing back crap like that first day and I'll tear it to shreds. But I can't really fault a man for telling the truth."

At this point I was shaking. It was a combination of fear and excitement, and I couldn't suppress an embarrassed grin myself.

"Look," he said, turning a little more serious, "You can trash me all you want. I can take it. But I can't speak for other folks here. There are some fragile egos in this place. I'm not gonna tell anybody else about it, but... I can't exactly give you permission to do this either. If you get in trouble with it, you're on your own."

"Okay." That's all the response I could really muster at that point. My head was spinning.

"Now show me what you can do with the lights," he said, and kicked the case over with a loud thud. "I think I read somewhere you need a wireless also. I'll see what I can do about that."

It was a little tough to edit after that. I kept grinning spontaneously. The reporter gave me an odd look when she gave me her script and said, "Something funny?"

"Just happy to be here," I said. Now she thinks I'm weird.

An Easy Day

Yes, today turned out to be an easy, quiet day. I was on VOSOT patrol, and nothing much happened. The break couldn't have come at a better time, because it gave me a chance to really think about all the advice I've been receiving, the balance of which seems to indicate that I should give up my blog and delete everything lest my colleagues discover loose lips within their midst.

The station has a Doppler radar tower behind it, a fairly short tower with a big white ball on top. As I was headed to my truck to go check out a potential pedestrian accident, I happened to glance over that way. I noticed for the first time that there's a ladder that runs up the center of the tower to a trap door in the bottom of that ball. The reason I noticed it is that one of our maintenance engineers, a good ol' boy named Jake, was standing at the top of the ladder with his head up inside the trap door. It looked like a little man with a giant head standing up there. He didn't appear to be actually doing any work. He was just standing there with his head inside that ball.

I reached my van and put the camera in the back. As I came around the side to mount up, Jake pulled his head out of the ball and looked around. When he saw me, he gave me this HUGE grin. Then he stuck his head back inside the ball.

Now, those of you who have advised me to stop blogging, I ask you: How the hell can I NOT write about this?

The Hate Van

Last week one of the other photogs asked me if I knew which vehicle I was supposed to be assigned.

"Rick said I'm supposed to get the engineering van," I said.

"Oh ho!" he laughed. "You mean the 'Hate Van.'"

The Hate Van has been in the shop for a while and wasn't ready when I arrived here. Its previous driver hated it and tried to kill it. He drove it for 12,000 miles without an oil change. It finally stopped working, but those who make the decisions at the station decided it would be better to fix it than replace it. Today CP Rick finally drove me out to the dealer to pick it up.

The Hate Van is a short wheel base Ford Econoline van. It was a "good deal" offered by the Ford dealer that provided our other vehicles and was purchased with the idea that the engineers would use it to build out a live truck themselves. They were supposed to buy a mast and transmitter and install racks in it. The project was abandoned when they actually started planning it and realized they couldn't fit everything into a short wheel base van. Unfortunately the station had already paid for it, so the engineers kept it around to use for errands before it was returned to the news department. But not before they ran the hell out of it.

It's a cargo van, so the inside isn't finished out. I have to figure out a way to keep the gear from bouncing around in the back. It's white. Mostly. Fortunately it isn't marked with the station's logos, but that's only because the condition of the paint and body won't really accept a decal job.

The side cargo doors do not open. That's because the previous driver had an encounter with the lift gate on a Coca Cola truck that folded them together, effectively sealing them forever. That was NOT a repair the station felt was necessary, since we can still load gear into the back. It's also missing a chunk out of the front grill and has no cover over the left front turn signal.

Inside isn't that bad. It has a stereo and air conditioning at least, and the seat belts seem to work. The odometer reads 63,000 miles. The seats have a few tears, but nothing major. The dash, however, is cracked in several places. It actually looks like someone has been beating on it with a blunt object.

And finally, across the dash in front of the steering wheel, right above the instrument cluster, someone has scrawled the following inspirational message:

"Kill A Redneck."

I'm now told the van has a history of stranding photogs at unfortunate times and in unpleasant places. Thus there is a good deal of hate directed toward it, and it seems to harbor some resentment toward us as well. Hence the name:

The Hate Van.

Unfortunately I noticed on the way home that it pulls noticeably to the left, and CP Rick has promised to get it back to the shop for an alignment sometime next week. It has now had a good deal of engine work, however, so perhaps it and I will be able to establish a new relationship based on mutual trust and understanding. I have promised to take good care of it and treat it kindly.

The First Week

My apologies to all for not updating sooner. It has been a stressful and exhausting but interesting week. I'll just go day by day and pick up where I left off:

Wednesday

Training day. I spent the day with my chief photographer. His name is Rick, from here on referred to as "CP Rick."

CP Rick is not a nice person. CP Rick is mean and grouchy. CP Rick is convinced I am an idiot. CP Rick made sure I knew I'm an idiot.

I wasn't quite what to expect, since I hadn't seen him on Tuesday. You'll recall I spent Tuesday morning in the lobby, and he had been out on a live shot that afternoon, so we hadn't met. He walked in Wednesday morning wearing old, faded jeans and a ragged button down shirt. He has shoulder length hair and apparently only shaves once a week. I would guess his age at 40, but it's hard to tell.

"You're Max?" he said, giving me the evil eye.

"Yes," I said. "I guess I'm riding with you today."

He literally looked me over from head to toe. I now realize that photogs don't really dress that well, but I didn't want to make a bad impression my first couple of days and was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, tucked in. I also shaved, which doesn't seem very popular with our crew.

"Are you some kind of neat freak?" he asked. "You look like you might be a neat freak." He didn't wait for me to answer, but instead went looking for his reporter. I followed along.

When we arrived at our first shoot location, he opened the back of the truck and handed me his camera. "You're shooting this," he said. "Don't fuck it up."

So I shot my first package. I kept looking to CP Rick for advice or pointers, but he seemed bored and completely uninterested in what I was doing. I remembered all I had read about the importance of communication between reporter and photographer and asked the reporter plenty of questions. Every now and then CP Rick would scoff at one of my questions.

The real pleasure came when I got back to the station to edit. Rick stepped in and said, "I'll edit this. You just watch." Then he proceeded to bitch about everything I had shot.

"Let me tell you why this shot sucks." And he did.

"Crap. I can't use THAT shot." And he didn't.

"Ha. It's obvious you haven't done this before." And it probably was.

When it was all over, he said, "It ain't the worst I've seen. At least none of it was blue."

I think that was a compliment.

Thursday

I finally got my gear. It's a bit... disappointing.

We shoot Beta SP. My camera has apparently been brutalized by its former users. There's a strange line that runs through the middle of the viewfinder. Fortunately it's only in the viewfinder and doesn't go to the tape, but it's still a bit annoying. There's a permanent spot in the coating on the front of my lens that does show up quite distinctly on tape.

The tripod is a Gitzo, the kind with collars on the legs that you twist to lock. Unfortunately, when you twist these, they don't lock. The head also feels like it has gravel in it, and it has no handle.

The kit has no lights at all, not even a camera light. It also has no wireless. Apparently it once had these things, but when the last guy left the other photogs raided his (now my) gear. I do have a stick microphone, but I only have a thirty foot and a fifty foot cable.

I have four brick batteries. I have a dual charger that only charges two of them at a time. Unfortunately, one side is dead, so it really only charges one battery at a time.

CP Rick was a little annoyed when he saw the state of the gear. He said he hadn't intended to stick me with so many problems and promised to track down some of the stuff that has been looted.

I chased VOs and VOSOTs the rest of the day in a borrowed vehicle. My van is still in the shop. The last guy ran it 12,000 miles without an oil change, and all the oil leaked out.

"You better take better care of it," CP Rick said. "We're not buying new trucks any time soon, so if you break it, you're walkin'."

Friday

Speaking of walking, my own truck broke down. I noticed coolant coming from the back of the engine. That's probably a bad sign. So I walked to work Friday (three miles each direction) and will continue to do so until it's fixed unless I can convince someone to give me a ride. That's tomorrow's major goal.

I finally shot and edited a package by myself, without helpful criticism from CP Rick. It was a dull story on a tax proposal. It was mostly uneventful, and the reporter insisted on using a lot of file.

I left work Friday night sullen and dejected. I went home to an empty house, since both my roommates work nights. I just sat in front of the television. I don't even remember what I watched. I wanted to go out somewhere, but I really need to save my money.

I think this is just the excitement giving way to the reality of the situation. I knew what to expect, but I think I was still harboring some unreasonable hopes. I still don't think I've made a mistake. I just need to get into the swing of it, build up my confidence and do my best.

The Weekend

Mostly uneventful. I tried to clean up around the house, which is a little scary (I'll write more on my living situation later). I hardly brought anything with me in the move, yet I could hardly move among the boxes in my room. At least now things are taking shape a little better.

Probably the most interesting development of the week concerns my friend Kat. I had left her a message earlier this week with my new information, and she called me back Saturday. She says she wants to come visit. It's an awful long drive, but she sounded serious about it.

We'll see.

For now I just have to get my head right for the coming week. Hopefully this week I can prove I'm not a moron.

Inauspicious Beginnings

I arrived at the station 8:45 this morning, a full fifteen minutes early for my first day as a television news photographer. I walked nervously through the front door of the station, only to find the reception area empty. I patiently sat down in an uncomfortable chair to wait. A few people wandered through, each one in a slightly bigger hurry than the last as the nine o'clock hour approached. I offered each one an inquiring glance, hoping one of them would wonder who the hell I was and what the hell I wanted, and perhaps lead me to someone who could get me started. No such luck.

Finally, at 9:05, a receptionist wandered in from somewhere in the back. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Can I help you with something?"

"I'm here to work," I said. "I'm your new photographer."

"Your name?"

"Max."

"Have a seat, Max. I'll call back and let them know you're here."

She indeed made the call. "They'll be right with you," she said to me.

And so I waited. 9:15 came and went. A little coffee table in front of the chairs offered up a copy of a very poorly written local business magazine, which gave me some insight into why I wouldn't want to locate a business here. 9:30, and still no summons to the newsroom.

"Let me see what's going on," the receptionist said. She made a call. "This guy is still up here. Yeah. What was your name again, hon?"

"Max," I said.

"Max, she said. "Okay. I'll let him know." Then to me: "Sit tight a little longer. They'll come get you when they're ready."

So I read about some local entrepreneur who truly believed in the service she was providing the community by insuring it from all manner of disasters. Boats, fires, cars, floods, homes, she could do it all. There was a picture of her posing by her giant yellow H2, apparently ready to jump in and come sell me a policy.

10:00 came and went. I was exhausted from moving into my new place yesterday, and despite the uncomfortable seating area I began to doze off a little. "There's coffee right in there," the receptionist said, as if on cue. I got myself a cup and resumed the wait.

At 10:30 I began to worry a little. Finally at 10:35 a young woman bolted through the door that led to the inside. "Max?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. I'm not sure exactly how I did it, but as I got up I managed to fumble my coffee. I didn't drop the cup, but I jostled it enough that it splashed out... right on the front of my light blue shirt.

Great. My first day, and I have to spend it advertising a big brown stain to everyone new I meet.

The girl was just an associate producer. The news director and chief photographer weren't ready for me, so they sent her to send me to Human Resources. I had paperwork to do there anyway, so I'm not sure why I waited almost two hours to get started. Finally the paperwork was done, and I was sent back to the newsroom.

"Hi, I'm [News Director]," said the ND. He shook my hand as he looked disapprovingly at the brown stain on my shirt.

"Coffee," I said.

"Huh." Great. I was making SUCH a great impression.

From there, it's amazing how uneventful the rest of my day was, and yet how exhausting at the same time. The ND gave me a very quick tour of the station and threw a hundred names at me by way of introduction to the staff. Then he said, "I don't have much for you to do today. Just wander around and watch how we do things."

With that, he was back in his office. I ended up watching the AP from earlier take feeds, listening to the assignment editor (who also happens to be the 6pm anchor) deal with crews on the phone, observing a couple of photogs editing and generally wishing I wasn't such an outsider. I couldn't get introduced to my gear today because the chief photographer was out running the live truck. I did hear that I am probably going to get the "Hate Van" as my vehicle, once it comes back from the shop. I'm not sure what a Hate Van is, but it doesn't exactly sound encouraging.

However, I'm looking forward to tomorrow, when I'm supposed to spend the day with the chief photog getting my training. It's time to get this party started already.