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.