I'm Sad

Yes, I know I haven't updated the site. That's because I haven't felt much like writing this past week after all that happened. Besides that, I'm embarrassed about it and really don't know how to write it.

No, I'm not going to tell you what happened. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in a day or so. Or maybe not at all.

Meanwhile, until I find some new inspiration, enjoy some interesting design. I particularly like the freaky building block apartments in Tokyo with the sloping floors and low doors to make old people have to keep their balance and climb around a lot. If I save for 1000 years, maybe I can afford one.

The Lady in the Casket

Last night's story was most certainly the weirdest thing I've covered.

Shortly after I arrived at the station, I noticed that Sarah was at her desk writing instead of attending the afternoon meeting. I thought that was odd, but I didn't particularly want to go talk to her to find out what was going on. As I was checking my email, however, my answer walked up to me in the form of Mark, who informed me that he and Sarah were switching shifts for the week.

Whoopeee! Mark didn't know why they had to switch, but I have a feeling it has something to do with giving me and Dax a break from that crazy woman.

As I loaded up the van, Mark began filling me in on our story for the day.

"You're gonna love this," he said. "This 400 pound woman died, and her family bought a coffin that was too small for her. They shoehorned her into it, but the handles on the coffin broke while they were carrying her out to the grave Sunday."

"Jesus," I said.

"Yeah, seriously," he said. "The funeral home is saying they tried to tell them the coffin was too small, but they wouldn't listen. They insisted on the cheapest one. The family is saying the funeral home shouldn't have sold them a coffin that couldn't handle her weight, and they're talking about suing. The daughter says the casket bent up around her, so now they can't get her out."

"Holy shit," I said. "What did they do?"

"Well, nothin' yet. The funeral parlor wants to bury her in that same casket and just give 'em a discount on it. The family wants a whole new casket for free."

"Is the funeral parlor gonna talk to us?" I asked.

"I think so," Mark said. "I talked to him earlier and told him we were coming."

We headed first to the home of the grieving family to speak with the deceased Mrs. Ledbetter's daughter, who had lived with her during her last days. These didn't appear to be very wealthy people. The house was old and run down. The screen door almost came off its frame in Mark's hand when he opened it to knock. Inside, the furniture was broken down and torn, and everything was covered in a yellowish film with the stench of cigarettes.

The daughter, who was pushing 300 pounds herself, directed Mark to the couch, where he found himself surrounded by other family and friends who had assembled to lend their support. I went to work setting up for the interview.

"So, I guess, tell us what happened," Mark started.

"Momma been sick for a long time," the woman began. "She had cancer. She finally passed on last week. Just like, went to sleep, you know?" Her voice turned a little angry. "We were gonna have the funeral yesterdie, but then this all happened."

"What exactly happened at the funeral?"

"Well, the boys took her outta the hearse and started carryin' her up to the grave. The rest of us was all standin' up there already with the preacher. 'Bout halfway up the hill, looked like Billy stumbled. Then the whole casket just dropped on that side and crashed down, like 'whoomp!'"

She demonstrated the crash with her arms. Her anger seemed to be increasing as she continued.

"We thought they'd just dropped her, on account of her size. But when we run down there and looked, we seen the handles broke off! Can you believe that? What kind of funeral parlor sells people a defective casket?"

"What did you do?" Mark asked.

"I was in shock. Shock. When she hit the ground, the lid came open and we could see her arm flop around. We all run down there to see if the boys were okay, and I put her arm back in and shut the lid. It wouldn't close right. Poor Billy, he started sayin' 'I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to.' We was mad at him at first, but then we seen the broken handle. I was horrified. Horrified."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"Well, not physically," she said. "But them young ones gonna be scarred for life now. Little Jessie screamed and started cryin' when it happened."

"How bad was the damage to the casket?"

"It's all bent up on the side where it hit. They cain't get her out of it. It don't shut right, so they cain't leave her in it."

Mark took a deep breath. "I talked to Mr. Jones over at the funeral home," he said. "And he told me he tried to sell you a bigger casket, but you wouldn't buy it."

"They just want money," the woman said, angrily. "He tried to tell me we had to buy an $8000 copper casket. Momma didn't leave us that kind of money. He was just tryin' to take advantage of our grief. He already squeezed enough out of us."

"But he says if you had bought the bigger casket, this problem wouldn't have happened."

"If they'd built the casket like they were s'pose to, none of this woulda happened!" she growled.

After shooting video of a picture of Momma and plenty of b-roll of the family sitting around smoking and grieving, we headed out for the funeral home. I had a huge headache by then from the haze in that place and was glad for the fresh air.

Mr. Jones greeted us warmly in the dim, quiet waiting area of the funeral parlor.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, smiling sympathetically. His suit was perfectly tailored. His handshake was perfectly firm, but not intimidating. Every hair on his head was perfectly in place, in a hairstyle that swept from one corner of his forehead back over his scalp without a part, like a televangelist's wig. His voice was deep and artificially soft and soothing, no doubt from countless hours of practice. He had an odd cadence to his speech, an unusual way of emphasizing certain words to enhance their sympathetic value.

I loathed this man from the moment I saw him.

We set up the interview in a "showroom" of sorts with rows of beautifully polished caskets. The room was decorated with large, fake, electric candelabras, along with some displays of synthetic flowers. The crucifix or cross was the primary religious symbol in the room, with a Star of David here or there to provide a little diversity.

"First let me say we are dedicated to making this right for this family," he began, once I was rolling. "This was a very unfortunate situation, and I will do everything in my power to see that they're taken care of."

"They'll be glad to hear that," said Mark. "Can you tell us a little bit about what happened?"

"Well, you know, the loss of a loved one is a stressful time, and we do what we can to put the family at ease. Sometimes, though, a miscommunication can happen."

"What kind of miscommunication?"

"Oh, with all the distractions, sometimes the family members aren't really in a clear state of mind. That's why we try to take care of everything for them so they can deal with their grief."

It was immediately clear this guy would rather talk around the situation. I've mentioned before that Mark doesn't always come across as the brightest bulb in the package, but in this instance I was glad to see he was willing to push.

"Let's get specific with this case," he said. "Why did the handles break on this woman's coffin?"

"Casket," Mr. Jones corrected him.

"What?"

"We refer to it as a casket," he said.

"Okay, casket. Why did it break?"

"Well, each of our caskets have a certain weight rating. We have some bigger ones that go up to 500 pounds, and some that can handle 300 pounds. The model Mrs. Ledbetter's family selected was rated for 250 pounds."

"So the casket couldn't handle her weight?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But we did explain the weight issue to the family. We did suggest to them very strongly that they purchase a larger casket. Unfortunately they insisted on the less expensive option."

"Why didn't you just refuse to sell them the cheaper casket?"

"Our job is to make things easier for the family, not more difficult. We would never refuse a customer's wishes. When our gentle persuasion proved unsuccessful, we had no choice but to honor their wishes."

"So, I guess the bottom line is, what are you going to do to make this right for this family? Can you give them another casket?"

"No," Mr. Jones shook his head. "Unfortunately that's not possible. We ran into some difficulty with Mrs. Ledbetter's casket and won't be able to transfer her to a different one. What we can do, pending the family's approval, is to send the casket back to the factory to be repaired."

"With Mrs. Ledbetter in it?"

"Um, yes, that's correct."

"What about... Mrs. Ledbetter's daughter said the casket won't seal up now."

"Oh, that casket never sealed," Mr. Jones explained. "The less expensive models don't come with a seal on the cap."

"Cap?" asked Mark.

"The 'lid' is actually called a 'cap.' But that one isn't supposed to seal. I think she's getting confused. Right now the cap doesn't close properly, but they can fix that at the factory."

"So you're gonna ship her out to the factory?"

"Oh, no, we're not going to ship her off, ha ha. The company we buy our caskets from actually has an assembly plant here in town that serves the entire region. We'll take her to the factory in our hearse, and the craftsmen there will see that the vessel is in an appropriate condition. We'll make sure she's treated with the utmost respect."

"And who's gonna pay for this work?"

"Oh, the family will not pay a dime. Not a dime. In fact, I'm fully prepared to offer the Ledbetters a refund on the entire service. We're here to take care of bereaved families, and I'll do whatever I can to demonstrate our commitment to that goal."

After a bit of video of the various caskets, including both the box Mr. Jones recommended and the one in which Mrs. Ledbetter now rests, we had everything we needed. We put the story together and aired it in our late news, much to the shock of our audience. Or, at least, our anchor SAID it was a shocking story in the tease before the show. Our viewers probably weren't as shocked as our anchor thought they should be. But then, what do viewers know, anyway.

And finally, to top off the entire day, the anchor introduced the story with the cliche, "It's a family's worst nightmare." I'm pretty sure Wendy wrote that.

Fight!

"You wanted to come here!" Kat shouted, as I opened the door.

"Only to keep you from fucking Max!" said Joe.

Whoa. What the hell did I just walk into? I had to run by the bank and the post office before they closed this afternoon, so I had gone out by myself. When I came back, this is what greeted me. It stopped me dead in my tracks in the doorway. I just stared at them.

"Max! Tell him there's nothing going on between you and me!" Kat barked.

"Uh, what?"

"This idiot thinks I came here to sleep with you," she said. "Tell him we've never slept together."

"You TOLD me you thought you might have feelings for him," Joe said. "You don't drive 800 miles to visit somebody you're just friends with!"

"Well I DO!" Kat shouted.

"I'll leave you guys alone," I said, heading for my room.

"No, I'm coming with you," Kat said.

"Oh, no you're not," said Joe. He grabbed her arm above the elbow.

"What the--Let GO of me!" Kat growled. She dug the fingernails of her free hand into his wrist.

"C'mere!" he said. He gave her a pretty violent jerk. "LISTEN to me!"

There's seriously nothing going on between me and Kat, nor has there ever been. However, I wasn't about to let him handle her like that.

"Hey!" I said, and stepped up next to Kat in an attempt to get between them. Joe's actually bigger than I am, so I'm not quite sure what I was thinking. Stepping into his space took him by surprise, however, and he let go of her and stepped back.

"Stay out of this, Max. This is between me and Kat."

"This is MY house," I said. "You need to mind your manners."

Kat turned and went into my room, slamming the door behind her. Joe tried to follow, but I blocked his path. "Joe," I said, in a threatening tone. I was actually shaking where I stood, so I'm not sure how menacing I actually was. But he looked away from my door and made eye contact with me. "I don't know what's going on here, but you need to cool it," I said.

He looked away. He was really angry, but he's not usually an unreasonable guy. "Alright," he said. He took a step back, then looked around awkwardly, trying to decide what to do. He sat down on the edge of the couch, but tense as a coil and poised to spring up again at any moment.

"What the hell is going on here?" I asked.

"Doesn't concern you," he said, looking at the floor.

"Look," I said. "I don't know what you're thinking, but Kat and I are just friends."

"I said, it doesn't concern you," he said, a little more emphatically.

I stood there for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. I was still shaking. Joe slid back a little and put his head in his hands. I decided to try to talk to Kat and turned toward my room. I was relieved that Joe didn't try to get up.

I knocked on the door, two soft raps with the back of the knuckle of my middle finger. It seemed kind of stupid to be requesting permission to enter my own room; but when a woman decides a room is hers, would a sane man argue with her?

Kat didn't answer. "I'm coming in," I said, and tried the handle. Fortunately she had left it unlocked.

Kat was laying on my bed with her face buried in my pillow and with my comforter pulled up over her. I sat down sideways on the edge of the bed.

"You okay?" I asked. She didn't say anything. I reached out and put my hand on the comforter where I judged her shoulder to be. She suddenly swatted backhand at me, not seriously, but just violently enough to let me know to leave her alone. I was just about to do exactly that, when she suddenly turned under the comforter toward me and shifted right up against my leg, burying her face against my hip. I rested my hand on her shoulder, and she let it stay. She was crying softly.

I don't know how long we stayed like that. I can't imagine what torture that must have been for Joe to be sitting in the next room hearing absolutely nothing from us. I heard the television come on and was glad for the break in the silence.

"Hey," I said. She didn't respond. "Hey, are you okay?" She nodded her head affirmatively against my hip. "You wanna tell me what happened?" I asked.

She pushed away from me and sat up, facing toward the other side of the room.

"We had a fight," she said.

"Yeah, I could kinda tell," I said.

"He's so stupid."

"I could tell that, too," I said. She let out a disgusted laugh in response.

"You know what he said to me?"

"What?"

"He asked me if I would have a threesome with your roommate."

"WHAT?"

"Yeah, can you believe that?"

Actually, I could, in a way. Joe's a regular guy. A regular guy wouldn't be able to hear what went on in Suzanne's room the other night without imagining himself having sex with her. Even when you come to realize you'd probably contract some kind of disease and your common sense overrules your penis, you still have a hard time not imagining it.

"I thought he was joking at first, but he was serious. And he wanted me to ask her!"

"Holy shit," I said. "He wants to have sex with her even after what happened the other night?"

"What do you mean?" Kat seemed confused. "What happened the other night?"

"You know, when we were watching the movie."

"Huh? No! Not Suzanne! I was talking about Emily!"

"WHAT?"

"Yeah, he wanted me to try to get Emily to have a threesome with us."

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah!"

"Why did he--" I was flabbergasted. "What makes him think--?"

"It's one of his fantasies to be with two girls," she said. "We've talked about it before, but I always thought it was just fantasy, you know, dirty talk. I didn't think he was serious about it."

"But why Emily?" I asked.

"You know I usually don't hang around with girls," she said. That's true. She has always seemed to prefer the company of guys. "For some reason he thinks that since Emily and I get along so well, maybe Emily would be into it."

Now that I think about it, I can almost see where he's getting that idea. Almost. Emily and Kat really did hit it off, and I've been quite surprised at how well they get along. They're like long lost sisters, which is really unusual for Kat. Last night Emily was hanging around with us, and we all had had a little too much to drink. We weren't wasted, but things got a little loose, and Emily ended up laying on the end of the couch, with her legs dangling off the end, but her head resting in Kat's lap. There was nothing really sexual about it, unless of course you're Joe, and you're thinking about a threesome anyway.

But still. Emily?

"I told him 'no,' but he kept pestering me about it until I told him to shut up. We got into a fight. I said if he wanted to fuck Emily so bad he oughta just do it and leave me out of it. He said, 'Oh, that would be convenient, wouldn't it?' I asked him what he meant by that, and he accused me of wanting to sleep with you. That's about the time you walked in. I mean, he's the one who brought it up, not me."

"Jesus. What makes him think you and I have something going on?"

"I don't know," she said. "He said he wanted to come along this week because he was worried about me driving by myself. Then he sprung that bullshit on me about keeping me from getting with you. You're my best friend, Max. Why can't he see that?"

We both paused in thought. I heard Joe stirring in the living room, and I thought I heard the front door close.

"Huh," I said, finally realizing that if he was jealous of me, it was probably eating him up that I was in my bedroom alone with his girlfriend. "We probably ought to get back in there."

"Screw him," she said. "Let him think we're fucking our brains out in here. Dumbass."

"No, let's not make this any worse." I got up. "You can stay in here if you want. I'm going."

"I'm just... I don't wanna face him."

"That's okay," I said. "You can stay."

But she didn't actually have anything to worry about. When I went back to the living room, Joe was gone. Kat's car was still out front, but Joe's bag was gone. He freakin' left! I don't know where the hell he went, but he took his shit and left!

"Should I go look for him?" I asked, once I had told Kat.

"No," she said. I could tell she was really mad. "Asshole. He does this. He wants me to go running after him, and I'm not gonna do it." I could tell she really wanted to go find him, but I wasn't about to trespass on her pride by bringing him back myself.

All this just happened about an hour ago. After her crying fit, Kat said she felt "wretched" and wanted to take a shower, so I figured I would take this opportunity to write about it while she's not looking over my shoulder. She still reads the blog, and I'm sure she knows this will all end up in here, but I don't think she'll mind. When I've written about her in the past and asked her how she felt about it, she just said, "Whatever."

We were going to go out for a little while for St. Patty's Day, but this has put sort of a damper on the situation. Lynn and my roommates are all working tonight. It was just going to be me, Kat and Joe. Now Joe's gone and Kat's locked in the bathroom, and I have to work in the morning anyway. I hope this doesn't drag out all night.

A Conversation with the ND

"Do you have a minute?" I asked my news director.

I went in early yesterday just to talk to him about Sarah's meltdown Tuesday night. I had collected and organized my thoughts, and I was ready to present my case. Or so I thought.

"Yeah, come on in," he said. "I wanted to talk to you, too. Let me shut this door."

Hmm. I wonder what HE wants to talk about.

"So," he said. "Tell me what happened last night."

"Oh, you already knew about it?"

"Yeah, Sarah came in this morning to talk to me about it. She says you were refusing to do the story?"

Oh! Bitch! What a fucking bitch! I hate starting out on the defensive, especially when I'm furious. And hearing that had instantly infuriated me.

"That's not exactly the way it happened," I said through my teeth.

"Well, I've heard Sarah's version," he said. "So why don't you tell me how you saw it."

"Lemme back up a little to give you some background," I said. Then I just poured several weeks of frustration all across his desk. I talked about her problems with deadlines. I talked about her bad attitude and foul language. I even mentioned the garbage in the truck. THEN I started on Tuesday night and told the whole story, pretty much the way I wrote it here (leaving out the happy ending, of course).

"Okay, first things first," he said when I wound down. "I can't have a photographer refusing to do a story, no matter what the circumstances. I don't care how much she pisses you off, that's not your call to make."

"I didn't actually refuse--" I started, but he waved his hand at me to stop me.

"I'll say it again," he said. "That's not your place to make that decision. Understood?"

"Okay," I said. That's bullshit, I thought, but what else can I say?

"Now, as for Sarah, you're not telling me anything I haven't already heard. Wendy's been in here half a dozen times already," he said, rolling his eyes involuntarily, "and Dax has made some of the exact same complaints you have." (Dax is the photographer who works with Sarah Thursday and Friday nights, when I'm off.) "Now I can't have either one of you refusing to work with her, so you're both gonna have to put up with it until I can work something out."

"Okay," I said. "What can you do about it?"

"I already talked to her this morning. She has some things going on right now that make things kinda rough on her, so I want you guys to give her a chance. She promised me she was going to try to do better. But you let me know if she pulls anything like last night again. You don't refuse to do the story, but you call me right then and put her on the phone with me, and I'll straighten her out."

It was difficult not to grin. I shouldn't smile at others' misfortune.

"Okay," I said.

"Good," he said. "Anything else going on I should know about?"

"Uh, no," I said.

My immediate thoughts went to my budding romance with Lynn, but that's certainly none of his business. Lynn and I talked about it a bit this morning and decided that it would be best to keep this thing out of the rumor mill as much as possible. There have already been snickers and snide comments about our carpooling situation, but we both agreed it would be better to keep everybody guessing.

I was hoping I might get to stay over there again last night, or at least hang out for a while, but Lynn turned me away at the door. Don't get me wrong, she was very friendly. She apparently just wants to set some limits.

"You're not coming in," she said. "We're not gonna jump into a routine where you're staying over here every night."

Instead, we just made out against the doorframe for ten minutes until she finally just said, "Go! GO!" and pushed me off the porch.

That's okay. I'm not desperate. Really. I'm not. Not at all.

Spanking

No, this has nothing to do with Suzanne (although I'm guessing she'd be into it). I'm seriously thinking about quitting my job. Up until last night I had every intention of honoring my commitment to my chief and ND to stay a full year; but this is getting out of hand.

The story Sarah decided to cover last night was about spanking. In particular, it was about a kid in a town out on the fringe of our market who was paddled at school by a principal. The kid's mother sent Sarah an email saying that she never gave the school her permission to paddle the kid, and that the principal did it anyway. She says she called the small town police department to try to have the principal arrested for assault, but they refused to file a report.

So off we went to cover the spanking story.

The drive out to Spankingville should have been about 45 minutes. The problem was that I had never been to this particular town before and didn't know where it was. I had a general idea of the direction, but I wasn't sure what road to take to get there. Sarah is newer here than I am, so I figured she didn't know either.

No problem, I thought, I'll just ask the desk for directions. Unfortunately, our dayside desk guy (who is also our 6pm anchor) had no more idea where Spankingville was than I did.

No problem, I thought, I can read a map. I keep a state map in the Hate Van, so my intention was to figure out where we were going once we got loaded up.

"What are you doing?" Sarah asked, when we got in the van.

"Figuring out how to get out there," I said.

"You don't need to do that," she said. "The woman sent me directions."

"Can I see them?" I asked.

"What for?" she said.

"So I can match them with the map and get an idea where we're going."

"We don't have time for that," she said. "It takes an hour to get out there, and we need to get moving."

I didn't feel like arguing with her. "Okay," I said. "Where to first?"

"Head out 70," she said.

So I maneuvered across town through traffic and headed out State Highway 70. But something didn't seem right.

"70 goes south," I said, once we were on it.

"Yeah. So?"

"Isn't Spankingville east of here?"

"The directions say to enter town on 70," she said. "So we're taking 70."

Fine. Jeez. Have it your way.

We drove for about 45 or 50 minutes. I noticed Sarah starting to get agitated.

"Are we still on 70?" she asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing. Just keep going."

Another fifteen minutes went by, with no sign of Spankingville. We came into another town.

"Are you SURE we're on 70?" Sarah asked.

"Look, there's a sign," I said. There was a sign that did, in fact, indicate that we were traveling south on 70.

"Something's wrong," she said. "We should have seen the turn off by now."

"Should I pull over?" I asked.

"No, keep going," she said. "I'll call the desk for help."

She dialed the phone. I only heard one side of the conversation.

"This is Sarah. I need help getting to Spankingville... I don't know." To me: "Where are we?" I told her the name of the town, and she relayed that to the desk. "Well that's how the lady TOLD me to go... Yes, she said 70... Well that's what the lady said..." She was becoming increasingly agitated. "How the FUCK should I know that?... Hey! Hello?... Fucker hung up on me!"

She dialed again.

"Hey this is Sarah. Hello?... God dammit! Sonofabitch hung up on me again!"

"I'll just pull over," I said, heading off the road.

"Shut the fuck up!" she said. "Keep driving."

"I'm going to check the map," I said, steadily. Don't let this bitch make you mad, I thought.

She didn't answer, because she was dialing again. This time whoever answered handed her off to Al, one of the other photographers, who happened to be standing at the desk. He tried to talk her through it, but he couldn't even figure out where we were. Finally he told her he couldn't help her, and that we were on our own.

"FUCK!" she screamed, and threw the phone on the floor.

Meanwhile, I had been looking at the map and figured out where we were. One thing I can do well is read a map, and I quickly determined that highway 70 went nowhere near Spankingville. We actually needed to go out to the east on the Interstate. We had just driven an hour out of our way.

"Look," I said. "I figured out where we are. We need to backtrack--"

"Jesus fuck!" She said, panic in her voice. "We're not gonna make it in time!"

"Calm down, and I'll get us there," I said. While she was on the phone, I had already figured out an alternate route to cut across toward the northeast, so we didn't have to go all the way back into town.

"I can't believe this," she said.

"It'll be okay," I said.

"NO, it WON'T!" she said. "I can't believe this! God dammit! I can't believe you fucking got us lost!"

At that point I became very, very angry. I just took deep breaths and gripped the steering wheel.

"What? Oh, are you MAD? Serves you right!" she said. "You FUCKED UP my STORY!"

I continued to stare straight ahead.

"You always have to be the MAN," she said. "God forbid you listen to directions! God forbid you ask for help! No, you have to be the MAN!" Okay, now she was just raving.

Without a word, I put the car in drive and pulled a u-turn.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"We're going back to the station," I said.

"Oh, so you're refusing to do the story now?"

"Nobody treats me like this," I said. "Nobody."

"Wait, you're really going back to the station?" Surprisingly, there was a hint of terror in her voice.

"Yep."

She suddenly became a LOT calmer. We drove for several minutes in dead silence.

I got tired of listening to my own heavy breathing and turned on the radio. I was running through what I was going to say when I got back. How could I justify making the decision to dump a story? I don't really have the authority to do that. I had made up my mind, though. Somebody else was gonna have to work with this idiot.

"I'm sorry," I heard Sarah say quietly.

"What?" I heard her, but I couldn't quite believe it.

"I said I'm sorry," she said.

"Fat lotta good that does now," I said.

"No, I'm really sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have talked to you that way."

"No, you shouldn've."

"I know. I, um... I take medication," she said.

"Obviously it isn't working," I said. I was mad enough to say just about anything at that point.

"No, it isn't," she said. "My new doctor is trying to adjust my dosage, so I've been out of whack for a while. Today's a bad day."

"You've been a bitch ever since I met you," I said.

"I'm sorry," she said, very sheepishly. I didn't say anything.

"Look," she said. "I really am sorry. I don't want to act this way. I just get panicked sometimes. I don't mean to take it out on other people."

My anger was starting to fade, and pity was slowly slipping in to take its place. I took a deep breath. "I won't put up with anybody talking to me that way," I said.

"You shouldn't. I'll try to do better."

I thought about it for a minute. We were coming up on the turnoff to cross over to Spankingville.

"Do you still want to try to do this story?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

I made the turn and felt a sense of relief. I really did not want to risk the heat for dumping the story. On the other hand, I still wanted her to think I had the resolve to do it. The threat is usually more persuasive than the act, so I'm glad I didn't have to follow through.

We got there about 40 minutes later, about an hour late total. Sarah had called ahead to the woman and alerted her that we'd been held up, but we missed the principal at the school.

Incidentally, the exit we took off the Interstate to get to Spankingville was 70. County Road 70. It took us right into town, and from there the woman's directions were perfect.

We interviewed this redneck woman and got footage of her helping her kid with homework. He very obviously had some sort of attention disorder, because he kept jumping up and running off. He was also very loud, and at one point he just looked right at her and said, "NO!" She had almost no control over him at all.

Sarah managed to get in touch with the school principal at home, so he came out to meet us at the school for an interview. There I got video of the form the woman signed, giving the school permission to use corporal punishment on her kid. Whoa, what? Yes, this woman actually gave the school permission to beat her kid, then tried to have the principal arrested when he exercised that option on her brat. That's why the police wouldn't file the report. According to the principal, the police showed the woman the form and verified that it was her signature. He gave us a copy.

I was surprised that the principal was able to show that to us, because I thought it would violate some kind of student privacy rule. What he wouldn't do is discuss the kid's actual violation. All he would say is that they reserve paddling as a last resort.

"It's actually more effective to save that as a threat," he said. "Once a kid's been paddled, it's not so scary any more, so it's not much of a deterrent." See how that works with kids?

We got what we needed and headed back to the van. "This is not a story," I said as we left the school parking lot.

Sarah called in and talked to Wendy. "Wendy said she wants us to do it anyway," she told me when she got off the phone. "She wants us to make it about parents who want to take back the right to paddle their kids and what they have to do."

We were dangerously short on time, but we dropped back by the woman's house and interviewed her on the front porch one more time to get her reaction.

"I don't remember signin' no form," she said.

"Isn't that your signature?" Sarah asked.

"I guess it is," she said. "But I don't remember signin' it."

Fucking rednecks.

Sarah called and talked to the principal a bit more during the ride home and got enough information to do the "rescinding permission" story. She actually got right to work on it when we got back and, despite the fact that we were so late, left me 45 minutes to edit!

Still, I intend to bring this up with the powers that be. I realize she has a problem, but I shouldn't have to deal with it. My first stop this afternoon will be the ND's office to discuss this medication issue and what can be done to alleviate this constant unpleasantness.

The day wasn't a total loss. Lynn noticed how tense I was almost immediately when we got into the van for the ride home and asked me what was wrong. I started telling her the story.

"What a spoiled bitch!" Lynn said. "Sounds like SHE's the one who needs a spanking!"

The story was too long to finish during the short ride home, so she asked me inside when we got to her house. She positioned herself on the couch and sat me down on the floor in front of her, leaning back against the couch between her knees. Then she rubbed my shoulders while I talked.

And I think that's about all I ought to say about that.

Weird Night

After my post last night, things took a weird turn. By now I shouldn't be surprised, because my whole life has gone weird since I got into this business and moved to this town. It just usually doesn't come in such a large dose of strange all at once.

I finished writing just after seven and figured I had at least another hour to 90 minutes before Sarah would be done with her package. I was feeling a little hungry, and I had people at home visiting, so with nothing else to do I decided to run home for a bit to grab a sandwich.

I knew something was wrong as soon as I opened the door. It was obvious, because I could hear it. Suzanne was at it again.

Kat and Joe were sitting on the couch, watching television in a sort of daze. I'm sure they couldn't really concentrate on what they were watching with that yelping coming from behind Kat's door. As I entered the room, they both simultaneously turned their heads my way, eyes wide with what read as shock.

"You're right," was the first thing out of Kat's mouth. "She's loud."

"See what I have to live with?" I said. I headed for the kitchen to make my dinner.

"I hope you don't mind," Kat hollered after me. "We just started Withnail."

"Fine with me," I said. Withnail and I is a movie, for those who don't know (and I wouldn't expect many of you to have heard of it). It's a British film about a couple of perpetually drunken actors at the end of the 60s. It's really quite brilliant in its own way. It was a favorite among my actor friends in school, and Kat and I have each probably seen it a dozen times. She wanted Joe to see it, but I'm afraid it may be a little outside his tastes.

I came back from the kitchen a few minutes later with my sandwich to join my friends on the couch. Suzanne and who or whatever was in there with her were resting for the moment, so it got quiet.

"That must drive you crazy," Kat said.

"Yeah, pretty much," I said.

"How do you, um, deal with it?" she asked.

"I just ignore it," I said.

"CAN you ignore it?"

"I try."

"I'm trying too," she said. "But just hearing it gets me, uh, excited."

"Tell me about it," I said.

"Poor Max," she said. "We need to get you a girlfriend."

"TELL me about it," I said.

We settled into watching the movie. There's a hilarious scene in Withnail in which the character Withnail (played by Richard Grant) is on a drunken rant about a very large British gold medalist in shotput, named Jeff Wode, who admitted to steroid use. Jeff Wode was a real athlete. I had no idea who he was when I first saw the movie, but the scene is funny anyway. Withnail is talking to a character named Marwood, who is hardly listening.

"Listen to this," Withnail begins with his very British inflection, rustling his newspaper. "'Curse of the Supermen: I took drugs to win medal says top athlete Jeff Wode.'"

About that time we heard the first yelp of round two from behind Suzanne's door. Jeez, that wasn't much of a rest. She was actually home between shows for "dinner," same as me. Usually she makes it a quicky when it's on her break, but the evening was still early.

"Jesus Christ, this huge, thatched head with its earlobes and cannonball is now considered sane," the British accent continued.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" said Suzanne.

"Jeff Wode is feeling better and is now prepared to step back into society and start tossing his orb about."

"Oh! Oh god! Oh god!"

"Look at him. Look at Jeff Wode. His head must weigh fifty pounds on its own."

"Oh! God! Oh! God!"

"Imagine the size of his balls. Imagine getting into a fight with the fucker!"

"Oh!... GOD!"

Marwood has his first line here: "Please, I don't feel good."

Suzanne changed pace. "Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!"

"That's what you'd say," continued Withnail, "But that wouldn't wash with Jeff."

"HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH!"

"No, he'd like a bit of pleading. Add spice to it."

"PLEASE? OH PLEASE! OH PLEASE!" She really couldn't have coordinated that any better if she were watching with us. Kat laughed out loud at that.

"In fact, he'd probably tell you what he was going to do before he did it," said Withnail.

"PLEASE? OH! YEAH!" screamed Suzanne.

"'I'm going to pull your head off"."

"No... No... Oh YEAH!"

"'Oh no, please, don't pull my head off.'"

"HEEeEEeEEeEEe!"

"'I'm going to pull your head off because I don't like your head.'"

"AAH? AAH? AAH! AAAHH! UNG! UNG!" She sounded ferocious as she finished.

Kat, Joe and I were just sitting there in stunned silence. The doors in this place aren't very thick, and we could still hear them breathing heavily in there. It was a little uncomfortable, and I was pretty sure Kat and Joe wanted to be alone just then. But I couldn't exactly get up off the couch to leave without a certain amount of... embarrassment. I wasn't so much worried about Joe, because I figured he was in the same predicament I was and wouldn't have much to say about it. I just felt uncomfortable parading past Kat with a huge erection. To make matters worse, it was caught up in my underwear a bit and would almost certainly stick straight out if I were to stand up without a very conspicuous adjustment. She is a close friend, and I'm sure she would understand, given the circumstances. But still...

Just then, Kat saved the day. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said, and bolted from the room.

"I need to get back," I said, and sprinted for the door, adjusting myself roughly on the way.

"Uh, see ya," Joe said. I didn't even finish my sandwich.

I got back to the station in time to wait another twenty minutes for Sarah to finish writing. I used the time to walk around a bit outside with my shirt untucked while testing myself on the state capitals I could remember.

I was still somewhat preoccupied when I gave Lynn her usual ride home in the Hate Van after the show, but I wasn't so distracted that I didn't notice she seemed a little distraught. Her eyes were a little red, which made the steel blue/gray jump out in a really striking way. It occurred to me that this girl is probably beautiful in one way or another in any frame of mind.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," she snapped. "Why?"

"I dunno," I said. "You're just really quiet."

She let out a big sigh. "I broke up with Chris tonight," she said.

I started slightly. I almost blurted out, "REALLY?!" But I managed to control myself and said nothing for a moment. Glee was probably not the most advisable emotion for the situation.

"When did that happen?" I asked, flatly.

"I went home for dinner," she said. "Chris was there when I got home. We got into a fight, and I threw him out. He wouldn't leave at first, but I said some really ugly things I shouldn've said, and he threw his key at me and left."

"It didn't hit you, did it?" I asked. I was suddenly feeling protective and was really angry with Chris.

"No, he throws like a girl," she said. "At least now I don't have to ask for his key back."

There was a pause for a moment.

"I'm sorry," I said. I tried my best to sound sincere.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "It's been coming for a while."

"You think he'll be there when you get home?" I asked.

"No," she said. "He's not coming back. Not after what I said."

"What did you say?" I asked.

"I'd rather not talk about that."

I would have a hard time guessing the words she fired at him, but I can imagine the tone she used. Lynn has a biting wit that, when coupled with irritation and turned against you, can quickly turn acidic. If she wanted to injure or maim him, I'm sure she did.

I thought about telling her about my dinner experience to lighten the mood, but it just didn't seem appropriate at that moment. Instead, I turned to the radio for help.

"Want some music?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

We drove the rest of the way to her house without another word. When I pulled up in front of her house, she stared at the dash and said, "Would you mind walking me to the door?"

"Sure," I said.

When we got to the porch, she leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded across her chest, tilted her head to the side and looked up at me with those steel gray eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?" I asked.

"For unloading that on you."

"No, it's fine," I said.

"Thanks for being so sweet," she said.

"Um, I really didn't--"

"It's okay," she interrupted. She took a deep breath, stood up straight and looked at my feet. "I don't want you to think you had anything to do with this," she said.

"Oh. I... don't."

"This has been coming for a long time," she said, looking up at me kind of sideways, like she was trying to sneak a glance at me. She looked back down almost as soon as we made eye contact.

"Yeah, I kinda figured," I said.

"Okay," she said. Now she was looking at my hand. She reached out and took just my little finger and ring finger lightly in her hand. My heart was pounding.

I leaned in. She turned her head toward me, avoiding me with her eyes but allowing me a really light, teasing kiss. I wanted to dive in and wrap myself around her, but there was this delicious tension in the space between our bodies that neither of us were willing to break, lest we ruin the moment. It almost hurt.

Suddenly she put her hand on my chest and gently, but firmly, pushed me away. "I can't do this right now," she said, and abruptly went inside. She let the screen door close between us, but she paused on the otherside before closing the other door.

"Can I have a ride tomorrow?" she asked.

"Absolutely," I said.

She smiled. This was a different from her usual smirk. It was more innocent, like the embarrassed smile of a little girl. It made me want to protect her from all the world's evils. She did this cute, almost impercepticle little hop in acknowledgement and closed the door. My heart skipped a beat.

When I got home, all the lights were off. I figured Kat and Joe must have turned in already, so I tried to creep through the living room as quietly as possible so as not to wake them.

You know how you can feel a difference in the air in a room when somebody's awake and when he's sleeping? Halfway through the dark room I suddenly became aware that I wasn't the only conscious person there. I couldn't help but glance in the direction of Kat and Joe's sleeping bag, and it became immediately apparent that something was happening. They were completely covered from the neck down, but from the height of the lump where their bodies should be and the glint of light on her blonde hair giving away their positions, I could tell she was on top of him. They were frozen in place, probably trying not to make a sound.

At this point it was apparent I had noticed them. How do you get out of a situation like that gracefully?

"Sorry," I whispered.

"'T's okay," Kat whispered back.

I headed straight for my room and got into bed. I didn't even brush my teeth. I wanted to sleep, but my head was swirling with intermingled thoughts of the pornographic version of Withnail to which I had been subjected, the beautifully torturous moment on Lynn's porch, and the knowledge that twenty feet away, Kat was fucking her boyfriend on my living room floor.

At least they were quiet about it.

Various Items

It's about time for an update on the live truck situation.

First, the truck IS in the shop and WILL be fixed. There had been some speculation among my readers that it wouldn't be repaired. My ND and GM never considered not getting it repaired. CP Rick says the body work should be finished some time this week.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) it won't go back into service just yet, because it doesn't have a generator. Jake the Engineer took the old one all apart, spread the pieces all over the concrete outside behind engineering and played with it some last week. He finally pronounced it dead Friday. The ND said a new generator WILL be ordered, probably some time this week. Then Jake will have to install it. I'm sure he's salivating.

Now for the fun part. The Guy in the Silver Honda is not suing me or the station. However, his insurance company has apparently decided that they don't intend to pay for the damage to the live truck, because they insist that the accident was not their client's fault. The station's insurance company is suing the Guy in the Silver Honda's insurance company to make them pay. This is supposedly not an uncommon occurrence as insurance companies hash out their differences, and everyone seems to expect some sort of settlement.

However, while the station's insurance company hasn't named me or my insurance company in that lawsuit, apparently they did file a claim against my personal liability policy as some kind of "insurance" against a loss in their attempt to collect from the other company. It appears that if they can't get that company to pay up, they're going to go after my insurance company next. I KNEW it was a bad idea to give them my personal insurance information.

My insurance company has requested a copy of the police report and has sent me a form to fill out describing AGAIN what happened. The agent with whom I spoke seemed a little confused and said this isn't the normal way of handling these things, especially since I was driving a company vehicle on company time. She said this sounds like I still have nothing to worry about, and that if the police report matches what I have already told them, they have no intention of paying the station anything. I asked her if my rates would increase, and she assured me they wouldn't.

What a mess.

Meanwhile, Kat and Joe are still at my house, and we all (Kat, Joe, Suzanne, my other roommate Emily and I) hung out together last night drinking, eating pizza and talking. I may not have mentioned that Joe and I have known each other almost as long as I've known Kat. He's a good guy, if a little slow sometimes. He and Kat really don't seem like a very likely match, but she seems happy with him.

A good chunk of the conversation was about school. Kat is graduating this semester, and she's freaking out. She's not sure what she wants to do when she graduates, but she also doesn't want to move back home with her parents. I get the sense this trip to see me has something to do with getting her plans sorted out, but I don't know how I can be of any help. Joe, meanwhile, has had some trouble passing a couple of his classes and had to drop one, so he won't be able to graduate until at least after the summer term.

Emily and Kat have really hit it off. You'd think they had known each other for years. The fact that Emily and I hardly know each other at all after living in the same house for four months makes this turn of events seems even more strange.

They were planning to go roller blading together today. Kat also brought her bike, and they were talking about riding later this week if the weather stays nice. Joe doesn't ride OR rollerblade, so I don't know how he plans to amuse himself while the girls are out sweating. I told him to feel free to watch my DVDs, but somehow I don't think he shares my tastes. I just can't see him getting into Withnail and I or Amelie.

Meanwhile, here I sit at work, writing while waiting for Sarah to finish the package. Earlier this afternoon she asked me to stop by Wendy's so she could get something to eat. She got a chicken sandwich and ate it in the van. I have no problem with her bringing food into the Hate Van, but the last few times we've stopped for fast food she has left her trash in there. I find myself somewhat irritated by that, because I am not her manservant and shouldn't have to pick up after her. It's a small thing, really. But it's still irritating.

When she finished her sandwich tonight, she tossed the bag behind the seat. When I saw her do that, I said, "Hey, be sure to take that with you when we get to the station."

"What?" she asked.

"Your trash. Please don't leave it in the van."

"I ALWAYS take it with me," she said. She was angry. By the way, you know how you can tell when Sarah is angry? When she's breathing.

"Um, usually you don't," I said.

"Uh, YES, I DO," she said.

"Look," I said. "I don't want to argue about it. Please just throw it away when we get back."

"I TOLD you I WILL!" she said. "God!"

"Okay."

I got the silent treatment for the rest of the afternoon. We shot our story, and I dropped her off at the station to write while I went to get some b-roll at another location. By then I had forgotten about the trash. When I got to the location and opened the back to get my gear, there was her crumpled Wendy's bag, still in the van.

I am really, seriously starting to dislike her.

Kat's Arrival

It's an unbelievably slow Sunday. We actually have no story at all to turn today. There's nothing going on, and Wendy actually shot down the only story idea that Lizzie had. We were out "patrolling" earlier, hoping to stumble on something. Now we've just given up and are sitting here in the station, listening to the sporadic scanner traffic and waiting for something to happen.

That means I have a few minutes to update my blog.

As I've mentioned in previous entries, my friend Kat is still in college. Her spring break is this week, so she decided to use it to come visit me in my new town. I tried to tell her there's nothing much to do or see here, but she wanted to come see me anyway.

Kat and I have always just been friends. We've never dated. We've dated each others' friends, and we ran in the same circles all through school. We've talked about the fact that we find each other attractive, and she even kissed me once, right before I left to move here. There's just never been enough spark between us to get a fire going.

Still, I can't say I haven't been a little excited and apprehensive about her visit. We never really resolved that thing with the kiss, and now she's willing to drive ten hours to stay in my house for a week. My thoughts in recent weeks have been with Lynn and the electricity I feel when I'm around her. But so far that hasn't really gone anywhere. The last few days have been a whirlwind of thoughts of what might be, or what could be, or what should be.

What if Kat wants to pick up where we left off and see where things might go? What if she doesn't? What if there really is some possibility with Lynn? How will she feel about another woman staying at my house? Having Kat around really puts off any chance with Lynn for another week.

Many of those questions were settled late last night when Kat arrived. When I opened the door, she threw herself on me and gave me one of the greatest full body hugs of all time. She smelled great, despite having been in a car all day. But standing behind her on the porch, holding the luggage, was Joe.

Joe, Kat's boyfriend.

Joe and Kat have apparently been dating ever since I left. I knew they were dating back then, but she hasn't mentioned him in our emails or phone conversations in some time. For some reason I didn't even realize they were still together, or perhaps I never really thought they were together seriously enough that it counted.

And she never mentioned that he was coming with her.

I was all prepared to give Kat my bed and sleep on the couch, but Joe declined.

"We brought a big double sleeping bag," he said. "The living room floor is fine with us."

As I said, Kat and I are just friends, and I really had no expectations of anything happening between us while she's here. So why did it irritate me so much last night to know Joe was sleeping with her two rooms over?

Tetanus

A while back I told you all that Kat, my friend from college, is coming to visit during her Spring Break. That's next week. She's still coming, so I expect to see her late Saturday night.

Since the girls I share the house with are slobs, I spent most of yesterday cleaning. Some of the dishes that were piled in the sink have been there at least a couple of months. I found the handle of a wooden spoon down in the bottom. Just the handle. The rest of it was gone, apparently eaten away while it sat in that biochemical waste. After sticking my hands in that mess, I wonder if I need a tetanus shot.

How can girls be so filthy? And the guys they date apparently don't care at all.

Speaking of that, I walked in on Suzanne giving some guy a blowjob in the living room. I don't think he works at the station. I don't know where she found him. This time at least they jumped up off the couch, ran to her room and shut the door. Actually, she ran, but he only kind of shuffled, because he was covering his crotch with one of our throw pillows in one hand and trying to pull his trousers up with the other. Both continued to laugh hysterically for a few minutes, until the laughing gave way to Suzanne's characteristic moans and yelps.

I hope she'll cool it a bit while Kat's here. I mean, Kat's not exactly a virgin herself, but who wants to have the peace disturbed by some nympho's head being pounded against the next wall?

Poetic Justice

Sarah, my weeknight reporter, has a bad habit. When we're doing man-on-the-street interviews (in which we ask random people their opinions on whatever subject we're covering), she likes to take off without me, run up to people, shove the microphone into their faces and start interviewing them before I've caught up with her. I'm still setting my frame and rolling the camera during the first answer. The result is that I either don't get the answer on tape, or I get just the audio, while the video is unusable and has to be covered with some other pictures. Either way is a headache that could be avoided if she would just show a little patience and not run ahead. I mean, it's not like we're going to miss our one chance with one of the hundred or so people in the Target parking lot.

She can only do this because I have a wireless microphone. For those who aren't in the television business, I might explain the purpose and usefulness of this little gadget. When a reporter shoves a microphone in someone's face, the sound it captures has to get back to the camera somehow. Before wireless systems, the sound had to travel through a cable connected directly to the camera. That system tethered the reporter to the photographer. But with a wireless system, consisting of a transmitter in the reporter's hand and a receiver on the camera itself, the reporter has freedom to roam around in a greater area without clotheslining little old ladies or getting tangled up in a nest of cable herself.

As I mentioned last night, Sarah broke my wireless transmitter. She was making a big show of being in a hurry, slamming doors, stomping around and shuffling her papers violently to show her irritation with me. She was fumbling around with my transmitter the same way and dropped it. It promptly said, "To hell with this!" and refused to transmit another sound in protest of her rough handling.

As a result I had to resort to my trusty standby XLR cable. The biggest problem with "going hard-wired" was that my shortest cable was 20 feet long. Having the camera on my shoulder only leaves one hand free to wrangle the cable. It doesn't help that Sarah winds back and forth on the end of it the way a shark on a hook trying to get free will foul all the other lines on a fishing boat. Last night we weren't even working in any kind of crowd, and I still ended up with my cable all fouled.

So today my first priority upon arriving at work was to get my transmitter up to engineering to get it fixed. Robert, our main electronics guy, was happy to take a look at it.

"You have a long enough cable to use until I can get it back to you?" he asked.

"Actually, it's too long," I said. "I wish I had something shorter, so it wouldn't get tangled up so bad. Sarah tried to hog tie me with it last night."

"I don't think I want to know about that," he said, "but let me see what I've got." He filed through a pile of cables on a workbench and pulled out a six foot cable. "Would this do?"

"Perfect," I said.

I took the cable and my camera out to the Hate Van, grabbed my microphone and hooked it up. It worked fine. Not only that, but the cable is short enough that I can simply drape the mic over my left shoulder without fouling the cable, so that the mic itself hangs against my shoulder blade, then flip it over my shoulder into my left hand in one swift motion when it's needed. Quick and simple. I practiced my quick draw a few times before heading back in to meet up with Sarah.

It so happened that tonight's story actually involved man-on-the-street interviews, and we went to the Target store to get them. One thing people outside the news business usually don't know is that, in contrast to other stores like WalMart, where security chases away anybody with a camera, Target has some kind of standing policy to accommodate news crews. It's really a smart policy, because Target ends up getting all kinds of free publicity whenever a reporter is doing a consumer or retail story. That's why you see so many news stories shot in Target stores; it's not because they're paying us off, but simply because they give us easy access on short notice when nobody else will.

As we entered the store, I had the camera on one shoulder with the mic draped over the other the way I described above. I was feeling quite proud of my little mic wrangling system. We checked in with the manager, then headed for the checkout lines in search of interviews. As we approached, I skillfully flipped the mic over my shoulder with my left hand, instantly ready for action. I felt so cool.

Sarah, however, wasn't impressed in the slightest. In fact, she didn't even notice my slick little move, because she was already impatiently homing in on her first victim. As usual, she yanked the mic out of my hand and took off, forgetting that she was tethered to me.

I instantly realized what was about to happen and braced for it, grabbing the top of the camera with my (now free) left hand. After two short steps the line went taut. The camera lurched forward and twisted to the right on my shoulder, but I held it.

Sarah wasn't so lucky. She had such a death grip on that microphone that she never let go, and the force of her own impatience jerked her clean off her feet. She landed hard on her ass, legs spread out in front of her. The fairly large crowd of shoppers who witnessed it first hand let out a collective gasp.

My first thought was, "Holy crap, is she okay?" Before I could ask her that, however, she turned her face to me, bright red, with a look of fury that simultaneously accused me of every act of evil ever perpetrated on the human race. When I saw her face, any concern I had evaporated even more quickly than she had fallen. I probably should have been frightened by it.

Instead, it was all I could do to keep from laughing. I had to busy myself with checking the camera's audio connection for damage, so that I wouldn't have to look at her. If anyone else there had laughed, I would have lost it. A couple of people were trying as hard as I was not to let it out, and I had to look away from them and concentrate on my cable connector.

It really was funny.

She collected herself up from the floor, her dignity more bruised than her tailbone, and steeled herself to approach someone who had undoubtedly been witness to her clumsiness for an interview (for our story, not about her clumsiness). For once she just stuck to the pertinent questions and didn't ask anything strange or irrelevant. That was the fastest I think I've gotten through a series of man-on-the-street interviews since I've been here.

She didn't talk to me the rest of the night. Of course it's all my fault.