We had a national election day earlier this week. I know this is not a bulletin for most people. I voted, and that was it. It hasn't always been like that. Most of my posts have focused non-career stuff, except for some of the more luducrous* foibles. I don't think I've ever mentioned I was a career newsman -- 26 years. I say, was because the future does not look promising, but I could be wrong.
The reason I bring it up now is because rolling around my head this week was one flashback after another of election days past. They are hell. Absolute hell for anyone in journalism. In the states, big network TV anchors always used to say how excited they are about a political season. That's because all they do is sit there. The rest of us have to go out and work like dogs, and then come back and work like beavers till we drop.
The dog part is hounding people to get voter comment, turnout numbers, and all kinds of other stuff. Then, once the voting stops and the counting begins, you must go to some election HQ or some candidates HQ and wait. If you're in broadcasting, you must send off reports about how everyone is waiting for results, and just try to make enough chatter to suit your employers.
The last one I did was probably the worst, but I would hate to have to go back and rate them. As a radio broadcaster, I had to pull my normal shift (a fair challenge in itself), wolf a sandwich and then off to election central with my recording kit and a company cell phone. As I have mentioned, my feet are not in good shape, and election central has a floor of bare concrete. The few chairs are taken by workers or volunteers. I announce best standing, so I was already hurting when I got there, burping the gases from an inhaled sandwhich. "Hello, Senator such and such, how's (burp) it (gasp, brrappp, gulp) goin' (urp)?" The next thing that went wrong, my cell battery died in the middle of my first report. So I reached in my kit for the spare. (Both were freshly charged, I was told). Gone. Must still be in the car. By now, it's dark. It wasn't when I parked there. I had hopped out of the car and walked the half-mile (presidential election year -- lots of cars before me), without noticing the deep hole inches before my car's front bumper. I had just wanted to avoid the steep gully to the car's passenger side, and get the car off the potholed road leading to election central. Off I go, frustrated and still belching, when I approach my car and -- yikes! -- down the hole I go! Oh no, the (very dim) streetlamp reveals a pile of two-inch-square blocks of gravel headed toward my face! My hands go out, aaauggh, the gravel bites into my palms. This hole is deep, so I'm falling hard with my recording gear flying everywhere in the (almost) pitch black, and I get my head forward enough to -- bleah! -- eat a faceful of nasty smelling dirt. My right knee really hurts. The other one is numb. My less-sore foot is twisted sideways, but not at the ankle. How is that possible? Jump in black hole half-full of industrial sized gravel and run-off crud to see for yourself. I slowly tried to get up and, still spitting nasty dirt, I feel a couple of tickles on my arm (I'd rolled up my sleeves -- warm night like tonight). Little black specks barely visible hopping like tree spiders all over 'em. I shake off all, but one of the more nimble devils hops off my chest and onto my left arm. I swipe, but he doesn't move. I do. My arm flies back as if hit by a nail gun. It felt like it, too. The little devil had the bite of a cobra! I got him off, dancing around as one leg fell back into the pit, spewing nasty dirt and gravel all over my gear. Wincing in pain, I get to my car, get out the flashlight, and locate the scattered pieces of recording gear, including the dead phone.
I get inside, and grab the other battery I'd left in the seat somehow. Back to election central I go (It's actually a warehouse). Just in time for report number two. The new battery goes dead in the middle of my second sentence. Results are starting to pour in, and I have no idea who is winning what. My sample ballot lay somewhere in the black pit, and we had to read results as they periodically flashed across one of four computer monitors with print as small as what I'm typing now. I search the warehouse for the one electrical outlet we're allowed to use. It's four inches from the floor. I attempt to get on one knee (YEEOUCH! That one's no longer numb), then I just plop face forward on the floor as I hear feet shuffling behind me and whispers commencing. (Are they coming to help me? Are you kidding?) I stab the charger's prongs into the outlet, realize the battery switch has killed speed dial, and now I have to find the special election-day-only number to call the station for a replacement phone. I wait an hour for a new phone to come. Meanwhile, I madly play catch up, trying to hold my notepad with the left arm that has sprouted a purple and red blotch and has begun to throb like a trip hammer. I decide there's no catching the other reporters. I just have to stoop to eavesdropping on their reports, so I can regurgitate their material when my phone comes.
But there's good news in the interim. A former TV reporter had gotten herself hired as the new elections director. She was that night running around as if her hair were on fire, and I spot her board members doing work an elections director is supposed to do. I breathe a sigh of relief, as I realize the final results would be a little late. But breathing out forces my chest to move, where a chunk of gravel had nestled itself so gently only a little while ago. Now my chest is not numb, either. The phone arrives, and its courier looks at me oddly. "Are you OK?" "Oh, sure, sure -- I'm fine! Want to stay and help!" "Oh, no, you're doing a great job! Bye!" Oh, well.
The night wears on, and spectators decide watching TV at home or in a bar is a better idea. I get a chair, phone in some kind of numb-brain results, get a few interviews (my recorder works! the dirt I knocked out of it did not jam it! now if i could just get that clod of foul-smelling crud out of the microphone screen! raise an aching foot to tap the mic head on the sole and -- oh, no. Not that too.) I'd found the only bathroom in the place and had washed my face and hands between reports, but no first aid kit anywhere. I thought about doing a Sean Connery and suck the poison out of my spider bite, but, my, wouldn't that look odd on Election Night? Just let it throb. Maybe my arm will fall off and I won't have to worry about it.
I get a call to wrap up and come back to the studio to help produce the morning's reports. It's only 11 pm. I'd been at work since 10 ... am. I'd been given a two hour break to go home and nap earlier that day around 3, but I didn't sleep. As soon as I got to the studio, I hobbled to the production room. The afternoon anchor greeted me with unusual gusto, briefly recounted what was on the tape machine, and promptly left the station. When I pulled my mouth off the floor as she smartly shut the door, I bent down to the tape machine and started to work. Four interviews, plus my own. Two more came in later. I decided to work on one story at a time, do all the versions required, and then write and produce the next set, in order of what I thought would be newsworthy. The rank of the winners (President, Senator, state official, etc.) set my course. The dim production room light began to bother my eyes around 2 am, so I cut all the audio I needed, jotted down the cues and went to the brightly lit newsroom to write the rest of the stories -- alone. Around 4 am, I pretty much stopped feeling anything except profound indigestion from the food an advertiser had brought for us to enjoy during "our" allnighter. At 4:30 the morning jock from one of the other stations in the building came in to make the coffee for everyone else on the morning shift. "Hey, are the rioting in the streets? Har, har, har." I just looked at him. Finally, my mouth came unstuck, and I managed to offer "Is there a riot too? I don't know about a riot ... ." He shook his head and left. I stacked all my work, knowing my station's morning crew was due in 30 minutes, and if I saw them coming in, I might grab the fire axe just above the station console.
The resulting newscast won first prize in the state competition. The prize added enough to our yearly tally to make us Station of the Year -- again. Who's names are on the plaque? The station's call letters, of course.
It turned out that the afternoon anchor would be covering my shift the next day and hers too. That's why she left when she did. I took the entire next day off, being careful not to sleep on my left side. The spider bite ached for a week, but it didn't get bigger or leave a scar.
A night to remember. I'm glad I don't do elections anymore.
___
* I left words such as "ludicrous", "sandwich" and "allnighter" misspelled, just as they were in the original post.
LJ orig.: 11/11/06
No comments:
Post a Comment