It’s another day at the office—hectic but normal. We wrapped up our morning meeting; I’m at my desk, having traded my flip-flops for wool socks, writing a story on South Carolina’s miserably low rank among national school systems. Our state has wallowed in the bottom ten—and often in the bottom one or two—for decades, ever since such statistics have existed. South Carolinians often say, “Thank God for Mississippi.” The latest abysmal ranking is hardly news, so this story shouldn’t be difficult to write, but so far I’ve managed only a couple of sentences.
Instead of doing my job, I’ve been reviewing Harry’s exit in my mind. Flashbacks replay as kaleidoscopic fragments: my twisted sheets, his no-big-deal exit, a desperate side-boob.
Today is Friday, and Harry still hasn’t reached out. We had sex, for goodness sake. No flowers, no note. Doesn’t copulation at least warrant a phone call? Trip and I dated for months before I took off my clothes. Maybe if Martha told me everything, I could get the facts about Harry, compartmentalize them, and finally get some work done. I reach for my phone to text her; she’ll tell it to me straight. “Can you call me?”
She texts back immediately. “Camping.”
Martha camping? “Have a sec to talk?”
“Need to save battery.”
Who is she with? Could she possibly be with Harry? Maybe the whole band is going camping. Harry could have invited me. I can camp. I’m sure I can . . .
“Simons.” Angela snaps open a Diet Coke. Behind her, the normally frenzied newsroom swarms like a kicked hornets’ nest. “A woman is accusing Sonny Boykin of pressuring her for sex. She’s young, like twenty-three, and she lives at that apartment where he wrecked his car. We’re going to run it in the A block and tease the hell out of it. Justin’s trying to reach her now.”
Meghan runs up to Angela. “Justin got hold of her. She said Boykin texted her a dick pic.”
Angela’s head whips around. “We need that dick pic!”
“Justin asked her to send it. She said she was going to.”
“Ugh!” Justin yells from his desk. “Sick!” We run over to Justin’s desk and look at his phone, which he holds away from his body like it’s a dead animal. The image is shaky, and, other than the chin, the face is completely cropped from the photo. Still, it’s clearly a picture of a big, old dude with an erection.
Angela smiles a Cheshire cat smile and heads to the control room. “Blot out his dick and let’s go live.”
“Wait, what do we say?” Meghan asks. “That he’s accused of texting a dick pic?”
“Say ‘sexting,’” Angela and I respond in unison.
Back in my chair, I hope to settle my mind enough to process this craziness and write a story about it. I am grateful to be swept up in a communal commotion—away from my mind’s endlessly looping images of Harry—even if it is to televise a pixilated dick pic to the citizens of South Carolina.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I feel . . . stared at. I spin in my chair to see Angela studying me, her head cocked to one side. She plucks the tab of her Diet Coke can. “Simons, you’re a Charleston native. Aren’t you related to the Boykins or something?”
Surprised it took her this long to ask, I’m relieved I can answer honestly. “No. I am not related to the Boykins,” I say firmly.
She stares at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for a treat. Finally, she gives up, or maybe she decides to strike another time. She takes off, charging through the maze of cubicles. “We’re going live at the next break!” she yells at everyone and no one. “We’re going live!”
The control room, with dozens of monitors blinking and flashing, doesn’t look much different than NASA’s mission control. Sitting in the producer’s chair at the back of the room, I slide on my headset, wriggle my fingers over the bank of lit-up keys, and punch the one labeled “TALENT 1.” “You ready?”
On the monitor, beneath the warm studio lights, our lead anchor studies the script. She straightens the collar of her blazer. “Yep.”
Justin is also in the newsroom, but he’s staged away from her, giving the appearance that News 14 has more than one studio. We don’t. He stands against the far wall in front of our glossy News 14 logo, hurriedly swiping foundation over his T-zone. I ask him if he’s ready. He snaps the compact shut and smiles toothily into the camera. The man does have good teeth.
The large digital clock in the corner inches us closer to the big moment. When we’re within ten seconds, I start the countdown. “We’re live in ten, nine, eight . . .”
Justin’s face grows somber, telegenic. “We have breaking news. A sexting scandal. Judicial intern Rachel Ronan accuses Judge Sonny Boykin of pressuring her for sex and texting her lewd pictures. Earlier this summer, Judge Boykin wrecked his car outside of the Coburg Community Apartment Complex, where Ms. Ronan lives. Judge Boykin failed a field sobriety test and was taken to the station under suspicion of a DUI. He was never charged and was released without having to take a breathalyzer test. WCCC News 14 has the story. Stay tuned to hear it first.”
Angela pumps her fist. She flashes Justin a thumbs-up and dashes out of the studio into the control room to scan the TV monitors tuned to our competitor stations. She wants to find out if we broke the story first. For her sake, I hope we did.
I should stay at the station at least another hour. It’s what producers do when there’s a story to be sniffed out. But lately I’ve been feeling more like a lapdog than a newshound. I don’t care about Sonny. How does this information help anybody? The Army Corps of Engineers used an outdated study to determine the height of the eight-mile seawall proposed to be built around the peninsula. That miscalculation should lead the night’s news. And why on earth are local authorities even thinking of approving the massive Wildcat Acres proposed development ten miles outside of the city? Those wetlands are already struggling to absorb the runoff of the suburbs nearby. Sure, the developers will make millions, but who will pay for the flood damage? Already the federal government has purchased and razed nearby homes that were constantly flooding. And yet the Department of Health and Environmental Control just agreed that developers can excavate and fill in more than two hundred acres of natural wetlands. How is that possible? Putting a bunch of houses on a floodplain is like dumping concrete into a clogged drain. I should be writing about environmental issues, not dick and balls. I wave goodbye to Angela, who’s sitting at the news desk, gnawing on her thumb, her right ear glued to the police scanner.