ERICA SPARKS STRIDES DOWN NINTH Avenue on her way to the Global News Network headquarters on Sixth Avenue. It’s her first day on her new job as a field reporter, her first job in New York City. And, if things go well, the first step toward scaling the heights of television news. She feels a little shiver of pinch-me excitement race up her spine. Stay cool, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. Getting here was hard, but she’s made it. Now she just has to stay on the beam. It’s five thirty a.m., her call time is six, and she’s just three blocks from the studio. Erica believes just being “on time” means you’re already five minutes late.
She reaches West Fifty-First Street and heads east, and catches a glimpse of herself in a storefront window. The tailored coral suit looks just right. Her hair is hidden under a cap and her face is plain. She’s going to leave hair and makeup to the pros. She got up at four, showered, had a cup of Irish breakfast tea and a banana, did her half hour of Tae Kwon Do exercises, and then scoured the Web looking for potential stories. She’s not going to sit back and wait for the world to come to her; it doesn’t work that way. The inquisitive bird gets the worm. The corporate rental she leased for six months is convenient if soulless, but that’s all right for now. She doesn’t want anything fancy, no chicken counting, budget-budget, focus-focus.
It’s mid-April, a mild morning. Around her the city is kicking to life, trucks rumbling down the pavement, early commuters rushing past, empty taxis cruising for fares, maintenance men hosing down sidewalks, food vendors pushing carts from their garages to take up their stations on the midtown streets. The neighborhood is a mix of shiny, new condo buildings, all glass and amenity-filled, and tenements, home to long-term New Yorkers and immigrant families of all stripes and colors. Erica loves the city’s gorgeous mosaic, the crazy cacophony, the sense of endless possibility and promise.
Suddenly she hears yelling, a woman’s voice, slurred and hysterical. Up ahead there’s some kind of commotion. A police car pulls up, the doors fly open, and two cops leap out. Erica’s reporter instincts kick in and she picks up her pace, remembering her maxim: always rush toward the sound of gunfire. When she gets close, she sees the wailing woman sprawled on the sidewalk, skinny and strung out, pale-skinned with skanky hair. A Hispanic man stands nearby, clean and bright-eyed, holding a little girl.
“The bastard won’t let me in my own apartment,” the woman screams at the cops.
“She’s been out all night doing drugs and I don’t know what else. I don’t want her around my daughter,” the man explains, soft-spoken and sure.
“She’s my daughter too, you filthy creep!” the woman wails. She jumps up and races to the man, grabbing for the girl. The little girl starts crying, “Mommy, Mommy.”
One of the cops pulls the wasted woman off the man. She turns and slaps the cop, hard. Out come the cuffs.
Erica watches. The little girl is crying, crying so hard. Domestic disturbance. Unfit mother. Unfit mother.
Suddenly Erica feels that terrible, raw hurt come crashing down and hears another little girl crying. Mommy, Mommy, wake up, wake up! It’s twelve o’clock, Mommy, please wake up! I’ll miss kindergarten, Mommy. And Erica, curled on her side on the living room floor, does wake up. Her head feels like concrete being chipped at by a jackhammer, her mouth tastes like sand and dirt and shame.
Erica blinks and she’s back on the sidewalk. She knows what she needs to do. She ducks into the nearest doorway and takes five deep breaths. Then she says, in a strong, low voice: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change . . . and the courage to change the things I can.”
She steps out of the doorway. The woman is being loaded into the police car. The little girl is clinging to her daddy’s neck. As Erica approaches, the father gives her a rueful smile. He’s a good man. The little girl looks at her with wide eyes, and Erica has an urge to gather her up in her arms and shower her with kisses. She smiles at the girl and continues on her way.
And now here she is in front of GNN’s headquarters in the Time and Life Building on Sixth Avenue—right in the heart of America’s media capital, just blocks from NBC, FOX, and CBS. Nylan Hastings, the network’s founder, is sending an unmistakable message: watch out, big boys, there’s a new kid in town. And Erica is about to start a fresh chapter in her life. The incident on the street has only strengthened her resolve. She’s come this far—and now she wants to go all the way to the top.
Erica Sparks walks into the soaring lobby, passes through security, walks over to the elevator, and presses the button that reads UP.