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.That's right, folks, her water has broken.Stay tuned.""Aiieee! The unmitigated fiend! He has shown his face and now must die!"Chapter 30Don Cooder had locked his office door against the constant demands of his staff.They were forever pestering him at all hours, the shameless syncophants.So he had established a locked-office period, usually around three in the afternoon.He called it Sanity Maintenance Time.His staff had other names: Nap Time, Fetal Position Hour, and Don's Thumb-sucking Break.The truth was that it was at three in the afternoon that Don Cooder touched up the gray in his hair.If the aphorism that TV news is about hair, not journalism, is true, Don Cooder had a take on it no one else in television ever dreamed of.Where other anchors used Grecian Formula to take the gray out of their hair, he had a special formula to salt his virile black locks with mature gray.Another anchor might have been proud of his luxurious helmet of jet-black hair.Not Don Cooder.He had inherited the Chair from the most distinguished anchor of the last two decades, Dalt Conklin, the affable and avuncular Uncle Dalt whose shoes Don Cooder had been trying to fill for ten years now.From day one, the critics had been merciless in their unfair comparisons.The public changed channels in droves.His own staff had a pool betting on the week he would be let go.After only two years in the Chair, Cooder had come to a ego-deflating realization.He would never, ever, no matter how low he pitched his voice or faked a catch in his voice, fill Dalt Conklin's shoes.So he decided to copy his hair instead.The gray was painted in slowly over the months until his hemorrhaging ratings stabilized.Another year was spent in perfecting the perfect salt-and-pepper mixture.Cooder had created a calendar chart for each week in the year.A photo of his black-to-gray hair ratio in the Sunday slot and his Nielson and Arbitron ratings scribbled over Saturday.When he found the perfect balance, it was just a matter of holding it stable.And so now, in his eleventh year anchoring the BCN Evening News, Don Cooder Page 94ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlsat at his desk, an illuminated makeup mirror propped in front of him, touching up his artfully placed gray streaks with a slender brush.A knock brought a scowl to his craggy face."Go way, I'm maintaining my sanity!""Turn on the TV.Turn on your TV." It was his news director.Cooder reached for the instant-on button of his desk TV set and saw his own face staring back at him-framed in a TV set framed in his TV screen."This is Captain Audion of the Video Rangers," a voice, very much like his own, was saying."Greetings Earthlings!"Don Cooder shot bolt upright in his chair."That's not me! That's not me! It's a frame! We've got to get the word out.""We can't," the BCN news director shouted through the locked door."We're in black; everyone is in black.""There's gotta be a way.My whole career, my credibility, my reputation for honesty and sincerity is about to-"The clatter of his bottle of hair color dropping to the floor brought a question from the other side of the door."You all right, Don?""Knocked over a Diet Coke in my excitement.Nothing to worry about.""What are you going to do, Don?"Don Cooder strode over to his office window, looking down Seventh Avenue toward Times Square."I know exactly what I'm going to do," he announced in a deep, manly voice as he yanked his office window open.Hearing this, the news director screamed, "Don! Don't do it! Don't jump!""Too late," said Don Cooder, climbing out on the ledge.The news director of the Broadcast Corporation of North America was frantic."Help me someone.Help me to break down this door.""We can't.There's trouble at the front door.""What kind of trouble?""Press.They're clamoring for an interview with Don Cooder.""He's left the building!""Then they're going to want an interview with you.""Somebody help with this door.I'm going out the window, too!"But there was no budging Don Cooder's reinforced door.The news director ducked into Cheeta Ching's office and waited for help.No one came.In fact, the shouting from the front of the building died down.After a few minutes, someone came for him."It's okay," he was told by his floor manager."They left.""They did?""Yeah.They found Cooder.""Is he.dead?""No, he's broadcasting from One Times Square.""How can he do that? We're off the air.""Remember at the last Democratic National Convention when we opened with a talking head shot of Cooder, then pulled back the camera to show that it was a simulcast with the screen up on One Times Square?""Yeah, that was a spectacular shot.Cooder was his own Quantel graphic.""Well, it must have given him the idea.Because he's in that building doing a remote bulletin.""The man is a genius.A fucking genius.And worth every cent we overpay him."The news director blinked."He is denying the story, isn't he?""I guess."They ran out into Times Square.Traffic had stopped.Newspaper reporters were pushing through the gathering crowd as the giant face of Don Cooder, the bags under his eyes as fat as prize Holsteins and an inexplicable splash of gray in his well-combed hair, stared down at them as if from some electronic Mount Olympus."I categorically deny being Captain Audion.I am not Captain Audion.This is a frame, a cheap frame.A conspiracy by my many enemies in the media.They're Page 95ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmltrying to kill me.But Don Cooder can't be killed.As long as there is news to report, Don Cooder will live on, unbowed, unbloodied, immortal-""He's losing it," the floor manager said."Yeah, he's no good without a script.Never was.""Good thing this isn't going out nationwide.""Yeah.Wait a minute." The news director shouted back toward the studio."Hey, somebody get a camera on this for rebroadcast later.""Are you crazy? He's falling apart up there!""Yeah," said the news director, "but it's great television."Chapter 31Harold W [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]