Me Vs. Me. Sarah Mlynowski

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      And that was when a dark-haired Melanie Diamond, a twenty-five-year-old Phoenix elementary school teacher, was photographed leaving a hotel room with the very married, very “it’s all about family values” Senator Jim Garland.

      My mouth was drier than the desert.

      Every producer in the country wanted to talk to Melanie. And like everyone else, I called her. I pleaded with her to tell me her story.

      “I know you must be going through hell,” I said repeatedly to her answering machine. “And the last thing I want is to make it worse. But until you tell the world your side of the story, it’s not going to go away.”

      That night she called me back. “There’s something about your voice,” she said, sounding a little lost and overwhelmed. “You sound a bit like my sister. Like someone I can talk to. Get your butt over here.”

      So I got the interview. I brought a camera to her place and got her to tell her side of the story. Afterward, when the cameraman was gone, she ordered me to stay for coffee and I did. She told me about how she hadn’t left her house in two weeks. How she never expected this to blow up in her face. How she can’t believe what a jerk the senator turned out to be. I told her about Cam, about my messed up parents, about my dream of going to New York. And I knew that we were going to be more than interviewer and interviewee. We were going to be friends.

      After the show ran, every station in the country picked up my story. My exclusive interview. The details Melanie had given me. Illicit trips to Greece, promises of marriage. A tearful, black-haired Melanie, swearing that the bald and sweaty Garland had sworn he was married in name only, that he and his pig-nosed wife Judy didn’t even sleep in the same bed. I edited the pig-nose part out of my interview. I also edited out my own questions—like I always did in this type of interview. Producers stayed behind the scenes.

      As the weeks passed, I became the one who listened to Melanie cry about how she would never love anyone again, and promise that she would. I found her a lawyer through Cam’s firm when her school threatened to fire her for the negative publicity.

      As the weeks passed, doors that had been bolted only two years before were suddenly swinging wide open. Because of my newfound notoriety as the producer who got the Melanie Diamond exclusive, job offers around the country started flooding in. Opportunity. Cash. Health benefits.

      “I’d like to talk to you about working for us,” Curtis said via cell phone.

      I’d watched Grighton’s show—as a news producer you have to watch everyone’s show—and I thought he was smart, tough and intimidating. And I wanted to work for him. But most importantly, he wanted to hire a young, female producer who could deliver. Me.

      And here I am.

      “…Report back to me at eleven,” Curtis says to whatever poor soul is on the phone with her. Then she lowers the headset to rest around her neck and stares at me. “So, Gabby, you made it. Welcome to national news.”

      In the next hour, I’m given a desk, a computer and a BlackBerry.

      Curtis tours me around the building, barking out orders. “Morning meeting is at eleven, afternoon meeting at three, post-show meeting at seven-ten. All take place in the seventh-floor conference room. Ron hates tardiness, so don’t be late. Ever. Understand?”

      “Yes.”

      “He also detests guests who stutter, so don’t book them.”

      “That’s fine.” N-no p-problem.

      She shows her pass to the security guard and we enter a small puke-green room. “The green room. Obviously.”

      In Arizona, the green room, where the guests wait to be interviewed, wasn’t actually green. But I always thought that was kind of lame. This one has a watercooler, a coffee brewer, a loaf of banana bread, a TV and VCR, and a blue leather couch.

      “If he catches a grammar mistake in the script,” Curtis says, “he’ll think you’re illiterate. Watch out for sloppiness. And always get your facts right. He’s known as one of the most trusted newsmen in the nation for a reason. Us.”

      “Got it.”

      She presses her finger against her lips. “Control room,” she mouths and opens the door.

      No one looks up as we sneak inside. Jane Hickey’s morning show is filming.

      I love control rooms. I always feel like I’m in the center of the world. Two rows of producers at their computers face a wall of television monitors. The center monitor shows the two smiling blondes, Cameron Diaz and Jane, discussing Cameron’s new movie. The monitor beside her shows the police chief in South Carolina, the one who found the kidnapped girl. As soon as Jane finishes her interview with the movie star, the feed will switch to the police chief. Built into the side walls are fifteen television monitors showing the news on every other news station in the country.

      “You’ll be working here,” Curtis mouths, pointing to one of the desks, which a tall, lanky man now occupies.

      She motions me back toward the door.

      When we’re back outside, Curtis continues growling orders. “Ron’s ratings are highest when he gets a good debate going, so don’t book any wimps. Make sure the guest can stand his ground.”

      “No problem,” I say.

      “And make sure to know who else the guest is talking to. If he appeared on Larry King last night, we don’t want him tonight. Ron won’t be happy with you. He won’t be happy at all.”

      “Got it.” Butterflies are anxiously flying around my stomach. If I was intimidated by Ron before, I’m scared shitless now. What if Ron doesn’t like me? What if he thinks I’m some sort of hack? What if he thinks I’m illiterate?

      “And remember,” Curtis says as we step back into the elevator, “he’s very happily married. And we want him to stay that way.”

      I try to keep the shock from my face. What exactly does she mean by that? Does she think I’m going to try to sleep my way to the top? Or is it my responsibility to keep guests from hitting on him? He’s not exactly a rock star. I can’t exactly imagine screaming teen girls pressed against the tinted windows flashing him their panties. “I understand,” I say.

      “Good.” With a glance at her watch she adds, “It’s time for the morning meeting.”

      My hands are shaking. I’ve moved them under the conference-room table so nobody notices, but there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to make them stop.

      Curtis, the reporters and the associate producers are all chatting among themselves. Ron is expected any minute and I can’t get my hands to stay still. Ron will probably think I’m some sort of crack junkie. Just as I’m about to try putting them on the table again, so I can use the right one to take notes, he enters the room.

      “Good morning, you guys!” he sings.

      “Hey, Ron,” everyone chants back.

      Ron looks exactly like he does on television, only taller. He comes across as the ideal dad: smart, trustworthy, handsome and in control. His hair is short, dark gray and parted to the side. СКАЧАТЬ