One Big Story

ONE BIG STORY

         "I don't care what you say, Jack, I'm not anchoring with Beatty...the man's an idiot," Leslie Sheridan shouted.

         "Leslie, don't do this to me," Jack Tatom, General Manager of KMOS television, warned his prima donna evening newswoman. "Beatty is all I have until Carter recovers from his heart attack. It won't be for long. I promise."

         Leslie's eyes flashed. "Out. Leave me alone, Jack. I'll work with Beatty if you make me, but don't expect me to pull his lard ass out of the fire if he messes up. This is too important to me."

         Tatom held his palms out in surrender. He backed from the small dressing-room, leaving Leslie to finish applying her make-up. When he was gone, Leslie peered into the lighted mirror and expertly applied eye-shadow, mascara and lipstick. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was perfectly coifed--parted just left of center and curled softly at the ends. Gray contacts, the color of summer storm clouds,
concealed ordinary hazel eyes. The pert, upturned nose had been created for her by a plastic surgeon in Cleveland, as had her perfect breasts. She even had the prerequisite overbite so common among young, upwardly mobile female
television reporters.

         The overbite required that her lower jaw be broken and a half-inch of bone be removed on either side to modify her bite. Well worth the discomfort, in her opinion. She was blessed with naturally beautiful legs, long, graceful and shapely.

         Her improvements upon nature were expensive and painfully realized, but she was happy to pay the price. Whatever it took to take her to the top, to gain her a place as a nationally recognized newswoman, was worth the money and the pain. She practiced her trademark smile: slow and provocative, willing dainty dimples to appear in her cheeks. Her left eyebrow rose a quarter of an inch. This was the smile that put her on top of the heap in Dallas, at least with her male audience, and from which she intended to springboard to a major, national network.

         Her usual partner, Charles Carter, a handsome, intelligent news journalist, had been brought low by a mild heart attack. Too bad. The two of them made an attractive couple, keeping up just a hint of staged sexual tension between them to keep the viewers guessing. Sex was something Leslie could live without, however. Too many complications. Her efforts were better spent trying to achieve her dream.

         Carter's interim substitute, and the reason for her tirade, was Thurman Beatty, an over-the-hill, obviously bewigged relic who had bounced around the station for decades in one capacity or another. Of late, he was relegated to co-anchoring a six A.M. "Local Happenings" program. A program which, according to ratings, no one was watching. His nose for news and his looks were long gone.

         Leslie fumed, knowing even she couldn't make Beatty an interesting personality in the heavily competitive six P.M. news slot. But she had to try. She was aware she was being watched. Appraised and judged by people from a national network--not just because of her stunning looks, but because she was a fine, intuitive investigative reporter. This might be her last chance and she was not going to let it slip away. She had slept with her last General Manager to get more air time at the local level. Those days were over. Her time was now.

         One big story would catapult her to fame and put her face in the living rooms of millions of viewers.

         A red light flashed beside the mirror. Five minutes until air time. Leslie stood, turned her behind toward the mirror and smoothed the white skirt over her shapely hips. She adjusted her black jacket, with half-dollar sized gold buttons, so that her red, ruffled blouse showed off her breasts to best advantage. A twelve-hundred dollar outfit. One she could ill afford. But, also, one she couldn't not afford. In television-land, image was everything. If she had to scrimp and cut corners other places, so be it.

         Satisfied with her appearance, she hurried to the set. She stepped up onto the slightly raised stage to the desk she would share with Beatty, and took her seat. A technician appeared and clipped a lapel microphone on Leslie's jacket. Leslie squared up the edges of the sheets of news copy in front of her. The wall behind her was robin's-egg blue, dominated by an enormous red number 7, and KMOS.

         She heard the opening chords of the news theme song in the background and knew that viewers were watching prerecorded teasers of news to be presented on the program. She crossed her right leg over her left knee, demurely, knowing that every so often the cameramen would pull back for a long shot of the set and the television audience would get a look at her phenomenal legs beneath the desk. Leslie had been told newscaster Mary Hart was disfigured in comparison.

         Leslie, always nice to those who helped her career, called out to Rod, the cameraman who never caught her at a bad angle, "Still on the diet, Rod?"

         "Yeah. Lost fifteen pounds so far. Another hundred and I'll be downright svelte," the huge, bearded man answered.

         She laughed. "I'm doing a story tomorrow on appetizers for the holidays. Hope it doesn't tempt you too much."

         The Program Director was counting down, his hand in the air, curling one finger at a time into his palm. Five, four . . . where the hell is Beatty?, Leslie wondered,
frowning. Three, two . . . the clown rushed to his seat and straightened a tie too wide to be fashionable while the tech snapped the mike in place then literally leaped from the stage as the Director said, "One!" and dropped his last finger.

         The camera panned in for a close-up of Leslie. "Good evening, I'm Leslie Sheridan, and I'll be joined tonight by Thurman Beatty," she smiled in Beatty's direction as the camera angle widened to include both of them in the shot. "And this is the KMOS, channel seven, six o'clock news."

         Camera to Beatty, whose toupee clung to his head like dead brown moss, "At the top of the news tonight”, he began, “a story from Dallas, where rioting broke out this morning at City Hall when a group of Jehovah's Wetnurses...."

         And the show went downhill from there.

         Leslie's carefully researched, painstakingly written report about a prominent local minister (whom a tipster had told her 'just might' have a fifteen-year-old girlfriend), fell flat. After Beatty's faux pas, even the station crew couldn't stop snickering.

         Leslie knew the viewers were doing the same thing. To her credit, she kept her composure on the air, even to the point of ending the show with another welcome to Beatty, "Who will be with us until Charles Carter, who is in all of our prayers, can return."

         As soon as the green light on the cameras blinked out and they were off the air, Leslie ripped her microphone off and flung it at Beatty. "You fool! If you ever make me look ridiculous again, I'll kill you, you used-up, pathetic moron!"

         Beatty stammered his apologies as Leslie stormed off the set.

         An hour later, Leslie unlocked the door to her apartment. She got a run in her stockings trying to get in while carrying three bags of groceries. She cursed. "Cindy! Come help me you useless..."

         Cindy Sheridan, Leslie's eight-year-old mistake from a two-week relationship with a General Manager in Detroit, came running to assist her mother. "Here, Mom, let me have one of those."

         "I've got it! Just hold the damn door. Can you do that? Is that too hard for you? And what have I told you about calling me 'Mom'?"

         A natural beauty and excellent student, Cindy patiently withstood her mother's wrath. She was accustomed to such treatment--and worse. But she loved her mother as much as her mother undisguisedly detested her. "Sorry, Leslie," she said softly, leaning against the door to hold it open.

         Leslie kicked off her heels, went to the tiny kitchen and dropped the bags on the kitchen table. "Fix you something. I've already eaten," she said. "Then put everything away."

         Cindy nodded.

         "Did you iron my blouses, like I told you?"

         "Yes, Moth..., ah, Leslie. And I cleaned the bathroom, too."

         Leslie removed her jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse as she walked toward the single bedroom--hers. Cindy slept on a sofa in the living room.

         "Leslie? Can I have my allowance now?" the auburn-haired girl asked in a near whisper.

         Leslie stopped. She didn't move or make a sound for several seconds. Then, slowly, she turned to face her bastard child. A child who would have never been born were it not for Leslie's tendency toward irregular menses. By the time she was certain she was pregnant, she was too far along for any reputable doctor to perform an abortion. "How can you be so selfish? You do so little to justify your existence, yet you expect payment for your menial little chores." Leslie draped the three-hundred dollar jacket loosely over her shoulder. Her siliconized breasts heaved, straining to escape her lace-trimmed bra. "When I get my big story, maybe then you'll get your allowance."

         "But I need to buy some shorts for gym class," Cindy explained. "The teacher warned me again today that I have to have white shorts. The ones I have are blue, and they're too too little for me! My-my bottom shows 'cause they're so short. The other girls laugh..." A single tear traced a path down Cindy's right cheek.

         "I need, I need," Leslie mimicked in a high voice. "Always something. Why can't you run away, like other kids?"

         "But you have lots of pretty clothes, Mom, why can't I..." The girl realized her mistake immediately. She clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes went wide. She knew she would pay for her outburst, could already feel the belt her mother favored for discipline.

         Instead of attacking Cindy in a vicious rush as she sometimes did, Leslie calmly walked to the child's side and glared down at her with eyes as cold and emotionless as those of a snake. She rested her hand on Cindy's slim
shoulder and peered into hazel eyes much like her own. "You know you'll be punished for that. But I have a lot of script to write for the show tomorrow, so we'll discuss this later. Okay?" The hand became a pinching claw.

         Cindy nodded, grimacing. It was something her mother did often, making Cindy wait for her punishment, never knowing when it would finally be applied. Knowing only that when it came it would be in a harsh and practiced manner. A chill, as if ice cubes were melting along her spine, made Cindy shiver.

         When Leslie found the time for Cindy later, the beating was the worst ever. Lying achingly across the stuffed arm of the sofa, Cindy wondered if the hiss-slap, hiss-slap of the belt cutting air before landing bitingly on her bare bottom and thighs would ever end. Wondered if this would be the time Leslie lost control completely and began using her hands, her fists, or a blunt object to finally solve the
"Cindy" problem.

         The blows became faster, more pronounced. Cindy bit her lower lip to keep her screams inside, but ultimately failed.

         The screams always made Leslie madder.

         Leslie arrived at the television station before noon carrying a box which she set on the table in the employees' break room. Annette, one of the many clerical people, looked over Leslie's shoulder as she took plastic platters covered in foil from the box and spaced them around the table. One by one she unwrapped the platters.

         "Ooo, goodies," Annette said hopefully. "For us?"

         "All but one," Leslie answered. "It's for the show tonight. I'll put it in the 'fridge."

         Annette took a delicious-looking canapé from a platter and popped it into her mouth. "Hmm. Great. You make these?"

         "Uh-huh. There’s a story on appetizers tonight and, while I was writing the script last night, I decided to try some of the recipes myself. They're really easy."

         As in most offices, the news of free food spread quickly. In no time the break room was filled with people sampling the snacks.

         As air time drew near Leslie sought out Thurman Beatty. She found him in Jack Tatom's office. Tatom exhaled a fog of blue cigar smoke, some scented brand. It mixed poorly with the cheap cologne Beatty was wearing.

         Leslie approached Beatty. "I hope you have it together today. No screw ups. Got it?"

         "Sure. I'm sorry about yesterday."

         "Forget it. Friends?" Leslie asked, extending her hand.

         Beatty smiled, took Leslie's hand in his. "Friends."

         Tatom grunted from behind his desk. "Watch her Thurman, she's being nice. She wants something."

         "You do know me well, Jack," Leslie admitted. "I do have a favor to ask of you Thurman. I have a piece for tonight on appetizers. A little fluff piece for the
holidays. I also have a story I've worked very hard on about child abuse. Would you take the appetizer story? All you have to do is read it. I've got the script right here," she said, taking papers from her briefcase.

         Beatty glanced over at Tatom and raised his eyebrows. Tatom nodded. "Sure, I can do that. By the way, those wonderful hors d’oeuvres in the break room...you made those?"

         "Yes. And that's in the script, too. You know the goofy kind of stuff the viewers love, about how even Leslie can make these appetizers, etcetera. I have a platter of them to put on the desk as a visual."

         "Sounds good. The pâté de foie gras is some of the best I've ever tasted," Beatty complimented.

         Showtime.

         Beatty was almost finished with the appetizer story. The camera zoomed in on the platter. "Leslie brought enough of these from home to stuff everyone at the station, and they are as good as they look," he finished, taking a canapé and biting into it on camera.

         Camera on Leslie. "Thanks, Thurman," she said lightly. Then, looking directly into the camera with those stormy gray eyes she said, "On a more somber note tonight, I have a report on child abuse that will shock you. Much has been written and reported on television about this subject, but there is an aspect that hasn't been covered previously. "The usual stance taken is that parents love their children, and only a parent who is mentally unstable could abuse a child."

         She paused, watching Beatty from the corner of her eye put away another Canapé. "Well, I would like to present another side to this story," she said seriously, not reading from her script. "Where is it written that a parent has to love their child? Perhaps, due to personality conflicts a parent finds a child too whiny, too self-absorbed, or for one reason or another, just doesn't like the kid! Or perhaps maternal instincts aren't present in all mothers. So, should parents be shamed into putting up a facade of love, even if the feelings just aren't there?"

         The young Program Director looked down at his approved copy of Leslie's script, trying to match it with the words poring from Leslie's sensual mouth. No comparison.

         Leslie tossed her golden hair. "I'm saying, if your child ticks you off, and you lock him or her in a closet for a couple of days...so what? The point here is this: It's
your child, for Christ's sake. You should be able to do whatever you want with it. But you shouldn't have to love it."

         The news crew was looking back and forth at each other, exchanging shrugs.

         "Take my daughter, please, as the old joke goes. I don't love her. Never did." Leslie’s eyes smoldered with something akin to insanity. The cameraman zoomed in for a close-up.

         "Ah, Leslie, you don't mean that, I'm sure," Beatty said, trying to cover for his co-anchor, expecting the General Manager to cut to a commercial at any second.

         "Yes, Thurman, I mean just that. I hate my daughter. After putting up with cretins and guys wanting to get their hands on my tits all day long, I have to go home to her and listen to her piss and moan about the most picayune things. Am I supposed to care that her butt is hanging out of her gym shorts? So the kids laugh at her. Am I supposed to feel something for her?"

         Beatty, never long on improvisation, said, "You are obviously upset about something, Leslie. But I'm certain you really love your child."

         The flat voice, void of human inflection, came mechanically from Leslie's mouth, "No. But you and the crew certainly love her. You've enjoyed the hell out of her all day."

         Beatty's forehead creased in bewilderment. Leslie nodded toward the platter and the few remaining hors d’oeuvres. "I finally found something she was good for."

         Comprehension washed over Beatty in a chilling wave. "God, no!" he breathed before twisting sideways in his chair and vomiting violently. His gagging, liquid sounds were soon echoed by everyone on the set--everyone who had eaten the appetizers and realized what Leslie meant. But not the cameraman, Rod. He had remained faithful to his diet. He kept the camera rolling. While the others hunched and heaved, Rod filmed them, then swung back to a tight close-up of Leslie. She wore her familiar, viewer-pleasing smile as though she had just reported on some- thing so mundane as a school board meeting.

         The ten o'clock late news brought Leslie's dreams to fruition. The film Rod recorded, of a calm, beautiful Leslie, amid a room full of puking co-workers, was supplemented by footage of the grisly, unthinkable carnage found at her apartment. And of Leslie being led away in handcuffs by chalk-faced policemen.

         Her trademark smile and those incredible legs were on every major network. Within twenty-four hours Leslie Sheridan became a household name, known to millions.

         As it happened, she was her one big story.

The End

DMM