Cosmo Ardmore whistled out loud as he prepared graphics for his Out of This World forecast on the NewsChannel 9 WeatherPlex. Lingering high pressure meant clear skies and warm afternoons, ideal weather for backyard badminton and barbecues, the kind of forecast his viewers loved to see. He dragged a row of sunglasses-wearing suns into the seven-day forecast to emphasize the point.
A spectacular crash interrupted his songbird imitation, the sound of in-studio guests running amok in the green room. He pressed CNTRL-S to save his work and went to investigate.
A troupe of juggling acrobats were recovering after toppling their pyramid stunt. They were the first of three special guests on that morning’s edition of Have A Nice Day, the highest rated breakfast show in the metropolitan Tri-Cities area.
“Everything okay in here?”
A tall skinny acrobat brushed dust from his pants-legs. “The coffee’s a little weak—otherwise we’re all good.”
Cosmo flashed his larger-than-life smile, the one featured on dozens of gleaming NewsChannel 9 billboards stationed alongside practically every major thoroughfare in the metropolitan Tri-Cities area.
“Let’s save that energy for the show, my friends, the viewers absolutely go bananas when an act like yours falls apart.”
“Don’t worry about our act,” said a short round acrobat. “You should be worried about the guy with the tigers.”
A man in zookeeper khakis entered the room, leading a pair of juvenile tigers. The acrobat had a point, animal acts were inherently unpredictable. That’s why they made such great television, because nobody had any idea what would happen.
“I’m Bill Habersham, the Big Cat Man,” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “The one on the left is Tasha, and the other one is Sasha. They were rescued from the Mexican circus, both of them are sweet girls, very well trained.”
“Great to meet you, Bill,” said Cosmo, still pumping away on the handshake. “Help yourselves to a cup of coffee and I’ll let the producers know you’re here.”
Cosmo ducked into the hallway, shut the green room door behind him, and headed towards the control room. A circus-like atmosphere wasn’t out of the ordinary at the NewsChannel 9 studios. Have A Nice Day’s ratings success was due in large part to its unpredictability. In absence of a winning formula, the producers just took spaghetti and flung it at the wall. More often than not, it stuck.
Cosmo poked his head into the control room, where the production staff was frantically making last-minute adjustments to the rundown. Before he could spit out a hello, he was peppered with questions from Janette O’Keefe, the show’s high-strung executive producer.
“Are you okay with two-thirty for your first weather hit?”
“Affirmative.”
“Did you see I have you in for a ten second tease at the end of the A-block?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Did you know you’re wearing the same tie you had on yesterday?”
“Negative.”
“Do me a favour and change it,” she said. “We don’t need another phone call from Businessman’s Emporium. They spend a lot of money to sponsor your wardrobe, so keep rocking those fresh new ties. No repeats.”
Cosmo loosened his half-Windsor and nodded. Janette’s eye for detail was astounding. To him, the neckties all looked the same.
“Have you seen the aromatherapy lady?”
“No, but the juggling acrobats and the tiger handler are already here.”
“That’s fantastic,” Janette said, pushing him out of the control room. “If you see the aromatherapy lady, send her down to the green room.”
Cosmo glanced at his watch. He had five minutes to change his tie, dust himself with on-air makeup, and get in place for the round-robin, Have A Nice Day’s rapid-fire opening segment.
He felt a surge of nervous energy, not exactly butterflies, but a heightened sense of internal awareness that preceded a television appearance, no matter how many times he stood in front of the cameras to ad-lib the weather. He made it look easy, with his weatherman grin and self-deprecating demeanour, but every segment was a tightrope act. A single misstep could send the forecast careening towards a crash and burn where each second floundering for speech felt like an eternity. This was every television presenter’s worst nightmare. What the viewers never realized was that his job looked easy only because he made it look that way.
“Cosmo Ardmore,” bellowed sound engineer Jericho Brown. “Did you know you’re wearing the same tie you had on yesterday?”
“Janette told me.”
“I know,” he said. “Her royal highness asked me to remind you to change the damn thing before we hit the air. Now, let me get you wired up for sound.”
Cosmo threaded the microphone cable through the buttonholes of his shirt while Jericho fastened the transmitter to his belt. The lapel microphone dangled under his chin like a wilted tulip while Cosmo carefully knotted his replacement tie.
“Testing, testing… three, two, one… how’s that sound?”
“Clear as bells. Get your earpiece stuffed in and park your ass at the WeatherPlex so they can frame you up on camera three.”
Cosmo took his place in front of the SuperDoppler 9000 radar monitor. Over at the news desk, morning anchors Kip Clifford and Penelope Gonzales shuffled their paper scripts. The unwritten rule in broadcasting was that a male anchor must appear taller than his female co-anchor. Penelope, who was six inches taller than Kip, lowered her chair in deference to tradition. Across the studio, in the SportsPlex, the glamorous Kristin Ng, a former Miss Metropolitan Tri-Cities, tugged at the hem of her skirt to keep it from riding up her sculpted thighs.
“Good morning, my lovelies,” crackled Janette’s voice through the earpiece. “One minute and thirty seconds to the show. I want to see big energy this morning, so let’s give me bright eyes and bushy tails for the round-robin. You can sleep when you’re dead.”
“Ten seconds,” called out the floor director.
Cosmo bounced on the balls of his feet as the countdown commenced. This must be how an astronaut felt before being blasted into space.
“We’re in the open,” said Janette through the earpiece, as the familiar strains of the Have A Nice Day anthem blared through the studio loudspeaker. “Standby Kip and Penelope on camera one… mic and cue.”
“Good morning, I’m Kip Clifford. An overnight fire in the Tri-Cities leaves three families homeless, we’ll show you the everyday household item investigators say started the blaze.”
“I’m Penelope Gonzalez. We all agree that cupcakes are delicious, but can they help win the war on childhood cancer? One local teenager thinks so. That inspiring story later.”
“A big night in basketball as the Tri-Cities Screaming Eagles soar above the competition at Garfield Coliseum. I’m Kristin Ng and I’ll have all the highlights.”
Cosmo smiled into the lens. In journalism school he was taught to address the camera as if it were a best friend, but to him, it was much more than that. The camera was his source of income, his self-worth, it was his everything. When the red light finally came on, he launched into his energetic spiel.
“Sunny skies will stick around as a trough of high-pressure reigns supreme. I’m Cosmo Ardmore and you won’t want to miss my Out of This World forecast.”
The round-robin closed with a sweeping two-shot of Kip and Penelope at the news desk, reminding the viewers in unison to “Have a Nice Day” before going to commercial.
“You guys nailed it,” said Janette. “Let’s keep that energy going.”
Cosmo turned down his earpiece volume so he could concentrate on his remaining graphics. Putting them together was easy enough, with hundreds of pre-built templates and animations to choose from. The time-consuming part was ensuring the data fields were populated with accurate and up-to-the-minute information.
Predicting the weather was a crapshoot. Sometimes he got it right, and sometimes he fell on his ass trying. It was the nature of the business. The powerful SuperDoppler 9000 system brought technological advancements to the table, but concocting a forecast was still a guessing game, a divination he often compared to reading tarot cards. Cosmo learned from the best, the great Bob Lacey, a no-nonsense weatherman who used to step outside the studio, wet his index finger with saliva, and hold it to the air to gauge the changing weather. Bob Lacey never had a SuperDoppler 9000 at his disposal, but he guessed the weather as well as anybody.
Cosmo’s earpiece crackled to life. Janette again. “Can we get you in front of camera three? Your weather tease is in exactly one minute.”
Cosmo hit CNTRL-S to save his work and took his position at the WeatherPlex desk. The anchors were giving their reaction to a feelgood story about a good samaritan with a metal detector who found a couple’s missing engagement ring, returning it just in time for their anniversary.
“What a powerful story,” said Kit, in his booming baritone. “The kindness of strangers.”
“It’s extraordinary. What are the chances?” Penelope said, pivoting to the segue. “Speaking of chances, Cosmo Ardmore joins us in the WeatherPlex, should we expect showers this week?”
“In a word, no, Penelope,” Cosmo picked up the toss with his larger-than-life smile. “You might have a better chance of finding someone’s missing jewellery than encountering measurable precipitation, I’ll have more details a little later…”
Janette popped in his ear, frantically. “Tease the acrobats, tease the acrobats.”
Cosmo hated when the producers interrupted him when he was live on-air. Unless there was some sort of emergency there was no need for it. Still, he managed to keep his composure, and threw a strong toss to the commercial break.
“…and the high-flying acrobats of Tumbling Tumbleweeds will be live in the studio to juggle their way into your hearts, that and much more to come this morning on Have A Nice Day.”
“You’re a freakin’ rockstar, Coz,” said a very relieved Janette in the earpiece. “I know it’s last minute, but do you mind reading the intro to the acrobats in studio B?”
Even though it was framed as a question, Cosmo had no free will in the matter. Janette was the show’s executive producer and her word was as good as law.
“I can’t imagine a bigger opportunity in my career,” he joked.
“That kind of attitude will get you an extra thirty seconds for weather,” said Janette. “By the way, there’s nothing in the prompter, so you’ll have to wing it.”
He would’ve delivered a snappy comeback, but his microphone was already muted. Janette had moved on to other pressing issues, making the most of the two-minute break.
The juggling acrobats were ready for action in cavernous studio B, a repurposed aircraft hangar. It was big enough to host a marching band, if necessary, with high ceilings to accommodate trapeze artists and other circus performers. The Tumbling Tumbleweeds had plenty of space to do their thing. Cosmo took his place on a yellow ‘X’ in front of the jib camera’s long boom arm. He would give his introduction and the camera rig would go swooping over his head to get the wide shot of the juggling acrobats.
“Break a leg, you guys,” said Cosmo. “And please, don’t take that literally. The performance waiver you signed holds NewsChannel 9 and its employees harmless in the event of death, dismemberment, maiming, or other serious injury incurred on the premises. I hope you can keep your pyramid together this time.”
The tall skinny acrobat pantomimed side-splitting laughter. “Don’t worry about us, we can do these stunts drunk and in our sleep.”
The short round acrobat stuck out his tongue and raised his middle finger. “We got the best health insurance there is, so mind your own business.”
Cosmo rolled his eyes and turned back to the camera. Harmless studio banter, all in good fun, as long as the rude gestures don’t make the airwaves.
“Coming to you in thirty seconds,” Janette was back in his ear. “Don’t stray too far, if any of these acrobats fall and crack their skulls open, I’m cutting to you on camera four.”
He signaled okay with his thumb-and-forefingers.
“Ten seconds.”
Cosmo found himself strapped into the capsule once again, ready to launch. The beauty of these ad-libbed segments was that he had no idea what he was going to say until he said it. When the red light went on, the words tumbled out of him without thought.
“Welcome back to Have A Nice Day, I’m Cosmo Ardmore. We have a real treat for you this morning, please welcome our special guests to the show, the high-flying, electrifying acrobats of Tumbling Tumbleweeds.”
The acrobats were entertaining, mugging for the cameras as they performed their intricate choreography, juggling various objects, starting out with rings, and advancing to bowling pins and flaming torches. The short round acrobat acted as ringleader, signaling the troupe to change formations, and distributing the props.
“Can you believe these guys?” said Janette in his earpiece. “One mistake and they could burn down the whole studio.”
The organ music accelerated as the act neared its climax, the juggling tower. The performers huddled together, forming the base of the human pyramid, then hoisting members into place for a second, then third tier, all to the pulsating beat of the music. The flaming torches were swapped for chainsaws to add an additional element of danger to the grand finale.
“They’re wrapping up,” she said. “Standby.”
The jugglers leaped from the pyramid one-by-one, tossing their chainsaws into the air. They maneuvered through a series of acrobatic embellishments as they vaulted to the ground, just in time to catch their tumbling chainsaws and extend their arms in victorious poses.
“Once again, ladies and gentlemen, the juggling acrobats of Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” said Cosmo, gesturing to the smiling performers behind him. “Tickets are still available for tonight’s performance at Garfield Coliseum, it’s a show you won’t want to miss. Have A Nice Day will be back with more news and entertainment after the break.”
Cosmo congratulated the acrobats and headed back to the WeatherPlex to look busy. The true artistry of being a weatherman was giving the impression to colleagues that you were overwhelmed with work, even when you weren’t. Dropping the facade meant risking being recruited to assist the production team with any number of random and often unpleasant chores.
“Hey rockstar,” said Janette through the earpiece. “I need another favour. Come see me in the control room and I’ll fill you in.”
Competence was a curse in the newsroom. If an employee showed flashes of it, management would pile on additional responsibilities until that person’s spirit was broken. Meanwhile, incompetent employees were routinely elevated into managerial positions because they weren’t cut out for working in the trenches, creating fiefdoms within the organizational hierarchy. This competence conundrum was the biggest contributing factor in burnout and high turnover in the business.
Cosmo caught Janette’s attention through the control room glass. She held up a finger, indicating she would be with him once she’d dealt with whatever crisis was unfolding in there. He knew better than to go inside during a show. The control room was the nerve center of the station, and stress levels often reached radioactive levels.
Janette popped out, clutching her clipboard, as always.
“Is everything okay?”
“Putting out fires, as usual. Nothing two bottles of Pinot Grigio won’t fix,” she said. “We’re having some technical issues at the moment, so I was hoping I could count on you to take charge of the rest of today’s guest segments.”
“Sure thing.”
“I’ve restructured the rundown so the guests will go back-to-back in the same segment. That way you’ll have time to get back to the WeatherPlex for your big weather hit, which I’ve had to trim down to two minutes.”
“Whatever gets us through the show.”
“I owe you a beer.”
“Make it a six pack,” he said. “and I’m on it.”
Cosmo hurried to the green room to collect the guests. He had less than ten minutes to get them to studio B for their segments.
“Good morning again,” he said cheerily. “Can you please follow me to the studio?”
Bill Habersham and his twin tigers, Tasha and Sasha, were leashed up and ready to go, but the aromatherapy lady, a white-haired woman who looked extremely old, was still arranging her array of scented candles on a velvety pedestal.
“I’m not ready,” she protested. “Look at all these candles!”
“You’ll have plenty of time to get ready once we’re in the studio,” said Cosmo. “Does this thing have wheels? I’ll help push.”
He escorted his guests through the maze of hallways leading to studio B. The aromatherapy lady, who introduced herself as Hazel Maitland, was not a fast walker. This, and the constant stream of production interns stopping Bill Habersham to request selfies with Tasha and Sasha, had Cosmo worried the guests might miss their time slot.
“There will be no selfies until after the segment,” said Cosmo, taking control of the situation. Interns always respected the weatherman. “You two interns over there, please help the lovely Miss Hazel down to studio B.”
Jericho Brown was waiting for them with microphones. “Two minutes.”
Cosmo directed the interns to help set up Miss Hazel’s aromatherapy candles on the far side of the studio while Jericho wired Bill Habersham for sound.
“One minute,” said Janette through the earpiece. “Are the guests ready?”
Cosmo shrugged into the camera. Despite the hours of pre-production planning and preparation, despite the collective due diligence of a team of seasoned professionals, success was never a given in live television. That was the allure of the industry, the adrenaline rush coursing through your veins as you charged full steam ahead into the oncoming train wreck.
“Thirty seconds,” called out Jericho. “I think we’re going to make it.”
“I’ve got ice water in my veins,” said Cosmo.
He took his place on the yellow ‘X’ and beckoned for Bill Habersham to join him with Tasha and Sasha. With no time to brief either guest on what to expect, he felt poised on the cliff’s edge, about to step into the great unknown.
“Ten seconds,” said Janette in his earpiece. “You got this.”
Cosmo pushed all thought from his mind as the seconds ticked down. Better not to overthink things and let his instincts take over. The camera’s red light came on and the words spilled out like honey from a jar, following gravity’s pull to the buttered toast below. He ad-libbed his way through the introduction and turned it over to Bill Habersham the Big Cat Man, who ran Tasha and Sasha through a series of increasingly complicated tricks to a medley of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits.
“We’ll give the tigers another two minutes,” she said. “We need you in front of camera five with the aromatherapy lady. The interns will give Habersham the wrap signal.”
Miss Hazel had constructed a towering ziggurat of aromatherapy candles on her velvet pedestal, but her spindly arms struggled to get them lit. An intern jumped in to offer assistance and the dueling scents of sandalwood and juniper berries filled the studio.
Bill Habersham turned to face the camera. “Tasha and Sasha are big fans of the King of Pop, and for their final trick this morning, they’re going to do the moonwalk.”
The Big Cat Man blew sharply into his whistle and the tigers stood up on their hind legs. He gave another tweet of the whistle and they went into motion, gliding across the shiny studio floor to the throbbing bass line of Billie Jean. It was bizarre and hypnotic in equal measure, a performance engineered to titillate an audience. Cosmo had never seen anything like it.
“Standby,” said Janette.
The interns flashed the wrap cue at Bill Habersham. He summoned Tasha and Sasha to the center of the studio for an exaggerated final bow, squatting between the two tigers and letting them lick the sides of his face. It was compelling television.
The director cut to camera five, and once again Cosmo was live with the aromatherapy lady. It was her first television appearance and the nerves were getting the best of her. She trembled with stage fright next to the weatherman.
“Our next guest is here to introduce you to the beneficial healing properties of scent,” said Cosmo. “Please welcome Miss Hazel Maitland, the aromatherapy lady.”
She stared at the camera with blank eyes. Cosmo had seen that look before, the petrified face of a guest paralyzed by fear. The poor old bird was having a panic attack, and it was on him to keep the energy flowing through the segment.
“I have to say,” he ad-libbed, killing time. “It’s a shame we don’t have smell-a-vison technology, because these scented candles are amazingly fragrant. Miss Hazel, how many different scents do we have here?”
She moved her lips feebly but made no sound.
“It seems like way too many to count, to be honest,” he said, struggling to keep the one-sided conversation afloat. “And I see that you also have aromatherapy oils?”
Miss Hazel nodded.
Cosmo was just about to toss to commercial break when he detected in his peripheral vision an object streaking towards him at a high rate of speed. One of the tigers had broken away from its handler. He braced himself for impact, but the animal skirted by, grazing his knees.
Miss Hazel clutched at her side. “Oh sweet Jesus!”
Cosmo was disoriented. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Another tiger zoomed past, brushing its tail against the aromatherapy pedestal, sending hundreds of scented candles crashing to the studio floor. Jars of essential oils became molotov cocktails, exploding on impact. Through the chaos he maintained his composure, addressing the camera as if it were a best friend. He opened his mouth and words came out.
“As you can see, we are experiencing some technical difficulties,” he said. “Anything can happen in a live broadcast, and we are working to get it under control.”
Tigers zigzagged across the studio as Cosmo continued his ad-libbing. An intern dragged Miss Hazel away from the flames to safety. Bill Habersham and the other interns chased after Tasha and Sasha, trying desperately to get them under control.
“This is great stuff,” said Janette in his earpiece. “Keep up the energy!”
“As you can see, the flames are spreading rather quickly,” said Cosmo, flashing his larger-than-life smile. “Keep in mind that we here at NewsChannel 9 plan for every and all contingency, so you can feel secure in knowing the studio curtains have been fully treated with flame retardant chemicals. The situation is under control.”
“Don’t quit on me now,” said Janette. “Toss to commercial.”
The studio filled with smoke. Cosmo felt the searing heat from all directions. He was surrounded on both sides by a closing circle of flames. If ever there was a time for him to shine, this was it. His legacy was at stake. His true professional powers were on even through adversity because the show must go on. He focused the entire energy of his being on that beacon before him, the camera’s red light and opened his mouth to speak.
“Coming up after the break,” he said, fighting off the overpowering urge to choke. “More news and entertainment on Have A Nice Day.”