Page 4 of No More Heartbreakers

They ran toward the house in a blur of bare feet and flailing arms. When they’d secured permission, I picked up my tripod and followed them to the backyard swing set, my heels sinking into the damp turf.

The kids pumped furiously as I set up the shot. They put on a real show, dramatically wiping sweat from their foreheads and fanning themselves.

As we’d planned, their mom walked into the scene offering more Popsicles, and the children jumped off their swings, running to her enthusiastically. I kept rolling for a minute, far longer than our weatherman Brian would need, but it wouldn’t hurt to get some extra video.

You could always cut it later, but you could never recreate a moment once it had been recorded.

I rolled the video back and showed the kids their performance on the camera’s small monitor, smiling at their giggles. The whole thing had taken less than ten minutes to shoot but had clearly made their day.

“Okay—which one of you is the oldest?” I asked the boys.

“I am. I’m eleven,” the kid who’d been studying the camera volunteered.

“What’s your name?”

“Trey.”

“Trey, I wonder if you could do something for me—afteryou wash your hands.” I smiled at him. “I need to shoot my on-camera part now. It’s called the stand-up, and I don’t have much time to get it done. Think you could hold the camera steady for me? Make sure it doesn’t move?”

His eyes lit up. “I can be a cameraman?”

“Yep. It really would help me out—if you think you can do it.”

“Yes. I can. I can do it.”

If he could, he’d be the best photographer I’d worked with in a long time. Theonlyphotographer I’d worked with in a long time.

All the reporters at WPVG worked as one-man bands, meaning we were reportersandphotographers. Pretty typical for a small TV market like this one.

It kept the staff small and the budget low and filled the newscast, even if the result wasn’t always top-quality.

Every once in a while, for a really big event like election night or tornado-aftermath coverage, the news director would assign a two-person crew.

Those were the days you lived for, those rare chances to focus on one job at a time and get a good, creative stand-up to go on your “escape tape.”

And you’d better believe every rookie reporter in the market was compiling that resume reel, hoping it would propel them up the next step on the TV news career ladder.

There’s only so long you can exist on ramen noodles and canned tuna.

Every reporter but me, I should say. I wasn’t interested in leaving rural Georgia—I’d been there and done that and gotten theChewed Up and Spit Outt-shirt.

But I did need a promotion and a raise. Desperately. Hopefully some more creative stories would show my boss I deserved it or maybe attract the attention of the nearby competing TV station.

Trey did a solid job, especially for an eleven-year-old, and I finally got a usable standup. Now to rush back to the station, attempt to resurrect my hair and makeup, and slap the package together in time to make my slot.

I was trekking down the side of the street toward the news car, the camera in one hand and thefour-thousand poundtripod in the other, when I heard the squealing of tires.

Glancing back over my left shoulder, I was assaulted with a barrage of alarming sensory input—the roar of an unnecessarily large engine, the flashy green paint and distinctive slanted diamond headlights of a late model Lamborghini, and the shiny surface of the rain-slicked road.

Everything happened so fast, it was hard to make it all make sense. But one thing was clear. The car was on the wrong side of the road andwayto close to the shoulder where I stood. It was going to run me down if I didn’t move—and fast.

Dropping the tripod, I cradled the expensive camera and dove out of the way.

The good news was I managed to avoid becoming a Lambo-waffle. The bad news? The obnoxious sports car drove directly through a large puddle left by the recent downpour.

A wave of muddy rainwater splashed up, drenching the new dress I wassupposedto wear for a live on-camera lead-in to my story during the six o’clock newscast. That was on top of the lovely grass stain that no doubt decorated my hip and backside thanks to my leap and slide.

So much for my five minutes of fame tonight.

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