Then She Took the Call - Philip Loyd

I used to be a jackal. That is to say, I once was a reporter. A journalist. A bottom feeder of the lowest order. You know, like in the movie Nightcrawler. I’m all better now, thank God. Lucky for me, I made the call.

I’ll never forget the day I was saved. It was the day of the big terrorist attack. You remember, the one where all those people died? Anyway, it was the day of the big Kaboom and the whole newsroom suddenly came alive. When it comes to reporters springing into action, nothing gets the adrenaline going like a good ole terrorist attack.

Now, I know most of you have never seen what goes on behind the scenes of a major TV newsroom. You only get to see what happens on-screen, all the caring looks and concerned gestures. What goes on off-camera is far from caring, and anything but concerned.

Reporters take to bad news, especially mass murder, like junkies to fentanyl. It’s their lifeblood. It’s what makes their dicks hard. And that’s just the women!

Sickening, I know; but it’s what being a member of the media is all about.

On this day in particular, I just happened to get a call from one of my contacts at the 9^(th) Precinct; and by contacts, I mean someone on the payroll. He had the name and number of one of the victim’s next of kin: the wife. I was still kind of new to the whole journalism game, and it was my first big break.

One of the female reporters, we’ll just call her Lois, heard me on the phone and leapt at the news like a spotted hyena.

“You have the number?” she said. “Well, call it before it’s too late. If we can get the wife’s response now, we can lead with it.”

“But we can’t do that,” I said. “Next of kin haven’t been notified yet. It’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“Rules?” said Lois. “What rules?”

She was right. There weren’t really any rules, least not written down anywhere.

“At the very least,” I said, “it’s unethical.”

“Unethical?” she said, laughing. “You’ve got a lot to learn about the news game.”

She tried snatching the piece of paper with the phone number on it from my hand. She failed.

“If you’re not going to call, then at least give it to me,” she said. “Don’t waste a hot lead like this.”

This was too low. Too underhanded. Sure, I had compromised myself way more than I ever imagined in the past year, but nothing like this. I’d gone down on the morning anchorwoman to get my first assignment, fucked the fat-ass assistant producer in the supply closet, even let the weatherman watch me do my thing through a glory hole, but nothing as lowdown as what Lois was asking me to do now.

“Look, rookie,” she said, picking up the phone on my desk, “this is put up or shut up time. This is what being a reporter is all about. This IS your job.”

Maybe so, but I could tell by the way her jugular was throbbing, this wasn’t just doing her job. This was feeding her habit, her addiction to pain and suffering. Reporters are as drawn to human misery as battered housewives. They get off on it. It’s what makes their heart beat. If I knew it was going to be like this, I never would have gotten into the journalism game in the first place.

“What did you think the job was going to be,” said Lois, shoving the phone receiver in my face, “a Hemingway novel?  Did you think you were going to play the hero? That only happens on TV, not in real life.”

By God, she was right. I never thought of it like that, not until now.

“Truth is,” she said, “the woman has a right to know. Now, not later. Some other reporter is going to get the scoop, and the poor woman is going to find out about it on the evening news.”

Possible.

“Is that what you want? Do you want the woman to find out her husband just died at the same time as millions of strangers? On TV? Wouldn’t you rather be the one who tells her? At least that way, you’d be able to show her some compassion.”

Lois was starting to make sense.

“Do you want someone else, someone with no scruples, to be the one who tells her? Or would you rather it be You, someone with a conscience? Truth is, you’ll be doing her a big favor. After she takes the call, she might even thank you.”

A lot of sense.

“The clock is ticking.”

She was right: the clock was ticking. Besides, she was starting to move on me like a red-bellied piranha.

I made my decision. I would make the call.

“Good,” she said. “Now, repeat everything she says out loud, so I can write it down.”

I grabbed hold of the phone. I dialed the number. The phone on the other end started to ring.

At that exact same moment, Lois’s cell phone went off.

She looked at the number of the call coming in.

It rang again.

She looked at me.

Then, she took the call.

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