I was back in the newsroom the other night, grabbing the folds of wire-service paper from the spot where the overnight DJ had tossed them aside in his search for the printed weather forecast. I looked up at the glass dividing the newsroom from the control room and couldn’t help but notice that a black sheet of plastic had been taped over the window, completely blocking my view.
The printout of the state news roundup is always buried in the stream of paper coughed up by the news printer. Even as I swam through the river of feature stories, sports scores, and stock reports, I realized at some level this work was only the recurring nightmare, recurring once again.
You media-types no doubt recognized right away the fantasy that would still have news stories printed out on uncut wire-service paper. In my dream though, it never changes.
As a nightmare, presumably this one is better than being chased by vampires or falling off a cliff onto jagged rocks. Still – it never fails to unnerve me. I used to work with a fellow named Forrest Lowry who professed to frequently suffer the same sad dream plot. I recall our conversation at that time, sensing that he was more distressed about it than I was. I probably hadn’t had the dream so often at that point. The strange part after so many years is the undercurrent of knowing (at least I think I do) at some level that the whole thing is just a dream – even as I’m dreaming it – but being unable to stop it.
After ripping down the plastic I still couldn’t see into the control room. The DJ had taped up a sheet on his side of the window. I rapped on the glass and the barrier came down. The DJ was frowning. He was standing there in formal evening wear.
That was Edith Wharton, sneaking in.
I’ve been reading The Age of Innocence, her 1920 Pulitzer Prize winning novel about the elite society in New York City during the late 1800s. Operas and afternoon teas. Formal calling on acquaintances. Servants and coach drivers. Tuxedos and gowns.
It didn’t make preparing the morning newscast any easier, looking at the DJ in a tux.
As usual, the minutes are winding down to the moment I must flip the switch on the microphone and begin reading the news, which I’ve yet to get in order. Where is my copy of the weather forecast? Today, for some reason, I have an assistant: likely provided by the fiction of Edith Wharton, all butlers and such. I ask the young man to retrieve the current temperature reading, the detail that will wrap up the weather forecast and the news segment.
This is a nightmare variation.
Normally, I am forced to make up a number: Currently, sunshine and eighty-six degrees in Tulsa. (Completely made up. In the nightmare, I have no idea of the correct number. It’s my best educated guess based on the highs and lows I have just read in the forecast.)
There’s probably some deep psycho-rationale behind the frequent visiting of this unsettling dream. (It may not sound like much of a nightmare to non-broadcasters, but back in the dinosaur days, the sound of silence – dead air, we called it – was to be avoided at all costs. Lacking any news stories to read, the nightmare requires that I adlib events or simply stall while shuffling through paperwork looking for something appropriate to read. Hellish.)
The psych-reason isn’t even important anymore. My life and lifestyle are so dramatically altered from the days when the nightmares began, that I believe they only carry on merely as tradition.
At least I have a little Pulitzer Prize winning influence in this latest edition.