Page 37 of Good Days Bad Days
She frowns and starts to gather supplies in her arms.
“Look at me going on and on. Thanks for keeping me company and trying out the Lava soap. You made my prep fly by.”
It’s felt like a wonder, this conversation, this moment in time where I could talk freely and listen comfortably. I have a lot more I’d like to say, especially about her unexpected gratitude. And she’s unlocked a lotof thoughts inside of me as well. I open my mouth to try and put some of them into words, when the studio door opens with a clank.
Don Hollinger’s deep booming voice interrupts before I can tell her how much I’ve appreciated this conversation, too. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with no tie, the top button undone, a cigarette in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“Not ready yet? I gave you an extra twenty minutes. I’m starving.”
Betty slings the bowl onto her hip.
“Sorry, Don. Almost done. Let me put a few things in the back.”
“All right,” he says with an annoyed sigh.
Hollinger’s entrance is even more unexpected than Betty’s earlier appearance. When we moved to a full hour show, Martha petitioned Don to release Betty from her secretarial duties. And Hollinger finally hired a new girl from the technical college.
I move from the lights of the stage area to tidy my workstation. The unavoidable clanking of tools draws Hollinger’s notice.
“Tin Man! Hey! Didn’t know you were here.”
I give him a friendly greeting, hoping it’s unfriendly enough to keep him from engaging me any further, but I’m not that lucky. I toss my Bucheimer leather bag across my body and head toward the exit. He stops me as I try to squeeze past him in the doorway.
“You working late?” he asks.
“Yeah. Camera three had a busted connection.”
“You fixed it?”
“Yup. Found the part in the workshop. Patched it up.”
“Damn. Didn’t know you were so handy.”
I shrug, wanting to leave. His compliments mean little to me. Don Hollinger knows nothing about cinematography or journalism. He’s a businessman who was hired to make this station profitable. I’m sure once he succeeds or gives up, finding his task impossible, he’ll move on to bigger and better things. He doesn’t care about Janesville or WQRX or even EBN. As far as I can see, he’s nothing more than a mercenary, a hired gun with zero loyalty and very little integrity.
“You should come out with me and Mark sometime. We’ve been going to Pub Cellar. It’s a shithole, but the waitresses are nice, if you know what I mean.”
Mark’s been trying to get me to go out with them for weeks now. He insists Hollinger isn’t that bad, that he’s a guy’s guy. They go to the YMCA together, play basketball once a week, head to the local clubs to pick up girls.
“Sure,” I say, knowing I likely never will. According to Mark, getting in with the man in charge would help my career, but I can think of about a million things I’d rather do than watch Mark and Hollinger scam on girls in smoky clubs with bad music and even worse drinks.
Hollinger looks at me with a raised eyebrow like he knows I’m BS-ing him.
“What? You got a girl already or something?”
“No. I’m just not into the bar scene.”
“You don’t have to drink. It’s one thing to live without alcohol. It’s another to live without women.” He winks. I snicker like I’ve learned to around other men, even though it makes me feel disgusting.
“I think Martha Smith would go for you, if you like that kind of girl. A little mousy for my tastes but some nice curves if you can put up with her mouth.” He makes his hand holding his cigarette look like a puppet and rapidly flaps it open and closed. A flash of indignation strikes me between the shoulder blades. Martha keeps the lights on in this place. She should’ve left forever ago for a bigger market where she might actually be appreciated.
“Martha’s a talented producer,” I say protectively as Betty finally emerges from the back room. She’s let her hair down and tied up her shirt, exposing a small triangle of her translucently white abdomen. She’s slipped on heels, lined and colored her lips, and looks like a runway model swaying our way.
“Oh, so you do have a soft spot for her,” Hollinger says, referring to Martha. “I thought so. Hey, man. To each his own. Go for it.” He smacks my shoulder.
“I ... I ...” I’m grappling for a way to defend Martha but also put an end to his matchmaking when Betty reaches us, blushing and a little out of breath. She looks at me first, her smile familiar and welcoming, like we’re now friends who keep each other’s secrets.
“Look at you all prettied up. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Hollinger says, crushing the nub of his cigarette into the cement floor and wrapping his arm around Betty’s waist. A knife of outrage stabs through me at least ten times more intense than when he mocked Martha, and I want to tear his grubby hands off Betty like he’s some guy at the Playboy Club breaking the “no touching” rule.
