“You filmed the tornado?”
“I‘ll show you.”
I stepped into my office and retrieved one of the disks I had tucked into my bag that morning. Not confident that the new network gig would last beyond one contracted film, I was preparing to revise my video résumé because it was time to get out there and pitch myself again. One of those disks had my television debut on it.
“Here you go,” I said, downloading the disk and putting it up on the big screen. “My first moment of fame.”
On that very wet Kansas morning, I ran out of the station behind Steve, filming as I ran. Most of what I caught was other people running in the same direction, headed for the basement of the courthouse. The wind was hellacious, pushing us from behind, sending the rain horizontally into our backs. The images I shot were jerky, obviously the work of someone who didn’t know much more about the camera or how to use it beyond turning it on.
At one point, I heard what sounded like a freight train bearing down on us, turned and saw the tornado’s funnel racing along the ground a few miles away, blowing up farm buildings and trees as it cha-cha’d toward us. I stopped running and the image became steady. My voice can be heard.
“Holy shit, Steve, look at this.”
He ran back to me, took the camera from my hands, put me between him and the tornado and ordered, “Describe what you see.”
I did just that as Steve filmed the tornado, catching me in profile. Wet hair whipping my face, wet clothes clinging to my body, I just kept talking as long as he kept shooting. By that time, I had been in town long enough, working at the bar, to know just about everybody who ever felt the need for a cold one on a hot afternoon. So I could say, “Dear God, there goes Larry Kuhn’s barn. I hope he and Mary got into the cellar.” And, “That’s Tom Harco’s pickup truck parked under the Interstate overpass.” And so on.
I fast-forwarded to a montage of clips taken from that evening’s national network news broadcasts. All three of the old majors carried our tornado footage. The network Steve’s station was affiliated with sent a reporter down from Kansas City early the next morning to interview me. My hair was done, my face was made up, and I wore a borrowed blouse, so I was somewhat more presentable than the wet creature whose image ran on television screens across the country under the banner REPORTER’S WHIRLWIND FIRST DAY.
Still wearing the borrowed blouse, that night I became Steve’s evening news reporter, writing my own stories, reading them on air, and then working a late shift at the bar because the pay did not get much better. Before Christmas I was picked up by the Kansas City affiliate and a career was born.
“You looked different, Miss M,” Preston offered.
“That was over twenty years ago,” I said. “I wasn’t much older than you are now.”
“Still,” he persisted.
“And that was before my nose job,” I said. “My nose was okay for Kansas, but not for Dallas. I caved and had it done because Dallas offered good money. I also started using my new married name because Dallas thought MacGowen sounded perkier, less ethnic than Duchamps. If I had to do it over again, I would keep both of the originals.”
“And you might still be working in Kansas City,” Chelsea offered.
“There is that,” I said. “But I can think of worse fates. Here’s the lesson I hope you’re getting: pick up the camera and head out into the storm, if that’s what it takes. And don’t be too full of yourself to start at the bottom.”
“You can say that because you shot right to the top,” Bretawny, wearing her usual camera-ready makeup, chimed in from the back.
“Hardly,” I said. “I paid my dues. Don’t forget, I’ve been at this for over twenty years, and my show still got cancelled. So here I am, trying to get a bunch of youths who are not only wet behind the ears but soaked from head to toe to work their butts off. So, can we get back on task now? Who’s up next?”
As the class filed out at noon, I asked Preston Nguyen to wait a moment.
“What did I do?” he asked, guilt for yet-unnamed offenses written in his posture.
“What you did was some very nice camera work on your project,” I said, watching his shoulders relax. “You have a natural eye.”
He said, “Cool, thanks.”
I told him that I would be producing a commercial film, and told him where.
“My film partner usually brings in a couple of interns from his graduate classes at UCLA,” I told him. “But if you can work it in without interfering with your classes, I’ll hire you for one of those slots.”
“Hire? Like for pay?”
“Union rules,” I said. “The pay isn’t good, but you’ll get a film credit.”
His smile started somewhere around his solar plexus and spread to encompass his entire being.
“What will I be doing?”
“I don’t know yet,” I told him. “Probably running errands and making coffee.”
His face fell a little. “But I still get a film credit?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.” He started to bounce, walking backward now so he could watch me. “I mean, yes! Whatever, absolutely. When do I start?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
“Wow! I mean, thanks, Miss M. What should I be doing now?”
“Probably studying, Preston. I’m going to go find lunch. I’ll let you know what’s up as soon as I know myself.”
As he bounced off, dashing who-knows-where, I doubt he felt the rain that pounded on his head.
Chapter 17
I was just locking my classroom, heading off for lunch and to see if Ida had arrived, when my cell phone buzzed.
“Maggie, I think you should get over here.” It was Lew, voice quavering, sounding upset. Behind him I could hear a cacophony of voices, several very excited people all, it seemed, talking at once.
“What happened?” I asked, flashing on Sly and his workers and the system of scaffolds and ladders erected around his massive sculpture. “Anyone hurt?”
“Just come and see.”
I was only a few steps beyond the door when I felt the first whiffle of something zing past my ear; I didn’t see or hear anything. I spun-a reflex-looking for the source when the second projectile creased like a firebrand across my chin. As I dropped to shelter behind a concrete planter a third projectile hit the point of my shoulder, grazed my sweater, tearing it, slicing a path into my flesh.
Lying on the wet sidewalk, I pulled out my phone and dialed Lew.
He started to say my name but I cut him off.
“I’m outside my classroom. Someone is shooting at me. Lock the gallery and don’t let anyone leave.”
“Dear God, what-”
“Please call campus security and 911. I’m calling Roger.”
“Who was-”
I heard footsteps running away toward the parking lot and ventured to peer over the planter; I saw no one. No one shot at me again, either.
Crouching, I made my way toward the gallery and saw immediately what had so upset Lew. Spray-painted in red across both sides of the big metal double doors: SLY IS A STONE KILLER LIKE HIS MOTHER.
I called Sly. “I’m outside the door. Let me in.”
“You saw it?”
“Hard to miss it, kid,” I said, snapping a photo. “Let me in, it’s wet out here.”
His thin face was pale, his brown eyes as big as Frisbees when he cracked the door open for me. I put an arm around his shoulders once I was inside.
It was drizzling again. I worried that any fingerprints that the graffitist might have left behind would be washed away. The choices were to open the doors wide to protect the fronts from the elements, or lock them tight in case someone with a gun was still out there. I closed the doors after me, and turned the bolt.
The eyes of five upset youths were on me.
“Anyone see who painted that?” I asked. There was a chorus of No ways, and promises that if they had seen the painter they would have pummeled him, or her.