FAR WEST Chapter Two

OUT MY BACK DOOR

 “Rachel Cox—WQNP on the scene here in Cranbury, where a gunman has holed himself up in the observation deck of the Victoria Clock Tower.  The Gunman has been here since the clock stopped a little after three earlier on this afternoon.  Apparently that was about the time when he opened fire at people walking down the streets below around the vicinity of the Taconic and Brass Streets.  The police have moved their cars, ERT tanks, and Winnebagos.  The police have also brought in jersey barriers to form a temporary perimeter to try to keep the situation cordoned off and the public away from further gunfire. 

            “The Police have not been forthcoming with much new information nor has Gideon Hall, Mayor Ramsey’s office . . .,” the attractive young nilf reporter trailed off into more redundant information as the Director switched the shot to the WQNP newsroom on the New Haven Green and their on-air talent. 

            The desk anchors asked the usual hideously obvious and often redundant questions that were readily apparent to anyone who had listened to the report.  “Now Rachel, what has happened there in the past few hours?  Have there been any attempts to take the tower by force?  The use of a helicopter?  Anything to dislodge the shooter from the clock tower?” said one of the anchor talents back at the studio, holding his index finger to the earpiece in efforts to appear serious.

            “Well, earlier in the afternoon the Police sent the ERT, which is the Emergency Response Team, in.  The ERT crossed Taconic Street heading for the service entrance to the old Patriot newspaper offices.  The Shooter opened fire sending them scrambling back behind the police barricades on our immediate right—if the camera can get it into view.  As night falls little progress has been made since the last exchanges of gunfire.” 

            Rachel returned succinct answers.  She was careful to not mention the unconfirmed deaths of the shooting victims and police officers.  This direction avoided incurring their wrath for any insensitivity.  That is unless she paid the proper bribe to the police for such information, which still at this point could not be confirmed officially.

            “Has the gunman made any demands?” 

            The first female anchor, Tammy Blauser, who wore a two sizes too small yellow and blue Argyle sweater, asked.  She was the immediate replacement taken from the pool of weekend alternative anchors and was not on the best terms with Rachel or much of the rest of staff, who still missed Alison Schneider after she gave her two weeks notice and moved to CBS 6 in “Smallbany,” New York.

            “Not that I am aware of, Tammy.  It appears as though there has been no communication between the Shooter and the Police,” Rachel responded as she glanced over the erratic assemblage of city police cars a hundred yards from the camera.  “. . . For the WQNP News Service, I’m Rachel Cox, with a developing story that we will be following throughout its duration in the Vale . . .” 

            The first male anchor, George Sobieski, the one with the ridiculously straight white teeth, filled in the void for the segway into the commercials to come in without the dreaded dead air.  The Director came down from the control room during the commercial break and briefed the anchors more about the incident in Cranbury as it was reported by rival stations, the newspapers and the networks.  Most of the networks were going to bury the story somewhere between the fifth erectile dysfunction ad and the Sally Field once-a-month osteoporosis pill near the start of Jeopardy and the countless entertainment news/self advertising programs.

            “Rachel said she would work the story of the tower and the old paper into her next report, try to get something on the Shooter more than the police are telling us, but until that happens the story remains as it is, alright George and Tammy?  Eleven may be when she can have that, but even Rachel is not that dogged.”

            They acquiesced to the Director’s debriefing and prepared for the return of the live cameras for the remainder of the Five o’clock broadcast.  The Director scrambled back to the control room to hand off to his second before taking his much needed cigarette break.  The Director made his way outside through the rear of the building and up Elm and across Church before reaching the Green.

            He lit up and wandered aimlessly around the Lower Green until he found a place to sit that faced the columns of the Federal courthouse beside the fountain dedicated to the veterans of the Spanish War.  He watched the traffic fight its way down the one-way thoroughfares and the teamsters preparing the stage and rafters for the evening’s free concert.  Young children were chased after by their tired parents across the grassy fields as the dry leaves of oaks, cherries, and ashes bristled in the winds.  Dragging slowly on his smoke, he depressurized from the endless stresses of his job and began to contemplate where his relationship with Alison was going now that she was gone.

            Albany won’t be so bad.   I have been in this godforsaken place too long.  His thoughts were tranquil and calm.  A distant cry from the rollercoaster of emotions that plagued him while he commanded the control room.  No more nighttime curfews.  No more children shot outside the stoops of their homes.  No more Yale pukes getting away with everything imaginable.  I can’t wait to leave this city, too Alison.

            The Director looked down at his watch, staring at the big and little hands that read Five-thirty, before he noticed the US Marshals escorting the Federal Judges down the marble steps of the courthouse in their boring gray suits and near wraparound sunglasses—the kind that the elderly wear to protect their eyes from sun damage.  The Judges were brought to their waiting Lincoln Towncars that would speed away as soon as they closed the passenger doors as far from the city center as possible. 

            Peter Schneider laughed, noting that his sentiments were evidently shared by the Judges, and began his slow walk back to the studio.