Joe the Control Room Guy: Field Trip

Joe the Control Room Guy
in
Field Trip

“It’s only a fast buck, Freddy...”
– Jefferson Starship

Author’s note: I am well aware that I have skipped a number of essential steps in the setup of a new portal (like cleaning out the test files, switching the satellite MAC address, checking the dip-switches on the Carina cards, changing config.txt and the IP addresses, renaming the machine, and other such things) for the sake of the story. But I have to skip something, or we won’t get to the exciting part fast enough. Also, I am well aware that I am not a Field Tech. But (as the saying goes) some of my best friends are Field Techs – and yes, I have actually been to the real CHES once, but this is not the story of that trip.
--Dr. Thursday.

It was spring and there was still light in the sky when Joe drove into the AC&TG parking lot. It was the first day back after his vacation – he had gone on a fishing trip with some buddies from college. A week of cold mornings on a boat out in the Chesapeake, and not much to show for it – but he had had some good meals and a lot of laughs. Now it was back to work – encoding spots, watching the WATCHERs, and all the other on-going activities of the Control Room. Maybe, he shrugged, a few good laughs here, too. As for the meals – well, who knows? All too often he was the only one on duty during the night, so unless he brought something to eat, he was stuck with the snack machines, or – when he was desperate – a pizza from Walt’s. (He had given up on the late-night Chinese place after a bad experience which he blamed on their egg rolls.) At least, he thought to himself as he went up the back steps, he could look forward to a good meal tomorrow morning – he was meeting his girlfriend for breakfast before she went to work. He smiled to himself and went inside.

In the Control Room, Al was on duty, sitting in front of the monitors. He glanced up as Joe came in.
“Hey, Al.”
“Hey, yourself. How was vacation?”
“Cold, but great. I caught some catfish, and one of the guys caught a real nice small-mouth bass. Tasted great, too.”
“Sounds like you had a good time.” Al turned back to the monitor. “Looks like CHES is losing a disk. Or worse.” He typed a command and peered intently at the screen.
“Want me to take over?”
“I’m almost through with the reformatting. It’s the portal, and if it doesn’t come back, I’ve got to call Fred back – he’s the field-tech on call tonight, and I already let him know about it.”
“OK.” Joe looked around the room. “Anything to encode?”
“No; we’re actually ahead – and except for this CHES thing, it ought to be quiet.”
Joe nodded. “Good – after a week away, I wasn’t looking forward to coming back to encode a cart full of tapes.”
“I guess not,” Al added abstractedly, his attention on the screen in front of him. “Looks like 3CHES is not going to come back.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Fred? It’s Al. 3CHES is dead. ... OK. See you.”
Al hung up the phone. “He’s on his way.” He bent over the monitor and shook his head at the screen.
Joe shrugged. “I’m getting some coffee – you want anything?”
“No, thanks. I’ll write up the log for CHES till you get back.”

* * *

Joe came in with a steaming cup and sat down by the monitors. “So – anything else new while I was away?”
Al leaned back in the chair. “Not a heck of a lot. The usual nonsense. There’s a new Mexican restaurant down in town; we had lunch from there yesterday.”
“How was it?”
“Great – if you like Mexican.” Al smiled, recalling yesterday’s meal with pleasure. “Thank God for the Field Techs: they always know where the good food is.”
Joe shook his head. “The day guys sure have it good,” chuckling a little – there had been occasions when it might have been said with sarcasm, but not this time.
“Not really,” Al nodded, not taking it wrong at all. “After all, they get all the big-wig visitors and, tours, – no casual dress except Fridays – and they have to act well-behaved, like good little professionals. And lots more phone calls, too.”
“Yeah, we night guys have it good. At least, Al, you get some of each.”
“Once in a while,” Al said, looking over the monitors for red signals. “I’m not sure why they scheduled me until 11 today – but there it is.”

The door beeped and the two operators swiveled their chairs. In walked a short, stocky young man dressed in the same uniform as the Control Room operators. He was carrying a clipboard, smiling, and nodding his head.
“So, so. 3CHES down again? All right, all right. Hey Al, how’s it going? How’s your wife?”
“Fine, Freddy. You know Joe, don’t you?”
“Nah, maybe I know your voice, but I haven’t been in here nights for a long time.” He stuck out his hand and Joe shook it.
“Sure, Fred, I know your voice,” Joe said. “Couple weeks back, you were out in Dixonia, remember?”
“Yeah, sure, I know you. Dixonia, another rat’s nest of a headend. Not wired neat, oh my, no, not at all neat.” He paused a moment, then continued wistfully. “Good ribs, there – it being a college town and all.”
“Ribs?”
“Ah, well, that was a while ago, anyway,” Fred said, glancing down at his clipboard. “3CHES, right? Yeah, I guess that’s a portal, so I better go grab one from the Tech Shop.” He grunted, then in a lower voice added, “Sure could go for some ribs, now.”
“You need any help over in the Tech Shop?” Joe asked.
“Nah, well, they got a portal ready ‘cause there were problems out there yesterday, so it takes no time, none at all. But I don’t mind your getting the doors, if you’re not otherwise occupied.” He looked at his clipboard again. “Portal, got to get a portal, not a leaf. Stupid, that time down in Dover. Had to come all the way back. Hmm,” he shook his head, whacking the clipboard against the long desk of monitors. “Dover...” He rolled his eyes and smiled. “Dover – that’s where Marcy’s is! Best crab cakes anywhere.” He shrugged and turned towards the door. “Gotta get that portal.” He went out.

Joe stood up and watched Fred go down the hall outside. Then he turned back to Al. “Is he crazy?”
“Aren’t we all?” Al smirked. “Fearless Freddy the Field Tech. He’s a character, but he’s harmless. Knows his stuff, too.”
Joe went towards the door. “I’ll go give him a hand.”
Al shrugged. “He’s stronger than he looks, too,” he added. “Don’t let him trick you into carrying it – you ever try lifting an inserter? They weigh a ton.”

Joe went into the Tech Shop. Fred was behind the racks disconnecting the portal. “Hey Fred, I’ll get the doors when you’re ready.”
“Great, Joe, great. Haven’t had a helper for a while.” Joe heard banging and rattling coming from racks. “Lots better, more relaxed time, and nothing to a swap-out, not like a rewiring, and it’s early too.” His voice got lower but Joe still heard him. “People don’t know, but there’s some real nice places right around here.” Then Fred came out from behind the racks, his clipboard under his arm. “OK, now I’ll grab this here portal and you get the doors. Then, we’ll see.”
Joe shrugged, confused by Fred’s on-going narrative. It was strange, as he had often been on the phone with Fred for hours, but he didn’t recall ever hearing such a long and seemingly aimless discourse during those calls. But then, at those times, Fred had been busy working at a headend.
Fred calmly grabbed the sides of the inserter and yanked it most of the way out of the rack. He looked at the clipboard again, took the lid off and put it down on the ground, then peered inside the chassis. “Yep, it’s a portal all right. And enough Carina cards, too – don’t need extras this time. Pins look OK.” He looked at Joe and caught his eye. “Got a lot to check, if you don’t want to be driving extra. Cuts into your day.” He screwed the lid back on. “Don’t want any dust getting in there.” He grabbed the sides and pulled the inserter out, then let it sit down on the ground. “Eighty-odd pounds, these suckers. Don’t drop it on your foot.” He chuckled and picked it up. “Let’s go.”
Joe went ahead of him, opening doors. Fred didn’t even seem to be breathing heavily. “No, I don’t think ribs tonight. Not cold enough. You like wings?”
“Sure, they’re great,” Joe said as they went out into the parking lot. “You’ll pick some up?”
“Pfft!” Fred made a derisive noise. “Take-out wings? Cold and flavorless? Not on your life. And Vince’s doesn’t have take-out anyway. Besides, it’s All-You-Can-Eat night!”
Joe shook his head. “I’ve got to get back in; I’m on duty.”
Fred put the inserter down by the white company truck and turned to Joe, squinting up at him. “You ever seen a headend?”

“Not yet; they showed me the Tech Shop and explained what goes on there....”
“Not the same,” Fred stated flatly. “Sometimes I wonder where they keep their brains. Well, not my business – but it’s easy enough to fix, and I won’t pass up the chance.” He pulled his cell phone from his belt and pressed buttons. “You oughta know about it.” Then to the phone, he said. “Control Room? Hey Al, it’s Fred. Joe is coming with me. When are you on till? ... Eleven? ... that’s fine, then, plenty of time. You need anything while we’re out? A burger, maybe? ... OK, then, I’ll call when we get to CHES.” He closed the phone and put it back on his belt, then he opened the tailgate and swung the inserter into the truck.
Fred nodded at Joe. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Soon they were shooting down the highway. The truck rode well, Joe thought, not realizing how many hours the field techs put in behind the wheel. And Fred had good taste in rock-and-roll, which precluded additional conversation – or perhaps, as Joe might have put it, monologue.

It was not long, however, before they were at the Goatsville headend. Joe was not familiar with the roads they were on, but he could see they were going up a hill. Then, off the macadam, and up a steep winding gravel road. Soon they stopped in front of a low windowless bunker-style building, brilliantly lit by security lights. Off to one side Joe could see a gigantic antenna going up into the air – high overhead he saw the red flashing aircraft warning lights. There was a dish farm too, with even more than the one behind the AC&TG building. Fred opened the tailgate and got out the inserter.
As they walked toward the door Fred said, “Tony ought to be around somewhere; I’m surprised he’s not out here smoking.”
That moment (as if on cue) the door opened and a man came out, a cigarette already in his mouth. “Fred, good to see you! Brought a helper?”
Fred put the inserter down. “Yeah, Tony, this here is Joe. He’s taking the five cent tour.”
Tony shook hands with Joe, then lit his cigarette. “You shoulda come in the day if you want the best view. Doncha wanna go up the antenna?”
“No, thanks,” Joe said. “I have a third-floor apartment – that’s about all the height I can deal with.”
Fred and Tony chuckled. “Don’t need any safety nets for that kind of work,” Tony added. “Hey, Freddy, remember that race?”
“Sure, lots of fun. Great view up there, too.” Fred picked up the inserter. “Gotta get going, Tony, we’re off air till I get this installed.”
Tony dragged on his cigarette. “Go ahead, don’t want to hold up the wheels of industry. If you need me, I’ll be here checking the dishes.”

* * *

Joe followed Fred inside. The low-ceilinged room was well lit, air-conditioned, and crammed full of electronic gear, but before Joe could open his mouth, Fred gestured to shut the door.
When it was shut, he bent near Joe and said, “It’s air conditioned.” He shook his head. “Smoking.”
Joe did not reply – his mouth hung open in amazement. He was used to the various equipment rooms at AC&TG, but this place was almost overwhelming. There was a lot of equipment here! Then over in a corner he recognized the four black AC&TG inserters in a rack by themselves. Fred had his cell phone out, telling Al back in the Control Room to shut down 3CHES.
Finally Joe recovered and smiled at Fred. “Wow, Fred, this is amazing.”
“This? Well, it’s better than it once was. I remember when we had to crawl in the dirt under the floor to rewire it, pushing the rats out of the way. No snakes, though – not here. Tell you ‘bout the snakes when we eat.” He picked up the inserter and took it over to the AC&TG rack. “Amazing, hey? You ought to see the Dover place. That’s something else. Twice as big as this. Very nice. Some day... and then we’ll get some of Marcy’s crab cakes, too.”
Fred’s phone rang. It was Al, telling him that 3CHES was down.
“OK, Joe, just wait there out of the way.” Fred dodged behind the rack. Joe looked slowly around the room, trying to identify the various pieces of equipment; from time to time he glanced at the door but it remained closed. Soon Fred reappeared, loosened the front mounting screws, and slid the old inserter out of the rack. Before Joe knew it, the new one was in the rack, screwed down. Then Fred vanished again. Joe heard Fred murmuring, checking each cable as he connected it. In a little while Fred came out, flipping his cell phone open.
“Al, it’s Fred. I’ve rebooted the new 3CHES. Give it minute or so. ... it come back yet? ... OK. ... Try connecting and see how the satellite connection looks... It does? Fine. Then you can go ahead and restart the software. Good... PUMP shows missing spots? Sure, that’s normal, they’ll get here.” Fred stared at the equipment in silence, the phone still at his ear. “OK... Really? Great.” He looked over at Joe, holding the phone away. “It’s playing a spot already.” To Al he said, “We’re done, then; we’ll be stopping at a couple of places on the way back. If there are any problems, give me a call.” He put the phone back on his belt. “We’re outta here, Joe.”
They went out the door. Tony was nowhere to be seen. Fred put the failed inserter into the truck, and after they got in, Joe asked, “What about Tony?”
“Don’t know. Not my job to watch him, you know. Besides, he has the keys.”

* * *

Down the gravel road they bounced. At the bottom, Fred turned the opposite direction from the way they had come. “Hey Fred,” Joe yelled above the music. “Where are we going?”
“Vince’s,” Fred yelled back. “How you like your wings?”
Joe’s eyebrows went up. Fred had said something earlier about wings, but Joe hadn’t really paid attention to it. Half the conversations on his recent vacation had been about food, and Joe and his buddies had argued about the pros and cons of various wing places they had been to – but all that week, he had not had chicken in any form whatsoever. Now, though it seemed a little early in the evening for Joe to eat, his mouth began to water. “Hot – the hotter the better – but they gotta be spicy, too. You know: a good flavor, not just burning.”
Fred nodded. “That’s how they make ‘em at Vince’s. And we picked the right time to come – it’s All-You-Can-Eat tonight.”
The rock-and-roll played on, and soon they turned off the road into a parking lot. As they got out of the truck, Joe heard rock-and-roll pulsing from the building. Strangely, it was the same song Fred had been playing in the truck. In one of the windows was a neon sign reading “Vince’s” – the other windows advertised various brands of beer.
They went in and found an empty table. The waitress was a tall young blonde – Joe seemed to recall seeing her (or her twin) on a favorite German beer.
“Wings – extra hot, and a pitcher of ginger ale,” Fred ordered. “What’ll you have, Joe? On me.”
“Same.” The waitress nodded. Joe watched her go back to the kitchen.
“Don’t even think about it,” Fred warned, though he had turned too. “That’s Vince’s wife.”
“Wow.” Joe replied. “Wish I didn’t have to work tonight. Someday I’m going to visit Germany, where they come out with those great big vat-like mugs full of beer – four or five on each arm...”
“Why go so far?” Fred asked “Over in Jersey there’s a place – yeah, it’s called Irene’s – just like you say. Ever had schnitzel? Good, man; real good.”
The waitress returned, carrying two pitchers of soda, glasses, a bottle of blue cheese dressing, and a basket of celery and carrots. No sooner had she deposited these than she was back with two baskets of steaming wings.
“Wow.” Joe sniffed, then picked one up and tore into it.
In a second he was gulping down his soda. “Hey, Fred,” he gasped. “These are great!”
“Knew you’d like ‘em,” Fred replied. He was methodically going through his basket, a pile of bones beginning to form.
After the initial shock, and a judicious use of the blue cheese and celery, Joe found that the wings began to go down easier. The flavor was definitely, without doubt, exactly to spec – and soon his basket was empty.
“Well?” Fred asked.
Joe took some soda. “Great.”
“Not too hot?”
“That first one took me by surprise, but then I got used to it.”
“Heh,” Fred laughed. “That’s your initiation. If they don’t know you, they always put a ‘suicide’ one on the top of your first basket. You ready for more?”
“Sure.”
The waitress soon brought two more baskets of wings, which disappeared nearly as fast as the first ones had. A third pair of baskets followed. The celery was nearly gone, and the level of both pitchers had dropped.
Joe pushed the third empty basket away and the waitress returned. “Care for any more?”
Joe shook his head. “No thanks, but they certainly are good.”
Fred finished his last wing, and also shook his head. “Great as usual, Marta.”
“Glad you like them,” she nodded as she picked up the baskets. “Come again.”
Fred wiped his hands, then stood up. “Let’s go.”
Joe frowned. “What about paying them?”
“Already taken care of,” Fred said, and went towards the door.

* * *

They got in the truck. The wind had picked up and it was chilly. Before Fred turned on the music, Joe stated, “Fred, you gotta show me how to get here – they have the best wings I’ve had anywhere!”
“It’s not hard. See that traffic light ahead? That’s Business 30. You just head west, then look for – oh, man.” Joe felt the truck accelerate.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
“Oh, man. We have got to stop up here.”
“What is it? You feel OK?”
“No, nothing like that. I woulda forgot. On Mondays Spaulding’s makes these incredible stuffed chickens. Gravy, all the trimmings. Nothing like it.”
“But Fred, this is Wednesday.”
“So? That’s when they make chili. Ask the other field techs. If CHES has to go down, they’ll tell you the best night of the week is a Wednesday – ‘cause of Spaulding’s chili.”
Joe looked over at Fred as they pulled into the parking lot. “What about Vince’s?”
“Vince’s don’t make chili. And besides, that’s my find – hardly any of them know about it yet. And they don’t have their All-You-Can-Eat wings every Wednesday, either – it’s just the first Wednesday of the month.”
“But Fred – you still have room for chili?”
“Sure,” Fred replied as he got out. “Don’t you? Hey – doesn’t matter – you gotta try it.”
They went into the restaurant. There was a sign “Please wait to be seated” but Fred led the way to a back corner.
A waitress soon appeared with a bowl of corn chips and another of salsa. “What’ll it be?”
“Two ginger ales, two bowls of chili.”
She nodded and went off; in seconds she was back carrying a tray.
Joe felt full, but he tried a spoonful of chili. It was good. Before he knew it, the bowl was empty, and most of the corn chips were gone, too.
The waitress reappeared. Fred said, “Another two bowls, please?”
“No, thanks, no more for me,” Joe interrupted.
Fred put up a finger to hold the waitress. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it? Not too hot, is it?”
“No, it’s the best I’ve had in a long time, but...”
“Then it’ll be two, Amy,” he told the waitress. “Joe, you can’t get this chili anywhere else – don’t miss your chance.”
“OK,” Joe sighed. “I’ll have another soda, too.”

The second bowls vanished quickly. Joe wondered if Fred would want a third, but when the waitress returned, he simply thanked her and got up from the table.
“What about the bill?” Joe asked.
Fred shook his head. “I already took care of it.”

* * *

The two got in the truck again; the wind was cold. They turned east onto 30, heading back to AC&TG. But after three or four lights Fred turned off down a dark, winding back road.
“Hey Fred,” Joe said, “Where to now? I gotta get back; I’m supposed to be on duty.”
“You’re helping me. If Al needs you, he’ll call.” He patted the cell phone on his belt.
“But where are we going now?”
“Just something I wanna check out, Joe, that’s all.”
The truck chugged up a hill. As they came over the crest, Joe could see a colored sign up ahead.
Fred nodded, his mouth watering. “It’s Nanny’s. Excellent place, but not a lot of people know about it.”
“Oh, man, Fred – more food?”
“Dessert, Joe, dessert. And we might not even stay. It depends.”
As Fred turned into the parking lot, Joe asked, “Depends on what?”
“On what they have.”

* * *

The two went into the small diner. Fred sat down at the counter. Sighing again, Joe sat down next to him.
Fred caught the eye of the waitress. “Sandy, whatcha got tonight?”
“Usual. Pecan pie. Strawberry pie. Brownies. Uh – still got some Lemon Meringue pie. And,” her voice dropped, “there’s still some homemade vanilla ice cream.”
Fred nodded. “Just what I wanted to hear. I’ll start with strawberry pie, with some of that ice cream. And a cuppa. Then we’ll see.”
Sandy turned to Joe. “And for you dearie?”
“Ah, well, I’d like some of that lemon meringue pie. And some coffee.”
“Good choice,” Fred said as the waitress went into the kitchen. “That’s what I came for, but I can’t pass up that homemade ice cream.”
“I’ll have some of that too,” Joe added. “On a heated brownie. Second course.”
“That’s my plan, exactly.”


Sandy brought out the pies. Joe’s was an enormous wedge, piled high with fluffy billows of meringue. Fred’s had gigantic strawberries, topped with a glacier of rich yellow-white cream. The cups of coffee were veritable vats, just hot enough, but no hotter, and perfectly brewed.
Soon Sandy reappeared from the kitchen, smiling as she saw the empty plates. “It met with your approval, then?”
“Great as usual, Sandy,” Fred replied. “I think we’ll both have a brownie – heated – and a small scoop of ice cream.”
“Fine,” she said, and took away the plates. Moments later she returned with their second course.
“Excellent,” Joe said after a mouthful.
Fred swallowed. “Told ya.”
The second plates were soon empty. The cups, refilled twice, were drained. Fred winked at Sandy as he got off the stool. “See ya soon.”
She smiled and winked back. “Thanks, Freddy; good night, now.”
Joe was going to ask about the bill, but Fred was already out the door.

As the two walked to the truck, Joe said, “A girl by every portal, Fred?”
“Not at all, Joe, not at all. But you spend a lot of time in places like this, they get to know you. And you get to know them.”
“I see,” Joe swallowed carefully. He felt stuffed. “Hey, it’s got to be late. Al is going to be wondering where I am.”
Fred started the truck. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’re connected, aren’t we?” He held up his cell phone. “And we’ll be back soon.”
“No more stops, huh?”
“We’ll see, Joe, we’ll see. Still a few miles to go.”

* * *

Down the dark country road they went, music filling the truck. Joe was completely lost; they had not seen a major road for some time. But soon they came out onto a road Joe recognized.
“Now, just up here is a place called Anita’s. She does a catering service – if you ever want a Mexican wedding, she’s the one to call. But she also makes donuts – those things that the chains sell taste like cardboard compared to hers.”
“Fred, you still hungry? After this marathon banquet?”
“Now, Joe, it’s for snacks. Think how happy Al will be when we bring him some of Anita’s best crullers. And you’ll be happy tomorrow morning, too.”
“Oh, OK, Fred,” Joe sighed, “We can take some with us.”
“Right. Here we are.”

It was a tiny little storefront. There was a display case full of donuts, and near the cash register was a coffee urn. The smell was wonderful. Fred immediately took two to eat there, and had a cup of coffee, so of course Joe was compelled to try one also.
While Anita packed up the order, Fred took a third donut. “Go ahead, Joe, try one of the glazed.”
Joe looked at Anita. Her dark eyes gleamed at him, a soft smile on her lips. There was no way he could eat another thing now – but... “I’ll take a dozen to go, please.” Her smiled deepened. “And a dozen crullers, too.”
Fred finished his coffee. “Yeah, Anita, I’ll take a dozen also. For the road.”
She soon had three bags full of donuts and she handed them over without a word.
“See ya, Anita, Fred smiled at her; then he said to Joe, “We’re outta here.” Joe pulled out his wallet, but Anita shook her head, pointing towards Fred.
“Thanks,” Joe said to the air, and followed Fred out the door.
As they fastened their seat belts, Joe said, “Fred, where on earth do you put all that food?”
“Hey, it’s hungry work, lugging inserters all over creation.” Fred stepped on the gas. “Don’t you get hungry encoding?”
“Well, yeah, but... man, am I tired.” Joe had meant to say he was “full” but “tired” came out instead.
“OK, we’ll be back soon. Just relax.” He turned up the music.
Soon Joe’s eyes went closed, and the road and the music faded away.

* * *

The telephone rang. Joe lifted his head off the console. He had fallen asleep in front of the monitors again. As he reached for the phone, he checked the clipboard – he wasn’t overdue on his chores, so it couldn’t have been very long.
“Control Room. This is Joe.”
“Joe, it’s Fred. I forgot to drop off that dead inserter from CHES. You wanna leave a note for me?”
“Sure,” Joe said. “And Fred – thanks for the tour.”
“Anytime. Say, tomorrow I have to go out to Harristown to wire some local cues. You wanna ride with me, maybe get some breakfast? I know a place...”
“No, thanks, Fred, I’m meeting my girlfriend for breakfast. Maybe another time.”
“Sure, sure. Hey, Joe, you sound tired. You want me bring you something – a sandwich, or something?”
“No, Fred, really, I’m still stuffed. And if I need a snack, I got a lot of donuts here. And another thing – you didn’t let me pay.”
“Hey, it gets expensed. Great to have somebody to talk with, too.”
“But you didn’t pay, either.”
“They send me bills. I go there a lot. Sometimes I forget, or get a call, so I just leave my card. Hey, gotta go, the wife’s calling. Glad we stopped for donuts. Bye.”
Joe hung up the phone. He looked at the clock: just past midnight. Maybe in six hours he would be hungry again... nah, maybe in sixteen. He wondered what his girlfriend would say when he told her he wasn’t hungry. Well, he could always offer her a donut.

THE END

All text and pictures copyright © 2008 by Dr. Thursday

A Special Guest

A Special Guest

Note: this story appears by special permission
from the Editor-in-Chief of
Something Good To Read.

It was a Thursday afternoon in June, and in the one of the studios of Channel Nine, they had concluded the taping of yet another episode of “The Livingston Report.” The major networks were still drooling with envy over the ratings being attained by this investigative-news-style show. Analysts were divided on the issue of whether it was Mr. Barclay Livingston’s superlative abilities or his screen appeal. Women liked his handsome appearance – the rugged chin, the gleaming gray eyes and hair just slightly awry – and his rich unaffected speaking voice. Men admired his feats of daring in “on-the-spot” work, and his honest and thoughtful approach to reporting. The crew had to work hard to keep up with his pace, but they, as well as the producers, found him to be absolutely devoted to them: he had twice rescued cameramen from certain death, simultaneously obtaining remarkable footage which broke all ratings when it was aired. But his wife and seven year old son wished they didn’t have to turn on the television to see him.
Barclay nodded to his director. “I’ll be in at nine to see the edited version.”
The director’s eyebrows raised. “Going to sleep in?” Barclay usually demanded that the viewing start at 7:30.
Barclay replied, “I’m going out with my wife tonight. It’s our anniversary.” Actually it was last week, but he had been out of the country.
“Well, have a good time, then.” The director watched him walk out of the studio, then made a notation on his clipboard: “BL viewing, 9 AM.”
An assistant director was at his side. “Did I hear Mr. L. say ‘nine’?”
“You did. It’s great to get a break once in a while.”
“He must have forgotten about the interview tomorrow at eight.”
“What interview?”
“Didn’t you check the schedule?”
“I’ve had my hands full with this... You mean he has something scheduled for tomorrow?”
“Yup – in Studio One, too.”
“What the...? Studio One? We’ll be up all night getting that ready. Here, let me see that schedule.”
The assistant handed him the paper. The director looked it over. He shrugged.
“Well, let’s get to work,” ordered the director. Then he looked at the schedule again. “Wait a second. This is strange. There’s no name indicated here.”
The assistant looked uncomfortable. “I know. Should I have asked?”
“No; but it’s odd. Even when he has to keep the identity secret, he puts down a pseudonym.”
The director handed the schedule back to his assistant.
“Who on earth can it be? And Studio One. Studio One, for crying out loud!” He walked out of the studio to find the set manager.

* * *

It was the most expensive restaurant in the city, on the top floor of the highest building. Candlelight allowed the maximum appreciation of the civic constellations. Wine, bread, Caesar salad, a dish of pasta, chicken breasts in a lemon-wine sauce, fruit and cheese... The dinner was fantastic. But Barclay’s wife shook her head for the dozenth time.
“Dear, I can’t believe you can’t take a day off once in a while.”
“You were going to take him yourself, can’t you? I don’t have time tomorrow to go to the zoo, and this weekend I’m going to Washington.”
Hannah Livingston frowned, candles gleaming in her bronze hair “Dear, this dinner is amazing. I’m happy even when we only have minutes together – or when you call. But what about Toby? He misses you.”
“Toby.” He exhaled, and his face wrinkled. “What can I do? My work...”
“He’s your son – why can’t you take him with you sometime – not all of your work is overseas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
But he was thinking about today’s taping, and his next assignment. He sipped wine and stared out the window. His wife sipped hers, too, and her eyes were closed, but her inner sight was aimed in another direction.

* * *

Livingston strode into the director’s office. “Well, you got me up at six o’clock and for what?”
The director glared at him. “You’re the one who left the orders. Studio One, yet.”
“What do you mean, I left orders? I wanted a 9 AM viewing of our taping. What’s this about Studio One?”
“See for yourself.” He handed his livid star a clipboard.
Barclay stared at the top document. There was his signature, ordering an 8 AM interview shoot in Studio One.
“This is some kind of prank, isn’t it?”
The director put out his hand for the clipboard. “If it is, it’s your prank, not mine.”
Livingston shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”
The director was silent. He was certain this was some kind of put-on. “Look, Barclay, keep your questions for the interview. But just tell me one thing: Why did you have to pick Studio One? We had to work all night to get it ready.”
He went over to the coffee-maker in the corner and poured himself a cup. “Want some?”
“Sure,” Livingston replied, shrugging. Whatever all this was, it would soon be cleared up. “I’d just like to know one thing, too. Who is this person I’m to interview?”
“Well, the talk among the crew is that it’s Doctor Stanley – remember, he vanished almost a year ago in some African jungle.” He sipped his coffee. “They said he’s discovered some fantastic things: birds, insects, I don’t know. Someone says it’s a dinosaur, and that’s why we need all the space.”
Barclay took a swallow of coffee. “And how do they deduce the connection between me and the eminent zoologist?”
“Oh, on general principles. Your three months last year in Africa, your interest in ‘missing persons’ stories, hints in your conversations...”
Barclay Livingston nodded. “Hmm. Oddly enough, it makes sense. It’s quite reasonable, in fact. Except that I haven’t the faintest idea where Dr. Stanley might be, or how to get in touch with him – and he certainly hasn’t been in touch with me.”
The director looked at his watch, then finished off his coffee. “Well, we’ll all know soon. You had better get moving.”
“Right.”

* * *

When Livingston came into Studio One, he noticed that there seemed to be a larger crew than usual. Of course the sheer size of the studio required more people; Barclay’s typical interview might be done with only three, or even two cameras, and the minimum number of other technicians. But here there seemed to be enough people to handle a feature film – and even stranger, most of them seemed to be busy. The backdrops were all of a dark but definite blue. There were two empty tables at one side.
There was Livingston’s usual desk and chairs, hauled down from Studio Nine. At the right of the desk was another chair. He had never seen such a large one: either they had scoured the city for it, or, more likely, it was custom built in their shop. It was rather simple looking, comfortable enough, but, well, larger, than anything he had seen. By an odd twist of his mind, induced by one of the rare romps with his son, he concluded that it looked to him as an adult chair must look to a child. He wondered who would be sitting there.
Barclay glanced over at the master clock. In twenty minutes he would know. He rarely came to the set this early, preferring to have a few minutes to himself to organize his thoughts on his interview. But without the most critical fact – the identity of his subject – it was impossible for him to prepare, and so anywhere was good enough. Besides, he was too curious to sit in his dressing room, and it was his curiosity which had made him what he was.
A sound man, came up to him. “Since you’re here early, we’d like to do the sound check now.” Barclay nodded, and went over to his desk. The technician clipped an almost invisible microphone to his lapel. In his stage voice he began the Gettysburg Address, and the control room signalled approval.
An assistant to the assistant director brought a tray with a pitcher of ice water and a few glasses. She placed it on the desk, and smiled warmly at Barclay.
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled. What luck – the crew seemed to be in good spirits. Usually he had to beg someone to bring water. He looked around. He couldn’t count the number of cameras that were arrayed around the set: they must have dragged over every single one in the place. There were even a couple of his field crew there with hand-helds. Other technicians stood around, adjusting things, helping with things. There was none of the all-too-common jostling and shouting. He wondered who was up in the control room: it all depended on who was in on this stunt, and who the director had informed.
As if responding to his thought, the director came up to him. “Well, Barclay, it’s your show. What do we do now?”
Livingston looked at him uneasily, wondering how much all these people were costing. “I presume we’ll wait until eight for our, er, guest.”
“I rather hope he’s here a little earlier, so we can do a sound check, see if he needs some water, and all that.”
“Ah, well, I guess whoever it is, will be here in sufficient time for that sort of thing.” He reached out and poured a glass of water. “Sam, this set seems... well, it’s a well-run set... when did you ever see such harmony in the crew with ten minutes to go?”
The director looked around the set, completely missing the paradox of his usually glib star struggling for words. “You know, you’re right. I’m not sure when I’ve seen this kind of – it’s almost too quiet, like we were in church...”
Then the voice from the control room broke in: “Hey, who’s playing with the lights?” The already bright studio lights were getting brighter.
A chorus of “not me” broke out, but the lights continued to increase.
“Joe, shut down the lighting mains,” ordered the control room. The studio heard the snapping of the great switches, but the glow did not dwindle. Everyone had closed their eyes; some had put their arms in front of their faces. The cameramen had shifted their cameras to point at the ground. But then the light seemed to grow more local, and slowly reduce back to the normal bright studio lighting.
“Hey Joe, I thought I said to shut off the mains.”
“They are off.”
Then a new voice was heard. “That’s right, they are off. You won’t need them.”
When Barclay opened his eyes, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was a gigantic ball of fire hovering above the large chair by his desk.
“What on earth?” he cried.
“Peace!” came the voice. It was such a voice: it was quiet but penetrating. It was as clear as an adult’s, but light and happy, as a baby’s. It carried a certain quality of tone, as if each word spoken was actually a lyric to some greater song. There was also the sense of something incomplete, as if the voice was part of a choir, from which only one voice could now be heard.
Then the voice chuckled. “I always wanted to say that. And I mean it too! Don’t worry, I won’t set anything on fire.”
Barclay was sitting only a few feet from this amazing sight. He noted that the flames seemed to come radially out from the center of the ball. Mostly they seemed to be a yellow-white, but there were touches of orange and red; a faint bluish ring looked almost like a sash...
The sound man walked over, microphone in hand. He was only a couple of feet away from the fireball. He reached out his hand, then noticed a slight warmth, which increased as he got closer and closer. “Ah, sir, ah, would you mind putting this on your, er, lapel...”
He held the microphone out, then let go. It fell to the floor.
“Never mind,” came the unflappable voice from the control room. “Just use the boom.”
Two other sound men wheeled it over, and lowered the microphone to just above the firey ball.
The fireball said,”I’m ready, Mr. Livingston, whenever you are.”
“Sound check OK,” came the voice from the control room.
The director nodded. “Barclay? It’s up to you.”
Barclay took a deep breath. Whatever this was, it was no conceivable stunt. He couldn’t even imagine how that fire ball could be sitting inches away from a wooden chair and not set it and the whole building ablaze. And it wasn’t a visual illusion, either; when the lights had brightened he had felt a wave of warmth, more like the noonday sun in the Sahara...
“I’m ready; our guest is ready; Sam, it’s up to you.”
The director glanced around the studio. Everyone was alert, the needles pointed to correct settings, the video tape recorders were ready.
“Let’s roll, people.” He waved a hand in the air.

Barclay eased into a smile. “Good morning. I’m Barclay Livingston, and today, I’m interviewing a very special guest.”
The camera zoomed out from Barclay’s face to include the desk, then wider, to include the large chair and the fireball hovering above it.
“Good morning,” came the mature baby voice.
“Please tell us, if you will, what are you?” Barclay barely kept his voice under control.
“I am a seraphim, an angel from the ninth choir, closest to Almighty God.”
Applause came from all of the crew who had their hands free. Smiles and looks of “I told you so” were exchanged.
Barclay’s eyebrows raised. “You are... an angel?”
“That’s right, Barclay.”
“You can see... God?”
“Sure.”
“You can, like, fly, and move mountains?”
“Only when I have permission.”
The crew laughed at that. It sounded familiar. Barclay wondered if they were stand-ins for an audience – usually they would be utterly silent.
“Can you tell me – who invited you?”
“You did, or, rather, your wife. But actually I was sent on a mission – however, I think we’ll go into that a little later.”
“But how was this interview, here at Channel Nine, arranged?”
“I had a lot of assistance from other angels. They had orders.”
Barclay thought about this. He poured water into his glass, and was about to offer the angel some – then he thought it would put out the fire.
“No thanks, I’m not thirsty. Angels don’t get thirsty. And no, you can’t put the fire out. I could jump into the ocean, and not even notice.”
“Would it bother you?”
“No. Nothing natural can bother me.”
“Er, I always thought that fire was associated with, er, the other place...”
The angel laughed; there is no stranger sound in the universe. “Oh, what books you must read! No, that place is cold, though it might feel like fire to a human; I don’t know. But what you are seeing isn’t something outside me – it’s myself.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Aren’t there all kinds of songs which talk about being on fire with love? Even humans grasp that much about love. That’s what you are seeing.”
“I always thought that angels had wings and harps.”
“Some do have wings, but while we all sing, all the instrumental music in heaven was imported from earth. Though I seem to recall we have a stock of brass instruments lying around somewhere or other.”
Barclay shrugged; he had not read the Apocalypse for years. “Why don’t you have wings?”
There was a flash and the sphere was now on Barclay’s left. “I don’t need wings. In your language, you even say ‘spreading like wildfire’ when you mean something travels quickly. That’s how seraphim travel.” The fireball went back to the large chair.
Barclay scratched his head. “But only when you have orders, right?”
“Correct.”
“What kind of orders are they?”
“Angels have all kinds of duties, but we excel at the carrying of messages. That’s when we are called ‘angels’ – which only means ‘messenger.’ You see, angel is a description of a job, not a kind of being.”
“Messages? What kind of messages?”
“We carry all the messages from humans to God and from God to humans.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I will, later.”
Except for the brilliant glow, which lighted the set and the entire studio equally, and the almost incredible fact that the source of that glow could speak, the interview was proceeding normally. Barclay was beginning to recover a little.
“No harps? I guess I’m glad to hear that. It always seemed to make heaven a bore.”
“Oh, my, no!” came that strange voice. “It’s never boring. We’re very busy. But the work is more relaxing than any kind of vacation you can imagine. For one thing, you don’t run out of energy.”
The crew snickered at that, and even Barclay smiled. “That’s easy for you to say; you’re a ball of fire.”
“That’s how I appear, yes. Some humans are even brighter than I am. Remember, for some of you love is an awkward word. But in heaven, love is just another name for energy, or light.”
“What’s heaven like?”
Again came the strange sound of angelic laughter. “You can’t even guess, and I don’t have enough time to tell you about it. But I can tell you this: it’s worth the effort – and it’s even better than anything you’ve ever guessed at.”
“What about the other place?”
“It’s worse than anything you’ve ever guessed at. The worst part is being alone.”
“How do you know?”
“We know. We had a test, too, you know.”
“A test?”
“Don’t you think that life is a test?”
“Sometimes it seems that way. But angels have a test?”
“We did. Some passed; some failed.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“No; you’re not watching the time.”
And indeed the director was signalling “five minutes.”
The seraphim continued: “You haven’t asked me about my message.”
“You have a message? For me?”
“Yes. Here it is. God wants you to go to the zoo today with your son.”
And for once the glib and unflappable Barclay Livingston was speechless. The crew laughed, but in a friendly fashion, as friends will, when their friend is reminded of a forgotten but pleasurable duty.
“You mean – you mean God sent a seraphim – disrupted this whole station’s morning work – got me up early – just to tell me to take my son to the zoo?”
“That’s right,” giggled the seraphim. “It’s not quite the type of message I often get to carry, but it’s one of the funniest.”
The crew burst into fresh laughter.
“Besides,” noted the seraphim, “if you look around, you’ll see that the station is not disrupted. In fact...” the glow suddenly increased, and Barclay saw that in corners and behind equipment were standing everyone who worked for the station, “this morning, this station looks a lot better united than most other organizations of 1,325 people.”
Barclay looked around at all the faces, thinking about the variety of people there, and all the work it was to put on a TV show. He laughed.
“It’s funny for a reporter to be brought a news flash.”
The room exploded in laughter.
The seraphim chuckled. “That’s a little of what heaven is like. We angels have other jobs besides carrying messages: we have our duties in the choir and the army – and now I’ve got to go on to my next assignment.”
“Well, then, I guess I had better conclude this interview, and go pick up my son.”
“I think that would be wise,” said the seraphim. Then the glow suddenly increased, and when the lighting came back to normal, the fireball was gone. But in the air there was a burst of angelic laughter.

* * *

The director watched the door close behind Livingston. “That was amazing.”
His assistant nodded. “What some people won’t do to get the afternoon off.”
“You think so? I can’t wait to see those tapes, and see if any of it will be visible – or audible.”
Suddenly one of the stage hands cried out, “Hey, Sam! Come and look at this!”
The director, his assistant, and a number of others came over to the chair over which the seraphim had hovered. The seat, back, and arms were charred black.

* * *

No one could see the seraphim at the zoo. It would not have fit into any of their tidy categories. But Barclay could hear that strange angelic laughter when his son turned and hugged him, crying out, “Thanks, Daddy, this is so much fun!”

All text and pictures copyright © 2008 by Dr. Thursday