The KRTO Interview- a Prequel

“Ms. Douglas, follow me.”

Bekka stood and straightened her polyester skirt. In her hand, she held a binder with two copies of her resume, a DVD of her KOMU student reporting, and clippings fro

m her university newspaper, the Columbia Missourian. The articles detailed how she had won a Missouri Broadcaster’s Student Award for reporting on a county's embezzlement of road funds. She debated whether to bring them, but since she already had the binder for her resumes and DVD, she thought, why not? She didn’t want to be caught without enough proof of her journalism skills.

Bekka had styled her thick chestnut hair in a low bun at her neck. She wore tasteful makeup, minimal jewelry, and well-fitting professional clothes that were from a secondhand store. Thank goodness other career women donated their unwanted blazers. She arrived 15 minutes early and was currently following the News Director, Richard Streeter, to his office. He led the team at KRTO, a station in her hometown of Delacroy. 

If she could succeed in this interview—land this job—it would solve many of her problems. She could live rent-free in her family’s upstairs apartment, pay off some student debt, and provide her bipolar mother, Sandra, with a reliable person to keep her settled, medicated, and safe. Bekka’s aunt, Sandra’s sister, had lived in the apartment during her four years at Mizzou but moved out the previous month. 

“I can’t do the long-distance thing, Bekka,” her Aunt had said at the graduation ceremony. “Meeting Jack has changed everything. He’ll be in Texas, so that’s where I’m heading.”

Aunt Dahlia followed through on her decision, moving south to be with a man she’d met online. Bekka knew her mother’s sister was glad to escape their house and the responsibility of Sandra. Bekka had to admit that Dahlia had been a big help, managing Sandra’s extreme moods. It was Aunt Dahlia who calmed the situation with the police when Bekka’s mom shrieked at a neighbor over a sign she’d put up. The sign advertised the homemade jam Sandra sold from their house, something against HOA rules, so the president took it down. Sandra puffed up, yelled her objections, poked him in the chest, and the police were called for a “street fight.” Sadly, similar incidents weren’t uncommon when Sandra was manic. When she was depressed, it was Dahlia who never let her sister hide under covers for more than a day.

“I liked your story about the hotel demolition,” said Richard Streeter, bringing her thoughts back to the room. They’d arrived at his office, and Bekka chose a seat across from his desk. She ran her wet palms down her skirt. “The standup was very clever,” said Streeter.

As he waited for her reply, Bekka decided she liked his sincere eyes. They were brown with yellow flecks and had slight crinkles at the corners. He looked as if a smile was about to break through, even while sitting quietly. 

Bekka's Resume

“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s hard to go wrong with such good video. It’s not every day a building falls down.”

Streeter laughed. “Let’s hope not!”

The office was a wall of windows, and Bekka found herself gazing out at the newsroom, distracted by people rushing between desks and edit bays. Scanners squawked from a raised platform in the middle. She cleared her throat. “I can’t wait to work in a real newsroom, I mean, one apart from the school program. There’s a lot to learn, but I can assure you, I’m ready for the challenge.”

Richard leaned back in his chair. Bekka noticed his dress shirt was already wrinkled, and one side was slightly untucked.“We’ve had good luck with Mizzou grads, plus this is your hometown,” he said. “It would be a comfortable place to start your career. I always give applicants a few test questions. Are you up for a pop quiz?” He smiled as he said it.

Bekka squirmed in anticipation. “I think so.”

“Don’t panic,” said Richard. “It will give me an idea of how plugged in you are with current events.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

“Name two current Supreme Court justices.”

Oh man, Bekka thought and swallowed the crud building in her throat. “John Roberts and Samuel Alito.”

“Great. Who’s the Missouri Lt. governor?”

Bekka paused and pushed her brain to bring up the name. She’d done several stories on Missouri politics. “Peter Kinder.”

“Good,” said Richard. She could tell he was formulating questions off the top of his head. “Tell me the two-word phrase made famous by President Trump as he described most members of the media.”

Easy. “Fake news,” she answered.

“Name the Delacroy police chief.”

“Louisa Morales.” Bekka was liking this game.

“Tell me, Bekka, if you had to pitch a story idea for today—something to cover here in Delacroy—what would it be?”

Her brain went into overdrive, scrambling for a good pitch. Don’t take the low-hanging fruit, she coached herself. No localizing a national story. “I guess I’d have to start by asking what’s top-of-mind for people right now,” she said.

“Good. And?”

What is top-of-mind, you idiot? Sweat had formed under her arms, dampening her new dress shirt. “I just graduated from college, and it’s mid-May. I’m consumed with thoughts of getting a job so we can look at Delacroy’s job market.”

Streeter’s bushy black eyebrows knitted, revealing a crease at the top of his nose. “Couldn’t a viewer do their own Google search and learn that?”

Crap—of course they could. 

“What if we go below the surface?” she suggested. “Do a full screen on the current employment numbers, but a bigger story drilling down on the difficult process of job hunting?”

“How would you do that?”

“I’d find a new hire in a big company,” she explained. “I mean, a sparkling new hire who has barely filled out their W4 or found the company restroom. I want to know everything they did to find the job. How many resumes were sent, how many interviews happened, and how many ‘no thank yous’ did they get?”

“You’d find a real person who just lived the struggle of job hunting?” Streeter asked.

“Yes.”

“But what about the viewers who aren’t interested?” he said, “Not everyone is looking for work.”

It wasn’t hard to see he was measuring how well she could think on her feet. “Most people have been in that position at some point,” she pitched. “If not, they have a son, a niece, a husband, or best friend who has, and they want to know how to help.”

The News Director cocked his head and looked at her, as if considering an idea. “Ok, Ms. Bekka Douglas. Go get it.” He gestured out the window toward the newsroom.

Bekka sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, go get that story,” said Richard.

Her eyes darted about the space as if the office might hold the tools to accomplish the task. “Do you mean go do the story right now?”

“Yeah, I’ll find a videographer to go with you,” said Streeter. “So you won’t have to shoot it yourself. Just concentrate on getting a great story.”

A wave of anxiety rose in her throat, and Bekka swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected to be thrown into a story during the interview, but hell yeah! She grinned at Streeter and stood up, gathering her binder. She draped her purse strap over her arm and threw back her shoulders.

“Who’s my shooter?”

Streeter looked out into the newsroom bullpen. “Looks like Jax is available. He’s been shooting for a few years now. One of these days, I’m going to tap him for assignment editor.” Richard leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “But keep that between us.”

Bekka’s head was swimming. She’d have to make a ton of calls. What if no one called back? Maybe she could visit the placement office at a local university. She needed a plan, a backup plan, and a backup to the backup.

Richard stood and opened the door to usher her toward Jax. “Oh, and be ready for it to air at six.”

What?!

“You mean today?” Her heart hammered.

He smiled. “Yes, today. You’d better get moving.”

She considered the ramifications. If she doesn’t pull this off, there will be no job. But what if she does? Bekka smiled broadly as she and Richard approached an Asian man wearing jeans and a pullover. 

“You must be Jax.” They were the first four words she’d say inside the room where her life would profoundly change.