Fourth Down (Portland Pioneers 1)

One

Autumn

As soon as the production assistant motions we’re clear, I allow my shoulders to sag, my face relaxes, and I don’t hesitate to pull my earpiece out. I exit the stage and head toward my dressing room, which in reality is a closet with a desk and a pocket door. I added a do-it-yourself vanity mirror so I could do my make-up with some decent lighting and managed to change the overhead light to something better. Honestly, anything is better than what was in here when I took the job as Channel 3’s Weather Girl, a nickname if you will, that some jackass producer branded me with during the promos the station ran before I started. I’ve tried many times over the past couple of years to get rid of it, but sadly, this is how people know me in Dickinson, North Dakota.

“Great show this afternoon, Autumn,” my assistant Parker says as I walk toward her. Her arms are full, and she’s balancing two bottles of water and two cups of what I’m assuming to be coffee on her clipboard, which is stacked on top of files filled with paper. I share Parker with three other anchors and have tried my best to make her job easy.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for one of the waters. I don’t want her to try and give it to me because I’m fearful she’ll spill the contents of what she’s holding all over the floor. Parker smiles softly and then sighs. She has a tough job, a demanding one. One of the anchors is a diva with an ego larger than Texas. A few of us wonder why she’s still here, broadcasting the news to some twenty-two thousand people. For me, this is a stepping-stone to something bigger and better.

I step into my pint-sized dressing room and pull the metal hook to slide my pocket door closed. It wobbles, sticks, and I’m forced to give it a hard yank. I finally sit down, and I swear my body sighs from exhaustion. I’ve been up since before the sun to cover for our morning meteorologist, who called out sick at the very last possible moment. Then, I had to hurry across town to an elementary school for an assembly. My neighbor is in third grade and asked if I would speak at career day. There was no way I’d pass up the opportunity. Afterward, I rushed back to the studio for my afternoon slot to tell the fine people watching that the sun is shining, but it’s chilly, and a sweater might come in handy.

Slowly, I pull my right leg up to rest on my left knee, and as gently as possible, slip my high-heeled shoe off. If toes could scream, mine would holler from the highest peak in pure relief. I do the same to my other foot, and as I lean back in my chair, I wiggle the digits that I’m so mean to. Heels are a necessary evil, a must. They elongate the legs and force us to stand tall. As much as I appreciate the good posture in front of the camera, it doesn’t mean I enjoy standing on the pointed spikes for hours on end.

I’ve been known to walk around the studio in my slippers. But as of late, I prefer my Birkenstocks. They’re comfortable, yet not fashionable at all. They’re also a major turn off to the single men who work here. I love it. I’m not looking for an office romance or a quickie against my vanity. I want something meaningful. I want a relationship that grows up from the bottom with dates and old-fashioned wooing. Where, if the guy is a gentleman, maybe he gets a kiss at night. As much as I hate to admit it, I want to be courted. Nowadays, it’s all about swiping right and people wanting to “Netflix and chill.”

My phone rings, and I groan. Not because I don’t want to answer it, but because doing so requires me to move. I hate feeling this way and sense that it’s my unhappiness at my job that is bringing me down. Usually, I’m cheery—the life of the party. I’m the one who can have a meaningful conversation with a wall and feel satisfied at the end of the night. As of late, though, I’m a Debbie Downer, and I think it’s because every job I apply for, I’m either passed over because someone is more qualified or I’m not the right fit. Still, I’m pushing the send button on my resume and highlight reel for every job that opens up at a new station.

My ex's name and picture take up the screen of my phone. We’re friends, better friends than we were lovers. I click to answer and press the speakerphone button. I’m too tired to put in the effort right now.