Warrior Pose by Brad Willis Read Free Book Online

a small-town TV station, when a portly, gregarious man wearing strong cologne and a loud tie walked up and introduced himself.
    â€œHi, I’m Alan Jones, the general manager. You must be the one looking for a job.” Jones reached out with his meaty fingers and shook my hand with surprising strength.
    â€œYes, sir,” I answered impulsively, trying to match his grip while wondering what I was getting myself into. I’d never taken a course in journalism and had no idea what duties people performed at TV stations.
    â€œWhere are you from?” Jones asked with a gentle grin.
    â€œRight here, Freshwater,” I answered. “I just graduated from Humboldt State.”
    â€œOh, I thought you were from out of town!” he said with a laugh.
    Jones must have been confusing me with someone who really did have a job interview and was somehow blind to my outfit of workboots, blue jeans, and a flannel shirt. I glanced at the station entrance expecting to see a well-scrubbed journalism grad in a dark suit and button-down collar come running in for his interview and angrily declare me an impostor.
    â€œCome with me,” Jones said. “As I’m sure you know, we just fired a reporter and plenty of people want this job. I’ll introduce you to our news director. We’ll see how you do.”
    â€œYes, sir!” I said again with a smile, thinking I might as well have a good time while it lasted and I’d still be able to leave for Canada in the morning.
    News Director Don Michaels fit the role of a seasoned journalist to a T. He was sitting behind a desk piled with papers in what could only be called organized chaos. He wore thick glasses framing a face pockmarked from childhood acne. His thinning reddish hair was in a comb-over to hide a balding pate. He was coatless, in a wrinkled white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, thick suspenders, and a narrow black tie tossed over one shoulder. Michaels was so absorbed in his work he didn’t bother looking up when Jones said, “Here’s a local guy who wants a job,” and sat me down in a creaky wooden chair facing his desk. “I’m a local guy, too,” Jones said as he turned and headed out. “I like local guys.”
    Two metal boxes, each about four feet high, stood beside Michaels’ desk loudly clacking away, spewing rolls of tan, pulpy paper all over the floor. Suddenly, a sharp bell sounded. Michaels leaned over and ripped the paper off one machine. “Another so-called urgent ,” he said disdainfully, giving it a quick glance then crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash. “Worthless, old news; nothing urgent at all.”
    â€œWhat are those?” I asked, risking sounding like a fool.
    â€œNews wires. Associated Press and United Press International. Didn’t you learn about these in your journalism classes?”
    â€œNo,” I said as straightforward as possible. “My degree is in English Lit. I’ve never taken a class in journalism.”
    â€œHumph,” Michaels grunted. “Go take a look.” Michaels used words sparingly, getting right to the point. His brusque expression never changed.
    I walked over and watched the automatic printers firing off one story after the next. World news, national news, statewide news, local news: reports literally pouring in from around the globe before anyone ever saw them in a newspaper. As they cascaded onto the floor like a waterfall, it seemed like the whole world was unfolding right there at my feet. It sent chills down my spine.
    Michaels ripped three stories off the wire, handed them to me and said in a curt tone, “Write these up. Make them concise and conversational. One page only. Here’s some script paper. You can use that empty desk and typewriter over there. You have ten minutes.” He looked me in the eye with a fatherly but piercing gaze as I realized he hadn’t bothered to even