“I’m down to a weather team of one.”
Lisa is talking to her lamp. She can’t even look at me.
“And that one is the talk of the town.”
“In a good way,” I interrupt.
“No, no,” Lisa says, turning to wave a hand at me. “It’s not your turn yet.”
I nod.
“And I also had to let a nightly news reporter go because he was in cahoots with a turncoat spy. And management wants to know what I plan to do with a station that has suddenly become the news equivalent of Jerry Springer. And I have five newscasts to air every day along with a morning show and a staff that doesn’t trust anyone or know whether they will be next on the chopping block or victim of a surprise snowball attack.”
Lisa pulls her cardigan around her as if she’s warding off such an attack. She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out an Oreo. Then another. She shoves them in her mouth as I stare.
“They’re Oreo Thins, okay!” she says, spitting cookie. “They’re like mini candy bars on Halloween. It takes a dozen to equal one.”
She takes a seat in her chair with a big sigh. She finally swivels to look at me.
“Why are you sitting there looking like the cat that ate the canary?” she says.
“Because, one, it’s good she’s gone. We can all move on now in a positive way. And because, two, I have a plan.”
“Oh, really!” she exclaims, her voiced etched with sarcasm. “Is the plan as good as the one you just pulled that’s about to cost both of us our jobs? Is your plan as good as the one I had to bring you here?” Lisa stops and takes a deep breath. “Unless your plan involves erasing what has been a total nightmare of a winter and putting us both into a wayback machine, then I’d suggest shelving said plan.”
“I want to address what happened, on the air,” I say, unfazed. “I want to do a full top-of-the-news segment about the polar vortex before anyone else in the local area beats us to the punch. CNN and The Weather Channel have reported on it, but not in a big way yet. We still have the chance to be first here. I want to restart my ‘Sonny in the Winter’ segments, especially now that we have a chance to lead with the polar vortex. And I have a replacement for Polly Sue.”
I say all of this in a rush, like when I was in high school and trying to convince my parents to let me stay over at a girlfriend’s house “to study” even though they knew that meant “party with boys.”
Lisa reaches for another cookie.
“Icicle,” I conclude.
She spews cookie again.
“What? I might as well go ahead and put in my application at the Dress Barn because my career here will be over.”
“Lisa,” I say, remaining calm, “the kid is smart. He is driven. He is trustworthy. He does every single job here—from camera to research to writing—exceedingly well and always on time. He never complains. He loves his job and this station. I’ve been around a long time, and I can recognize talent. When you combine that with someone who desperately wants to prove himself, you have someone who has the potential to be great.” I stop. “And he’s an actual meteorologist. Polly Sue just played one on TV.”
“Sonny,” Lisa says, sighing, “I know you two have bonded. It’s been very sweet to watch, but he doesn’t really have an on-air persona. I mean, Icicle looks like the kid who dresses up as the Statue of Liberty alongside the highway and spins signs for Liberty Tax. He doesn’t have the look of a trusted weather person.” She stops. “He has the look of someone who could fix your computer.”
“Give him a chance,” I say. “You gave me one.”
My voice trembles. I didn’t want to get emotional.
“What have we got to lose?” I press.
“Um, everything,” Lisa says. “By the way, you’ve said all of this before, and the winter ice just keeps getting thinner for both of us as we get closer to spring ratings.”
“Please,” I say.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Please.” I draw the word out like a kid begging for a toy.
“Sonny.”
“Lisa.”
“This could go on all day, couldn’t it?” she asks.
I nod.
“I believe in him. Or I wouldn’t be doing this.”
Lisa sighs and shakes her head.
“Okay.”
“Yes!” I cry. “Thank you!”
“But I need to see an audition tape before I fully approve,” she says. “You need to polish him up more than a Petoskey stone, got it?”
“Got it.”
I stand. “You won’t be sorry.”
“You’ve said that before, too.”
“You’ll see,” I say, opening her office door.
“And you’ve said that, as well.”
I shut the door. I can still hear Lisa talking to herself.
“What?”
“I thought you’d be ecstatic.”
Icicle looks as though he wants to run as far away from me as he can, but he’s paralyzed. The only movement I see is the nervous twitching of his cheeks. Whereas Lisa couldn’t stop talking, Icicle can’t seem to open his mouth.
“Icicle?” I finally ask. “Are you okay?”
“I have to go,” he says.
“What?” I ask, now sounding like he just did. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Just go.”
He starts to leave the weather office, but I grab him. Icicle may be wiry, but he’s strong, and he drags me toward the door.
“Okay, enough!” I say, digging my heels into the floor.
Icicle stops.
“I can’t do this, Sonny,” he says, his voice scared, his head down.
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
Icicle finally looks at me. His eyes are wet.
“Oh, Icicle,” I say. “I thought…”
“I could do this? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but you were wrong.”
“Sit,” I say. When he doesn’t, I repeat it more emphatically. “Sit!”
“Talk,” I say, walking back to take a seat in my chair.
“Were you a dog trainer in a previous life?” he asks.
I laugh, and he cracks a small smile.
“Look, you know me. I’ve never been in the spotlight,” Icicle says. “I’m not comfortable with it.” He looks up at me with sheepdog eyes. “My parents have always been the center of attention. You and all the anchors enjoy being on air. Some people thrive under pressure. I don’t.”
“Really? Because you have thrived under pressure since the day I met you,” I say.
His eyes widen.
“You’ve managed to navigate a swamp without being eaten alive. You’ve performed your job with incredible skill, professionalism and decorum. You’ve worn so many hats so well, you could be a fashionable Hydra. You never complain. You’re an accomplished writer, editor and researcher, and you have a knack for location, history and detail that make stories memorable.”
“But I’m not an on-camera guy,” he protests. “People just don’t see me that way.”
I look at him and shake my head. “No, you don’t see yourself that way.” I stop. “But that’s going to change right now.”
I walk to the tiny space that serves as storage room and coat closet. “Voilà!” I say.
Inside are a variety of clothes.
“What are those?”
“Clothes,” I say. “For you.”
“What’s going on?”
“We have to make an audition tape for Lisa,” I say. “Management wants to see you on air before they sign off on everything.”
Icicle stands abruptly. “I told you! No one believes in me. No one has ever believed in me.”
“I believe in you.”
He stops at the door.
“I’m risking my career for you,” I say. “So is Lisa. This is your moment, Icicle. Take it, because they don’t come around very often.”
He sighs. “What do I have to do?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m handling everything. In fact, we have to go right now. You have a haircut appointment at Front Street Salon, followed by a facial. Then I’m going to dress you in some clothes I picked out for you…”
“How did you know my size?” he asks.
“I have reporting skills. I snooped. And then I called your mom. This is what we call a makeover. It’s like Pretty Woman, and you’re Julia Roberts.” My voice continues to rise in excitement. “My whole life has led up to this moment. You are my creation.” I laugh like Dr. Frankenstein.
“Help me,” Icicle calls out as I drag him through the newsroom.
Four hours later, we return to the newsroom, and staff members literally do double takes to see who I am with.
Icicle’s shaggy hair has been cut short and groomed into what I can only term as professionally hipster: longer on the top, gelled back in a swoop, and the sides have been razored very short and high. His face is shaved smooth, and it is glowing after a facial. He is wearing a touch of bronzer to make him look a bit tanner, and we purchased a pair of vintage half-frame glasses that make him look older and more refined, as well as making his cheekbones look like buttah.
Icicle is dressed in a navy suit with a bright white shirt that make his eyes pop. And, although he fought me, I got him to wear a navy bow tie with little snowflakes on it.
“Bow ties can be your signature,” I say. “For every season.”
In short, Icicle doesn’t look like the same man.
“Everyone is staring at me,” he mutters. His shoulders sag, his spine bends, and he tries to make his tall frame invisible. He slouches toward the weather office.
But he’s still acting like the same man.
“Look at yourself,” I say, steering him toward a mirror on the far side of the office. “Go ahead. Look at yourself.”
He stands before the mirror.
“Who do you see?”
“Icicle,” he says.
“Who do you see?” I ask again.
He looks again, as if for the first time, but doesn’t say a word.
“Everyone is staring at you because you look great. They see you differently already. But it’s really not about the way you look. It’s all about the confidence you project.”
Icicle again is silent.
“All right, let’s go.”
I lead him to the newsroom. It is early afternoon, and it is quiet. Everyone is at their desks working on stories for the evening newscast. I position him at the anchor desk. I have everything set up: a camera is stationed in a tripod, and the green screen is readied with the latest maps and forecast. I hand him the clicker.
“You know what to do,” I say. “Refer to the monitor just off-screen when you need to so you know you’re motioning in the right place, but keep looking into the camera to connect with the audience.”
“Which is Lisa and management,” he says.
“Yes, but think of them as your audience. At home in their pajamas.”
Icicle smiles. I continue. “But more than anything, be yourself.”
“Is that such a good idea?”
“Yes. There is no one else like you. That’s what makes you you, Icicle.” I walk over to him. “Take it from me: hiding who you truly are and everything you feel is just as bad as running away. You’re still distancing yourself from the world. I’ve denied myself the life I wanted and deserved. I’ve wasted the opportunity to be truly, deeply happy. Most importantly, I’ve been unable to make others happy because I wasn’t. I don’t want you to be like me and waste all those precious years.” I walk back and turn on the studio lights and the camera. “That’s living in the shadows. The strong live in the light. It’s time for you to shine.”
Icicle takes a deep breath.
“Ready?”
He nods tentatively.
I count down from the three, hit record and point at him.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Icicle, and I’m here…”
He stops.
“Can I start over?”
I count down again, hit record and point.
“I’m Icicle, and I… I… I…”
He stops again.
“Sorry. Again?”
I nod.
I might have been wrong about all this.
Icicle dips his head.
Is he saying a prayer? Looking within himself?
Finally, he looks up and points at me. I hit record.
“Hi, I’m Ron Lanier, TRVC’s newest meteorologist.”
I look at him, my eyes wide with surprise. His voice is confident. His face is beaming.
He continues. “I grew up in Michigan, and I love Michigan. I love our four seasons, I love the stunning, natural beauty of our state, but mostly, I love all of you. You represent what is best about our state—good people trying their best to lead good lives.”
My heart pitter-patters. The kid has got it. He’s a natural. I knew it.
“I’m honored to work alongside Sonny Dunes, one of our nation’s most respected meteorologists. And I promise to honor you by doing the very best I can. Every day.” He turns toward the green screen. “It may be cold, but it’s downright balmy compared to the frigid temperatures headed our way. A historic polar vortex looks to make its way into our vicinity within the week, and Sonny Dunes—who was the first to report on this—is here with a special report. We’ll be covering this story live and in depth in the coming days, bringing you not only updated weather reports but also ways to keep your homes, families, farms and orchards safe. So stay tuned to TRVC for the latest weather news. For now, we’ll have temperatures in the twenties with light snow tapering off by late afternoon, which is good news for the evening commute.”
When he finishes, I stop recording and look at him.
He is no longer a kid. He is no longer a joke. He is no longer Icicle. He is the man he dreamed of being.
“Sonny?” he asks. “Was that okay?”
I don’t say a word.
“Sonny?”
“That was…” I hesitate, trying to pick the best word to convey what I’m feeling. Finally it comes to me. “Perfect.” I stop again because it still doesn’t feel like enough. And then it comes to me. I smile.
“Sorry. I meant to say, that was perfect, Ron.”
The crew is antsy, much like when a celebrity or dignitary is scheduled for a live interview on set.
How will she act? Will she be like I dreamed? Or will she act like a diva?
This is the way I imagine every single person working at TRVC tonight feels right now.
Lisa is letting me have three minutes at the top of the newscast to address what happened with Polly Sue and my on-air meltdowns since I arrived as chief meteorologist. In essence, Lisa has agreed to let someone with a history of erratic behavior kick off the nightly news with her job on the line. It’s the equivalent of handing the keys of a bus to a toddler who just walked off the playground and saying, “Have a nice ride, everyone!”
I have not even given her the text of my remarks as I begged her to trust me. I have not given the text of my remarks to anyone. I want it all to be a surprise. Even to me.