Last night, I got a call at 11 o’clock:
Producer: “Hey Brittany did I wake you up?”
Me [on vidchat with Jamie during scheduled LOST simulcasts]: “Uhh… not yet?”
Producer: “Okay, well, someone got shot. At the Mocha Madness. The police won’t tell us anything.”
Me [intrepidly]: “So do you want me to like, go… shoot video?”
Producer: “Yeah, yeah. If you can. That’d be. That’d be great.”
I put on clothes like a 4-year-old on Dress Yourself Day. Luckily there weren’t any tutus in sight. But cowboy boots, a leopard tanktop, a thermal, and a gross green hoodie seemed right to me. Glasses? Check. Punchy ‘tude? Got it. Hood up, I proceeded to “roll out” as they say.
I got to the scene and my best buddy Matt from Ch. 6 was there, who–because they actually have people in Pocatello–had gone live from the scene at their 10 p.m. show. It was like, 11:15 now. Missed that gravy train.
Cops weren’t talking, witnesses weren’t talking, but a methed-out dude on a low rider with a skeleton hoodie on was. I complimented him on his choice of outerwear, and he said he got it from the halloween store down the street.
“Oh, the Bootique you say? Mm indeed, I LOVE the Bootique. I need to go there. Get mah Halloweensss on,” I say to Skeletor as Bike Cop and Matt snicker and turn away so this guy will ride back into the hell he came from. But something about him… I could have just chatted that dude up all night. And was part of it sardonic? Mocking, evuhnn? Sure. But not all of it. Part of it I actually enjoyed, but couldn’t quite get on the same level as Skelly for. It’s my greatest foible, and why I can never be the everyman, and why I will consistently receive viewer hate mail for my tenure here in Pocatello. It’s why I moved away from home, why I dressed as the Rastafarian Bride of Frankenstein in 6th grade, why I bought purple glasses and did ridiculous skits in all my classes. And why I enjoy keeping a thin, slimy film between me and most people. Dear Humanity: please let me in. You don’t know what you’re missing!
Anyway, so then Matt gets a call from his friend saying shit was going DOWN on the other side of town, that a cop car was in a crash. “WTF?” my brain says. “Matt, dude, are you goin over there?” “No, my producers on her way already.” “Fuck.”
So I drive over to Old Town to find a Ford Explorer that had jumped the sidewalk, hit a telephone pole and a utility vehicle, and sent the pole crashing down on top of a cop cruiser. Snakes alive is right. And the cops say, “Don’t get any closer…there’s a live wire over top of the road here.”
But as I’m shooting, I see some distinctive red and white cans in the passenger seat of the SUV. “Oh ho ho, Mr. Budweiser I could spot you from a mile away!” I look left, right and left again, and with no cops watching me, creep up to the car and chortle to myself as I get footage of the empty cans.
“Ma’am, can you PLEASE get away from here? This is a crime scene. And we’re investigating,” state cop.
“Ah, aha, yes, yes sir… I just… I just see Budweiser and I flock, you see, aha,” me, over my shoulder as I skirt away.
By the time I actually got to bed, I had worked 14 or 15 hours, and after pouring myself a stiff glass of milk and reading some “Lolita,” I crashed.
This morning, I checked my phone. Viewer email: “Your report this morning was grossly inaccurate. You made it seem like there are no other doctors who do hip and knee replacements in the area,” RE: my story on a local doctor who’s helped the Pocatello hospital double its numbers in the last two years. This, coupled with the viewer mail from yesterday, saying my story on local churches who oppose DADT and Prop 8 was one sided, even though I SAID-UH the prevailing notion is for churches to support those things. But these ones don’t. WHICH IS WHY IT’S A STORY.
Dear Local Humanity: don’t hate me cause I’m snarky. You don’t know what you’re missin. (Or maybe you DO. And you still don’t want me. In which case I don’t want you either. So pfft.)