he had a face for television and an ass the size of an old chest of drawers. That was okay though, since she rarely let G. Lee get anywhere near it with his camera. For six years they’d worked together off and on, Bridgette with her wireless microphone and winning smile, he with his over-sized Sony and thousand yard stare. Together, they were an Emmy winning news crew. Apart, they probably wouldn’t have much to do with each other. But local television makes for strange bedfellows. He knew she looked down on his late nights and young dates; she’d said as much. And he’d rather take a lawn dart to the eye socket than hang out with her society friends. Still, when it came to deadline making, G. Lee had her considerable back.How couldn’t he? They’d interviewed Presidents and peasants together, sometimes in the same shift. They’d ridden in police cars, helicopters and a few Christmas parades G. Lee would like to forget about. Once they drove all the way to Philly to profile a new procedure some surgeons had up their scrubs. That had been a long trip. Somewhere along the Jersey turnpike, he’d even threatened to throw her Celine Dion CD’s out the window. He would have too, had she not relented and let him enjoy some low volume Metallica. In truth, he succumbed to her wishes more times than not. She was pushy that way; it was what made her such a good reporter. That and her insatiable need to stir whatever pot she could uncover. G. Lee still shook his head in disbelief whenever he thought of that drive-by. A young girl had died under a street light and when Bridgette had accidentally stepped in a puddle of her blood, a prop was born. That night in her live shot, she waved the bloody pump around like a conductor’s baton. Bad taste? You betcha, but it finally won her that gold-plated Goddess she’d spent so much money on.
Now, six years later, Bridgette and G. Lee were still on the beat. If you called chasing degenerates and bent fenders a beat. All those showbiz junkets and in-depth interview trips had dried up along with the budget. Now the aging beauty queen and the shaggy cameraman were back where they started when the first bush was on office. Crime, grime, a thousand points of blight. It made for easy fare, but G. Lee missed the old days, when he could spend three days in the edit bay, slicing away at some puff piece that only he appreciated. But there was little appetite for that now. All the desk wanted was murder, mayhem and the occasional marauding. Which is how he once again came to be parked outside the projects, watching Bridgette through the windshield as she chatted up the blunts and forty ounce crowd. With her powder blue pantsuit and blonde ‘do, she looked like an Avon lady trying to sell lipstick to crackheads.
“Care to join me, Spielberg?’ Bridgette asked the wireless microphone in her hand. Her voice crackled in his earpiece and he threw up a good natured middle finger in response. Then he stashed his Blackberry, grabbed his camera and began walking toward his weekend anchor lady in waiting. Whatever she was up to, he knew this forty two year old multiple cat owner with very few friends would see to it they’d get a nice dinner break along the way. It was one of the things he DID like about her. No matter the assignment, she made sure they ate, often picking up the tab. It was a way she let him know she kinda cared and would always have his back...
...as long as he she didn't see hers on any TV screens...
