Crazy Callers, Part 2

CALL #1

Racist Lady: I’m in a nursing home in Staten Island, and I need your help. There are Arabics working here. When I was younger I was abducted by an Arabic and forced to marry him. I luckily escaped from him but I know these Arabics are out to get me.

Me: Have they done anything to threaten you?

RL: No, but they will, because they are Arabics. All Arabics know each other. I can tell they are out to get me.

Me: But they haven’t done anything to hurt or threaten you.

RL: No, but I can hear them talking in their own language. I’m sure they are talking about me and what they’re going to do to me.

Me: Ma’am, if they haven’t done anything to you, we can’t do anything to help.

RL: But they’re going to get me! I know they are plotting!

Me: Maybe you should change nursing homes.

RL: I can’t. They will find me there too. Arabics are everywhere. You need to help me.

Me: We can’t do anything to help you. If you feel like your life is in danger, you should call the police.

RL: Okay. I’ll call the police.

 

CALL #2

(This took place the day after New Year’s Day)

Garbage Guy: I’m calling because I didn’t get my garbage collected yesterday. You didn’t say anything on the news about garbage collection being suspended.

Me: Sir, yesterday was a holiday. I’m pretty sure they don’t collect on New Year’s Day.

GG: Well there’s garbage everywhere! No one told me there wasn’t collection.

Me: They never collect on holidays. Hold on, let me check.

(Within five seconds I googled and found that garbage collection had been suspended the previous day)

Me: I just checked. There was no collection yesterday because of the holiday.

GG: Well, you didn’t say that on the news!

Me: I’m sure we did. We always announce that stuff. Maybe you just missed it.

GG: No, that’s not right! You didn’t say it! And now there’s garbage everywhere! Next time you have to say it!

(The guy had started screaming by this point…so I decided not to tell him that it’s not the news’s job to tell him when to put out his garbage, and that he could have checked himself by looking it up)

Me: Okay, thank you, goodbye.

Crazy Callers, An Ongoing Series

When I first started working in the field, a coworker gave me a great piece of advice.

As we were sitting in our office in Staten Island, the phone rang. It wasn’t our extension. It was some weird line that had a 718 area code.

I went to pick it up, and the coworker stopped me.

“Don’t pick that up,” she said.

“Why not?”

She shuddered, “That’s the tip line. I never pick up the tip line.”

Turns out the number is the one that plays after our segment airs. Anyone can call in. But half the time, the people are actually certifiable. You never know what psycho has memorized the number and decided to call in.

Recently I’ve been filling in as a researcher, which means many things, but mostly that I have to pick up the tip line. It is literally part of the job description.

So, I have decided to do a series of posts about all the crazy calls I have received while picking up the tip line. Here’s part 1:

CALL #1

A few days after Paul Walker died, we were running a story about the crash investigation. A woman called our tip line (which specifically plays after the Queens, Staten Island, and Bergen County news) about the story. The conversation went like this:

Crazy Lady: I saw that the guy from the Fast and Furious died. Which guy was it?

Me: Paul Walker.

CL: The bald guy?

Me: No, the other guy.

CL: Which other guy?

Me: The blond guy. The other main character.

CL: Oh, so not the bald guy?

Me: Not the bald guy.

CL: Oh because I thought it was the bald guy. They showed the picture.

Me: They showed a picture of Paul Walker.

CL: Okay. How did he die?

(By this point I wanted to scream “DIDN’T YOU WATCH THE STORY???” but I remained calm.)

Me: A car crash.

CL: Oh yes, that’s right. It’s terrible. Can you give me more details about that.

Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t cover that story. I only know what we’ve covered.

CL: So you don’t have any more information.

Me: No, we’re getting all our information from national news sources. You can look it up on CNN if you’re interested. It happened in LA and we’re in New York, so we’re getting everything from national sites.

CL: Oh, okay. It’s such a shame. I really liked that guy who died.

(I wanted to yell “YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHO HE WAS FIVE SECONDS AGO” but didn’t)

CALL #2

Insane Woman: I just saw a story about a cop that was arrested in Staten Island. What was he arrested for?

Me: Extortion.

IW: I left my young son in daycare on Staten Island today. I’m worried that he’s in danger from the cop.

Me: Well, the extortion took place in Queens, so you really don’t need to worry.

IW: But what if the cop is still out there? And dangerous?

Me: Ma’am, he’s been arrested.

(I wanted to add that extortion doesn’t really pose a physical danger to young children)

IW: So in your opinion, should I go pick up my son from daycare?

Me: He’s not in danger from the cop. The cop isn’t on the street anymore. He’s been arrested. He’s in court right now.

IW: Okay, if you think he’s safe, I won’t go get him.

CALL #3

Me: Hello, how can I help you.

Whacko: I’m in the hospital and they aren’t serving me tasty food. The food is absolutely disgusting here. It’s inedible. I told them I won’t eat it, but they keep bringing it to me and I said I won’t eat it but they don’t stop. I wanted them to bring me chicken but they brought me some slop and I have diabetes and this is not food and I hate it. I hate the food here. I’ve been here a week and the food is awful and I can’t even eat it.

(He went on for about 5 minutes without taking a breath, but I’ll spare you for now)

Me: I’m sorry, there isn’t anything I can do.

Whacko: Okay (hangs up)

Stalking Whitney

I remember the moment I found out that Whitney Houston died.

I was sitting in Applebees in the Staten Island Mall. This is particularly strange because I eat at Applebees about once every 3 years. And I almost never go to the one in the mall. But I was hanging out with some friends from high school that I hadn’t seen in a while, and they wanted to go there.

My phone pinged, as it usually does every 45 seconds, and I looked down at it.

“AP reporting Whitney Houston is dead at 48,” the email said.

I was shocked. I mean, yeah, I knew about her issues. But I didn’t expect her to die.

I told my friends, and we chatted about how sad it was for a bit. But I thought it would end there.

The next day, I was working with our New Jersey unit. Even though we have the words New York in the name of our station, we cover parts of Bergen County, NJ. Weird, I know.

The thing about our Bergen unit is that there is almost no news to cover. A big story is a water main break or a car robbery. So I figured I’d have a nice quiet day–maybe I’d cover a farmer’s market or something.

Turns out Whitney Houston’s mother, Sissy Houston, lives in Bergen County.

I drove to Edgewater and found Sissy’s building, all while listening to Whitney’s music blaring through the car radio. I could tell I was in the right place, because there was another news van parked outside. But the apartment complex looked deserted.

So for about an hour, I waited outside the building. During that time, only about 3 people went in or out of the building–and I could tell by looking at them that none of them were related to Whitney.

The whole time I felt kind of sick to my stomach. I don’t know how the people from TMZ do it every day. If I did encounter Sissy, what was I supposed to say? Sorry about Whitney, but do you have time to comment about it to your favorite local news station? I really loved “The Bodyguard”…so how do you feel about your dead daughter? Do you think she was lying when she said “crack is whack”???

After waiting in the January chill for over an hour, I was finally cleared from the scene by our assignment desk (the news truck had left as well–I guess no one talked to Sissy that day). I went down to a local shopping center and interviewed random people about how they felt about Whitney’s death.

I was glad to finally go home at the end of the day, mentally exhausted and physically frozen from standing outside for so long.

Even though I never got the interview, I have become famous around my office for my attempts to chase down Sissy Houston. In fact, many of my coworkers refer to me as “the girl who got the exclusive sit down,” even though I didn’t. They like to tell people she picked me over an interview with Anderson Cooper or Katie Couric. If only.

But I guess I could be known for far worse things.

Sandy, That Bitch: Part 4

By now you know the ending of the story. Most of Staten Island lost power–some for up to a month.

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Hundreds lost their homes.

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24 people lost their lives.

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It felt so weird that neighborhoods I had hung out in my whole life looked like war zones.

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There were days when I didn’t think I would be able to face it. But part of me knew I had to. It felt right, sharing the stories of those who had lost so much.

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As for my car, we found it several days later. It floated from the back of the parking lot, over wooden spikes, across four lanes of traffic, into a ditch. When we opened up the glove compartment, water fell out.

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We did manage to rescue my tripod and a camera case. I still use the tripod, to this day.

They kept the car in my office parking lot for about 8 months after the storm. The bottom fell out, and the sides were bashed in. It was a daily reminder that I almost died.

As for me? I had pretty bad PTSD for a while. The worst was during the immediate aftermath, when I was staying at my grandparents’ house. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. Once they got cable back, I watched the news obsessively, even though I was living it. A tree had fallen on their house, but was resting against the roof. One night, it moved, which made it feel like an earthquake. I woke up screaming.

I also tried to volunteer, but seeing all the donations and the people helping out gave me a panic attack, so I had to go home.

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I considered going to therapy, but then it mostly went away. It still comes back sometimes though. Just the other night I had a nightmare that my house was unstable and about to collapse.

But even though there were so many bad things that came of it, I also saw so much good. People from all over the country came to help the victims. Neighbors helped neighbors. Strangers helped each other. Donations poured in by the thousands.

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Even though there were bad things, there was so much that made me feel so good. And so even though Sandy was clearly the most traumatic thing that ever happened to me, it made me a stronger, better person.

So when I look back on that day, a year ago, I can still hear the transformers blowing and the power line sizzling. I can see all the dust and dirt and mold. But I also feel the goodness that came after–the human spirit that can never be knocked down.

Sandy, That Bitch: Part 3

When we got to my boss’s house, we realized there was no power.

I haven’t mentioned yet, but it was cold. This was at the end of October. For reference, several days later, it snowed. So we were freezing.

But it was nice to be inside, even if the wind was howling and we could only see by flashlight.

My boss asked me if I had called my parents. I hadn’t. This is particularly weird, since I am very close to them. But it was literally the last thing on my mind.

I called them and reassured them that I was safe inside with my boss and her family and the rest of our crew.

After we got ourselves settled, we went upstairs to talk with my boss. While the reporter filled her in on what we had seen, I entertained her kids while eating their Halloween candy. When one of the kids got too close to the window, I would try to distract them by calling them over to tell me something. No one wanted to say the truth, which was that the winds had gotten so bad that a tree could easily fall right through the picture windows in their living room and kill them.

Soon, I was tired. It was only about 10 at night, but I felt like it was 4am. I fell asleep on their couch, wondering how I was going to get home when my car was still at the beach and probably wouldn’t start.

At 1am, the truck op woke me up. The station wanted another live shot, and we were the only crew left in the field with a working truck.

So I trudged down the stairs and went outside. It was even colder now, and the winds hadn’t exactly died down.

My fingers were shaking and my teeth were chattering. I kept going back into the truck, using the excuse that I had to charge my cell phone. But the truth was, even in my sweatshirt and raincoat and rain-pants, I was cold.

It was about 2am when they finally said they would take us. We could hear the station through our earpieces. They were taking a phone call from one of our reporters, who was in City Island. From the sound of it, she was watching the storm through a hotel room window.

“They’re taking a phoner? While we’re freezing our asses off?” The reporter screamed.

I felt the same way. Finally, they took us. I wondered who was watching, since most everywhere seemed to be without power.

In our live shot, the reporter noted that we had gotten word that a teenage girl had died.

I immediately assumed she had been one of those stupid people walking out on the boardwalk during the storm. It was sad, but if you do something stupid, you risk the consequences, right?

I found out later that her name was Angela. She was 13. She had been in her house, when the water came up to the top floor. She and her parents huddled together, holding each other, until the house was completely swept away. Angela and her father died. Her mother miraculously survived by holding onto someone’s porch for several hours.

Their house once stood next to the beach, but was now gone completely. The houses next to theirs had stood, but only because they were made of concrete. Only the concrete slab that held the stairs was left…leading to an empty pit filled with debris.

But I didn’t know that at the time. I thought poor Angela was just being an idiot.

After the live shot, I went back upstairs and immediately fell asleep. I woke up several hours later, noting that my phone had died.

The truck had gone to another part of the Island to continue news coverage. The reporter had also left. I didn’t have to be back in until 4pm.

My boss and her husband offered to drive me home. We don’t live far apart–maybe 5 minutes. But the trip took a lot longer because there were trees down everywhere and no traffic lights.

I hadn’t talked to my parents since the previous night. I honestly wondered if they were still alive. We always lost trees during big storms. I had no way of knowing what I would find when I got there.

But thankfully, when I arrived at home, my parents were outside assessing the damage. I ran to hug them. I couldn’t believe I was so lucky.

We had lost part of our roof. A tree fell, thankfully away from the house, crushing the hedges. If it had fallen in the other direction, it probably would have gone through a window.

I sat in my bed, sort of explaining to my parents what I had seen. They tried to calm me down. But I couldn’t listen. All I could do was rock back and forth, in a state of panic.

There wasn’t anything I could do. But I would have to go back out, at 4pm, and see what had happened.

Sandy, That Bitch: Part 2

We ended up at a gas station. People were still filling up their tanks. At the time I thought this was stupid (which it was, because who fills up their tank in the middle of a hurricane?) but later I realized that they would have the last laugh during the gas crisis that followed Sandy.

The wind had gotten to be so intense that even a mile from the shore I felt like it could knock me over.

We went up to people in their cars and started interviewing them about why they were getting gas. I could feel the camera shaking. When we got back in the truck and replayed the feed, the reporter yelled at me about how shaky it was. I didn’t say anything, because I was altogether too terrified of what was happening to fight with him.

A few days later, he later had me retell the story to a coworker. When I mentioned the conditions, he softened up, and noted that maybe he shouldn’t have yelled at me, considering I was filming handheld during the worst hurricane to ever hit New York City.

Anyway, back to my story. The weirdest part of Sandy was that there was no rain. In my experience, hurricanes meant rain. A lot of rain. During Irene we had seen significant flooding–all caused by rainwater.

But there was no rain. Just strong winds, which picked up surrounding debris and made you feel like you were being pelted and pricked with tiny rocks.

Nearby, there must have been a major transformer. Every few seconds we’d hear a loud pop that made all of us jump. And following the pop, we could see power in nearby stores going out.

Then there was a loud bang, and the carwash in front of us lost power.

That’s when we decided to move again.

We drove down local streets, turning when we’d reach flooding. It was dark out, and the street lights had gone out. But I could still see cars submerged in water…sometimes reaching up to the windows.

I’d point them out with detached wonder. It was if I didn’t realize that these cars belonged to actual people. Or that if the flooding had taken out cars, that it would surely have infiltrated houses as well.

But it all came crashing down on me when we drove by a local hospital. There were fire trucks stationed in the road, blocking any cars from driving down from where the water was edging up towards Hylan Boulevard–the main drag about a mile inland.

That’s when a man came up to us, frantically screaming about his uncle, who was trapped inside his house. He was in a wheelchair and couldn’t get out. He begged with us to help him.

There was nothing we could do. We told him that. We told him to talk to the firefighters and EMS workers who were just feet from us. He said they told him there was nothing they could do.

As we drove away, we all made excuses as to why we couldn’t have helped him. And we were right. If we had done anything, we probably would have died as well. But there was an unspoken thought on all of our minds–that the man who was trapped inside his house would probably die.

A few days later, we heard reports of divers finding the body of a 67-year-old paraplegic in the neighborhood. When we heard, the reporter and I looked at each other, knowing that while we couldn’t have saved him, we both felt somewhat responsible.

Shaken, we headed inland once again. We parked next to a small puddle in a deserted parking lot. We were trying to figure out what to do next when we heard the crash.

A power line had been severed by the strength of the wind. It came down, hitting the puddle. Even through the sound of the truck, which was still running, you could hear it sizzle.

In that moment, I decided to leave my last mark on humanity, as I was sure that I was about to die. I sent out a goodbye tweet.

It said, “I love you all. Goodbye.”

Later, I found out one of my friends read it, and she was sure I was dead.

While I was tweeting, the reporter was shouting to the truck op, “Get us out of here!”

And to his credit, he did what he was told.

We raced up Todt Hill, to the safety of my boss’s house. Suddenly, I felt okay again.

Sandy, That Bitch: Part 1

WARNING: These next few posts are incredibly dark. Read at your own risk.

To commemorate the one year anniversary of Sandy, I thought I’d tell my own story of what I saw that night and how I felt.

I could probably write a hundred posts about the stuff I experienced during Sandy. I could write a book about the PTSD I experienced after…the fears, the horrors, the nightmares (which I still occasionally have). I’ve never told the full story, not really. I’ve told it in pieces, but I’ll do my best to recreate it here (not hard, since it’s still so fresh in my mind)

But I’ll start like this: I’ve never looked death in the eye until October 29, 2012.

And I didn’t blink.

Now, that makes me sound like a hero or something. I’m not. I’m not even particularly brave. But when faced with the prospect of dying–while just doing your job–you have to be brave.

So here’s my story, as much as I can remember it from that night, almost a year ago.

We were stationed out by the boardwalk, right next to the Ocean Breeze Fishing Pier. I was the 4pm-4am shift, but for these purposes, all you really need to know is that during that time the storm hit.

And boy, did it hit.

I got to the boardwalk to meet the news truck, which was already at the pier. I took my camera out of my work car, but left my tripod in the trunk. I never realized that was the last time I’d ever drive that car again.

I got in the news truck and began talking to the driver and reporter. All of the sudden, I felt the truck shaking. It kind of freaked me out, but I knew this wasn’t the worst it would get.

The truck operator told us that the truck was shaking too hard to put up the satellite dish. So we had to find a place where it would be sheltered by a building.

We decided to drive down along the boardwalk to find a better spot. The truck op and the reporter told me to leave my car in the parking lot, and that we’d come back for it later.

That was my first mistake, listening to them.

We drove down along a road that’s typically only used by pedestrians and Parks Department vehicles. Finally, we found a building that would shelter the satellite dish. We set up shop there, putting the camera on the boardwalk behind the building.

The wind was starting to pick up. There were people walking the boardwalk, some with their kids and dogs. At the time, I thought they were stupid–and how I wouldn’t be there at all if I had the choice.

Now I know we were all taking our lives in our hands.

We interviewed some people, but then the crowd thinned out a bit. The reporter and the truck op went back to the truck. I was supposed to watch the camera to make sure nothing happened to it.

Here’s the thing…I work with a small camera. I had only worked with the big camera they use for live shots once before–during Hurricane Irene. And the truck op had helped me out a lot. So I barely had any idea how to use the camera, let alone get it off and on the gigantic tripod.

So when the wind started picking up even more, I couldn’t take the camera down. Instead, I held onto it for dear life.

I also started yelling for the truck op, but because he was inside the truck several yards away, he couldn’t hear me.

Finally, the reporter and truck op came back out. By this time, the waves had picked up too. I pointed this out to them while the truck op took down the camera.

“We should get that on camera,” the reporter said, pointing to the gigantic waves, which were cresting nearer and nearer to where we were standing.

Thankfully, they let me use the small camera. But I had to do it handheld. So of course, being the spaz I am, I almost fell into the ocean.

But as I neared them, I noticed something. The water was coming up so close that soon it would be below us.

That was when we decided to move. We packed up the truck and headed to a nearby parking lot. By this point, the waves were spewing out under the boardwalk, into the lot.

It soon became clear that if we didn’t move, we were going to be stuck there indefinitely. So the truck op gunned the gas and sped through the water, down Father Capodanno Boulevard, which runs parallel to the beach.

Along the way, we passed by the fishing pier parking lot, where my car was parked. The water had risen so quickly, it was already up to the bumper.

“There’s nothing we can do,” the truck op said as we drove by. “The water is probably already in the exhaust pipe. You probably won’t be able to start it.”

I couldn’t believe it. It wouldn’t end up like that, I thought. We’d go back tomorrow, and the car would start. I was sure of it.

But as we turned onto a street heading inland, I wondered if I could really believe in anything anymore.

The Chicken Lady

A few days ago, I was working with an intern. We had a really hectic day (4 shoots–ugh!) and she asked if this was as crazy as it got for me.

I laughed. Because yes, it was intense, but not even a little bit as crazy as some of my past events.

It was at that moment that I remembered one of my craziest days. A day I refer to in my mind as “The Day of the Chicken Lady.”

I will now retell the story, as much as I can remember, from over a year ago.

It was a summer day, at around 4pm. I had already done a couple stories and was mentally ready to go home.

One of the anchors called me to tell me to check out a weird story. He had seen something about shots fired in a Bay Terrace home and then got a bunch of calls from a tipster about it. According to the tipster, one of her neighbors had shot at another neighbor’s child.

Without knowing the ridiculousness of the scenario I was about to behold, my intern and I got in the car and headed to Bay Terrace.

We pulled up to a crowd forming in front of a house. These were the people who had called–they were expecting us. The main tipster was a woman who my intern called “Blonde Big Ang,” although to me the only commonality between the two of them was chest size. Blonde Big Ang was wearing a leopard print bathing suit that left almost nothing to the imagination. You couldn’t help looking at her boobs, and it didn’t help that whenever she got excited, she began touching them erratically.

“I’m so glad you came!” she exclaimed, hands on her chest, “You’ll never believe what happened here!”

And so, she began to tell us. Her neighbor (the one who allegedly fired the gun) was crazy. She had threatened every single one of the neighbors. Every neighbor seemed to have their own horror story about this woman, which they told us loudly, with crazy gleams in their eyes.

Also, they kept telling us, she kept over a dozen chickens in her backyard.

The altercation in question had occurred when a neighbor whose backyard was attached to the Chicken Lady’s was sitting outside with her 11-year-old daughter. The daughter decided to throw pieces of chalk at the chickens. This set the Chicken Lady off. She began screaming and cursing at them about harming her beloved chickens.

Later that day, the daughter’s bike was vandalized. They believed the Chicken Lady was the culprit.

But the fight didn’t end there. That night, when the daughter was outside on the porch, Chicken Lady opened her window, took out a gun, and shot at her.

Blonde Big Ang told the story so animatedly that it seemed unreal. I’m still not sure I believe it.

The daughter hadn’t been hurt, but the neighbor called the police. They found an illegal gun and ammunition inside the Chicken Lady’s house, but she was nowhere to be found. They took the chickens inside and informed animal control of the situation.

By this point in the story, one of the neighbors was sobbing. Turned out it was the woman whose daughter had been fired at. She told me she had sent her kids away with a family member to keep them safe until Chicken Lady was arrested.

I asked to interview her, since she was the only person there who saw the whole incident. She said she was too distraught to be interviewed, and her sister offered to talk. But her sister wasn’t a firsthand witness. I needed the neighbor to go on camera.

After I begged for about 20 minutes, she agreed. But she wouldn’t do the interview in front of her neighbors, so she offered to take me to her backyard, where the shooting had occurred, to do a one-on-one interview.

I began to follow her, my intern trailing dutifully behind me. But when the neighbor saw him following us, she told me she would not be able to talk if he was there. It had to be just us.

I’m not sure why, since she didn’t know me any better than she knew him. I wasn’t sure if she was insane or just really distressed about the situation. Against my better judgment, I instructed my intern to wait behind with Blonde Big Ang and the rest of the crazy neighborhood. I took him aside and told him that if I didn’t come back in 20 minutes, he should go into the house and make sure I hadn’t become the victim of some kind of crazy ritual sacrifice or something.

The lady took me through her house to the backyard, where she showed me what may have been bullet holes in her deck. I began interviewing her, but she was half crying the entire time and her answers were fairly erratic. I wasn’t even entirely sure that she was telling the same story as Blonde Big Ang.

I did notice that Chicken Lady’s yard, which you could see from the porch I was on, was a hot mess. Furniture everywhere, overgrown weeds, a kiddie pool half-filled with murky water. I could believe that the woman was crazy, but then again, so were her neighbors.

After a while, I suggested we go back outside. As I walked out, my intern looked relieved. I don’t think he had it in him to break down a door and save me from a voodoo mating ritual.

The neighbors continued to talk to me, even though I had told them that we were leaving. We had been there about two hours at this point. Finally we lied and said that the anchor had told us that we absolutely needed to get back to the station.

As we got in the car, my intern turned to me and said, “Those people were crazy!”

I nodded and gunned it out of there.

A few weeks later, I got an email about a hazmat incident at the same address. The assignment desk wanted me to go. I told them no.

I never found out if they charged the Chicken Lady with anything more than illegal weapons charges. But I do think of her every time I drive through Bay Terrace.

Mostly I wonder what happened to the chickens.

Police Tape

A quick post of something odd I experienced today:

I was at a car accident scene, which happened to be in the parking lot of a ShopRite. Half of the parking lot was closed off while police investigated the area where a pedestrian had been struck. The store was still open, and this caused a bit of mayhem.

I should note there was a lot of police tape, as well as a lot of cops.

Part of the area that was closed off had items in it, such as pumpkins, juice, and bottled water.

I didn’t even notice this–I was too busy filming.

But as I was standing by the entrance, I saw a woman duck under the police tape.

I wasn’t the only one that saw–a cop did too.

“Ma’am, you can’t go there,” he yelled.

Instead of apologizing and backtracking, she turned to him and said, “I’m getting bottled water.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but this is an active crime scene. You can’t walk there.”

She was undeterred, “I need to buy this bottled water.”

“You can’t have the water from here right now!”

At this point, the cop actually grabbed her arm and escorted her back to the store’s entrance.

But the woman looked mad. She must have really wanted that bottled water. I think she would have fought him on it more if he hadn’t physically made her leave the scene.

Here’s my advice: if there’s police tape, don’t cross it. There’s more trouble on the other side that you want to get into. Even if you think it’s worth it to break the law in order to get bottled water.

Stupid rules

This post isn’t necessarily about journalism, but just about media jobs in general.

A couple years ago I interned for a network show. You’d probably know the name if I wrote it, which is why I’m not going to say which one it is. But it was a longform news(ish) program.

The thing about this network show was that interns there had a lot of rules that they were expected to follow: Don’t leave the office unless you’re on your lunch break (I broke that one). Don’t prowl around the studios looking for celebrities (I broke that one too). And the weirdest rule was an unspoken one–don’t get too friendly anyone, because they’re your competition (I broke that one big time).

It’s such a contrast to my current job, where there are, by comparison, almost no rules.

But back to the network internship. Every so often they would force us to work the phones at the main desk. I’m no stranger to being a secretary. I worked almost every summer as a kid answering phones in my dad’s law office, so I was used to talking to complete wackos about almost anything.

But at the network, things were a little different than at the law office. I was instructed on my first day at the desk that I absolutely must pick up the phone on the first ring.

What???

I thought they were kidding. Because who really cares about whether someone picks up immediately or not (unless it’s an emergency, of course).

I learned that they were serious the hard way. I didn’t pick up the call on the first ring, and by the second ring someone else had picked it up. Then I was promptly yelled at for making some “very important person” wait .05 seconds to have their call picked up.

Another “fun” rule was that you were expected to know who all of the important people were. They gave you a sheet that you were supposed to memorize with names of presidents and vice presidents and other network hotshots. Of course, being the spaz I am, I was unable to remember most of the names. This caused problems.

One time a woman who I didn’t recognize called and I asked who she was. She got all huffy and informed me that she was a vice president of something or other. And then she got all snappy and asked to be transferred to some other higher up. Which I did, after apologizing. She didn’t seem to forgive me.

I still don’t really understand why she got mad at me. She had to know I was an intern, and who really cares if I know your job title? I make it my policy to treat everyone the same, whether you’re the president of the company or a random caller pitching a story idea.

But rules are rules. And because of that, I’ve made my own rule–I’ll never work at a show like that ever again.