“Yup. Before I tell you more, I want to let you know this is a different set of responsibilities from what you handle on-air. You’re primarily reporting as a senior meteorologist, right?”
“Pretty much. I’m based in New York and am on the national news every evening to cover any weather systems we’re seeing across the country. When something major happens, ABC flies me to the location where damage is most severe. I’ll spend a day or two there before heading home.”
“So cool. What a way to see new places and meet new people.”
“So cool,” I echo, not mentioning the way I feel like I’m not doing enough when I show up to work every day. How I have hundreds of thousands of hotel points, but each room I check into is more and more unfamiliar. “Will you tell me more about the position?”
“Right. Duh. The reason for my call. Full disclosure, because this might be a deal-breaker, but it’s a pay cut from what you’re making now.”
“Money isn’t a worry of mine.” I gnaw on my bottom lip,knowing my social media content alone earns me more than enough to survive. I’ve turned into a feed full of #sponsoredand#adin almost every caption. Gone are the days of artistic snapshots of landscapes and tornadoes touching down. Now I’m sharing vitamins and headlamps while I collect a commission. “Definitely not a deal-breaker.”
“Really? Sweet. The SOO is the top research position in the office. You’d make sure everyone is trained on weather system features while also being responsible for the latest technologies provided to meteorologists. There’s also trying to figure out ways to improve our operational services. Communicating with the public. Those kinds of things.”
“Sounds like a lot of in-house work. Would there be opportunities out in the field?”
“Oh, yeah,” Danny says, and my heart beats faster. “Research is integral to our roles. There are emergency management meetings and plannings. Talking with local and national news outlets. We’re attempting to dig our toes into the social media game, but that’s a whole other issue. We check on weather stations and radars. The list is endless, really. I haven’t been bored in years.”
“Fuck.” I run my hand through my hair. A laugh races out of me and I glance up at the sky, smiling at the stars winking back at me. Is the missing link to my happiness being dropped right in my fucking lap? “What’s the interview process like?”
“It starts with meeting our meteorologist-in-charge one-on-one and going over work history. Typical hiring questions. Stage two is later, and you’ll be asked to share meteorological findings on a topic that interests you to a panel of qualified individuals. Even more fun? You get to debate your fellow candidates.”
“I’m in,” I say. I’ve never agreed to something so fast in my life. “Email me the date and time and I’ll be there. Shit. Thanks for reaching out, Danny.”
We exchange goodbyes and a promise to send over more details. When I hang up, I’m almost buzzing.
This could be it.
The cure to my burnout.
Something fresh and new andthrillingto give me drive again.
My love for weather hasn’t changed. That’s never been the problem. My environment is the issue, and to have a role that merges hands-on with data analysis sounds like a job out of my dreams. The best of both worlds, and I’m about to get on my knees and ask the universe to make this happen for me.
I’m not above begging.
There’s a pep in my step as I move through throngs of people. Cooper mentioned a tug-of-war game, and I should probably track my friends down. It’s been fifteen minutes, and Coop might be challenging a group of teenagers so he can embarrass them. Ever since he came in second place in his station’s annual physical ability test after tripping during the hose drag, he’s been relentless about his fitness. Any chance to get a workout in, he’s moving his body, and that includes putting kids in their place.
“Shit. Sorry,” I say to the guy double-fisting beers in glass cowboy boots when he runs into me. He stumbles to the left, a sway that teeters on the cusp of impending disaster, but manages to keep the alcohol intact. “Nice save, man.”
“Thanks, bro,” he slurs. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“I’ve been told I have one of those faces, but I don’t think so. I’m from out of town.”
“Wait a minute.” Beer sloshes over the rim of one of the boots. I admire his cool demeanor in the aftermath of losing a quarter of his overpriced drink. In New York, that would be a sin. Thirty dollars down the drain and absolute disappointment when you trudge back to the bar to order another round. “You do that weather thing. With the singing.”
I don’t sing, but I know where he’s going with this.
Slipping lyrics from popular songs into my weather reports started as a joke with my first television gig at a station up in Albany. The winters were freezing. The sun set at four p.m., seasonal depression was a real and wretched thing, and the eleven o’clock spot barely brought in viewers thanks to the late-night hour.
I decided to have some fun. I wanted to see how far I could push outside the box before production stepped in, before they took away my microphone and the FCC slapped me with a fine. But the internet moved quicker.
A video of me using lines from an Eminem song to describe a cold front blew up online. My inbox flooded with requests from ABBA to David Bowie and Kendrick Lamar, and I couldn’t keep up.
The fanfare carried over to my national gig as I moved up the meteorological ranks. Albany, Detroit. Atlanta during prime time before landing in Manhattan. It’s a lot of attention I didn’t ask for and a hell of a lot of messages from women using witty pickup lines to try to get my number. I admire the enthusiasm, but I just want to talk about precipitation and atmospheric conditions and make weather fun for any kid out there who’s wondering what the hell he wants to do with his life like I was.
I don’t need the extra shit.
“Yeah.” I laugh. “That’s me.”
