Tuesday, January 26, 2038
Opening Day of Papal Conclave
9:30 A.M.

“Thanks, Lester. Let me know if you hear anything more on that Biggs kid. Talk to you soon. Glass, disconnect.”

Vinya took off her smartglasses. She wasn’t sure whether to raise her fists in triumph or go to just put her head on the desk and sleep. She’d been up since four A.M. making “after-dinner” phone calls to record label sources back to the states.

She snapped her tablet screen back into its keyboard-mount and pulled up the feature length article she’d been working on for two days now - the longest thing she’d written in at least two years. If everything went as planned, it was going to be the lead article on WWN Lifestyle. She had scooped the L.A. outlets on the Brilltones’ record-company issues, along with ample details on the tension between the three ‘Tones. The most shocking detail was that the group had been asked to take a drastic pay cut on their next album based on “trends research” that indicated a looming collapse of the Brill scene within two years. Earth’s most popular act had been written off as “dated” at the height of their dominance.

All of this thanks to “sources close to the band,” natch.

Vinya clicked the “Save” button and attached the finished product to an email to her editor.

If this didn’t prove she was a responsible adult, nothing would. Now she needed a nap.

Then her glasses started vibrating on the desk.

Wiping her eyes, she shoved them back on her face. The projected screen read, Call from: Nina Constantinos.

“Glass, answer.”

The frame around Nina’s face flipped from red to green, indicating that the call was live, “Hi, girl,” Vinya answered. “what’s up?”

“Um - did you finish your article?”

“Yeah,” Vinya said slowly, “Just sent it in. Aren’t you supposed to be working?”           

Nina laughed, a bit nervously. “This call is work. How good are you at doing makeup?”

Vinya sat up straighter. “Wait. What?”

“Oakley is puking her guts out.” Nina said. “They asked me to call and see if you could fill in since you’re into fashion. I told them you were working on a big article, but I’d ask.”

Vinya put a hand against her forehead. “Right, ask the pop-music girl if she can do TV makeup. Perfect.”

“I’m sorry,” Nina said, “I tried to tell-”

“Not your fault.” Vinya interjected with a heavy sigh.

Part of her couldn’t believe that she was being asked to do this - but on the other hand, what the else was she going to do? Knowing herself, she’d just sit here hitting the Refresh button until her article popped up online. “Sure,” she said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I need something to take my mind off the article. Give me a few minutes to shower.”

“Seriously?” Nina replied, “I was just calling to get a formal negative, but I guess I’ll see you soon.”

The green frame around Nina turned red again.

Vinya showered as quickly as she could, then slipped on a black blouse and slacks - that screamed “unassuming makeup artist.” She checked herself in the mirror as she shoved in a few dangly earrings. Simple, silver, but still artsy.

Lipstick: Nothing too crazy with this year’s styles, but she settled on fire-engine red. She definitely looked the part she was trying to play, but still wasn’t satisfied.

In L.A., she’d gone to work in T-Shirts, but she’d figured out quickly that D.C. was different. Half her reason for being here was to prove she could hack suit-and-tie world.

“Nope,” she said the mirror, “You’re a professional, V, dress like one.”

She marched back to the closet and pulled out a hanger with an Italian dry-cleaning label. She’d already worn the blazer twice this week, but a third wear wouldn’t kill it.

Her sister Yasha had helped her pick it out on her last day in Cali, half of a matching pair they’d seen randomly in a window on Rodeo Drive. A few weeks before, there’d been a shouting match with their brother Digant (the lawyer) and their mother (the one with expectations) about whether music blogging for the Los Angeles Times constituted “being an adult” – no matter how well it paid.

Vinya herself had thought the offer from WWN wasn’t worth it, precisely because she didn’t want to work for an over-formal D.C. outlet. WWN was East Coast to the core, and their Lifestyle staff was nowhere near on par with their news staff. The entire reason they’d headhunted her was that they didn’t have a serious music reporter on staff and needed credibility. Not beacon of cultural journalism, and not Vinya’s jam.

Then Digant had opened his big mouth about how Vinya was a “fangirl, not a journalist” and that “D.C. reporters would see right through her.” That had made the decision. She was going to conquer this world and shove it in his face.

Hence, the blazer.

It was shiny, jet-black with red silk embroidery forming a flame pattern around on the cuffs of the sleeves – but the best part was the massive circular dragon embroidered on the back. It was part of a match set, and Yasha had kept the more demure version – white embroidery on cream background.

Slipping on the jacket, Vinya took one last look at herself in the mirror.

Washington, DC     
6:00 A.M. (12:00 P.M. in Rome)

WWN reporter Emma Poissonier listened to the voices buzzing in her earpiece. It was weird hearing two different conversations on two different sides of the world.

On the one hand, the production staff for WWN FirstLight was debating how long to let Chef Manny yammer before they gave him the hook and cut to real news. While that was going on, Priscilla and her crew in Rome were organizing themselves, preparing to go live from the start of the conclave and coordinating with the Vatican on the particulars of the live feed from inside the Sistine Chapel.

Meanwhile, Emma and her cameraman were shivering in the snow on the front steps of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception on the grounds of the Catholic University of America. Most of this week, she’d been shooting from inside local churches. Today, however, someone got the damn fool idea to shoot from the biggest Catholic Church in the nation – the only one that wouldn’t let cameras inside at 6:00 A.M. in the middle of a cold snap.

Finally, someone in the earpiece acknowledged her - her producer.

“Hey Emma. They’re thinking the cardinals’ swearing-in is gonna happen in about fifteen minutes, and we’re all ready to drag Chef Manny off the set by his Huevos Rancheros. You ready to go on?”

“About as ready as a poodle in a gator wrestlin' contest.”

“A what?”

Emma sighed.

“Never mind. The professor ain't here, we ain't set up, and I’m freezing.”

“Well get ready, we're gonna cut to you ASAP. And calm down, your accent’s slipping.”

Emma bit her lip, “You know I'm always a Yankee on-air.”

“That's my girl.”

She took a second to smooth her long, sandy ringlets, trying to get into the groove of her newscaster accent.

“My name is Emma Pwa-son-ee-ay.”

She repeated again, “Pwa-son-EE-AY,” taking great care to eliminate any hint of the Cajun “Pwa-SAWN-yay.” That was Emma-Jo the college cheerleader, this was Emma the reporter.

A youngish man with wild hair and a bow tie came running up the steps toward her. “Are you Emma?”

“That’s me,” she responded in her best fake-Yankee voice, “Dr. Polinski, I presume?”

It occurred to her that she hadn’t expected an expert in papal history to look so young - at least not young in a hot sort of way.

He smiled. “Sorry I’m late, morning prayer meetings, you know? And call me Aloysius.”

“I think Dr. Polinski might be easier to remember,” Emma tried to hold in a giggle, “and don’t worry, we’ve got three whole minutes to spare.”

“Oh, that’s an eternity,” Polisnski said, “although I suppose that depends on your interpretation of that passage about a thousand years being as a day. I’ll have to check to see how that’s rendered in the Septuagint text.”

This time the giggle actually came out.

She noticed that Polinski’s bow-tie was slightly askew and decided to use it to her advantage. “Let me straighten that for you. Wouldn’t want you goin’ on-air all disheveled.”

The accent was slipping.

“I thought I was supposed to look disheveled,” he joked. “I could have sworn I saw that in the release I signed: All History professors must look like a mess.”

Emma smiled, but her earpiece popped to life before she could respond.

“Okay Emma, we’re switching you over to the live feed. Priscilla’s taking over the anchor slot for the next half-hour to cover the swearing-in or whatever. She’s going to throw to you directly.”

There was a buzz of static - then the sound in her ear synced with the tablet PC displaying WWN’s live coverage in front of her.

The nasally Wisconsin clang of Nina Constantinos conducting an interview rang through her head like nails on a chalkboard. Emma had only met the new girl once, but that kid had better start working on that accent quick if she wanted to stick around.

“Priscilla,” Nina said, “The tension down here in St. Peter’s square is already running high. The pilgrims are here, the flags are waving. The mournful tone of Pope Steven’s funeral has cleared, and now the world’s Catholics are getting pumped up to meet the new boss. Back to you.”

Dang, girl, Emma thought, stop with the cheesy lines.

“Thanks, Nina,” Priscilla cut in. “Now for a perspective from stateside Catholics, WWN’s Emma Poissonier is standing by with a very special guest. Emma?”

“We’re live!” Emma’s cameraman bellowed.

Emma steadied herself and raised her microphone.

“That’s right, Priscilla, we’re here in Washington at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, and we have Catholic University’s Dr. Aloysius Polinski. Dr. Polinski, you’re one of the nation’s leading authorities on Church history. So, tell us a little about what we’re about to see.”

SUGGESTED MOOD MUSIC: "Bulletproof" by La Roux (Polydor Records Ltd., 2008)

"Basic Cable" text copyright © 2020 Adam Brickley. All rights reserved.