Chapter 18

It was early December and the completion of Paul's four-month specialized radio course was only one week away.

On Saturday afternoon, Paul was expecting Lois in by train at Penn Station in just two hours.

Tired from another long day of Saturday classes, he nevertheless spent the two free hours in a productive spasm of Christmas shopping. It was a short gift list: Lois, his parents, the staff kids at WNUT-AM, and a token gift for Lois' young niece, Amelie.

The previous Monday, Paul had left work at the radio station as soon as Jessica had arrived to relieve him, and had gone into Manhattan for a late-afternoon interview with an agent, Powell Grantham. Grantham had been recommended by several faculty members as a good place to start getting professional help, looking for employment in the industry.

Alex Fain had thoughtfully provided Paul with a complete copy of their Mets-Cubs rebroadcast tape, and with the help of a hired professional technician, Paul had edited it down to a 15-minute demonstration tape prominently featuring Paul Elias, would-be color man.

After a lengthy conversation and interview with Grantham, the agent cautioned Paul to expect a long waiting period before hearing anything substantial out of future employers. "Your demo tape is good," Grantham said, "and we'll get it out to a lot of potential employers. But almost any employer will want to see you, and, probably, to audition you, before making any kind of hiring decision.

"Those interviews will mostly be at your own expense, even including travel. I'm afraid it's a buyer's market out there. And, Paul, even if you have a good experience with someone, interviewing, it could still just mean you're one of a dozen people they're looking at for a job."

"What's your take on -- what kind of chance I have of finding something?" Paul asked.

"I liked the demo you sent me. It was solid. That's going to probably get you a few interviews. After that, there's really no telling. My guess is, your physical handicap will work for you, and against you, all at the same time. People react strangely to such things. Likely, you'll get a few points, from some people, for being a disabled vet. On the other hand, some of the people who don't approve of the war will -- consciously or unconsciously -- hold your disability against you, and essentially, treat it like a negative. Some others just won't want to confront the extra -- call it inconvenience -- of having a disabled employee."

"Wouldn't that be discrimination? I thought there were laws against stuff like that."

"Sure there are. But how would you prove a case? Nobody's going to tell you, straight out, that there's any concern about your legs. I mean, those laws can do great things, in some situations. But not in yours, I'm afraid. Look at the situation: You're brand-new to the business, you haven't got a professional track record, and the competition for jobs is fierce."

"Mr. Grantham, I'm not over-concerned about salary. I'd be pleased to get any job where I can have a shot at showing what I can do. But I do have some important geographic preferences. If it's at all possible, I'd like to stay in the east. My -- my fiancé is in Philadelphia, and being within hailing distance of her is pretty important."

"I understand, Paul. But I suggest, strongly, that you show up for any and all interviews that you're offered -- even if they're in Anchorage, or Honolulu. It's not a time to be choosy. Besides, any interviewing experience you pick up will help you, down the road."

It had been an unusual week. Paul had a definite feeling of approaching closure with Nutley, New Jersey and the Big Apple. The end of his frantic four-and-a-half-months was in sight. He'd already given notice to Wendell Jemison of his intention to leave the job at the radio station in early January. Whether or not he was gainfully employed elsewhere, Paul felt that five months with WNUT-AM would be adequate to give him all the useful on-the-job training in management that he could ever need."

His successor at the station, a young woman with very limited broadcasting experience elsewhere, had already been hired and would be reporting for work within a few days. Like Paul before her, she would need to be trained. Like Paul, she would, within mere weeks of being hired, be appointed "station manager." Her two highly competent employees -- the kids -- were still just too young, and too tied up in their own ongoing education, to run the place.

Burdened with his Christmas purchases from downtown, Paul gratefully seated himself in the enormous cavern of the train station, facing the Amtrak doors where, soon, for the final time, Lois would be arriving to spend an abbreviated weekend with him in New York. They had no big plans. Over time, they had chosen his apartment in Nutley for their weekend liaisons more frequently than they had hotels in Manhattan.

This week, however, they'd be staying downtown. Paul was anxious about avoiding a possible confrontation with Cindy Pooler. In addition, Lois had expressed an interest in taking advantage of shopping opportunities in the city. Once again, they had reserved a room at the Algonquin.

The train was late. This was hardly unusual, and Paul was patient. He people-watched in the giant terminal, enjoying the beginnings of the Christmas season: people hurrying home to the suburbs on commuter trains; the arriving interstate passengers, being greeted by their Big City cousins.

The Amtrak train, and the subsequent later-scheduled Amtrak arrivals from the south, were all late. Lois' train was now 75 minutes late. Laboriously, Paul got to his feet and, gathering up his packages, made his way to the television monitors reporting arrivals. Lois' train had no time prediction. The monitor next to Train number 2172 said "Standby for information."

Paul stood by -- literally -- for another fifteen minutes before tiring and finding a bench close by. From there, he could still make out the monitor's postings, enough, at least, to notice if the message on the screen changed.

Finally, a loudspeaker announced that Train number 2172 had encountered "substantial delays" and that persons waiting for that train were invited to gather in a designated corridor, in front of a designated numbered door, for further information. Paul, and quite a few other people, responded to the announcement by heading toward the identified destination.

Soon afterward, a woman wearing a plastic Amtrak nametag emerged from the numbered door and told the gathering of people that there had been an accident 40 miles south of the city -- a derailment -- and that further information would be forthcoming as soon as it was available.

Two and a half hours after the train's 6:50 p.m. scheduled arrival time, Paul and the other waiting passengers learned that there had been many casualties in the derailment, and that injured passengers had been taken to various hospitals in and near New Brunswick, New Jersey.