Part Two On the road NEWRICANE © 2001 Ballad of the Spic Chic Luis Chaluisan [1] TV LAND In the middle of all that cross burning craziness at Amherst, Felix Romero telephones from New York and shows me a way out of my dilemma, “Call Channel 3 right away in Hartford. Ask for the News Director and set up an interview for this reporter internship program they have.” I go to that interview in a collarless shirt, dress slacks and sandals – ever the rebel. I got tight with reporter Chuck Curry during the Amherst takeovers and help him break the story Rob Ellis burned the cross. He greets me in the newsroom and takes me right to Topping. “This is the Puerto Rican brother I was telling you about who helped me on the cross burning report.” Jim stands up and sticks out his hand, “We were the first with that on the air. Come on in.” Topping likes my attitude and hires me. A month after leaving Amherst I’m at WFSB-TV. It’ s a party in that newsroom. And I want a party after Amherst. Don’t get me wrong. There are some heavy hitters at Channel 3. Gerry Toney is an investigative reporter who knows the streets and local government better than anyone I’ve seen on air ever. He schools me well. Randal Pinkston rocks as a reporter and anchor. A Mississippi Native Son whose destined to be an outstanding CBS Network presence. Jim Topping is a Texan force in the industry responsible for switching from film stock to video covering news and had the charm of a Kennedy mixed with Rather. Pam Cross is into righteous reporting. Her focus is something else – she probes into Ted Kennedy’s role in maneuvering to weaken the “Exclusionary Evidence Rule” which stops many intrusive police searches. Few people hear about this but this sister is on it like white on rice. Jeffrey Lyons not only does movie reviews in English but Spanish as well. Hartford is more than 50 Percent Puerto Rican with an average age of the community 19. Something, huh. I’m in the right place at the right time. A whole city is finding itself as I’m coming into my own. People don’t really know though how wild some reporters, anchors, cameramen, and tekkies are. I don’t care what movies have shown its not the whole truth. Network is the front lines of ludicrousness. But in Hartford they’re local stars. Everyone knows them. It can be tiring. So behind closed doors anything goes. I pick up on that hanging out with the crew after my interview and put it to the test my first day on the job. I get a desk next to Chuck Curry and roll a fattie right there on my desk calendar the size of my index finger, “This is for after work tonight.” Chuck sits there laughing, “Damn, brother you are bold. You’re going to fit right in.” Chuck is the first person/reporter I know of who comes back from Atlanta after the child murders and tells me that someone else besides Wayne Williams offed little boys. Right before the Cuban American cops rioted in Liberty City Florida. “Yeah man, they kept on finding mutilated kids after Williams got picked up. That’s Klan bullshit to let black folk know they may get higher positions in the city government but the Klan is still around.” Pretty soon I’m covering City Hall and Board of Education stories and copping smoke and hash right in the newsroom from some of the secretarys and camermen. A lot of people smoke in Hartford. And some people who don’t should have. Like some of the cops who are always on the edge. Gerry Toney brings me along to hang out with Hatrtford cops at the local VFW club. Policemen are a funny breed. They have to deal daily with every type of biscuit head there is. Sometimes they’re just as big a biscuit head as the ones they’re dealing with. And they’re a nervous lot. They drink a lot loaded with artillery behind closed doors at the VFW. Gerry is a dangerous prankster. He pulls out a tiny cap gun one night and fires it by the pool table. I never see so many pieces get drawn and cocked. It’s like a thunderclap followed by complete silence. “Rough night fellas?” “Stop fucking around Toney!” “All right, relax, a beer for everybody.” And just as quickly the guns are gone and they’re DRINKING. It’s the first time I witness that much firepower drawn. Later I learn they’re seriously outgunned on Hartford’s Streets. I’m assigned this German cameraman named Heinz who is a trip. I never know what he’s going to do or say, “Unt, during the var I was in der Hitler youth. My father was an SS colonel caught afder der schtupped Fuehrer committed suicide. I was relieved. He was a pain in the ass.” “Who, your father or Hitler?” Total silence broken by his chomping on a sausage filled Kaiser roll. “Unt,” burp “when we get der story we wrap it up quick, mach schnell, heh.” Heinz rarely catches more than 15 seconds a shot so he isn’t kidding about a quick shoot. We roll up on this police raid in New Britain and jump out. Pretty soon there’s shots fired and I find myself being pulled by Heinz towards the shooting, “Comen zee here unt carry that recorder quickly … rapidly … rapidly we might see some blood.” I follow without a second thought. We end getting squat but in the car ride back I realize, “Heinz, we could have been shot.” “Unt, nonzense. We could have won an award. Unt, it was zoe much easier during the war.” Godfrey is a West Indian cameraman whose with me the day a tornado hits Windsor. We had earlier teamed up to interview the Grand Dragon of the Klu Klux Klan. We’re five minutes out of town when that sucker hits. “This is not good, man. Oh, rastclot this sky is too dark to mean anything good … Bad omens, Luis …. Bad Omens … Yes, Bad omens BUT GOOD NEWS FOR OVERTIME … We’re looking at golden time here boy! Let’s go!” “Holy Jesus, look at that … the fucking plane at the air museum is upside down and wasn’ t that trailer across the street. Dude, I think that’s a body in the tree.” I end up doing a live shot at Hartford Hospital Emergency with this country boy named Greg who loves to flip reporters out. I find him funny and get the giggles before going on air in the middle of all this tornado madness, “OK! This is resume tape material time! Ally OOP. Hit it and hit it good. Make sure you stay in that light. Quick and Dirty! The light. The light. Go towards the light. You got twenty seconds then throw it to the donught. Allright, they’re coming to you. Relax. Remember! Resume tape time. Live. Network. Stardom. The next Geraldo! They’re counting it down 5, 4, 3 , … You’re ON!” All that comes out of my mouth is this droning sound that spins out of control then crashes in absurdity as I come off like Count Dracula, “errrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhh GOOD EVENING PAT AND ADRIENE. IT’S VERY VERY BAD HERE AT THE HOSPITAL … So much for the resume tape. Well, maybe for Saturday Night Live. Definitely for Teatro Otra Cosa. Channel 3 is one of the most ethnically diversified and leading gadgets station in the nation in 1979. They have Live 3 Cams, Chopper 3 helicopter, and a News 3 boat, Skateboard, Hologram Deck etc.. Blacks, Whites, West Indians, Cubans and Ricans. It’s crazy cool. I hate the helicopter though. Once the assignment desk finds this out they have me hopping all over the state. Jack the Chopper 3 pilot had flown in Vietnam. He’s a pisser, “C’mon Luis I loaded up the chopper with extra barf bags. Up, Up and AWAYYYYYYY! Oh, my. I think we’re in trouble. Oh yes, the roters out of whack.” Whoosh “Oh, no!” Tilt “Damn” Bounce “I think I’m going to throw up!” “Hold it Lou, Hold it” Tilt “Give me the fucking bag this is a new shirt!” “Hold it Lou, Hold it” Tilt “THE BAG, JACK OR I’LL BOOT RIGHT HERE!” “OK, Here you go.” Whoosh “Aaaarrrgh” “Good Lou , hey look there’s no problem, let’s get to that story. Want liver and onions after the shot?” “Aaaarrrgh” I throw up dinosaur eggs that day. Gerry Toney teaches me 90 percent of good news work comes from hanging out and talking to people. Some TV stations just rework the local newspaper stories. The other 10 percent is luck and disaster. Gerry looked for stories and being a Black pitbull from New York he knows that corruption bubbles underrneath all bureacracies, “If you want to understand politics in Hartford read The Power Broker by Bob Caroll about political manipulator Robert Moses. It’s the Deputy Mayor’s Bible. Carbone’s really protecting the South End Italians from getting run over by all these Puerto Ricans and Black folks in Harford.” Deputy Mayor Nick Carbone rules Hartford in those days. The city is a weak mayor-strong council town and Carbone’s Democratic machine is fighting a losing battle in a rapidly deteriorating city hard hit by a changing insurance complex, weakening defense industry and white flight to the suburbs. It’s becoming the impoverished ghetto it is today. “The real city council is made up of the board heads of the insurance companies. They’re calling the shots and are redlining most of Hartford.” Others in the mix are doing their own wheeling and dealing. Corporation Counsel Alexander Golddfarb is a gay powerhouse attorney who has questionable dealings with the Probate Court and allegedly secures priceless artwork from various estates. Goldfarb is flamboyant in the way Mayor Jimmy Walker in prohibition New York is. Orders tailored shirts from London, drives one of the first Mercedes sportsters, smokes pot in his City Hall office and once sings his summation to a jury. Mayor George Athanas cozies up to me when he finds out I went to Amherst. A fast and loose immigration lawyer who cooperates with Carbone in the hope of one day being made a judge, he plays the buffoon well. He’s a cross between Lou Costello and Fiorello La Guardia, “Amherst? Class of ’39. Lord Jeffrey Amherst was a soldier of the King … Rah rah rah. I was a member of Alpha Theta Xi too back in l937.” I belong to ATX but by the time I get to Amherst it’s been thrown out of the National Chapter and a refuge for a mix of hippies, radicals, Puerto Ricans and women. Lot different from Athanas day. He blows the judgeship when he becomes my source for stories detailing secret city council meetings and underhanded wheeling and dealing to oust the City Manager and Fire Chief. We kind of have him by the balls because Gerry finds out he has a couple of kids with a Black woman in the North End who look dead like him. “All right, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Come around tonight about 9:30. They’re meeting in a back office on the third floor.” I hide in a janitor’s closet with a camerman for a half hour until I hear the office door opening. It’s Councilman Tony Gonzalez who is piss drunk as usual. A stooge for the Carbone machine. As he stumbles out of the room I rush from the closet, “Tony, why are you guys meeting in there secretely?” His eyes go wide like a coqui (frog) caught in the headlights of on oncoming truck, “Because we got business” “Picking a new City Manager and Fire Chief?” “Yes … No … Yes … Wait a minute. I’ll be back I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” He never comes back and the rest take off through a back door. No matter. Gerry Toney ambushes the head of Civic Center board whose walking by City Hall. The boards under investigation. The Civic Center Manager allegedly is a mob puppet and kind of simple minded. He’s in way over his head. “Tell me, is it true that you had two prostitutes on the payroll at the Civic Center to entertain potential sponsors? He gets a catholic look in his eyes and blurts out, “No … (gulp) We only had one.” What a biscuit head. “Steve we got our lead for the 11 oclock. Let’s get out of here.” Gerry Toney also teaches me to dig deeper when someone gets a little too righteous. “Yeah, the Reverend over there on Barbour Street got a good hustle going but I traced him back to Chicago and found out he was a pimp named Pinky in the old days. He moved here in the early sixties but he’s still pimping. He just uses a collar today.” Digging around Reverend Pinky’s world brings me in touch with all kinds of poverty bureaucrats. It’s this way I break my only National story that’s carried by the Network – the week the food stamp money runs out. In the spring of 1980 things are so bad on the Federal level that a senior head of Ct’s Food Stamp Program let me know over a triple shot of bourbon that nothing is in the till for the upcoming allotment. “We’re screwed. We’re fucked. And you know who they’re going to blame? I give you three guesses and two of them ain’t God or country. Shit. Absolutely in the god damn toilet. People are going to flip out. I’m taking my two week vacation starting right now – Bartender, another one! Then I’m off to the Chicken Man because my bird is cooked.” The crisis was real but the payments arrive two days later. I don’t know if the story helps but I get a nice piece of cheese from the network in my next paycheck that’s a quarter of my regular pay. What a racket. I immediately go on the town but pay the price and soon tire of being known. Amherst sends me a letter congratulating my work on the air and I‘m pissed. If they only know how far away that world is from me for now. One thing about being on TV is that you can get laid regularly. I pick up this bombshell half Puerto Rican and Italian mami at the G Fox building after she recognizes me. She gives me a dose of the clap. Quien me manda? Tells you about the times. With all due respect she kind of warns me. Today someone mentions they have something case closed. But in 1979 a lot of us are still fucking full blast since Aids is not yet identified. Her boyfriend gives it to her and says she just came off the danger period to pass on the infection. Two days later I’m pissing razor blades. “Yo, Chuck I think my dick is falling off.” “What are you talking about?” “Man I’m shooting lemon juice over an open cut here.” “Oh man, you better see a doctor before it melts away.” I don’t have a doctor so I decide on the emergency room on Asylum Avenue. Just to be safe I wait until midnight to go. I figure less people who see me on the news will be there. I walk in and there’s the mayor, the deputy mayor, head of the civic center, reporters, and a bunch of crying fans. What’s happening? A boxer gets knocked out bad and is in critical condition. “Luis. Here for the story? Where’s your camerman?” “Absolutely mayor. He’s coming. But I got to go over here and take care of something … Doc, don’t you tell anyone out there why I’m here.” “Bend Over.” “Ah, damn … two penicillin shots? Damn” “And you’re going to be stiff for a week.” “Thanks Doc and remember mums the word.” “Luis, ready for a soundbite?” “Oh, Mr. Mayor, love to but I got this pain in the ass thing they just called me on .. I gotta go .. You understand Theta Xi brother?” “Yes,” snapping to attetnion “Lord Jeffrey Amherst was a soldier of the king …” “Yeah, Mayor -- Lord Jeffrey … (to myself) Fucking Amherst.” A couple of weeks later I’m sitting having a drink with Chuck Curry at T Bo’s in the North End and we’re just rolling about my brush with the clap and shooting one liners goofing on everyone. “Man, we’re so funny we should be on TV!” and at that moment I pop up on the television doing a report on yet another demonstration at City Hall. “Oh shoot! We are on TV!” I realize how absurd this business I’m in is. That guy on the TV screen has other stories to tell. Real stories about opportunists. Kind of stories you tell in backrooms and get sued for libel on the front page of the Hartford Courant. But, for now there’s this absurd situation of doing “the news.” The next day clinches it. Colonel Sanders from Kentucky Fried Chicken drops dead and I’m assigned his obituary. “Well, the Colonels dead … I guess he’s not finger lickin good anymore. Luis do a wrap up.” “Ah, man who cares if that dusty old guy died. Do a copy story.” “We want a package. Hublein owns Kentucky Fried now and they’re based in Ct.” “Oh, man. Allright.” “What are you going to do?” says Chuck. “Fuck it. I got their package for them right here. Cono. I’m going to treat him like royalty. I’ m going to call Ronald McDonald to get a statement, a bite from Hublein. I’ll do a standup at that greasy KFC up on Albany Avenue and let’s see.” “Doesn’t Frank Purdue give out his home number. My boys tell me he drinks a lot. You might catch him drunk at home.” “Yeah, that’s it!” Ring Ring “Hello Mr. Purdue? Frank? Colonel Sanders is dead – any comment.” “Well, let’s see …. Um … (sound of a drink being taken) Yes… um … I got it! He was a man who knew his chickens! The Colonel was a man who indeed Knew His Chickens.” Ring Ring “Wait, we’ll give you Hublein’s VP of marketing …. Yes, I’ll do an on camera interview.” Half smirking this VP goes on tape, “Well, of course we’re going to stick to that tasty recipe and we’re going to keep his mug in the advertising. Absolutely keep his mug on everything. It’s only right!”” Ring Ring “McDonalds Corporation … what does Ronald have to say?” “It’s an unhappy meal that’s been served in the fast food industry today.” When this package gets on the air the producer Karen Scott (now News Director at WPIX in New York) hasn’t seen it. Anchor Don Lark does all he can to restrain himself from laughing after the obituary which I do very solemnly with these crazy soundbites. But he can’t stop shaking and lost it at commercial break. “Don’t ever … ahem, give … er, Luis … an obituary again!” Bill O’Reilly of Fox’s O’Reilly Factor is a short lived anchor at Channel 3 who manages to alienate everyone. He pulls a stunt so typical of successful people at the Network level. He rips off another reporter’s story about a crazed bull on the loose in Windsor and submits it to the Network as a National and Resume piece. Chuck Curry files the story for the six oclock and doesn’t give it a second thought. Bill has it on the Network the next night replacing Chuck’s narration. Something, huh. He doesn’t share any of the money. That’s what really sucked. WFSB-TV gets rid of Bill soon after. We’re already mailing his resume tape out to other stations without his knowledge. This is not unusual. When a reporter or anchor give the competition too much heat rival station managers sometimes put a reel together from newscasts and send those out. Suprising offers come all the time out of nowhere for hot personalities. In Bill’s case his co workers are paying for the extra postage and cassettes. He pisses people off. An anonymous note appeares taped to his chair before Billy Boy is released from his contract at WFSB, “Your insipidness knows know bounds. In the realm of journalistic integrity you are the last bastion of the mundane. A pox on you and your career. May the powers above strike you down with a plummetting space station and drive you into the nether regions where you rightly belong.” Yeah, Bill pisses people off even without the conservative schtick he poses with today. Watch local news lomg enough you notice a certain repetition. If there’s a fire somewhere you get a fire disaster block, Some producers like to lead with car crashes. Holly has a thing about prisons and holidays. She sends me to the Enfield Correctional Facility on Christmas to ask the convicts how they feel being locked up, “Ah come on, they’re feeling lousy. What do you think. They’re in fucking prison for Chrissakes. I don’t want to go there.” “There’s nothing else!” “Ok, prison on Christmas. Damn.” Three weeks later there was a prison break and two of the guys were the ones we spoke to on camera Christmas day. I got a letter from one of them after they were captured, “Dear Cabron. If you hadn’t had video of me you never would have shown my face.” We can’t get mug shots in time for the newscast but we have that Christmas video. Everyone else runs a copy story with outside prison shots. He’s turned in after our story ran. “I’ll keep watching you even after I get out.” Lucky me. I mail him Holly’s address. There’s a rumour they marry and contribute regularly to the hit TV show COPS on both sides of the camera and law. I cover Yitzak Rabin and Moshe Dayan when they swing through West Hartford. Dayan is poignant. He’s dying from cancer but a warrior to the end. I revisit that gaunt fighters look when my Uncle Heriberto passes on from cancer years later. The best thing I do at Channel 3 is a series with reporter and future WVIT anchor Gerry Brooks on Puerto Rican activism and life in Hartford. It’s a moment frozen in time because in a couple of years a lot of the P.R. activists in the area are caught in an FBI snare resulting from an 8 million dollar Wells Fargo robbery in West Hartford. More than a hundred hardcore Puerto Rican political activists are rounded up and imprisoned. Most guilty by association. Once they’re locked up the community sinks deeper into a leaderless hole that affects them for years to come. Hartford is now crack and heroin central along with Bridgeport and New Haven – a trio of imposed ghettos surrounded by suburban middle class. They’re trying to turn that around in Hartford by moving section 8 and poverty housing to the adjoining suburbs and igniting a reverse white flight. It never ends. I move on from WFSB after getting married to my first wife Carmen. I meet her while covering the release of Lolita Lebron and the Puerto Rican nationalists who shoot up Congress. Hartford is one of their first stops. Little do I know Carmen will give me my own Nationalist in our daughter Chasan. This girl is very Puerto Rican. Like I say, “Perfectly balanced, a chip on each shoulder.” A closet poet capturing her own wild style. I find some of her writing once and I’m tempted to bite it. Good thing I don’t. I can be shot -- pierced by her looks and one of her long salon nails. |
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