60 Minutes of Fame
Current Events. 850 words, 4 minute read. With ChatGPT o3.
The ON AIR light died, but Bill Owens still heard its phantom buzz. He lingered beside the anchor desk, fingertips brushing a stack of blue cards that smelled of fresh toner and coffee grounds—tributes to truth, paid in paper.
Producer Maya sprinted over, tablet raised. “Urgent ping from Corporate Affairs. Something about guidelines.”
Bill’s phone chimed in perfect sync, as though the notification had practiced choreography. One line from Daphne Holt: Eleventh floor. Five.
He pocketed the phone, forcing a smile for Lesley Stahl. “Back in a jiff. Keep the seat warm.”
Lesley’s eyebrow arched. “I’m a journalist, Bill. Warmth is optional.”
Bill chuckled—thin armor for the climb ahead.
Paramount’s boardroom felt refrigerated, the citrus polish unable to mask a colder intent. Vice-Chair Stephen Knox clicked off a muted news channel; the chyron read MERGER TALKS ENTER FINAL LAP.
Knox (airily): “Perfect timing, Bill. Washington just asked us to demonstrate… neutrality.”
Bill (frowning): “Neutrality is easy: we shoot everyone in daylight.”
Daphne (sliding a folder): “Not that kind. They want proof we’re ‘apolitical.’ Until the paperwork clears, DEI coverage goes dark.”
Bill scanned the memo. “Hold…the Mars-lander package?”
Knox shrugged. “Astronaut dreams can orbit a few more months. Bigger mission at stake.”
Bill’s laugh came out brittle. “Funny. In space, momentum is conserved—even when you close your eyes.”
Daphne softened her tone. “Bill, think of the staff. Approve the merger and everyone keeps jobs, budgets, benefits—”
Bill touched the stopwatch in his pocket, a retirement gift he’d never had time to use. Its second hand ticked, unbothered by budgets. “And what keeps the audience?” he asked. “Because they sure can’t bank on silence.”
The room chilled another degree.
Back in the edit bay, Maya looped footage of aerospace engineer Dr. Ayana Clarke, laughing in Martian red dust. “She DM’d,” Maya said quietly. “Asked if she should tell her students to watch Sunday.”
Shari looked up from color correction, eyes glassy. “What do we say? ‘Sorry, kids, your hero got eclipsed by a balance-sheet?’”
Bill’s reply lodged in his throat. Instead, he motioned for the team to huddle. He’d done this after 9/11, after Kabul fell—moments when facts felt fragile. Their semicircle formed instinctively, like penguins bracing wind.
He opened his palm; the stopwatch lay ticking. “Forty years ago,” he said, “I timed Mike Wallace between questions. He’d wait just long enough for a guest to hang himself with honesty. That pause? Priceless.”
A low chuckle moved around the circle. Bill went on: “Corporate wants a permanent pause. If we agree, the next clock they buy won’t have hands.”
An intern crushed her paper coffee cup, foam hissing. Another editor reset Ayana’s frame, refusing to let the dust settle.
Bill nodded, decision calcifying. “Finish the segment. Perfect it. If they vault it, we’ll at least know it’s alive.”
“And you?” Shari asked.
Bill closed the stopwatch—click. “I’ve got one more pause left in me.”
Morning light poured through Paramount’s glass atrium, turning the marble floor into a giant cue card: DON’T SLIP. Bill marched across it anyway.
Conference 7’s door was ajar. Inside, Daphne and Knox hovered over a speakerphone, a tinny voice reciting merger milestones. Bill set his ID badge and stopwatch on the table; the second hand stuttered, then stopped—battery finally spent.
Silence swallowed the conference call.
Knox (forcing cheer): “Say the word, Bill. We’ll find a compromise.”
Bill: “Compromise is journalism’s middle name. But we keep the first name—Truth.”
He slid a single sheet forward: Letter of Resignation—Effective Immediately.
Daphne read it, eyes flicking. “You’re walking out on your life’s work.”
Bill pointed to the frozen stopwatch. “That’s not my life’s work. Every tick that made it stop—those stories are.”
Knox sighed. “When the merger closes, the DEI freeze lifts. You could come back a hero.”
Bill’s smile was almost tender. “Heroes get statues. Reporters get verbs. I prefer the present tense.”
He pocketed the dead watch—souvenir of measured minutes—and exited.
Outside, reporters crowded like pigeons scenting crumbs of scandal. Bill raised a hand, not to wave but to shield his eyes from a billboard overhead: EVERY STORY, EVERYWHERE. The slogan’s glow haloed him for one ironic instant.
A boom mic swung close. “Any comment about the merger?”
Bill, already descending the steps, answered without turning. “Ask me again in sixty minutes.”
He kept walking. Behind him, cameras red-eyed and curious kept counting. Somewhere, perhaps in a classroom, Ayana Clarke would soon learn Sunday’s slot had vanished. But news traveled faster than silence; Bill suspected her students would hear the real story anyway.
He tapped the dead stopwatch in his pocket, as if coaxing one last tick. None came. Sometimes time itself resigns—leaving the next minute up for grabs.