A Toast, To Jimmy

In the summer of 1974 I was working my way through college as a master control technician at the public television station in Pensacola, Florida.  This was a long, long time ago in TV years, back when it took two people to run a master control room at a small town TV outlet.  It wasn't hard work.  It did require a brief period of concentration, especially since the various video tape segments within it all had to be rolled 10 seconds before they were aired and the "technical director" (the person doing the source video switching) was simultaneously mixing the sound, inserting audio tags and voice overs while watching the video monitors to make sure the picture finally became stable before switching the next segment to air.  Switching television is a bit like tennis - a lot of concentration, some fast action to get in position and then a slower, carefully placed swing, right back into into fast again; repeat.

While I was beginning a station break one afternoon, I felt a change in my lighting and knew someone was standing behind me, really close behind me, watching my every move. Absorbed in the timing of the switching and other requirements, I didn't look around, but drilled into the routine of calling the tape rolls, watching the monitors and the clock, running the VOs and switching the video and audio sources as I plowed through the two minute local station break.  I knew I had a live TV audience and I didn't want to blow up a break in front of a live witness as well. (It's obvious to the TV viewers, of course, but they are intangible.)

I made it through the station ID and hit the network spot on, took a breath and turned around to see who was in my bubble.

Standing directly behind me was a short man with a good haircut and a gentle, amiable expression of genuine interest in what he'd just observed.  Frank, my tape operator on duty, had been watching him the whole time with a half smile on his face (I could see Frank since the five refrigerator-sized video tape machines were across the control room in front of me).  The fellow looked well kept; he was wearing a very nicely cut dark blue suit with a starched white shirt and a red 'power tie.'  His shoes were shined, but not new. He seemed comfortable in them.

Before I could say a word, he thrust out his right hand and said, "Hi.  My name's Jimmy Carter and I'm running for president."

I took his hand and replied, "That's great.  Of what, exactly?"