The Meteorologist Impersonator

It  was around 4:00 and I was winding down after another day as the station Webmaster at the NBC affiliate for Fresno, California.  

While I’m winding down, the news department is gearing up for the six o’clock newscast. Shuffling toward the exit always feels a little weird when most of your colleagues are running around like they were auditioning for a FedEx commercial.

Today was going to be different. The station's chief meteorologist suddenly wasn’t going to make it in. It wasn’t anything life-threatening, but it was something pretty serious and he might not be back for several weeks. 

I can’t remember why one of the other weather folks couldn’t fill in. I can’t remember any of the details that led to what was about to happen.

I was stopped in the hall by the news director and the station manager, instructed to drop whatever I was working on, go to the mall, get a dark blue sport coat and “go to the Mac counter and tell them you’re going to be on TV.” I frantically tried to extrapolate the connection between being a shameless fraud and purchasing a computer.  I had no idea there was Mac makeup. I have since learned Mac makeup is the hands-down favorite among news personalities and female impersonators.

In less than an hour, I went from designing a website for the station’s high school football show to sitting on a Plexiglas stool in the middle of Macy’s, being made up like it was prom night. 

I got back to the station in enough time to learn how to use the clicker and spend a few minutes in front of the green screen practicing how to point at things that don’t exist.  

When it came time for me to do my weather segment, I was psyched. Sure, I was in way over my head, but the only thing at risk was a few dignity bruises and a red face that would only last a month or so. I thought, I’m here, I have this clicker, there’s a lens the size of a pie plate three feet in front of my face and I’m almost certain I’ll be able to get through whatever is going to happen without crying-at least on the air. If things really start to fall apart, there is always a special talent I have that Dad was always so fond of mentioning: I have a smartass answer for just about everything. 

I big TV camera was rolled up three feet in front of my face, lens as big as a pie. On top of the camera, a red light flashed on. I was on the air.  I smiled and tried to project authority and confidence. Then the lead anchor introduced me to thousands of viewers in the traditional manner:  “Now, here is Enoch Gamoian with “The Valley’s Most Accurate Forecast.”   It sounded flat-out preposterous and it must have showed. I don’t know. I tried to watch the tape once. It was just too painful.

It all went by in a flash. 

I got an illustrated book about weather on the way home that night and learned enough to get by. Fresno weather consists of six months of stifling heat, followed by six of unrelenting overcast and drizzle. Eight months could pass without a drop of rain.  With that kind of weather, I figured I could fake the rest. 

I also got a lot of amazing, on-the-job training from 40-year news veterans, young people with only a few years in the industry and everybody in-between. They were all patient and generous. 

After a week or so, I actually started to feel comfortable spouting my meteorological prognostications and I made it through the assignment. 

I felt quite pleased with myself and that—perhaps--a career change might be in order. That lasted until the next morning when I was awakened by the sound of pouring rain which I had failed to predict the night before.