SEVEN Sebastian
Johnathan Producer
Great reel of footage for the docuseries, Sebastian. The tornado didn’t pan out, but we can use that angle to show how unpredictable weather can be. Maybe episode two will be a storm where a funnel cloud DOES make contact with the ground. We can compare and contrast.
Good idea. I’ll send more when I have it. Hoping for something big in the next few weeks!
Looking forward to what’s next.
Coop There It Is
Y’all want to head to the summer festival tonight?
Nate the Great
I have nothing better to do, so sure.
Are we a last resort to you?
Nate the Great
It’s called being honest.
I’ll say.
I am DEFINITELY interested in the summer festival. That sounds so fun, Coop. Thank you so much for the invite!
Nate the Great
Suck-up.
Coop There It Is
Picking y’all up at six.
Can we ride in the fire truck?
Coop There It Is
You’re 31. Why would you want to ride in a ?re truck?
I don’t know. To feel badass?
Coop There It Is
I’ll see what I can do.
Unknown Number
Hey, Seb. It’s Danny Stockton from UCF. Remember Meteorology 101? Long time, no talk. Not sure if this is your number anymore, but wanted to touch base about something that might interest you. Give me a call whenever you can.
There was no fire truck.
The three of us crammed into the 1981 Jeep CJ-8 Scrambler Cooper fixed up, heading to Orlando with the windows down and radio blasting.
I sang until my voice cracked, the warm summer night making me feel alive.
The drive was an awakening. A pathetic realization I’ve been floating along the last twelve months.
Missing out on countless good things because I’ve been focused on work I’m not even enjoying.
I shove the thought away when we find a food truck and grab a dozen street tacos along with a few beers, digging in at a picnic table while “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” plays from the speakers attached to large floodlights positioned throughout the fairgrounds.
“Sorry, boys. I need to take care of something before we can have some more fun.” I toss the rolled-up aluminum foil that used to house our food into a nearby trash can.
I wipe my hands clean from melted cotija cheese and stand, my foot tapping along to the beat of the song. “I’ll find y’all in a bit.”
“Wow. Talk about a mood shift.” Cooper narrows his eyes my way. “Everything okay?”
“Just work stuff. Won’t take long.”
“Find us after so we can enter the tug-of-war competition.”
“Will do.”
Slipping away so they don’t ask any follow-up questions I don’t have the answers to yet, I scan the fairgrounds, trying to find a quiet spot.
Everywhere I look there are hordes of people holding funnel cakes and stuffed animals.
Even more are lining up for the rickety roller coasters that sound like they’re a gust of wind away from toppling over.
My eyes snag on a tree to the left of the bumper cars arena, the area far enough away from the rides where I’ll be able to hear myself think. I maneuver through the crowd, nearly bowling over a kid attached to a leash before I make it to the other side of the field.
Tucked away from carnival games and the smell of powdered sugar, I press my back against the bark of an old oak and dial Danny’s number. It rings twice then connects, and I stand up straight.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Danny. It’s Sebastian Dunn.”
“Seb!” Danny laughs on the other end of the line. “It’s good to hear from you. I’m glad my text didn’t end up delivered to someone else. How’re things?”
“Things are great, man. I’m in Oak Valley for a couple months working on a project for ABC. The hurricane season has been quiet, but I’m hoping for some activity soon. What about you?”
“Busy as hell, dude. I was with a station in Orlando as their chief meteorologist after graduation. Did a short stint with The Weather Channel before moving over to the NWS where I’ve been the last couple of years.”
“I thought I saw a photo of you on a beach somewhere. Congratulations. How’s that going?”
“It’s a blast. Right up my alley with the perfect balance of being at a desk and hands-on fieldwork.
That’s why I’m calling actually. We opened applications for a new Science and Operations Officer position recently, and we’re bringing in some candidates for interviews.
I wanted to see if I could tempt you into making the drive over and throwing your name in the ring. ”
“Whoa.” My heart pounds in my chest. Up ahead, a ride worker puts out a cigarette with his shoe and leaves the butt behind in the grass. Fuck our planet, I guess. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. Before I tell you more, I want to let you know this is a different set of responsibilities from what you handle on-air. You’re primarily reporting as a senior meteorologist, right?”
“Pretty much. I’m based in New York and am on the national news every evening to cover any weather systems we’re seeing across the country. When something major happens, ABC flies me to the location where damage is most severe. I’ll spend a day or two there before heading home.”
“So cool. What a way to see new places and meet new people.”
“So cool,” I echo, not mentioning the way I feel like I’m not doing enough when I show up to work every day. How I have hundreds of thousands of hotel points, but each room I check into is more and more unfamiliar. “Will you tell me more about the position?”
“Right. Duh. The reason for my call. Full disclosure, because this might be a deal-breaker, but it’s a pay cut from what you’re making now.”
“Money isn’t a worry of mine.” I gnaw on my bottom lip, knowing my social media content alone earns me more than enough to survive.
I’ve turned into a feed full of #sponsored and #ad in almost every caption.
Gone are the days of artistic snapshots of landscapes and tornadoes touching down.
Now I’m sharing vitamins and headlamps while I collect a commission. “Definitely not a deal-breaker.”
“Really? Sweet. The SOO is the top research position in the office. You’d make sure everyone is trained on weather system features while also being responsible for the latest technologies provided to meteorologists.
There’s also trying to figure out ways to improve our operational services.
Communicating with the public. Those kinds of things. ”
“Sounds like a lot of in-house work. Would there be opportunities out in the field?”
“Oh, yeah,” Danny says, and my heart beats faster.
“Research is integral to our roles. There are emergency management meetings and plannings. Talking with local and national news outlets. We’re attempting to dig our toes into the social media game, but that’s a whole other issue.
We check on weather stations and radars.
The list is endless, really. I haven’t been bored in years. ”
“Fuck.” I run my hand through my hair. A laugh races out of me and I glance up at the sky, smiling at the stars winking back at me. Is the missing link to my happiness being dropped right in my fucking lap? “What’s the interview process like?”
“It starts with meeting our meteorologist-in-charge one-on-one and going over work history. Typical hiring questions. Stage two is later, and you’ll be asked to share meteorological findings on a topic that interests you to a panel of qualified individuals.
Even more fun? You get to debate your fellow candidates. ”
“I’m in,” I say. I’ve never agreed to something so fast in my life. “Email me the date and time and I’ll be there. Shit. Thanks for reaching out, Danny.”
We exchange goodbyes and a promise to send over more details. When I hang up, I’m almost buzzing.
This could be it.
The cure to my burnout.
Something fresh and new and thrilling to give me drive again.
My love for weather hasn’t changed. That’s never been the problem. My environment is the issue, and to have a role that merges hands-on with data analysis sounds like a job out of my dreams. The best of both worlds, and I’m about to get on my knees and ask the universe to make this happen for me.
I’m not above begging.
There’s a pep in my step as I move through throngs of people.
Cooper mentioned a tug-of-war game, and I should probably track my friends down.
It’s been fifteen minutes, and Coop might be challenging a group of teenagers so he can embarrass them.
Ever since he came in second place in his station’s annual physical ability test after tripping during the hose drag, he’s been relentless about his fitness.
Any chance to get a workout in, he’s moving his body, and that includes putting kids in their place.
“Shit. Sorry,” I say to the guy double-fisting beers in glass cowboy boots when he runs into me. He stumbles to the left, a sway that teeters on the cusp of impending disaster, but manages to keep the alcohol intact. “Nice save, man.”
“Thanks, bro,” he slurs. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“I’ve been told I have one of those faces, but I don’t think so. I’m from out of town.”
“Wait a minute.” Beer sloshes over the rim of one of the boots.
I admire his cool demeanor in the aftermath of losing a quarter of his overpriced drink.
In New York, that would be a sin. Thirty dollars down the drain and absolute disappointment when you trudge back to the bar to order another round.
“You do that weather thing. With the singing.”
I don’t sing, but I know where he’s going with this.
Slipping lyrics from popular songs into my weather reports started as a joke with my first television gig at a station up in Albany.
The winters were freezing. The sun set at four p.m., seasonal depression was a real and wretched thing, and the eleven o’clock spot barely brought in viewers thanks to the late-night hour.
I decided to have some fun. I wanted to see how far I could push outside the box before production stepped in, before they took away my microphone and the FCC slapped me with a fine. But the internet moved quicker.