Confessions of a Television Reporter: A Novel

By Debi Gallo

Meet the gritty, sexy world of television news and the serenity of life in Italy.

Denise DiBella is asuccessful, beautiful, andintelligentno-nonsense broadcastnewsand sportsreporter.Through her colorful exploits, she paints a vivid picture aboutthe highs, lows and lovesof lifewithin the news business.

Working in New York City, the number one television market in the country, Denise thought she made it to the top and had it all by the time she reached the age of 29.But something happenedupon arriving at the pinnacle of success and she started to realize the tremendous costs she paid to reach such lofty heights.

Denise begins to question, "What's next when you finally reach your dream? How do youknow when enough is enough if all you see ismore pain and more sacrifice? Where do you find the strength to journey forward when your heart tells you it's time to move on? And, should you just let it all go and take a leap of faith hoping it will pay off?

After taking a bold jump, Denise moves to Italy armed withonlyher catand two suitcases.Thereshe finds answers, but differentonesthan what she expects.Even after moving across an ocean, Denise asks, "No matter how far you run, can you ever really escape yourself?"

Go along with Denise while she reports on her wild ride through loss, divorce, affairs of the heart, addiction, and so much more in Confessions of a Television Reporter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532030468

Debi Gallo

Debi Gallo is an award-winning TV journalist who has reported on news and sports for two decades. Debis philosophy on life is that what youre creating is bigger than what youre leaving behind! To learn more about Debi, visit her at www.debigallo.com.

Book preview

1

A BEAUTIFUL BLUE-EYED

ITALIAN AND ME, NAKED ON A

HOTEL ROOFTOP IN ROMA

He’s a pretty-boy blue-eyed Italian. He doesn’t speak much English, but who cares? Conversation is not his strong point, but that’s not why he’s around, I told my old friend John Katz, from the United States.

Good! No one knows you in Italy. Just get laid before you forget how to do it, Katz said.

I set up the scene on the rooftop of the hotel, across from the entrance to the Vatican Museums and Sistine Chapel in Rome: a bottle of vino, glasses, condoms, and my low-cut black dress with plenty of cleavage, heels, and tiny black panties.

He was a little taken aback at my forwardness. Poor kid. Well, he was 25…a good 13 years younger than me. So after some wine and kissing, I proceeded with my pounce. He didn’t know what to do, sweet thing that he was. Didn’t matter. I did the rest.

Up against the railing, overlooking the entrance to the Vatican Museums, he pounded me as I encouraged him, speaking English and attempting Italian. I loved every minute of it.

I brought him back to my room, where I was staying temporarily while I waited for a job offer on the Island of Sardinia. My beautiful calico cat Torre was with me, and she didn’t like strangers.

The boy got all emotional. Quieto, Bello, was all I could say. Quiet, beautiful. I thought he should stop talking and put his lovely mouth to work—and that’s what he did, even though he didn’t understand that this was supposed to be no-muss, no-fuss sex. When the sun rose, I said goodbye.

Later that day, I sent an email to my friends in the United States before I hit the beach. They were anxious to hear about my new life in Italy.

–— Original Message -–-

From: Denise

To: John Katz, Steve Kelly

Cc: US Friends

Subject: It’s Raining Men!

Good thing I wasn’t screaming his name when I was screaming, because I got it wrong. Oh well. Thanks…next, please!

He is probably 6’3" and huge, and I’m feeling it today.

Yeah baby!

Denise

–— Original Message -–-

From: Steve Kelly

To: The Princess

Subject: Re: It’s Raining Men!

You slut, you whore, I LUV YA!! Way to take care of business! Never done it on the roof, but did in a boiler room once in St. Louis!

Steve

2

TWO SUITCASES AND A CAT

Wednesday, July 18

Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

I kept hearing the song Home by Daugherty in my head. My new home was Rome, Italy. All I had to do was make it work. I’d reported live on television from Ground Zero in New York during the 9/11 terrorist attacks—how hard could this be?

Your Italian is little, but very good, I was told by the waiter at dinner.

I had dinner at a trattoria with a glass of vino, which only cost a Euro. About $1. Holy shit, I’m in Roma. Torre Cat and I survived, and I’m here, creating a new life. Wow! I did it!

Funny thing—once I picked July 17 as the date I would move, the universe moved for me!

I did it alone. Well, not really alone; I brought my cat Torre with me. Torre and I survived the trip, but barely. I was okay, but she flipped out on the seven-hour flight. I thought I was going to have to overdose her on sedatives just to keep her settled down. I kept praying to St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, to calm my sweetheart’s fears—but he did nothing.

Senora, you can’t walk in the aisle with a cat, the airline steward said to me.

Look, she’s terrified and it’s a long flight, I said. If someone had a baby crying, you would let them walk the aisle. That shut her up.

You’ve got to make it work, my big brother Bruce had told me before I left. Oh, it’ll work out, I said.

What I had was a dream of living in Italy. A new, calm, different life, away from TV news reporting in New York City and the suburbs of New Jersey. What I didn’t have was a job, knowledge of Italian, a place to live, friends, family that I knew of, or much savings. I decided I should take a leap of faith, and trust that things would work themselves out.

It was just like the Broadway musical Rent—which I kept having callbacks for, but never landed the role of Maureen—said: Leap, and the net will appear.

Still, walking along the streets of Roma by our hotel, with no working air conditioning or refrigerator, I couldn’t help but wonder what had REALLY brought me here. Could I really create a whole new life? Could I escape my past? Could I forget all the pain, or was I destined to repeat my mistakes?

No matter how far you run, Denise, can you really escape yourself?

3

ALLORA

My new favorite Italian word is allora (and so), said with a heavy sigh. As I sat in my hotel room in Roma, I started to think, So what? Now what?

Maybe I should write a book about my life in TV news, huh? I asked Katz one day, during one of our long Skype conversations.

Good idea. Just don’t hurt anyone.

Not intentionally. But it’s my story. I own everything that happened to me. If they wanted me to speak warmly about them, they should have behaved better!

Oh Lord, Denise!

I don’t regret the life I chose…but now I wonder: how am I going to create the life I want here? And how will I find out what my new life is supposed to be? Why am I already haunted by my life as a TV reporter in the U.S.? I can’t seem to get it out of my head. Did I leave it too soon?

Change doesn’t guarantee success, Denise. But neither does staying the same. In life, sometimes you just move on. You’ve just got to believe in destiny.

4

I JUST WANTED TO SAVE MY SISTER

I look at the calendar, and it’s the anniversary of my big sister Dawn’s death. I remember the horror of it, and how many cards came in to support Madre, me, and (I guess) my brother Bruce, though he didn’t act like he needed support. Madre and I were devastated.

I remember that all the people I never expected to show up with support, showed up. Jewish friends sending me Catholic Mass cards…people I worked with but hadn’t talked to in a long time sent me cards and emails. It all counts.

It’s June 4, and Madre and I have just found out by accident from my brother that my sister is in the final stages of liver cirrhosis.

A liver transplant is not an option. She’s too far gone. It’s not about money; her body couldn’t even take a liver transplant. We’re way past that phase.

Holy shit! So what do I do?

Dawn has collapsed. My little 5’3" mother goes to her apartment and literally breaks down the door and snaps the chain lock to get inside. She calls me. Dawn says she’s been lying on the floor for a week—couldn’t move and couldn’t get to her cell phone. My God. What do we do now?

Body waste is literally all over the house. Her body is giving out. When your liver fails, your kidneys fail next, and then you’re done. She’s my beautiful sister, and all I want to do is save her. But my brother and I know it’s too late. All we can do is care for her.

She needs a friend, and I’m the only one she’s got. I’ve given up everything to care for her—canceled jobs, commercials, auditions, modeling jobs, you name it. I tell the modeling agencies, My sister is dying, and I am with her. I’ll call you when I can work again.

How has this happened? She’s 47 and has spent almost a lifetime, about 30 years, drinking and smoking herself to death. I’m not blaming her; I want to save her. I move in with her in her one-bedroom apartment in Hackettstown, New Jersey—I tell my roommate in Hoboken to look after the cat.

Every day, I take her to a doctor or in and out of the hospital. She’s so weak. Her sparkle is gone.

One day she wants a nice lunch, so I take her to Charlie Brown’s Restaurant. I drive her Honda Civic, and it’s a hassle to get her in the car because it’s a sports car and has bucket seats. She leans on me, her legs are so weak, and finally I get her in the car. We get to Charlie Brown’s; I order her a nice steak with a baked potato. She’s looking forward to it. She gets sick and we head back to the car, with me carrying her. She’s 5’8" but with the skinniest legs you’ve ever seen and a stomach so bloated she looks eight months pregnant. No matter: I get her back to the car, and she promptly throws up her steak.

She’s back in the hospital. A guy from AA comes to see her, and tries to talk to her. She refuses. I meet him by accident (or not) in the elevator. He asks a simple How are you? and I burst out crying. I tell him about her—that she’s way past therapy or any help. He offers me Al-Anon. I don’t go; all I want to do is save her, and I know I can’t.

I realize how sick she really is. I call my big brother Bruce—the same thing I always do in a crisis. And this is some fucking crisis.

I want to call my nephew, her son. I want him to go see her, and finally make peace. But I lost his number. I call his father, who has always been cordial to me, despite the bitterness between him and my sis.

Look, Dawn is dying and I would love for Michael Jr. to go see her and make some peace.

Sure, he says, giving me the number. Call the kid.

I call Michael Jr. and I’m a little drunk, because I need to be to deal with him. I beg him to go see his mother. She’s likely going to die this weekend.

Nope.

Wow. That pisses me off. Granted, my sis is no angel, but family is family. She was a shitty mother. She was an alcoholic, and emotionally unavailable to Michael Jr. Okay—but family is family. And if there’s one thing I learned from my Italian grandfather, it’s loyalty. I’m stuck in the middle—I feel everyone’s pain. I beg Michael to be a bigger person and go—but no, he won’t do it. He can’t leave the past in the past. Furious, I file it away.

Dawn feels sorry for herself. She loves being a victim. That’s all she knows how to be, and she does it well. I’m not going to change her now, and I’m not going to try.

I am warm and accepting, but I have reached my limit.

A few days later, I watch her go blind…then into a coma. Bruce tells me to leave at 3 a.m. because I have a modeling job at 9 a.m. He tells me to go to the job and get on with my life. I want to stay and cry over Dawn. Instead I leave, and cry on my own.

Shortly afterwards, I got the phone call from my brother. My beautiful big sister was dead.

5

MR. MARVELOUS! AND ME—

HIS CHESHIRE CAT

When I met him, my junior year at Emerson College in Boston, he was Mr. Marvelous! Exclamation point included. Striking blue eyes, funny as hell, great smile, thick gorgeous brown curly hair, slim, the life of the party. He looked like a young Tom Hanks in Big, and still had hair. Little did I know that years later, after we married, he would become Mr. Marvelous…question mark.

August 6—I remember the date well. We were at a summer debate camp at MIT in Boston for 10 days. I fell for him immediately, and was finally alone with him in his room that night. He took the headband out of my long, blonde hair, ran his hands through it, and kissed me. I melted.

I can’t believe we’ve only known each other for a day, I said. It seems a lot longer.

He agreed. He told me my eyes were hypnotic. We spent every night together during camp, but didn’t have sex. One night he came into my room and snuggled with me. I was in heaven.

I called my cousin Karen and told her I found the man I would marry. Then I sang Amy Grant’s song How Can We See That Far again.

Somehow, I found out he had a girlfriend back in Baltimore. He broke up with her when he got home. I spent the rest of my Emerson years being obsessed with him. Summers in New Jersey were spent in the car or on the train to Baltimore on weekends. I was crazy about him. Then again, maybe I was just crazy.

He loved my big smile and called me his Cheshire Cat, after a Bruce Springsteen song. He assumed that because I was from New Jersey, I automatically loved Bruce Springsteen. I didn’t like his music at all—but eventually, the Boss grew on me. It took a guy from Baltimore to get me to appreciate Springsteen. Go figure. I could be thick-headed sometimes.

6

LOVE AND SUFFERING

The