Elimination Night

10

N for Yes



November

OKAY, SO IT SOUNDS ridiculous, I know—but I could hardly resist asking myself the question: Had I made friends with Bibi Vasquez? Had our conversation in the hallway of her Secret Mountain home marked the beginning of one of those fairytale, princess-and-the-pauper-style relationships—like the ones you see in those corny English movies, which always seem to end with some poofy-dressed royal making an unexpected visit for tea to a humble, chintz-stacked, semidetached house in Olde Yorkminster (as the gawping, woolly-hatted neighbors peer on)?

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t actually want Bibi to make an unexpected visit to my apartment. There was nowhere for her to sit, for a start. And the only thing I could offer her, foodwise, was old cheese. And then of course there was the issue of Mr. Zglagovvcini, with his incessant coughing and lethal bouts of flatulence…

If I was being honest with myself, however, I knew that friendship with Bibi was out of the question. Even if she wasn’t worth half a billion dollars, even if the LAPD didn’t close the street whenever she went to a restaurant, even if she wasn’t so busy, she had to schedule time with her kids via a global network of childcare logistics coordinators. Even ignoring all that, we’d still have nothing in common.

I like to deflect attention; Bibi wants as much of it as she can get. In high school I was Little Miss Bookworm (or “the freckled dorkworm” as one of the more talented bullies put it); Bibi was named Most Likely to Marry a Movie Star. And then of course there’s the age difference. Bibi is twenty years my senior: old enough to be my mother! Not that anyone would know this by looking at us. Indeed, like most females of a certain wealth level, Bibi has essentially been freeze-framed by cosmetic technology—and will almost certainly remain that way for the rest of her professional life, or at least until the next major upgrade, from which she might very well emerge having lost another half decade.

So why had she sent the Rolls-Royce to collect me? Just to give me her opinion of Joey? It was hard to think of any other reason. Unless… unless Bibi was so lonely and insecure—as her mom had suggested—that she needed to fill her house with anyone willing to give her their uninterrupted attention for seven hours. What a depressing thought. Still, it would have explained the presence of all those random, grinning sycophants, even if they were all distant cousins.

Whatever the case, any fantasy that I’d indulged in regarding my “special relationship” with Bibi came to an end a few weeks later, when it was time to start taping the city-to-city audition episodes of Project Icon. Our first stop, according to the calendar e-mailed to all members of staff, would be Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium in Houston. Now, this was of course the very first stage of the competition, to air in late January. And although no one expected it to get the ratings of the live shows at Greenlit Studios later in the season—they’re always more exciting because of the much narrower field of contestants, the telephone voting, plus the number of things that can go wrong while on air—it would be crucial in terms of establishing the relationships between the new judges.

“It’s all about camaraderie,” as Len kept telling me, as if I were one of those zoo keepers you see on the news, whose job is to make two depressed, morbidly obese pandas from China have sex with each other. “If those guys don’t loosen up on camera, we’re gonna end up with no ad-libs. And it’s ad-libs that make great TV, Billy the Kiddo.” (Yes, Len had now started to call me “Billy the Kiddo.”) I restrained myself from pointing out to him that his previous effort to get Bibi and Joey to comingle—the “judges’ lounge” at The Roundhouse—had done nothing but provide the crew with a better quality of sandwich to steal.

My first task toward achieving this let’s-all-pretend-to-be-friends goal: reserving the entire first-class cabin of an early morning American Airlines flight from LAX to Houston, due to leave the following Monday. I had even been loaned a cubicle at Zero Management on Sunset Boulevard—complete with workstation, headset, and telephone—to get it done. My plan was to put Joey and Bibi in seats 1A and 1F (the windows on either side), with their highest-tier assistants next to them, and Len, Ed Rossitto, Maria Herman-Bloch (along with a few other Rabbit executives) filling the row behind. Special nonalcoholic champagne would be arranged—I didn’t want Joey failing his pee test—as would a pair of former Icon runners-up to act as singing flight attendants. Cheesy, sure. But the panda-wrangler inside of me figured it might help to improve the mood. Meanwhile, I would be in the rear, behind the Curtain of Shame, my back against the bathroom wall. At least my champagne would be of the alcoholic variety.

None of this seemed particularly difficult. An easy way to start the season.

But, no. Nothing is ever easy on Project Icon.

When I called Bibi to confirm the arrangements—I had stupidly assumed that she might actually pick up the phone—I was put through to Teddy, who screamed with such force down the line, the receiver was practically vaporized in my hands. “BIBI VASQUEZ HASN’T FLOWN COMMERCIAL IN FIFTEEN YEARS, YOU DUMB F*ckING INTERN!” he began (impressively, his rage needed no time whatsoever to gain momentum). “WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT HER TO DO, SHITHEAD? MOVE BACK TO THE GHETTO? GIVE BLOW JOBS TO GUYS ON TENTH AVENUE?”

After the sound of plastic being forced to confront the most extreme laws of physics (did he actually keep a hammer by his desk?), the line hissed and went dead. “If you’d like to make a call,” said a disembodied female voice, “please hang up and try again. If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again…”

I stared at the phone.

Intern? Teddy really was a piece of work.

Bibi, I was informed via follow-up e-mail, would be taking her own jet to Houston. All by herself.

Cue a Joey problem.

“Look, Bill—Joey wants to go private, too,” huffed Mitch, barely five minutes later.

“Okay, Mitch,” I sighed. “Joey can take his jet. He can ride a camel to Houston for all I care. But we’re only paying expenses that are equal to the price of the first-class ticket.” This had been an order from Len, even though he’d already worked out a deal with Bibi to pay for her jet fuel, crew, and take-off/landing fees. Clearly this was unfair to Joey, but among the world’s many injustices, it ranked fairly low on my list of Things To Get Upset About.

“Joey doesn’t own a jet,” coughed Mitch.

“Well that settles it, then,” I laughed (a little condescendingly). “He’ll have to go first class.”

Now it was Mitch’s turn to detonate. “No, Bill: You’ll GET him a jet. Rent one. Borrow one. Steal one. Whatever it is you’ve gotta do, he gets the same as Bibi.”

Second hang-up of the day.

And that was the end of the negotiations. Bibi went on her own plane; Joey went on a chartered one. If they’d looked out of their windows at thirty-seven thousand feet, they could have waved to each other. So much for camaraderie. As for the executives, they flew American Airlines, as planned. Meanwhile, me and rest of the staff were rebooked on cheaper tickets, the kind with multiple layovers—Las Vegas, Phoenix, Albuquerque—to at least give the appearance of trying to stay within budget. It took us fourteen hours to get there, at a cost to the Rabbit network of $103.47 each.

The tab for Bibi and Joey’s flights? $734,677.27.

That, I swear, is no exaggeration.

I should probably explain that Houston wasn’t going to be a normal casting call, largely because of the long delay in signing the judges’ contracts. In fact, to keep production on schedule, the entire Project Icon crew had already been to Houston over the summer, to get pretty much everything in the can apart from the scenes involving the panel. Not that the viewers at home would ever know the difference. After the credits sequence, there’d be a long, swooping shot from a helicopter over Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium, revealing ten thousand or so screaming teenagers in the parking lot outside, waving and jostling their signs (all this taped back in August); and then, after a few zany interviews, tearful backstories, and scene-setters from inside the grounds (also taped in August), the screen would cut seamlessly to contestants entering the judges’ audition suite, one by one—as if it were all happening on the very same day—to do their thing.

In reality, of course, the auditions in front of the judges would be taking place months after the original cattle call. What’s more, of the ten thousand contestants who’d originally showed up, only a hundred or so now remained, because most of the vetting had already been done by yours truly, along with a hastily assembled team of my fellow junior producers/office punching bags from Rabbit, Zero Management, and Invasion Media. Again, this wouldn’t be clear from watching the show. It would look as though the panel had sat through the entire thing—what troupers!—when in fact they’d skipped the whole seething-mass-of-humanity part of the competition altogether. In fact, they wouldn’t even have to go near Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium, because their scenes would be shot twenty miles north, in the penthouse suite of an eight-star downtown hotel. (The only issue with this being continuity: Some of the ditzier contestants would inevitably forget to wear the same clothes for both shoots, meaning I’d have to take them shopping for the closest match possible. Which I knew from experience could be infuriating, especially if they’d turned up to the first audition in costume—try finding an inflatable banana suit in a Houston mall at eight a.m.)

As for the original cattle call: Hell.

It goes like this: Day One, you get to the stadium at five a.m., and there are twice as many people lined up in the parking lot than can actually fit inside. That’s because those ten thousand contestants bring another sixty thousand friends, pets, and family members. Most have camped out all night, making the place look like a postapocalypse refugee camp. And only about—oh—a dozen of them are talented. As in, could-be-famous talented. The rest are either delusional, in it for a laugh, or willing to do anything for attention. Hence the stripping Benjamin Franklin on a unicycle, and the woman who turned up to sing a duet with her parrot. And of course a few are genuinely deranged. It’s scary, actually, when you think about the dozen or so Project Icon suicides, including that guy who broke into Nigel Crowther’s house, left a demo of his album on the kitchen table, then hung himself from the upstairs balcony using a microphone cord.

Day One is the easiest, though, because all the contestants really have to do is line up for wristbands—in return for which they must show some ID and sign a wad of paperwork, promising they won’t post any YouTube videos, tweets, blog entries, et cetera, or even tell anyone if they make it through to the next round, as this would destroy all the tension when the show finally airs. Day Two is when things get seriously intense. In total there are probably twenty prejudges, and we sit behind long tables positioned in the center of the arena, separated by black curtains. You feel like some exotic creature in a cage on display at the county fair. And what with the background noise—a stadium full of kids reciting lyrics, trying to find their pitch, strumming guitars—it’s a struggle to hear your own voice, nevermind the finer qualities of the four thousandth rendition you’ve heard in one morning of Don’t Worry, Be Happy. (If I am ever given the option to erase a song permanently from history, this will be my choice.)

The first round of auditions is done in bulk—six contestants at a time. They line up in front of you, looking generally terrified and desperate, and take it in turns to sing. You’re allowed to give them thirty seconds each, maximum. A lot of them refuse to stop, thinking that the more they go on, the better their opportunity for convincing you. Others are only too happy to give up and forget it ever happened, as if they’re doing it just to say they’ve done it; to tick it off a list—the problem being that if you don’t commit, you don’t stand a chance, as with most things in life. When they’re all done, you ask each one to approach the table, and you either cut off their wristband, which means they’re out and have to be escorted immediately from the premises, or you give them a bright orange ticket, which grants them entry to the “Talent Lounge” where they await the next stage.

If it wasn’t for the security team hired by Icon, I’m pretty sure the prejudges wouldn’t make it out alive. You’re spat at, punched, kissed, bribed, threatened, flashed… and nearly crushed by the hugs of those who make it through. All the while, Len is yelling orders into your earpiece. “Guy in yellow shirt, Bill. Three o’clock. Yes, him. That’s a non-sponsored drink he’s holding. GET IT OUT OF HERE. He’s… sorry, what’s that?—It’s a, oh, it’s a medical drink? Well, for the love of God, Bill, POUR IT INTO A SPONSORED CUP, JUST GET THE LEPROSY JUICE OR WHATEVER IT IS HE NEEDS TO STOP HIS BALLS FALLING OFF AWAY FROM THE CAMERA, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH MONEY OUR DEAL WITH FREAKY-COLA IS WORTH? JESUS CHRIST ALIVE, BILL, GET A F*ckING GRIP.”

(Five minutes after this particular rant, I saw Len hold an impromptu prayer gathering with a group of auditioning choristers from a Baptist church in Biloxi, Mississippi.)

I probably don’t even have to point out that the contestants who make it into the Talent Lounge aren’t necessarily any good. That’s why their tickets are stamped with a secret code, almost impossible to find unless you know where to look.

“Think of when you book a flight somewhere and try to change the time at the last minute,” as Len explained to me. “The first thing the call-center operator will say to you is, ‘Oh, you’ve got the wrong code for that.’ Only you didn’t know the code existed when you bought the ticket—and even if you had done, you wouldn’t have known what it meant. The idea, Bill, is to confuse you. And we do the same. That’s why I need you to give a code to everyone who gets through. This week, we’re going to use N for a definite ‘yes, they’ll go on to Hollywood’; X for a ‘maybe’; and Y for a categorical ‘no, but the kid looks like a crier or a psycho, so roll the cameras.’ And remember: NEVER explain this to anyone.”

I nodded, wondering how much longer my soul had left to live.

“Another thing,” Len went on, breezily. “If someone has a good gimmick—y’know, dying kid, mom in prison, amusing facial tic—put a star in the top right corner.”