Elimination Night

12

Snake Break!



I SUPPOSE THERE’S AT least one thing to be said for filming a TV show this way: It’s quick. Len makes drama as efficiently as General Motors makes cars. In fact, it takes just three and a half minutes to “process” a contestant in the judges’ audition suite. Enter. Sing. A few words from the judges. Yes or no. Then on to the next. (The yeses are told, “You’re going to Vegas, baby!” referring to the last round of the prerecorded shows, held in Las Vegas, where the contestants are filtered yet again before the live episodes finally air. The nos are given any number of euphemisms for “you suck,” including the JD classic “you’re not ready yet.”)

And how did Joey and Bibi do?

Well, they were cordial, at least. And if they were bored, they at least disguised it, unlike Nigel Crowther during season twelve, when he barely kept his eyes open during the auditions—on the few occasions he bothered to show up at all.

Len’s fears about camaraderie proved well-founded, though. It wasn’t so much bad as just nonexistent. Sure, every so often Joey would get mad about the vandalism of a beloved song—thus providing the highlight of the day’s filming—but for the most part he was uncharacteristically inoffensive and uncritical. What had happened to the piano-hugging Joey from the sanity checks? As for Bibi, she was an even bigger disappointment. She didn’t even seem to be looking at the podium half the time. In fact, if one person held it all together during that first afternoon, it was JD, with his reassuring “booya-ka-kas” and genuine efforts to offer musicianly advice. Without him, the footage would have been a write-off.

The biggest problem, as far as I could tell, was the stop-start nature of the takes, which meant the panel never gained momentum. The interruptions came in three forms. First: Bibi’s makeup. It seemed that every other minute, she halted production to call in the so-called Glam Squad—i.e., her five stylists, who formed a silent, diligent circle around her, like surgeons preparing to remove an organ. And every time Bibi called in the Glam Squad, Joey felt obligated to do the same—only he had the Mojo Squad, which consisted basically of Mitch and a powder puff. The second cause of delays: Wardrobe changes. Bibi went through three in a day, a number exceeded only by Teddy, whose suits changed by the hour. Fortunately, Joey didn’t feel the need to compete in this regard. But Joey disrupted the proceedings in another, more serious way: Snake breaks.

As in, “Okay, folks, gotta shake the snake!”

I swear, Joey took a snake break between every contestant. Either his prostrate was shot, I concluded, or his bladder was the size of a peanut. And of course it didn’t help that he was getting through a gallon of Kangen water every other minute.

No one on the crew dared complain. After all, Bibi and Joey were saving all our jobs—or that was the idea, anyway. In reality, I can’t have been the only one to wonder how long it would take for Sir Harold to cancel the show when he saw our first day’s work.

It was Day Two when Len finally lost his patience. We were four hours behind schedule thanks to snake breaks, outfit changes, and the Glam/Mojo Squads, the contestants had been uniformly boring, and it was time for the judges to deliver their opinions on yet another depressingly average rendition of “Rolling in the Deep.” Only Bibi wasn’t concentrating. Again. She was just staring blankly into the middle distance—which meant that if we ever used the footage, some poor editor in a darkened bunker would have to make sure she was cut out of the shot. Not an easy task, given her regal position at the center of the judges’ table.

“Bill,” said Len, over the headset. “Follow Bibi’s line of sight. Find out what the f*ck she’s looking at. This is ridiculous. I’ve seen zombies make more eye contact.”

Len’s order wasn’t as straightforward as it sounded. To see where Bibi was looking meant standing directly behind her, but this was impossible because: a) there was barely any room between the back of her chair and the window, and b) I couldn’t appear on camera. So I crouched down and waddled along on my haunches to the far edge of the judges’ table, then backed up as much as I could—making sure I was well out of the shot—to see if I could approximate her viewing angle.

My leg muscles felt as though they were about to snap.

“Dude, for me, that was just okay for you,” JD was saying. “It’s wasn’t the full booya-ka-ka.”

“Please,” the contestant begged. “I know I can do this.”

“I thought it was all right, man,” countered Joey. “Good job. Over to you, Bibi. Your call.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Lovecraft,” the contestant wept. “Ms. Vasquez—please! Oh, please!”

“NOW!!!” screamed Len into my headset, making me almost fall backward into a light reflector. “WHAT THE F*ck IS SHE LOOKING AT, BILL?”

I tried to follow Bibi’s gaze, but a light was blocking the way.

“Hold on,” I hissed.

“Now, Bill, now.”

“There’s something in the—”

“Jesus Christ. Can’t you do anything?”

“Arrgh!” I’d knelt awkwardly on something hard and spiked, and pain was now coursing through my knee and into my leg, which was already sore from walking on my haunches. And then, in my agony, I glimpsed it: a clear path from Bibi’s eyes in the direction they were currently pointing. If I could just move… my other leg… yes, yes… watch out for the… good, good… a little more…

“I’ve got a lock,” I whispered. “Repeat, I’ve got a…”

“TELL ME WHAT SHE’S LOOKING AT.”

Bibi cleared her throat to deliver her verdict. Then—as always—she paused.

That blank stare again.

Now I was seeing exactly what she was seeing: the contestant trembling on the podium; the vast, glossy billboard of the sponsors’ wall behind him; the dense, tangled thicket of cameras, lights, mic stands, and monitors that loomed to either side; the black-T-shirted crew members, crouched down like me or flattened against the walls. What the hell was she focused on? I adjusted my angle by a tenth of a degree. Another tenth. C’mon, Bill, look. Look harder. There! Was that…? Yes, in the blackness beyond the cameras. Just to the left of the sponsors’ wall. A glint from a pair of eyeglasses. A figure on tiptoe. A man. Standing there, motionless. No… not motionless. Holding something up. He was holding up a—

“Oh my God,” I said, but I was drowned out by Bibi.

“It’s a no from me, honey,” she blurted, at last. “I’m sorry. You’re just not ready.”

“You’ll never believe this,” I hissed into the headset. “Teddy is holding up cue cards.”

We broke for lunch in an adjoining room, where the hotel staff had set up a temporary canteen. I’d learned the previous day that these lunches were like the first day of high school all over again, with a rigid hierarchy of seating. The popular kids were the judges, who were allocated a table all of their own. Of secondary coolness was the table for Len and his “Lovelies,” which included two blonde Rabbit publicists, and some of the better-looking assistants. Then there were the groupings of assistant producers and the like—i.e., me and my fellow underlings—followed by hair and makeup, lighting and sound, and then the rest of the crew.

Today, however, was different: Joey, Mitch, and Len were sitting together, and when I walked in the room, they called me over and invited me to join them.

This can’t be good news, I thought.

“Before you ask, yes, I’m hungry,” said Joey, by way of explaining the spread in front of him. It included a dozen oysters, half a cheeseburger, some fries, a bento box of sushi, and a whole grilled salmon. At Joey’s table, I soon discovered, there was no menu. You just asked for whatever came to mind when you sat down.

“Where on earth do you put it all, Joey?” asked Len. “You’ve got a ten-inch waist.”

“Overactive thyroid,” Joey mumbled, through a mouthful of bun. “Plus ADD. I can eat anything.”

“Incredible,” Len marveled.

“You should have seen him on cocaine,” offered Mitch, glumly.

Joey stood up. “Don’t let them clear this,” he instructed, gesturing to his plate with one hand while using the other to push half a roll of sushi into his still bun-filled mouth. “I’m sooo f*ckin’ hungry, man. But I gotta siphon the python. I’ll be right back.”

With that, he rose from the table and stumbled off in the direction of the bathroom, his twelfth visit of the day. (I knew this because the crew was now keeping an official tally.)

“That man has the smallest bladder of anyone I’ve ever met,” Len declared. “Can’t you get him a new one, Mitch? We have to stop every three f*cking minutes for it.”

“Ha-ha,” sneered Mitch. “I think you’ve got a more urgent problem to deal with, don’t you?”

I looked at Len. He took a swig of water. “It’s okay,” he said, when he was done. “Mitch knows.”

“So what are we going to do?” I asked.

“We?” said Len, feigning shock. “Shouldn’t the question be ‘what are you going to do?’”

“Me?”

“Forgive me,” said Len, in his most condescending tone. “I must have mistaken you for Bibi’s newest little friend. You know, the one she sends for by dispatching the very lovely David in a white Rolls-Royce Phantom to her crappy little apartment in Little Russia. I could have sworn that was you, Bill. Clearly I was wrong.”

“How did you—”

“I know everything.”

“But it wasn’t like that. We’re not fri—”

“You need to talk to her,” said Len, pointing his fork at me. “I don’t care how you do it, just do it quick. And don’t f*cking upset her, okay? But I want Teddy off the set, no excuses, and this bullshit with the cue cards has got to stop. I’ll be amazed if we can use a single contestant from Houston, based on what I saw today. It’s a joke. She’s your mate—have a quiet word. Oh, and this didn’t come from me. If you so much as mention my name, I’ll deny all knowledge. Understood?”

I stared back at Len numbly. I had no more appetite. I wanted to leave the room and never come back. Before I could mount any kind of protest, however, there was a commotion outside in the lobby. Loud male voices—possibly security guards. Sobbing. A walkie-talkie hissed and crackled. And then one of Len’s Lovelies—a publicist named Dana—entered the room in a state of obvious distress. Flushed from walking at top speed in heels, she made her way directly to our table. Sensing trouble, Len wiped his mouth and began to get to his feet.

Now I could hear sirens. Distant, but unmistakable.

Holy sh—

“It’s Joey,” announced Dana, breathlessly. “We just found him in the bathroom… with, uh…”

“SHIT!” yelled Mitch, jumping up with enough force to make his chair topple backward. “Did he have the crack pipe? That piece of—I told him, dammit, I told him!”

“He didn’t have a crack pipe,” said Dana, firmly.

The sirens were getting closer.

“Huh?” Mitch looked bewildered.

Pandemonium in the lobby.

“It’s worse than that, Mitch,” said Dana.

The sirens were right outside the hotel now. Car doors slamming. More walkie-talkies.

“He didn’t have the crack pipe?” Mitch had turned gray. He didn’t understand.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“He had…”

“WHAT?”

“He had Miss Idaho.”

Mitch doubled over, winded—as though he’d just been punched in the gut—and then tried to make a run for the door. With considerable effort, Len held him back.

“You mean… the contestant?” I asked. “The girl with the ‘I Da Hoe’ T-shirt?”

“Well, it turns out she is,” Dana confirmed. “Unfortunately, her dad doesn’t quite see it that way. He says she’s his little angel. There’s… there’s a lot of blood.”