Elimination Night

17

Lion’s Den



January

LAS VEGAS WEEK WAS a relatively new thing for Project Icon. Until season ten, the Final Fifteen had always been selected at Greenlit Studios in Los Angeles, a week before the live shows began. And then… well, Len had bought a house in Las Vegas. Or rather, he’d bought a sixteen-bedroom mansion with its own golf course, moat, drawbridge, and private volcano, ten minutes from the Strip. I have no idea how much he paid for the place, but it hardly mattered: Four months later, the Great Recession began, and the market for dictator-grade real estate featuring simulated lava eruptions became somewhat less attractive. For a few difficult weeks, Len spent a lot of time on the phone, using phrases like “negative amortization” and “complete f*cking obliteration.” And that’s when Vegas Week was born—with Len declaring his extraordinary foresight in purchasing a residence near the chosen location, large enough to accommodate both himself and “key members of the staff” (i.e., Len’s Lovelies), while also allowing him to exploit the considerable advantages of a business-use tax write-off.

I could hardly believe he’d pulled it off—until I found out that Sir Harold Killoch, Two Svens, and Ed Rossitto also owned properties in the same bankrupt development.

The cost of Las Vegas Week to Rabbit must have been immense: a hundred and twenty airfares and hotel rooms for the contestants alone, plus food and other transportation, not including those very same costs for the crew, and on top of all that the rental charge for the venue—a hangar-like conference facility at the back of the Bikini Atoll Resort & Casino (known for detonating a “replica fifteen-megaton hydrogen bomb” in its glass-domed, hyperoxygenated lobby at fortyminute intervals throughout the day, as waiters dressed as Pacific Islanders handed out Chain Reaction Martinis from the Crater Lagoon Bar & Grill).

Expenses aside, however, our annual trip to Las Vegas marked a crucial point in the season. The circus was over. The real competition had begun. Take the set, for example: The contestants performed on an actual stage, with the judges’ table placed on a dais behind the orchestra pit—just like the arrangement at Greenlit Studios (only without the studio audience). In addition, there was a separate location—known officially as The Decision Room—into which each contestant was ushered on the last day of filming and informed whether or not they’d made it through to the live shows in Hollywood. This obviously didn’t end well for most them: With only fifteen places available, the success rate was barely twelve percent—a fact Wayne Shoreline took great pleasure in repeating at every opportunity, especially when a contestant seemed close to breaking down.

The Decision Room was actually nothing of the sort: It was a giant steel cage, borrowed from the Paradise Bros. Circus—they used it for transporting lions—suspended via hooks from the ceiling. The only way to get inside was via a custom-made staircase, barely visible through the green-tinted fog that billowed from a rack of theatrical smoke machines. (Len had wanted the set to look “futuristic, like something from one of those Schwarzenegger movies,” by which I presumed he meant The Running Man, in which a sadistic game-show host presides over the hunting and killing of his contestants.) Adding to the general science-fiction theme, the cage was equipped with a white, egg-shaped sofa, several transparent blobs of plastic (of no obvious purpose) and a lonely, straight-backed chair, which appeared to have been sprayed with glue, then dipped in glitter. The latter was of course for the potential finalists, and had been modified under Len’s orders to make one leg two inches shorter than the others. The idea was to ensure as much discomfort as possible—although I suspected Len also secretly wanted the chair to break, ideally with one of the more obese contestants sitting in it. Such moments of shame were Len’s favorite kind of ad-lib.

The format of Las Vegas Week was fairly straightforward: Each contestant would perform an Elvis classic—in keeping with the location—followed by a song of their own choosing. At the end of the second song, the judges would whisper to each other and take notes, but make no official comments—these would come later in The Decision Room. Or as the crew had renamed it, The Lion’s Den.

Bonnie was one of the very first on stage. Although it had now been a month since San Diego, no one had forgotten that epic audition—or how it had transformed Joey into the de facto star of season thirteen. Bibi certainly hadn’t forgotten. That’s why she’d been trying to out-care Joey whenever possible. After Cassie Turner’s performance of “The Internationale,” for example, she’d spoken at length, in a tremulous whisper, about how she too wanted to unite the human race—the effect being only slightly undermined by her apparent belief that Bruce Springsteen had written the song. In the same vein, she had wept for a minute and a half over Mia Pelosi’s rendition of “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That),” and had climbed up on stage to embrace Little Nugg after his yodel-based interpretation of “Imagine,” declaring that “Isaac Hayes would be incredibly proud of how you honored his legacy.”

Bibi wasn’t done yet with Operation Sensitive, however.

Oh, no. Not even close.

I knew something was up when Bonnie’s Elvis number was switched at the last minute. She was supposed to be singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love”—another heartbreaker—but Len somehow convinced her that “Suspicious Minds” was a “better fit.” This clearly wasn’t true. Plus, Bonnie couldn’t remember the words. As a result, her performance was borderline unwatchable. She missed her cues. She improvised the verses. She searched for, but never quite located, the key. And it shook her confidence so badly, she could barely make it through her own choice of song, a reprieve of “I’ll Stand by You.” When the ordeal was finally over, you could feel relief coursing through the room like a shot of post-op morphine. As instructed, however, the judges didn’t say a word. They just made vague hmm noises and hung their heads, unable to pretend even to talk among themselves or jot in their Project Icon notepads.

Being one of the first to sing, Bonnie was also one of the first to enter The Lion’s Den at the end of the week. Now, at this point I didn’t think there was any serious doubt she would make it into the Final Fifteen. Len’s meddling with her song choice had seemed like an obvious ploy to create drama, to convince the audience that the very best contestant of the auditions round might be eliminated before the live shows began. But I wasn’t fooled: Why would Project Icon get rid of a performer almost guaranteed to bring in higher ratings (most of the supermarket tabloids had already featured her on their covers), thus allowing Rabbit to charge more for its advertising? Also—Bibi would clearly never let this happen. Her job now was to out-care Joey, a mission that wouldn’t exactly be helped if she voted to send home the beautiful and talented wife of an injured American serviceman.

Still, something didn’t feel right.

I could tell.

Moments before Bonnie was due to enter The Lion’s Den, I saw Teddy, Len, and Bibi huddling by the lighting desk. They were discussing something in great detail. Teddy was upset. Len was pointing. Bibi walked away, arms folded, then returned, scowling. More talk. Then whatever it was they’d been haggling over seemed to be resolved. Bibi took her place in the cage, Teddy disappeared, and Len made a long, whispered phone call.

Five minutes passed… Len was still on the phone. Another five minutes. Snorts of impatience now from the crew. This was getting ridiculous. Finally, Len hung up. Instead of getting back to the shoot, however, he called Joey over. They had a short but violently animated conversation. Joey seemed pissed. Len seemed pissed, too. Then Joey called over Mitch, who seemed even more pissed. Mitch ended up doing that whispery-shouty thing, arms flying about all over the place. And then—at last—some kind of peace was reached.

Mitch huffed off somewhere. Joey returned to The Lion’s Den with his fellow judges.

Lights down.

Mic check.

Positions.

And-a-three. And-a-two. And-a—

Now: Bonnie climbing the stairs to the cage. Anxious music. Close-up as Bonnie reaches the top. She looks sensational: red shoes, gray pencil dress, hair in a layered ponytail. Extraordinary to think she’s just nineteen years old, that she has willingly dedicated the rest of her life to a man who will never walk or talk again. She gives a little wave to the judges—it’s too awkward for kisses or hugs in The Lion’s Den. Then she sits. Rebalances herself. Tips back. Tips forward. Looks down at the chair, laughs nervously, and then, with leg muscles pulled tight, she holds herself steady.

“It wasn’t your strongest performance, babe,” begins Joey. “But like I said the other day—you’re an angel. And whatever happens here, I don’t want you to stop singing. Okay?”

Bonnie nods, gulps. “It was that song,” she explains. “I shouldn’t have let them—”

“It’s all about song choice, man,” JD interrupts, pointlessly. “You gotta pick the right song.”

“But I didn—”

“Dude, you had the Boo, but not the Ka.”

“We love ya, Bonnie,” adds Joey. “Just remember that. Always remember that, please. Some things in life—as you know—are just out of our hands. And you gotta let ’em be.”

A bluff is coming: This much is obvious to anyone who’s ever watched Icon before. The strongest contestant gets negative signals. The judges look weary, depressed. They shake their heads a lot. They smile like it’s all for the best. And then—how could this be happening?—the awful sentence begins: “I’m so sorry, honey, but…” Cut to the break. Everything seems lost. But it’s not. It’s just a bluff. When the commercials are done, it’s back to the studio, and the verdict resumes: “I’m sorry, honey, but… YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SEE US AGAIN IN HOLLYWOOD! YOU’RE THROUGH TO THE NEXT ROUND!”

So predictable.

In the monitors, Joey and JD look weary, depressed—just as expected. Now JD is shaking his head, as if preparing for the worst. Here it comes. Here it comes.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” says Bibi, attempting to smile like it’s all-for-the-best. “But…”

Bonnie whimpers.

The bluff is coming.

Wait.

Wait…

“But… you’re out,” says Bibi, her face revealing no emotion whatsoever. “I’m sorry.”

I’m choking. Everyone’s choking. The room is clean out of oxygen. This surely isn’t real.

Why would they be doing this?

“You’re going home,” Bibi confirms, almost like she doesn’t even believe it herself. “This is the end.”

A photograph of Staff Sergeant Mike Donovan now fills the monitors. He’s looking strong and handsome before his injury. Then another photograph, this time of Bonnie and her husband on their wedding day: Bonnie is kneeling beside the wheelchair, clutching her husband’s only remaining arm. Mikey isn’t here today, thank God—his condition means he can’t fly. So he’ll have to watch this scene in February, with the rest of America. If he can bear it, of course. Now music is playing in the studio: “Last Post” bugle call. “He’s injured, not dead, you morons,” I’m thinking. Then back to Bonnie in The Lion’s Den. She’s holding it together. She stands up, thanks the judges in turn—each gets a lipless nudge on the cheek—and then she leaves the cage, managing a smile as she goes.

Wayne Shoreline is waiting: “Tell me why you feel like you’ve failed your brutally injured husband.”

“I don’t—”

“It’s okay, Bonnie,” he says. “It’s all over. Let it out. This is a tragedy for you, right? How does this compare to the day you heard the news from Afghanistan?”

She begins to respond, but up in The Lion’s Den, something is happening.

What on earth is that… noise?

Bonnie stops talking.

Bibi, who had seemed so composed a few moments earlier, is making a terrible, pitiful sound, her blue dress crumpling around her like a punctured birthday balloon. Her hands are shaking. Her face is a flash flood of tears and mascara. A robotic-arm camera nosedives overhead for a better angle. If Bibi’s faking this, she’s doing a phenomenal job. Now her whole body is convulsing. She covers her face. Joey looks at her in bafflement, then turns to JD. They both shrug. Bibi’s wailing intensifies, so Joey tries to comfort her, but the effort is wary, halfhearted.

“She’s so brave!” Bibi is protesting. “She doesn’t, uh, uh, DESERVE this!” JD is edging into the action now: With some trepidation, his left arm creeps across Bibi’s shoulder.

Meanwhile: The sobs are getting louder, thicker, faster… wetter. “This wasn’t my decision!” she yelps, hugging a pillow. “I can’t believe we did this! I can’t… uh, uh… go on.”

She goes limp. Literally—WHUMP!—face down.

Another camera swings overhead.

“Er, guys?” says JD, looking at the camera. Everyone’s thinking the same thing: What the hell’s he doing? First rule of television, never acknowledge the camera.

“Jesus!” yells Joey, also breaking the rule. “Can we get some help here? We got a screamer!”

KLUNK.

Houselights come on. Everything stops. Then a blast of cool air as the emergency doors swing open. From behind them come loud, confident voices. “Where is she?” Boots on metal. A uniformed ambulance crew is now climbing the stairs to the suspended cage. I glimpse an oxygen tank, a stretcher, a survival blanket. Joey and JD are told to stand aside. Then a thick palm over the camera. For a moment: Nothing in the monitors but calloused flesh and a dirty wedding ring. Another camera ducks into the fray, almost cracking Joey in the temple. Len tries to stop it—“SWITCH THOSE BLOODY THINGS OFF!”—but he’s too late: Joey has already drop-kicked the telescoping lens, cracking the glass.

Now sirens outside, as the fire department arrives—all of it, judging by the noise. The Las Vegas Police Department isn’t far behind. I no longer feel as though I’m on the set of a TV show. I feel as though I’m at the scene of a natural disaster. A steady beat of rotors above is making the walls vibrate. More sirens, at hearing-loss volume. As for Bibi—she’s no longer visible amid the uniformed personnel. They’ve picked her up and are carrying her down the stairs in a well-rehearsed sixteen-legged shuffle. People are yelling, pointing, running in all directions—with the exception of one man, who’s standing right across from me, surveying the chaos while talking calmly into his phone.

It’s… Teddy. Is he dictating something? I move closer but he hangs up, passes the phone to an assistant, and with a tiny smirk, thrusts his hands deep in his pockets.

He seems amused. No, satisfied.

I look around for Bonnie, but she’s gone.