Elimination Night

22

Don’t Say We Didn’t Warn You



March

“ARE YOU READY YET?” I asked the brass telephone.

“Hold on,” came the muffled reply.

“What’s taking so long?”

“Is this gonna be on TV?”

“No.”

“So there are no cameras out there?”

“No cameras. You’re a contestant in a singing competition, remember—not a makeover show.”

“You’re promising me this isn’t going to be on TV?”

“Mia,” I said, heavily. “For the ten thousandth time: This is not going to be on TV. Please, let’s get this over with. It’s uncomfortable in here, and hot as hell. Can you open the hatch?”

Finally, Mia Pelosi hung up the receiver. Then a heavy scraping noise, as a bolt slid out of its metal casing.

The hatch opened.

“Ooooh…” I said, peering through the latticed grille. “That’s, uh… wow. That’s kinda…”

We were in a confessional booth—a real confession booth, fashioned from carved oak, the panels so distressed by age they had turned almost black. It had been salvaged from the burnt wreckage of a church up in Santa Barbara (or so went the story), shipped down to West Hollywood, and then converted into a novelty dressing room by the owners of Les Couilles En Mer, an erotic-themed boutique on Melrose and Crescent Heights. I’d brought Mia down here between rehearsals—Len had lent us his chauffeur-driven Jaguar for the occasion—to shop for new stage outfits. After Mia, I would do the same for Cassie Turner (more of a challenge, given her preference for dreads and general hobo-wear) and then Jimmy Nugget, and so on.

Under normal circumstances, of course, the contestants’ two hundred dollar per episode clothing allowance wouldn’t have been enough to buy so much as a single vagina-print T-shirt from this place. (The vaginas are tiny and pink, making them appear at first glance to be a vintage floral pattern.) Today was different, however. Today, as a reward for surviving three elimination nights since the live shows began, the dozen singers who remained in the competition had been presented with a two-thousand-dollar Les Couilles En Mer gift certificate.

The real reason for this? Len had been appalled by their fashion choices to date. “These kids are supposed to be pop stars, not sales assistants at Best-bloody-Buy!” he’d yelled, during a staff meeting. The vouchers were therefore designed to encourage more daring outfits, especially for the girls—the best looking of whom by far was the pale yet delicate Mia Pelosi, with her shiny black, just-out-of-bed bangs, and those sad, brown, sorry-about-last-night eyes. For all her hotness, however, Mia had a dress sense that was unusually conservative—a result, I assumed, of her years in the Metropolitan Opera. Len was determined to change that. He wanted some flesh. Yes… with the ratings still at all-time lows, and Sir Harold due back any moment, things were getting seriously desperate.

So there I was… behind the curtain in a former box of repentance, on the sinner’s side. In the priest’s compartment, meanwhile, was Mia, twirling in front of the open hatch. (When the grille was covered, the booth’s oak panels were thick enough to make conversation impossible, hence the antique two-way telephone system.)

“Tell me,” said Mia, her right arm rising defensively over her chest. “Is it too… slutty?”

“Nooo,” I reassured, unconvincingly. “It’s just…” I looked again at the purple sleeveless dress, split to within a millimeter of the crotch to reveal a long, milky (and slightly bruised) left leg. The split was provocative, that was for sure. And yet it was nothing compared with the suicidal free fall of the neckline, which left enough of Mia’s surprisingly large breasts on display to put the average male imagination out of business for the duration of “The Power of Love,” her first song choice of the night.

“It’s funny,” said Mia, looking down at herself. “In the opera, I was the trash from New Jersey. Those snooty f*cks were always trying to improve me, turn me into one of them—like I was Eliza Doolittle or somethin’. Guess it must have worked. I’ve never worn anything like this in my life. I mean, it’s beautiful, but—”

“Look, Mia,” I said. “The dress is…”

“What?”

Now I noticed the transparent platform heels that completed the outfit. Oh, what the hell, I thought.

Exhaling loudly: “It’s perfect.”

All right, yes… I know… but what else could I say? Len had appointed me chaperone for the “wardrobe-enhancement” trips to Les Couilles En Mer on the sole condition that I encourage sluttiness. Or as he’d instructed: “I want every single guy who’s watching the show tonight to have a T-Rex vertebra of a boner in his pants when those girls walk on stage. I swear to God, Bill, if you bring me back any of them wearing boyfriend jeans and/or hiking boots, you’ll be out of a job faster than you can fix yourself another bowl of organic granola.”

“I don’t like granola,” I protested.

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” he sneered. “You’re the reason why I tried to buy stock in Cinnabon.”

A*shole.

As for the men: Len didn’t seem to care what they wore—the exception being Jimmy Nugget. “Make sure he stays more John Wayne, less Jack Twist,” he’d ordered. “The dumbest dad in Cow Town might not realize his boy is yodeling for the other team, so to speak, but the last thing we want is a million preteen girls suddenly realizing that their First Big Crush is more into Justin Bieber than they are.”

“C’mon, Len,” I said. “Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he’s going to start shopping for… tutus.”

“You’re not seriously going to give me this speech are you, Bill?” sighed Len, wearily.

“I’m just saying that—”

“We’re not talking about a gay librarian here, Little Miss NPR. We’re talking about an unusually promiscuous young fellow who likes to strut around on stage wearing leather chaps while yodeling. I think my concerns are perfectly justified.”

“But—”

“JUST KEEP AN EYE ON HIM.”

The “wardrobe-enhancement” trips to Les Couilles En Mer weren’t my only chaperoning duties, now that season thirteen was fully underway. Not by a long shot. Every week, for example, I had to take the contestants back and forth to the so-called Icon Mansion, billed as the “luxury residence in the Hollywood Hills where our finalists live during their time on the show.” It was nothing of the sort, of course: The Icon Mansion was an advertiser-sponsored set over at The Lot, filled with aspirational products. As for the exterior shots, which showed a French Normandy-style château (fish-eye view from the driveway, speeded-up walking tour through the hallways and garden, aerial swoop over the rooftop spires), these were taken from stock footage, supplied by a local real-estate company. In truth, the contestants lived in a Motel 6 between Highland and the 101 Freeway.

Icon Mansion aside, I was also responsible for taking the Final Twelve to their mandatory consultations with various lawyers, accountants, and shrinks on the Zero Management payroll—this being one of Two Svens’ more paternalistic initiatives, although it also served another purpose, in that it fulfilled Zero Management’s legal obligation to disclose and explain the hundreds, if not thousands, of ways in which the contestants were being reamed from every direction. The meetings were known as the Don’t-Say-We-Didn’t-Warn-You sessions.

The worst of these was the “contract workshop” with Zero Management’s legal team. One by one, the contestants walked into that room with their lives ahead of them… and one by them, they emerged, silent and trembling, their lives now wholly owned subsidiaries of the Big Corporation. Escorting those clueless teenagers into that room was like throwing newborn bunnies into a tiger reserve. Still, I soon learned that it was the smart ones who shut up and went along with everything, because they understood the politics of the situation. They were unknown. They hadn’t sold a single record, music download, concert ticket, or T-shirt. And without Project Icon, they had no means of achieving fame beyond the near-impossible odds of going viral on YouTube. Negotiation wasn’t even a factor. To negotiate, you need something the other side wants, that it can’t get cheaper someplace else. Contestants don’t have that in their favor.

It’s the whole point of them.

Of all the Final Twelve, only Jimmy Nugget put up any serious resistance. Not that he did any of the complaining himself, of course. No, that was taken care of by his not-actually-so-dumb dad, Big Nugg, who had already shouldered his way into pretty much every meeting involving his son. (You’d glance behind you, and there he’d be, sweating and fussing, putting up his hand every other minute to ask a question.) Big Nugg described reading through his son’s ninety-three page contract as “like feelin’ all the flames in hell a-lickin’ at ma’ face”—which of course the lawyers took as a huge compliment. The document in question began as follows:

I, *PRINT NAME HERE*, grant Zero Management unconditional and irrevocable ownership, in perpetuity, throughout all possible universes, in the future and in the past, the sole and exclusive rights to my voice, image, name, likeness, traits, personality, life story, other biographical information, words, actions, original thoughts, catch-phrases, facial expressions, clothing, dance moves, sequences of dance moves, or any dancelike physical activity…

[thirty-eight pages later]

… and I agree that the during the making of Project Icon, the producers may inflict libel, slander, or any other emotional and/or physical and/or monetary distress upon me, based upon reality or entirely fictitious events…

[another twenty-four pages later]

… and that if I should disclose the terms of this agreement to anyone for any reason other than court-ordered subpoena it will constitute an act of massive and irreparable injury to Zero Management, Invasion Media, and the Rabbit Network, and I shall be liable for repayment of damages of up to a sum of five hundred million dollars…

[another thirty-one pages later]

… signed *SIGN AND PRINT NAME HERE*

The first time I read one of these contracts, I was disgusted—even though I’d had to sign a similarly worded nondisclosure agreement before taking my job on the show. I actually remember being pretty mad with Two Svens, who otherwise seemed like an okay-ish guy. It was Mitch, of all people, who later tried to explain to me why it was necessary to take eternal ownership of Icon’s annual cast of wannabes—who wanted fame more than they cared about getting a fair deal. “Look, Bill, every season, without fail, one of these kids gets their first whiff of success, some lawyer with hair plugs and a Porsche convinces them they’ve been screwed, and they file a lawsuit,” he said. “That’s why the contract is so tough. I’ve had my own clients sign the exact same kind of agreements. It lets you take more risks—invest more time and money in the talent, without always having to look over his shoulder. In a way, it protects those kids from themselves.”

“You don’t actually believe that bullshit, do you?” I laughed.

“Have you ever been sued?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s talk about this again when you have.”

End of discussion.

If Mitch had a point, Big Nugg didn’t see it. He just kept shaking his head, muttering to himself, and jiggling his legs with pent-up frustration. It was a clause on page sixty-four, regarding payment (or lack thereof) for Jimmy’s services while he was on the show that finally seemed to break his will to keep the peace. “Says here, ma’ boy gets paid nothin’—nothin’!—unless he wins the whole darn thing!” he exploded, after rising with a tremendous grunt from his chair. “What the heck kind of a scam you folks runnin’ here? He’d earn more as a goddamn fruit picker!”

I wondered if Big Nugg had missed the part which said that if even in the event Jimmy did win, his prize would be five hundred dollars as “full and final consideration,” set against expenses for flights, accommodation, food, and clothing throughout the season, which meant he would actually end up with nothing. Actually, less than nothing: Whatever negative balance remained would be taken out of his earnings, assuming there were any. That’s why only two contestants in Project Icon’s history, both winners, had ever received any kind of paycheck.

The attorneys (seven in total) looked at one another carefully, faking concern. Then one of them spoke: “We completely understand if Jimmy doesn’t want to sign.”

This took the fight out of Big Nugg almost instantly.

“… you do?” he said.

“Oh, of course!” the lawyer soothed. “He should never sign anything he’s not comfortable with.” Then, with a quick glance at his colleagues: “This conversation is being recorded, right? Just in case any of us need to refresh our memories in future.”

The others nodded.

“Okay,” said Big Nugg, calmer now. “So what you offerin’?”

“Just let us know by the end of the day if Jimmy wants to leave the show.”

“Huh?”

“If Jimmy doesn’t like the contract.”

“What you sayin’?”

“If Jimmy doesn’t want to sign, Mr. Nugget, you need to let us know as soon as possible, because we’ll need to find a replacement for him. I believe we eliminated a country-western singer a few weeks ago. We’ll need to call him back. Make arrangements.”

“You mean… ?”

“I really don’t know how to make this any clearer.”

“So it’s this”—Big Nugg shook the contract in his hand—“or ma’ boy’s off the show?”

“I think you’ve finally captured the essence of the situation, yes.”

The muscles in Big Nugg’s neck were so tight now, I half expected them to pop through the skin. Clearly, the cattle ranching business in Nebraska had never taught him the concept of leverage. Or maybe it had, but he simply hadn’t expected it to apply to the business of talent, which seemed so much more… artistic than that.

“C’mon, Little Nugg,” he said, gesturing to his son. “This just ain’t goddamn right.”

Little Nugg stood up and put on his cowboy hat. And with that, the pair of them left the room.

The lawyers checked their watches and didn’t move.

One minute eighteen seconds later, Jimmy came back and asked where to sign.

The contract had already been laid out neatly on the desk.