Elimination Night

7

The Run-Through



LEN’S PHONE WAS ringing now.

The tone was broken and distorted, probably due to interference from the microwave trucks outside.

Still ringing.

My panic had now mutated into a kind of existential doubt: Was this even the right day for the press conference? Had I somehow completely misunderstood Len’s instructions? Was I about to wake up in my old bedroom at Mom’s house, soaked and trembling, from some horrendous anxiety dream? Nothing about this situation made any sense whatsoever. How could Bibi, Joey, and JD—even Wayne Shoreline—just disappear, at the exact moment they were all due on stage? And where the hell were Teddy and Mitch when I actually needed them?

I thought I might throw up. But then a strange kind of anger came over me. This job was taking decades off my life. And for what? My salary was a joke. My colleagues were psychotic. I’d never even wanted to work in TV. Certainly not this kind of TV. If it hadn’t been for that random call from Len, with this “dazzling opportunity,” I would never have come all the way out here to LA. And, who knows, maybe I’d have found another way to write my novel, like I promised Dad I would.

Great: Now I was thinking about Dad. Or rather, I was thinking about our final conversation in that greasy-walled diner he used to like, the one so close to the Long Island Expressway, everything would rattle when an eighteen-wheeler drove past.

“I’m not gonna be around forever, Sash,” he’d announced, halfway through his standard midafternoon breakfast of coffee and buttered toast. Dad was skinny as hell. It was nerves, he said. Toast was the heaviest thing he could get into his stomach before a show—and he played two shows a night, every night of the week. That’s what it takes to make a living when you’re splitting the money among a fourteenpiece wedding band.

I’m pretty sure Dad knew about the cancer by then. No one else did, though. Not even Mom. I mean, how could she have? Dad was away most of the time, and he didn’t want her to worry. It took her months to find out that his “tour of Louisiana” was nothing of the kind. He’d booked himself in a hospice on Staten Island.

“I’m sorry I never had much money to give you,” he said, between gulps of weak, sugary coffee. “But at least your old man did what he loved, right? I mean, look at Stevie, Jimbo… Fitz. You think those guys wake up every morning, happy to put on their shirts and ties and get in their goddamn cars and drive to an office? No way. They’re always calling me up, wanting to know how it’s going on the road. They want me to tell ’em how hard it is, that I’ve grown out of it. But I haven’t, Sash. I still love this life. It’s who I am. I made my choice, and I’ve never regretted it.”

“Jesus, Dad,” I said. “Enough with the obituary already. You’re only forty-three.”

“I just wanna prepare you, Sash. You’ve got some big choices ahead. You finish college this year. And I know you wanna write that novel of yours, whatever it ends up being about. But that’s not gonna be easy. There’ll be bills to pay. Mom’s gonna want you to get a real job. You might even want to take a real job yourself, when you see your friends buying apartments and cars and clothes and all that bullshit they think they need. But write your book, Sash. Find a way—’cause if you don’t, you’ll never forgive yourself. Trust me. Do what you love.”

Back then, of course, I hadn’t written a word. The knobbled, weary old man of my imagination had yet to set off on his unwise journey across the Black Lake of Sorrow on a night when the shutters of the Old House were closed.

Next time I saw Dad, it was in Mom’s living room. They’d put him in his favorite tux, trumpet by his side. Open casket. The cancer had been genetic, apparently—no avoiding it. Everyone got drunk, then the band played him out: A Taste of Honey, of all things. The Herb Alpert version. I was a mess. Angry, too: why hadn’t he gone to a doctor earlier? Why hadn’t he told any of us? Stevie, Jimbo, and Fitz were there, all in shirts and ties, all still very much alive. My God, the stories they told.

Of course, if I’d known that Dad was giving me his last words in the diner, I would have stayed for dessert. Or at least some coffee. I would also have taken the opportunity to ask for some clarification: Like, how can you do what you love if the thing you love isn’t a job that anyone will pay you to do? What then, Dad? What then?

I tried calling Len a second time.

Stabbing at the digits on the screen, I noticed three unplayed voicemails from a number with a Honolulu area code. Brock. What with the chaos of the press conference, I still hadn’t gotten around to calling him back. I hadn’t spoken to him since… wow, last week. But he’d understand. He always did. I liked that about Brock: His laid-back personality. The fact that he let me do my own thing.

Now Len’s phone was ringing again in long, ragged tones.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Hang on a minute… it was actually ringing. As in: Ringing here in the room, somewhere behind—

I turned, and there was Len, walking toward me, his face so paralyzed by preshow Botox injections, he might as well have spent the night in a cryogenic chamber. Behind him: Bibi, Joey, JD, and Wayne—four across, like a slo-mo credits sequence. Teddy and Mitch lingered behind, each trying not to acknowledge the other’s presence, but failing conspicuously. I felt light-headed with relief.

Oh, thank you, God. Thank you.

Joey had out-crazied himself this time: He was barefoot, with a feathered scarf around his neck and what appeared to be a shark’s tooth lodged in his hair. Still, he had nothing on Bibi. For this important occasion, Teddy had selected for her a golden chain mail dress, crotch-high plastic boots, and detachable cape. She looked like a visiting extraterrestrial queen from the forty-second century. As for JD and Wayne, they’d both chosen dark gray business suits, in two very different sizes.

“You ready now?” asked Len, pointing in my direction.

I was aware of some kind of movement in my jaw, but no sound was coming out.

Sensing my confusion, Len said, “Oh, these guys all had a little breakfast together at Wayne’s place—a camaraderie-building exercise. Then we decided to do some prerecorded press stuff outside before we got going. New start time is 11:30 a.m. Doesn’t give you long for the run-through, so chop-bloody-chop, Bill. Take them up to conference room five. I’ll meet you back here when you’re done.”

Classic Len: I was too unimportant to be told about the change of plan, so he’d let me flap around up here, questioning my own sanity, until I figured it out for myself. What an ass—

“C’mon, Bill, cock-a-doodle-doo!” yelled Len, clapping his hands. “We’re on in ten.”

Unbelievable.

“Okay, everyone,” I announced as loudly as I could, to disguise the fear in my voice. “I’m going to give you the run-through, so follow me, please. Conference room five.”

I led the way confidently, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other. No one followed me. So I returned to the lounge area, repeated my instructions, and tried again. Still no luck. Then I noticed the reason for the distraction: Mitch had cornered Len before he could leave the room and was chewing him out about something. “You’d better not f*ck us today,” I heard him threaten. “I mean it. Joey still hasn’t forgotten about that dressing room bullshit you tried to pull on us.”

“No one’s f*cking anyone, okay?” Len hissed, impatiently. “As we explained to you before, Mitch, the dressing room situation was all in Teddy’s imagination.”

Mitch didn’t look convinced—and for a moment, I found myself sharing Len’s frustration. Why did these celebrity managers have to be so… angry all the time? Couldn’t they put their trust in human nature for one second? I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to view the world through such a dark vortex of cynicism.

Like I said before: I still had a lot to learn.

As Len finally broke away (where the hell was he going, anyhow?) I tried yet again to marshal the panel. This time, they fell in line behind me. Conference room five turned out to be on the floor above, with a U-shaped table in the middle, some cheap plastic chairs, and an overhead projector that probably hadn’t been switched on since the Clinton administration. The place smelled vaguely of beer and ashtrays. Or maybe it was urine and ashtrays, it was hard to tell. Whatever the case: Joey couldn’t have looked more at home if he’d just been returned to his mother’s womb. Bibi, on the other hand, seemed disgusted. Fortunately, one of Teddy’s assistants had brought some plastic wrap for her to sit on.

“So, uh, hi everyone,” I began, excruciatingly. “How was breakfast?”

“We all held hands and sang Kumbaya,” replied Wayne, nastily. “Now can you give us the run-through—or is there something else you’d like to know? We had eggs, if that helps.”

Suddenly, heat in my face. “Okay, yes, right,” I said, between shallow breaths.

“She’s sorry,” Wayne snorted. “My God, where do they get ’em? Producer school?”

Titters.

Joey wasn’t laughing, though. He lifted his bare feet onto the table and said, “Take your time, Bungalow Bill. Ain’t no hurry. Don’t listen to HAL f*ckin’ 9000 over there.”

That’s the big joke about Wayne Shoreline, of course: That he’s not actually human. It’s a compliment, of sorts—an acknowledgment that his ability to host a live one-hour broadcast with such ruthless calm is beyond the realm of mere flesh and blood. But there’s another reason for Wayne’s heart-of-silicon reputation: The fact he’s never had any kind of public relationship—male or female—during his entire twenty-year show business career. Indeed, when he’s photographed at dinner, it’s usually with his mother. “The press thinks he’s gay,” as Mitch once told me. “But I doubt it. I don’t think he’s anything. If you pulled down the guy’s pants, the only thing swinging between his legs would be a USB stick.”

Everyone was now waiting for me to continue. So I cleared my throat and started again.

“Okay, so Wayne’s up first,” I said, consulting the script on my clipboard. “He’s going to do the intro, recap Project Icon’s backstory, et cetera, et cetera… then we’ll introduce JD. Lights will go down, there’ll be a two-minute video package—a kind of ‘best of’ thing, lots of booya-ka-kas—and then Wayne will invite JD on stage, there’ll be cheering, flashbulbs, a bit of music, Wayne and JD will do a very short Q&A, thirty seconds maximum, lights will go back down, JD will leave the stage, and we’ll move on to Joey. Everyone good with that?”

“You mean Joey’s not last?” replied Mitch, as if this were some kind of huge, deal-breaking surprise.

Clearly, Bibi would be last. Mitch surely knew this already.

“We’re not thinking of it in terms of ‘first’ and ‘last,’ Mitch,” I said, surprised at my ability to bullshit without hesitation or shame when the occasion called for it.

“Don’t f*cking bullshit me, Bill. You’re no good at it.”

“Look, the running order is JD, Joey, then Bibi,” I said. “It’s in the script. Sorry, Mitch.”

“Why can’t Joey and Bibi come out on stage at the same time?”

Mitch wasn’t letting this one go.

“Mitch, we’re running a video package and a separate Q&A for each panel member. We can’t do them all at the same time. It’s a ‘reveal.’ It’s supposed to be dramatic.”

“Okay, so why not do Bibi second? Ladies before gentlemen.”

“THAT’S AN OUTRAGE!” yelled Joey, so loud it almost made me lose my balance. Then, with a shriek of hilarity: “Don’t ever accuse me of being a gentleman!”

Everyone laughed—anything to relieve the horrible tension in the room—but not Mitch. He crossed his arms and stared at me, eyes gleaming. Behind him, Teddy grinned.

I flipped through the pages of the script, noticing that Len had replaced the final section—this much was obvious from the spelling errors and formatting. He’d typed it himself, it seemed, and at speed. I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned that.

“So anyway,” I went on, shakily. “Next up: Joey. Same deal as JD, basically. First the video package, then Wayne will invite Joey on stage, there’ll be a Q&A, cheering, flashbulbs, bit of music—et cetera, et cetera—lights down again, then on to Bibi.”

“Ooh, me?” Bibi squealed.

Teddy’s smile grew wider.

I turned the page.

“Okay: so the lights will go down once more,” I read. “The darkness will last for ninety seconds. We’ll hear distant thunder. Then the thunder will get louder. Smoke will gather…”

“OH, FOR F*ck’S SAKE!” Mitch screamed.

“… and then, in a blinding flash, lightning will strike the stage…”

I had to take a breath. Len hadn’t warned me about any of this. This was exactly what Mitch had feared. They’d f*cked him. There was simply no other way of putting it. Joey had been reduced to a sideshow, a supporting act—no more important than JD. Len and Teddy must have cut a deal, without telling anyone. And now I was the one having to deliver the news. No wonder Len hadn’t told me about the script changes. No wonder he’d been so insistent that I do the run-through, even though he was supposed to be in charge.

“… at this point we’ll hear the first few bars of Bibi’s new single, ‘Gotta Disco,’ and as the music gets louder, images of Bibi Beautiful cosmetics products will be projected on to the auditorium walls…”—I found myself speaking faster, trying to get it over with—“… then fade out as we cut to Bibi’s fifteen-minute video package. When the package is over, Wayne will move to the wings. All lights out. More thunder. More lightning. Then a trapdoor in the stage floor will open, and Bibi will rise on a mechanical arm over the audience, as Wayne says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen: The legend, the movie star, the multiplatinumselling, Grammy-winning artist, also known to the residents of Planet Earth as a mother, thinker, philanthropist, businesswoman, dancer, style icon, and best-selling author… BIBI VASQUEZ. Then lights up, ‘Gotta Disco’ will resume, Bibi’s dancing troupe will run up the center aisle, and Bibi will perform a three-song set. Then cut to the prerecorded Rabbit News Special with Bibi featuring Sir Paul McCartney, the Dalai Lama, and the First Lady of the United States.”

Finally. It was over.

The only sound in the room now was Teddy giving his own heartfelt personal round of applause.

Mitch was under the table, making a noise I’d never heard anyone make before.

Then it began. Joey stood up, loosened his belt, and began to adjust his leather chaps.

“Get the pee cup, Mitch,” he ordered.

A few seconds earlier, I wouldn’t have believed it possible for Mitch to sound any unhappier.

He was now proving me wrong.

“The pee cup,” Joey repeated. “It’s in the contract, right? These guys want me to take a pee test every week, to make sure I ain’t gonna do any crazy shit on prime-time TV?”

A muffled voice from under the table: “Joey… please… this isn’t the time or the—”

“Mitch: SHUT UP. I need the pee cup, and I need it now, ’cause trust me, I’m gonna take so many pills and drink so much booze, my pee ain’t gonna be clean again for a thousand f*ckin’ years. You promised me equal treatment, you motherf*ckers. And now Little Miss Perfect over there is getting a royal coronation? Mitch, you suck. Teddy, you suck cock. That’s cool, but you f*ckin’ ain’t.”

He turned to me. “And you, girl-called-Bill,” he said. “I thought you were okay, man. What happened? You’re all the same, you people. You’ve all got the same poison in your soul. F*ckin’ TV producers. And to think I fell for it. Well, I hope you’re happy now, ’cause I ain’t doing this bullshit anymore. Show over. Go f*ck yourselves.”

“Joey,” I said. “This is isn’t how it—”

Too late. He was out of the door. “Th- Th- Th- That’s all, folks!” he yelled, as it jerked shut behind him.