by AnonYMous
“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.”
Asshole.
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 contestant
s 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.
23
Whatta Man
SO LEN JUST ABOUT gave me a raise when he saw Mia’s dress. “Oh, Mamma Mia, you look delightful!” he exclaimed, his untrustworthy green eyes fixed on her nonexistent neckline. “Such elegance! Such class!” Then, grinning: “Mes couilles dansent de joie!”
I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Mia, on the other hand, seemed to understand very well (all those operas had made her fluent in six languages, as I might have already mentioned). When Len pranced away, Merm shivering with pleasure, she looked at me with disgust and spat, “You promised me it wasn’t slutty! I don’t want some… old guy telling me his balls are dancing for joy.”
“That’s what he said?” I coughed. The depth of Len’s creepiness never lost its ability to shock me.
“And now I’ve got nothin’ else to wear, you bitch,” Mia went on, with a nasal sob.
She was due on stage in five minutes. Too late for any wardrobe changes.
I guess I should have been mad at Mia for calling me a bitch—but part of me thought she had a point. I mean, the dress wasn’t exactly to my taste. Then again, “The Power of Love” wasn’t exactly to my taste, either. (Nor were any of the other songs she’d performed on Project Icon.) But for the show, for what Len wanted, the dress was perfect. So what was I supposed to have told her back there in the confession booth—that she should buy something else, something Len would hate?
Besides, it wasn’t like I’d chosen it for her: She’d taken it off the rack herself.
“Look, Mia, I’m just doing my job here,” I explained, without much conviction (if my eighteen-year-old self could have heard me say that, she would have vomited). “Len loves the dress. And he might be old and a bit of a pervert, but he’s the boss, so be happy that he’s happy. Oh, and if people think it’s too revealing—so what? You’re beautiful, you’ve got an incredible body, and you’ll get a ton of attention… and attention means votes. It can only help your career.”
“You people,” she muttered. “You’re so full of it.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Mia,” I said, irritated now, “you’re the one who picked out the damn—”
I’d become distracted.
“What is it?” demanded Mia, reddening.
“Your, um… your left side.”
“What d’you mean, my left—?”
“The… your, um… you might want to—”
She looked down.
“OH MY GOD.”
“Wow,” I said, “the whole thing just popped out like that, huh? Can’t you use sticky tape or something?”
“Fuck you, Bill. FUCK YOU.” Mia teetered angrily for a moment on her plastic heels—almost falling into me—then clattered away to the nearest mirror.
She was right, of course: I was full of it. Or a lot more full of it than I used to be, anyway. It was the only way to survive in this place. I’d even started to believe some of my bullshit—especially when it came to the day-to-day management of the judges’ egos. Nevertheless, it was true what I’d said about the importance of being noticed on the show. In fact, Two Svens had made the same point in a mass e-mail to contestants a few days after the Don’t-Say-We-Didn’t-Warn-You sessions. Len had printed it out and stuck it to the green room wall.
It read:
From: Svendsen, Sven [Zero Management]
To: All Talent
Subject: YOU!
Some advice before we head into these final live episodes. As a finalist on Project Icon, you will experience your career in reverse. Why? Because from now until the end of the season, you will have America’s undivided attention for an entire hour of prime-time TV, twice a week. No matter how successful you later become, you will never, ever get this kind of exposure again in your lives! Which means you must seize the audience while you have the opportunity; convert as many viewers into fans as you possibly can. When the season wraps, you will ALL find yourselves moving backward. A few of you will get through it, and go on to sell many, many records. Most of you will not. Just remember this: You are the Benjamin Buttons of show business—you are starting your careers at a point where most successful artists end them. So don’t just walk out on stage every night and sing. DEMAND to be seen and heard!
T.S.
And guess what? By this measure, any measure, Mia’s dress was a triumph during that night’s broadcast. And not because of any malfunctions, thank God. (Taking my advice, she’d borrowed some adhesive strips from the Glam Squad, so nothing short of a magnitude 9.2 quake under the studio could have shaken loose the two ounces of fabric that stood between her and a public indecency fine.) No, the dress was enough on its own to turn Mia into an instant phenomenon.
“At Last! (But Too Late?)—Icon Finds the Power of Glamour, Buzz,” read the headline above Chaz Chipford’s as-it-happens blog on the ShowBiz website—next to a picture of Mia, taken from the balcony, looking down. It was the probably the nicest thing ShowBiz had written about the show all season. But that wasn’t even the best part. No, the best part was the spontaneous Twitter meme that developed while Mia was still on stage, under the hashtag #mammarymia. I mean, okay, a lot of it was obscene. Really quite shockingly obscene. But still, by the time we cut to the second break, she was “trending.”
Or her boobs were, anyway.
Len was so happy, he high-fived me backstage—my first nonironic high five since fifth grade.
And Mia?
Still furious.
“Thanks to you, I’m a national fuckin’ punchline,” she raged, after hunting me down when the show was over. By then I was sitting cross-legged on a flightcase in the green room, wearing my super-ugly, emergency-backup pair of glasses—my right contact lens had fallen out earlier—and preparing scripts for the contestants to read during Michael Bolto
n Week. (Those quirky little backstories they tell about the songs they’re about to sing? Always ghostwritten. They’re also usually about as true as Tad Dunkel’s tale of Frankie the tragic dachshund.)
“You’re kidding, right?” I said, with genuine surprise. “You’re trending on Twitter.”
“You think I care about Twitter?” she yelled. She was livid. “If I’m trending, I want it to be for my work—not ’cause I’m ‘Mammary Mia.’ I’m an artist, not some… reality star.”
“Mia, I hate to break this to you,” I said, delicately. “But Project Icon is a reality show. And you’re one of its stars. As of tonight, in fact, I’d say you’re its biggest star.”
“No—I’m its biggest fuckin’ joke.” She was about to cry.
“Oh, c’mon, Mia. You’re taking this way too—”
“You don’t give a shit about any of us, do you?” she yelped, now shivering from cold or misery, I couldn’t quite tell which. “We’re all just expendable to you. All you care about is kissing Len’s ass. Anything for the ratings, and your goddamn precious ‘career.’ God, it must really suck to be such a heartless bitch. Well, I guess you got what you wanted tonight. I hope it makes you happy.”
She almost broke the door on the way out.
For a moment, I felt horrible. Worse than horrible. As much as Mia was becoming a pain in the ass of Bibi-esque proportions, it wasn’t a good feeling, being accused of deliberately turning someone into a walking punchline. (I knew from my years as the “freckled dorkworm” at Babylon High how painful it was to be the butt of everyone’s jokes.) At the same time, my patience with Mia was rapidly approaching its limit. I mean, was it just me, or was #mammarymia kind of brilliant—and funny? And surely it was ridiculous to suggest that caring about the ratings made me a “heartless bitch.” Of course I cared about the ratings. It wasn’t just about saving my job. It was about keeping the entire franchise on the air! Hadn’t Mia been reading ShowBiz? Didn’t she understand that if our numbers didn’t improve before Sir Harold’s return from Germany, Project Icon would be gone, for good?
