by Holly Brown
Based on the number of revisions and the vociferous comments in the Wikipedia Talk section, Elyse continues to spark controversy. Two people have been embroiled in an editorial war, their iterations flipping back and forth several times a year, each wanting their version to prevail.
If these photocopied pages really are from Elyse’s original diary, presumably with more to come, it could put many of the questions to rest. Unless it raises more.
Like who’s R.G.? I couldn’t find anyone in either Wikipedia page whose initials corresponded to Elyse’s past love. There’s a mystery here. There are breadcrumbs.
Or red herrings.
If this is someone’s attempt to distract me, it’s working. I should be reading through my curriculum, not Wikipedia.
What I went through was bad, but naked photos being released is nothing compared to what Elyse experienced. Of course, my anonymous “friend” might be trying to tell me that naked photos are nothing compared to what I’m about to experience.
Even if the intent is to make sure I avoid Elyse’s fate, it’s hard to see how the diary could help me do that. There were no cell phones in 1991, let alone social media. It was an entirely different world. I have Edwin in my corner, and all INN’s resources. Right now, I’m in an incredibly secure apartment building, paid for by the company. I can sleep well.
Only that night, I don’t. It’s hard to shake off what happened to Elyse, and why someone wants me thinking about what happened to her, and whether and how times have changed.
IN THE MORNING, as I’m applying concealer to the dark circles under my eyes, Albie texts to say we should meet in Edwin’s office.
“Edwin’s out this week,” he says, upon my arrival, and if he knows more than that, he’s not telling. I do my best to contain my disappointment, reminding myself that Edwin’s the head of the network, a globe-trotting billionaire. I can’t expect him to hold my hand through this. But another text exchange would be nice. “Let’s get to work.”
I appreciate how single-minded Albie is. I don’t feel any pressure to make him like me, since he doesn’t seem to feel that pressure on his end. He has a job to do, and so do I. There’s no bullshit and no subtext. Once I adjust to the fact that he isn’t inclined to fill in a silence with idle chatter, he’s an easy person to cloister with for fourteen hours a day.
Edwin’s office is on the fifty-first floor, above the newsroom and the studios. Every day, I take the elevator straight there. Occasionally, I ride up or down with staffers who smile and ask generically, “How’s it going?,” and I smile back with an equally generic “Good,” and then we both train our eyes on the ascending or descending numbers. I don’t know what’s being said in my absence, which of my videos they’ve watched and with what degree of snideness, and of course there are the pictures, but if I start to worry about all that, I lose focus, which I can’t afford, so best to just go up and down.
The sequestration continues for days, just Albie and me in Edwin’s office.
Today, I’m being schooled in vocal delivery. Apparently, I’ve never known how to breathe correctly. I should avoid milk products before going on air and drink lots of water. Most important, I have to relax the tension in my body since it will show up in my voice, pitching it higher. “The last thing you want is to be shrill,” Albie says. “For women, that’s the kiss of death.”
We work on intonation and pacing until ten that night, when Albie sends me home and I fall into bed, fully dressed.
The next morning, I’m given a script of my first story.
Shit. I’m appearing on The Media Is the Message, with Quill and Rayna.
As I start to read through the script, my chest tightens. It’s like what Elyse said in her diary: my body remembers what I’ve been through. I don’t know who wrote my lines, how he or she could understand so viscerally what I felt after the viral video, but it’s perfect. Perfectly awful to relive it, but perfect for the viewer at home. Edwin was right. It answers the critics before they’ve even spoken. Someone at INN is capable of true empathy, so that’s heartening. But because it’s so real, in front of the camera, in front of Albie, I’m mortified to find there are tears in my eyes.
“Emotion suppressed is always more effective than emotion fully expressed,” he says.
One more time, without feeling.
I manage not to cry, but now I’m tripping over the words.
“Just keep going,” he tells me. “Recovery is everything.”
Again and again and again, until all the feeling has been wrung out of it, until I’ve been inoculated against my own experience.
“Don’t be so wooden,” he says.
I nod, refusing to despair as I take it from the top. This is boot camp. I’m paying my dues.
“Again, but don’t seem so rehearsed.”
Rehearse exhaustively, but don’t seem rehearsed. Got it.
When I finally sit down, I’ve never been this tired. I’ve never tried this hard at anything. Edwin said I was a natural, but where the hell is he?
“This is where everyone starts,” Albie says. He’s not looking at me, but he must be able to sense how dispirited I am. “You’ll get there. Down the line, you’ll be doing breaking news, not just tape. For now, just remember, we have multiple takes. We have editing. We’ll get you there.”
The TV descends from the ceiling, and as we watch, I realize I wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. There are usable moments. There are good moments.
“Next week, you’re coming off the bench.”
It’s too soon. I need more time. I can’t possibly . . .
“You start with Media Is the Message, and you work your way up to Ty. I’ve told him to take it easy on you. Edwin has too.” He shrugs in a way that shows even Edwin doesn’t control Ty.
“What’s the rush?”
He shrugs again. “Ask Edwin.”
I’m tempted to do it, to go ahead and text Edwin, but he’s the guy, and the boss; he should make the move. And whatever his expectation is, I want to meet it.
Albie and I work through the weekend. He gives me feedback, and he never leads with praise; it has to be earned. I’m okay with that. When I get it, the feeling is indescribable. It’s beyond pride. It’s hope. It’s the buoyant feeling that I can be plucked from obscurity and actually pull this off, less than two weeks later.
“This isn’t a montage,” Albie says. “I’m not Mr. Miyagi. You’re not going to wax my cars and secretly learn the art of karate.” I have no idea what he means. “Karate Kid?” I shake my head. Now he shakes his. “Jesus. I’m tutoring an infant.” I smile, and he does, too, blink-and-you’d-miss-it briefly. “What I mean is, everything I do is transparent. Now do it again.”
By the end of the night, we’re both yawning and stretching, having grown loose with each other. As we’re packing it in, I can’t help asking. “Edwin talked to you about me owning a story that I’d report on across all the shows?”
“I told him you’re nowhere near ready for that.”
I know he’s right, but I’ve got this feeling. It must be what people call “a fire in the belly.” Put me in, Coach.
He must see it in me because he says again, “You’re nowhere near ready for that. I do think you’ve got something, a quality. But don’t start believing your own press.” As he’s heading for the door, he turns around. “Have you been doing what I told you? Keeping your eyes and ears open?”
“I know who a few of my enemies are. Should I name names?”
“No. You should keep score.”
I’m not sure what he means. I feel like he’s implying more than he’s telling, and that hurts a little. I’d thought he was in my corner, absolutely, and now I’ve got a twinge of doubt. He might have no allegiance to me at all. I could be nothing but a paycheck to him, a way to supplement his 401(k) postretirement.
“Listen,” he says, “sexism is real, and it’s alive. The newsroom is full of women these days, and they’re going up higher than they hav
e before. You all can get a seat at the table without much trouble. But no one wants women at the head of it, especially other women.”
Maybe Albie is the one who left me the diary. He’s telling me women haven’t come as far as we think, and that I shouldn’t get uppity. He’s trying to keep me in line.
He must misread my expression, because he looks genuinely irritated for the first time as he says, “You think you know better than me? Look at the industry. The top echelon of news—the top echelon of business, period—is still primarily occupied by men. Who heads networks? Who heads network divisions?” He pauses. “Still not convinced? Think Hillary Clinton.”
“It was a change election. People were angry, and they wanted the outsider. They didn’t like Hillary’s personality.”
“Oh, right. She was too shrill.” He rolls his eyes. “Hillary Clinton was more prepared to govern than any candidate EVER. And you know who won? A man with no political experience, born with a silver spoon and no connection to the common man. No, that’s not true. He screwed over the common man. Walked over him. We’re talking about a man who cares so little for the public good that he was proud he didn’t pay his workers or his taxes. Not that he released his taxes. The electorate forgave him his bullying and bad temperament and Twitter rants; they forgave him his admiration for fascist dictators; they forgave him for groping and disrespecting women. Because subconsciously, much of this country—men and women—didn’t want to be told what to do by a woman.”
I’m proof that Albie is wrong. I grew up believing I could do anything, and look where I am. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“You, Cheyenne, want power. I can see it in you. You never knew your own ambition before, but you want this. You want to go all the way. You’re going to recognize that yourself soon enough, and then they’re all going to see it, that you’re not content to just stand there and look pretty and take orders, that you’ve got honest-to-God ambition. Then—what do they say in reality TV?—it’s on. So watch your back.”
And I thought I was the paranoid one.
Elyse talked about the shame of ambition.
It’s Albie. It has to be. He’s the feminist.
“Let’s speed this up,” I say. “Hand over the whole diary. Or better yet, just give me the CliffsNotes. Tell me what Wikipedia doesn’t know. I have too much else to read.”
“What?”
I search his face. He’s genuinely mystified. “Nothing.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door shuts behind him. I sit down, reeling from the long day, and from all the ground left to cover, and from the talk with Albie. But I have a job to do, and this time, I’m going to keep my fire burning.
I hear Albie talking in the hall. It’s always deserted around Edwin’s office, so at first, I assume he’s on his cell phone. Then I hear a woman’s voice. It’s the kind of voice I would love to have. It’s mellifluous, calm, and commanding all at once.
Albie sounds muffled, his words indistinct, but the woman is like a fork tine against expensive crystal. It rings out: “Take her in the right direction, fast.”
Could she be talking about me? If she is, wouldn’t she lower the volume? That is a woman with vocal training. She must know I’m still in the office.
Or she wants to be overheard.
I yank the door open, but too late. The hall is empty. It’s almost like I imagined the whole exchange in the delirium of overexertion, except for the scent. It’s a man’s cologne, clean and simple. Oceanic, like the one that Elyse said R.G. used to wear.
Chapter 9
I know you’ll be amazing today, Edwin texts, minutes before my debut on The Media Is the Message.
That’s all I get? Every day I half expected (well, hoped) that he would check in, just to ask how I’m doing, how it’s going, but there was nothing. He’s such a guy: he wooed me hard-core, and then after I said yes, he dropped me into a shark tank with the likes of Rayna and Luke and ghosted me. Sure, I’m in good hands with Albie, but still. Some part of me assumed Edwin would redeem himself today, that he’d be here to cheer me on.
I’m being ridiculous. I need to stop acting like a jilted lover. Edwin is a busy, successful man who doesn’t owe me anything. He already gave me this golden opportunity. Then he disappeared.
I don’t understand how he can run a network like this, not showing his face for this long. INN doesn’t look like his highest priority, and it’s television. Appearances matter.
What’s he off doing, anyway? Who is he off doing?
Not my concern. I have a job to do, and I have to be amazing. That’s what Edwin expects.
I’m standing to the side of the set, the generically patriotic one that features a long anchor desk that is faintly, almost subliminally tattooed with stars and stripes. There’s a more informal area where four blue chairs are arranged around a rug that matches the anchor desk pattern. Behind the desk are Quill and Rayna.
Rayna, my enemy. But what can she really do to me in front of all these people?
I guess I’m about to find out.
I’m waiting for my cue. Albie is in the control room, and he’ll speak through the earpiece I’m wearing. There are two cameras, and therefore, two camera operators, a stage manager, and the dreaded Luke. I can see engineers and editors both beside Albie and packed into the bleachers behind him. While the producers are evenly split among male and female, the crew today is entirely male. I’ve been so consumed with thoughts of my impending performance that it took me extralong to think it: How many of these guys have seen me naked?
With what I’m wearing, they’re practically seeing me naked now. The wardrobe stylist put me in a nearly nude sheath dress truncated four inches above my knees, and then pinned back the bodice so it fits like a corset. But no cleavage. I was told that’s a directive straight from Edwin. So he’s communicating with someone at INN, just not me. But it is about me, which means he still cares.
My red hair was teased out and then brushed; the makeup is understated lips and a heavy eye. Everything’s calculated and calibrated—only the suggestion of sex, but no one’s missing that signal.
It’s not that I don’t recognize myself, exactly. It’s that at once, I’m both more sophisticated and trashier than I’ve ever been. I’ve been transformed into a newsy sex symbol, which is just what Edwin wanted. I’m bait to reel in the male millennials.
“Are you ready?” Shit. It’s Luke. Despite how successfully I’ve avoided him since the pitch meeting, he is the EP of the show, which means there’s no avoiding him now. His eyes are crawling all over me.
“I’m ready,” I tell him. Say it and hope it’ll become true. Right now, it’s an alternative fact.
His eyes flick over me quickly, up and down. And then up again and down again, slower this time. This dress leaves nothing to the imagination, and still, I see his running wild, because he wants me to.
“I’ll be in the control room,” Luke says. “You remember how to work the equipment, right?”
His use of the word “equipment” is not accidental. I have no broadcast journalism experience, and I’m dressed like a high-end call girl, so he’s treating me like one.
“I’ve got this,” I say.
“A pro already.” He grins wolfishly. “We’ll let you know when to assume the position.”
His double entendres could not be more obvious. But I’ll play dumb. Let him underestimate me.
He forces his eyes upward to my face, as if with difficulty. “You’ll want to stick to your script, to the word.”
It’s insulting, this reminder that I’m here for my body and not my mind, like I’m their little Broadcast Barbie. Dress me, wind me up, have me totter around on stilettos, and get those millennials jacking off.
I happen to glance around the room at that moment, and I see two men clustered together, their eyes on my body, leering. When they get caught, they immediately go back to work. They must have thought they could steal an ogle
while I was otherwise occupied by Luke. Hell, he might have told them they could. I can’t entirely blame them. I’m so conspicuous in this outfit, like all my assets are on the outside.
But I know better, and so does Edwin, and Albie is becoming a believer too. I’ll show them all.
The Media Is the Message is pretaped, unlike the other shows, which was why it was chosen for my network debut. Albie has assured me that I’m going to be edited within an inch of my life; I just have to give them enough footage and the crew can work miracles. I won’t fail, even if some people on staff would love to see that. But I want to nail this in as few takes as possible, because fuck Luke, and fuck those cameramen too.
I have a few minutes to listen and admire Quill and Rayna before my entrance. Following the money makes for good TV. It’s similar to how Fox once stole audiences from CNN and MSNBC: with an eye toward showmanship and entertainment, with outrage on behalf of the American people. INN is siphoning viewers of every political stripe, and attracting new ones who are hungry for transparency in opaque times.
Now it’s my turn to join the conversation. My first stand-up! I wish I wasn’t a part of the story I’m about to tell, as the idea of showing vulnerability right out of the gate is a bit frightening, but if Edwin thinks it’s the right move, I have to trust him. He is the mastermind behind this whole network, after all.
I start with statistics about the percentage of social media users who reportedly experience cyberbullying, and then I catalogue the response of major sites. “Facebook and Twitter have been showing slow improvement in reacting to complaints, with increased content-blocking and banning of users. But one site, Tag, is consistently rated as the worst offender, with responses ranging from ineffectual to nonexistent.” I briefly detail a few specific cases, with images on the touch screen, then go on to trace the corporate ownership of Tag, and the many settled lawsuits against its parent company for its hostile work environment, with rampant accusations of discrimination and harassment. The implication is: meanness, bigotry, and cruelty flow downhill. They’re big business, too, as Tag is growing far faster than all other social media sites, in part by plugging its “anticensorship” bent, which I proceed to demonstrate is being used as a dog whistle to racists, bigots, misogynists, and cyberbullies.
