by Julia Holden
52
TV sets are funny places. There is the part that you see. Which may look like a newsroom, which is what you see on prime-time news, or like somebody’s living room, which is what you see on, say, Good Morning America. Then there is the part that you don’t see, which looks nothing whatsoever like the part you see. It is unfurnished, except for a couple of folding canvas director chairs where people like Reed sit. I got one, too. But that’s over on the side. Most of the big space is filled with cameras on wheels, and cameramen, and cables and lights and microphones, and about sixty men and women who I suppose are responsible for all the things you don’t see that go into putting a live news show on the air.
The on-camera part of this particular set resembled an old-fashioned office. The oak desk where the host of the segment sat looked like an antique, and there were a couple of framed Norman Rockwell prints on the wall. Sitting behind the desk was a good-looking man who was probably about forty years old, wearing a navy-blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. His hair was prematurely gray, but in a very attractive way. Even from across the studio, I could see he had striking blue eyes. He was saying something about taxes, although I must confess to you I really don’t recall what. Because I was starting to get nervous.
Reed tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped. Honestly, if they want you to be quiet on the set, they shouldn’t sneak up on you like that.
Reed pointed at the good-looking man behind the desk, and moved his mouth in an exaggerated way. I am not a great lip-reader, and Reed is apparently not a great lip-syncher, but even I could tell he was saying That’s Michael Smith. Well duh.
Before I knew it, it was ten forty-five. They ran about two minutes’ worth of commercials while Michael Smith scooted out from behind his desk and disappeared. Probably to pee. And I thought, Oh sure, he’s the star, he gets to go pee. Then he was back. He did a segment about a group of parents in Ohio exercising their First Amendment right of free speech by removing objectionable books like Huckleberry Finn and The Princess Diaries from the public library. Then a segment about a group of teenagers at a public high school in Texas being discriminated against for holding a campus prayer vigil in support of their Second Amendment right to bear arms. He must have used the word heartland at least six times in two minutes.
Ohhh, I thought. So this is Fox News.
Michael Smith talked about The Heartland as if all the issues there were simple and everybody agreed with him on everything. Trust me, I am from Kirland, Indiana, and I can tell you that even when it is not all that exciting, life in The Heartland is as complicated as anyplace else. As for everybody agreeing, let us just say that at Christmas, people in Kirland cannot even see eye-to-eye on what time to hold Midnight Mass. So hearing him go on like that reassured me that I really should carry out the plan I had formulated in the little airlock when I was with Reed and Bertie.
Then Michael Smith stopped talking, and they went to commercial again.
A man carried a chair onto the set and put it next to the oak desk. It was the chair we had picked specially for me that morning. My chair.
Reed puckered his lips and blew me a kiss. I wondered if he blew Bertie Thorn a kiss just before she went on camera and froze. Given that he was a climber and a liar, I bet he did. Whether he did or not, though, the kissy-face was the last straw.
I sat in my chair. Hair and makeup people came over to me and looked at my hair and face from about two inches away. “Good,” they said. And, “Good.” Then they disappeared.
“Sound check,” said someone from back behind the cameras.
“Say something,” Michael Smith said to me.
“Good morning, America,” I said. I was not trying to be a smart-ass. Honest. That is just the first thing that popped into my head.
“Not funny,” said Bertie. She really did not sound amused.
“Back in five,” said a voice.
Then they actually counted off the seconds the way you imagine they do. The way they did in Wayne’s World. Which, by the way, is possibly the second-best movie ever. After Bridget Jones’s Diary. Anyway, you know. Some guy says “Five, four,” and then they count down the rest just with their fingers:
three, two, one.
“Now,” said Michael Smith to the camera, “we’re going to be hearing from a fresh new American voice. In the weeks and months ahead, Jane Stuart is going to share her perspectives on how Hollywood has declared war on American values. On the moral cesspool of the French movie biz. We’re going to hear Jane’s views on everything from fashion to foreign affairs.”
We were? That foreign affairs thing was news to me.
“Before we hear from her, though, let me tell you a little about Jane Stuart. She’s a native daughter of Kirland, Indiana, where she’s currently on sabbatical from her position as deputy vice president of the Independence Savings and Loan Association.”
Sabbatical, huh? That was creative. Chalk one up for Bertie.
“Her scholarly accomplishments at Purdue University led to her being hired as a technical advisor on a big-budget Hollywood epic.”
I did not use the words big-budget, Hollywood, or epic.
“The movie was being filmed on location in Paris, France”—he kind of sneered when he said Paris, France—“where Jane was thrown into a sexual snake pit. When she refused to play the obscene bedroom games that France demanded, she was fired.”
I was starting to squirm a little. And not because I needed to pee. I really thought they were taking liberties with what I said.
“But Jane wasn’t content just to uncover the dirty secrets of the international movie business. Next, she set her sights on high fashion and infiltrated the world of glamour godfather Giorgio Armani, where she attempted to expose Euro-trash corruption and price gouging.”
If you ever read this, please, please believe me, Mister Armani, I never said any such thing.
“For trying to save an American citizen from being bilked out of his hard-earned dollars, she was summarily fired—an incident witnessed by our own Fox News producer, Reed James.”
I looked at Reed. He flashed a smile and gave me a big thumbs-up with both hands. Then he blew me another kiss, and I knew what I had to do.
“Now let’s hear from Jane.” Michael Smith turned to me. “Hi, Jane,” he said.
“Hi, Michael,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s set the scene. Where were you?”
“At work,” I said.
“At Giorgio Armani,” he said.
“Armani Collezioni,” I said. Sorry. Force of habit. “In Paris.”
“Paris, France,” Michael Smith said, sneering into the camera. “And what happened?”
“This man came in. With his girlfriend. They were both American.”
“American citizens,” Michael Smith said.
“They had a dinner to go to.” I remembered to leave out that it was dinner with the State Department and the President of France. “The man wanted to buy his girlfriend a dress.”
“Lucky girl,” said Michael Smith.
I thought about telling him what I thought of stupid control freak George and how his poor doormat girlfriend wasn’t so lucky. But I let it go.
“She tried on a bunch of dresses,” I said. “Until finally her boyfriend picked one for her.”
“And that’s when you came to the rescue,” Michael Smith said.
“I tried to.”
“You spoke up for American consumers everywhere,” Michael Smith said. “You swooped in, trying to rescue Americans blinded by the overpriced glitz and flash of Euro-chic.”
“No.”
Michael Smith kind of jerked back in his chair, as if somebody had grabbed the cord that connected to his earpiece and given it a good yank. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“It was a perfectly nice dress,” I said.
“But expensive,” Michael Smith said cautiously.
“Oh, yes. Very expensive.”
“Exactly!�
� Michael Smith said. He was back on track again. “You tried to tell the American man that he was making a mistake.”
“I did.”
“Because he was paying a ridiculous amount for a dress with a fancy Italian name on it, when he should have been buying American, right?”
His question hung in the air like an invitation. It was time for me to set things straight.
“No,” I said.
Michael Smith started twitching.
“It was a very expensive dress, but it was lovely. All the clothes there are lovely. And very well made. If you can afford them, they’re worth every dollar.” The whole episode came back to me, and I got mad all over again. “Although I personally want to know why a man who works for the State Department is shelling out forty-eight hundred bucks to buy his girlfriend a dress for a dinner with the French President. I hope he didn’t charge that to Uncle Sam, you know?”
“You were trying to save two American citizens from humiliating themselves.” Michael Smith sounded drained. His train had derailed. I could tell he was just hoping it wouldn’t crash.
“I was trying to save the woman from humiliating herself. Because she had the dress on backward, and her tit was hanging out. Only her stupid State Department boyfriend insisted she wear it like that. On account of stupid George, she spent the whole night flashing her tit at Jacques Chirac.” I looked out past the camera and squinted through the lights until I found Reed. Then I looked back at the camera and smiled at the red light. “Can you say ‘tit’ on TV?” I asked.
Apparently not. Because that is when they pulled the plug.
I don’t know if they literally pulled a plug. But that’s how it felt. The whole set went dark. I don’t just mean the lights went out. I mean the power went off entirely. Microphones, cameras, everything. And there are no windows in that studio, so it was totally black.
Then the lights came back up. Only the red lights on the cameras stayed off. In fact the cameramen had stepped away from the cameras, which were now pointed down at the floor.
Oddly enough, nobody was looking at me. Not Michael Smith, not Bertie Thorn, not the cameramen, not the sixty or so people who fill a TV studio that you never see. They were all looking at Reed. Then Reed did look at me.
“You’re fired,” he said.
53
I will say this for Reed. He was a gentleman.
He did not yell, or curse, or break things. Most important, he kept his promise. He did not kick me out of my hotel. And he did not throw away my clothes.
He took me to a conference room near the studio. On the way to the conference room I walked past Bertie Thorn. I only caught a glimpse of her, but I could swear she was smiling.
At least I didn’t freeze up on camera.
In the conference room, Reed didn’t even ask me why I hadn’t told him before what I was planning to say. Although that is hardly my fault. At least not all my fault. If you go back and look at the things I did tell him, you will see that I was doing my best to explain exactly what happened. He just never asked me certain questions. And I guess he misunderstood some of the things I said. I guess he heard things a certain way because that’s how he wanted to hear them.
Plus he was a lying climber, and it served him right.
Anyway, since then, I have had a little time to think about it, and my conclusion is that I am in fact exactly what Reed said I was: a fresh new American voice with a point of view. Okay I don’t know about new. But certainly fresh. And absolutely American. And I most certainly had a point of view. I just wasn’t the kind of fresh new American voice with a point of view that he wanted. Which is literally what he said in that little office near the studio.
While he talked, everything started to hit me all over again. I was proud of standing up for myself on camera, but that did not change the facts. I had lost my job three times—four, if you counted Uncle John. I had lost Josh. I had lost Reed, if I’d ever really had him. Not to mention that I had lost Grandma’s dress. I wanted to cry like I had the other night, but I didn’t. I just sat there and listened. Because that was what a star would do. Even if I wasn’t ever going to be one, at least I could act like one for a couple more minutes.
Reed told me that in good conscience, he could not continue to charge my stay to the Fox News Corporation. So would I please go back to the hotel, pack up, and check out? Everything would be paid for by Fox News through today, but not after.
As I said, he was a total gentleman. He gave me cab fare to get to the hotel. He even gave me cab fare to the airport. Out of his own wallet. And I am willing to bet he did not submit an expense report for reimbursement.
When I said good-bye, there were no hugs or kisses. We shook hands. His big hand swallowed mine up, just like it had back in Paris. Only not just like in Paris. Not at all.
I took a taxi back to the hotel. Incidentally, I was right: If you are going to ride around in New York traffic, you will feel much safer in a Hummer than in a yellow taxi.
I went to pack my clothes. I felt another pang when I looked in the closet, where Grandma’s dress should have been. Even if she had told me not to worry, I couldn’t help it.
Packing only took about five minutes. After that, I knew what I had to do. What, surprisingly, I really truly wanted to do.
I picked up the room phone. I got an outside line, and dialed 0. “I’d like to make a collect call,” I said. Even charging this phone call to Fox News would be taking unfair advantage. At least that’s how I felt.
I called my dad at work. “I’m okay,” I said straight off. Because I knew he would wonder. What with me calling collect and all.
“That’s good,” he said.
“Things didn’t work out so well with the new job.”
“Oh.” That’s all he said. I have no idea what he was thinking. Whatever it was, he kept it to himself. I told you, he is the least judgmental person I know. Thank you, Daddy.
“I think I need to come home,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “Can you get to the airport?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How soon?”
“Now.”
“Okay,” he said. “Go to La Guardia. United. Call me back when you get there.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” I said.
“As long as you’re okay,” he said.
“I am.”
So that’s what I did. Only first I took off the clothes I was wearing, because those came from the Fox News wardrobe, and I didn’t feel right taking them. And they were pretty boring. I left them on the bed.
I put on my own clothes, picked up the Louis Vuitton carry-on and my little duffel baggy, went downstairs, and checked out. The doorman dressed all in black got a taxi for me, and I tipped him, which felt like the right thing to do even if it was with Reed’s money. Then I rode to La Guardia Airport. Which is also in Queens, although it is much closer to Manhattan than JFK is. Not that I was paying much attention to Queens. I just wanted to get home.
I got to the United terminal and called my dad collect from a pay phone. He gave me a flight number. He said I was ticketed on the late flight, and wait-listed on an earlier one. I picked up the ticket. Then I went to the gate and waited. I did not get on the earlier flight. I had to wait for the eight P.M. flight. Which was scheduled to arrive at ORD, which is Chicago O’Hare International Airport—do not ask me where ORD comes from—at nine thirty-five. Only we were late pulling away from the gate, and there was a strong jet stream. We did not land at O’Hare until nearly ten thirty.
While the plane was on final descent, they announced that everyone should restow their carry-ons under the seat in front of them. I had never actually unstowed my bags. The Vuitton was in the overhead, and the duffel baggy was under the seat. But I reached down and picked up the duffel. I opened it. Inside was the little First Class toilet kit from American Airlines. Also my box of Tampax, still unopened. Do not ask me why, but I took it as a positive sign that with everything I had been through, I had not
needed a tampon.
There were three other things in the duffel baggy.
Josh’s script. Josh’s note. And Josh’s rose.
I zipped the bag and put it back under the seat.
By the way, since I have been telling you about such things in quite a lot of detail, I should mention that my seat was in the next-to-last row. In the very middle.
Which was fine.
As you probably know, in this day and age you are not supposed to be able to get to an airport gate unless you have a ticket. Don’t ask me how my dad got there. Probably he found somebody who worked for the airline who was also a dad. Probably he explained how his daughter had just gone through all these traumatic experiences, and he was picking her up and bringing her home. I don’t know for sure how he did it. I never asked him. But however he did it, he was there. No limo driver, no uniform, no luggage cart, no sign with my name. Just my dad. Who gave me a huge hug when I got off the plane, and then didn’t say anything.
Which was perfect.
54
I got back home on a Thursday night.
Actually it was almost Friday morning, because we didn’t walk into the house until a few minutes before midnight. My mom was waiting for me in the living room. After she gave me a hug, she said, “I called Uncle John and told him you wouldn’t be in tomorrow.”
“Do I still have a job?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “I think you need to ask John yourself.”
Incidentally, if you are wondering why I am twenty-five and still living with my parents, the answer is simple: I had never been particularly wild about the idea of spending the rest of my life in Kirland, Indiana. Unfortunately, as I told you, Uncle John does not pay me a great deal. The only way I could save any money and have any options about what else to do and where else to go was by living at home with my parents. After my recent catastrophes, though, it seemed pretty likely that I would be stuck in Kirland forever. Where was there left to go?
I went upstairs to my room. The same room I have lived in my whole life. Except for the first six months, because until I was six months old we lived in the house on Kendall Street.
