Easy to Like

by Edward Riche

Hazel was asleep. Her head was on his chest, a good place for it. Elliot closed his eyes.

  He woke a few hours later to the sound of Hazel retching. She was curled around the toilet in the en suite. She refused help. “Please, Elliot, I am so sorry, please leave me alone. I’m allergic to booze. I can’t, I can’t.” He fetched her a glass of water and set it on the bathroom floor. She shooed him away again and, showing considerable pain, closed the door behind him as he left.

  Elliot thought it best to leave her alone but after twenty minutes or so got worried and knocked. The door opened and Hazel brushed past him, making for her clothes on the floor.

  “Hazel, please get into bed.”

  “I can’t, Elliot. I can’t. I can’t believe what’s happened. I am so sorry.” She already had her skirt on and was looking around for her blouse. It was in the kitchen, Elliot knew.

  “Sorry? No, that was wonderful, Hazel . . . I mean making love. It’s terrible you were sick but . . .”

  “No, Elliot, my behaviour was totally inappropriate.”

  “It was not. It was . . . much appreciated.”

  “This has happened before . . .” Hazel was now in her bra. Another piece of the night came back to her; she made for the kitchen to retrieve the shirt. Elliot followed. “. . . I simply cannot drink because I become an instant slut. I’ll sleep with anyone.”

  “Well, now . . .”

  “I am your subordinate, Elliot. Even if I wanted to have sex with you, which I don’t —”

  “You did.”

  “Even if I did, it couldn’t happen. I feel terrible.”

  “You’re a little hungover maybe.”

  “I’m still drunk.” Hazel fished through her purse and found her cellphone. “What is the address here again?”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I can just go downstairs.”

  “It’s 272 Arrabal Avenue.”

  Hazel called a taxi.

  “Elliot, this was entirely my fault. Don’t feel bad about yourself.”

  “I was feeling great about myself, about you . . . about the both of us, together, until now. Stay. I’ll sleep on the couch. We’ll get breakfast in the morning.”

  Whether it was the thought of bacon or sausage or spending another few hours with Elliot, Hazel choked something back.

  “Breakfast? No. Not breakfast together. Fucking you was bad enough.”

  “Really.”

  “Not like the sex was bad, just that . . . we will have to talk about it in a few days. I’m sorry.”

  She left.

  Elliot woke the next morning before dawn, not emptied of desire, not satisfied and spent, but full, bloodily full, of want. He considered what Hazel had said about the inappropriateness of their having such relations and conceded to himself that she had a point. It probably was wrong, and would surely be awkward at the office. But the apartment seemed, in her absence, for the first time since Elliot had moved in, empty. Her laughter, her bawdy talk, her growls of delight, even her tearful protests and apologies had changed the place, seasoned it somehow, so that it needed her. He walked to the living room and the window that looked down on Wellington Street. He felt lonely. Sitting down to send an email to Stella to schedule a meeting with Hazel, in his office, that afternoon, he detected signs of life in his personal inbox.

  From: lucy@kinokind.com

  To: matou@aol.com

  Subject: Jerry

  Do you know anything about Jerry Borstein?

  From: matou@aol.com

  To: lucy@kinokind.com

  Subject: Re. Jerry

  He’s a dick?

  From: lucy@kinokind.com

  To: matou@aol.com

  Subject: Re. Re. Jerry

  He’s missing.

  From: matou@aol.com

  To: lucy@kinokind.com

  Subject: Re. Re. Re. Jerry

  WTF?

  From: lucy@kinokind.com

  To: matou@aol.com

  Subject: Re. Re. Re. Re. Jerry

  Drove to test screening in the valley three days ago not seen since.

  Hazel arrived at Elliot’s office, as scheduled, but with her assistant, Troy, in tow. She was doing her best not to look hungover but moved with caution. Her outfit was layers of mourning charcoal over middle grey. Troy wore canary yellow stretchy jeans and a brown T-shirt with a picture of a man’s flaccid pierced cock on the front. People were taking this casual Fridays thing to an extreme. Wait . . . it was Thursday.

  The presence of Troy and the fact that Hazel carried Elliot’s programming document from the previous evening was a clear announcement that she did not wish to discuss what had happened between them. Elliot was prepared to talk about nothing else.

  “Troy will take notes,” she said.

  “I’m excited about the new season, sir,” Troy offered.

  “I’m glad to hear it. So, Hazel, do you have . . .”

  “Yes. While I’m not sure I fully comprehend this ‘weather office’ model of the audience, I think the shows you’ve chosen to develop speak volumes.”

  “Where should we start?”

  “Before we get to specifics there is a larger concern we should address. All of the projects you chose have been put forward by Toronto producers.”

  “Have they? I didn’t notice, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”

  “I know you’ve found some of our discussions about the balkanized funding regime for Canadian film and television less than interesting —”

  “Yes. Much less than interesting.”

  “We still have to face the fact that some of the shows are going to have to be produced in the regions. And besides the funding, there is the organization’s national mandate.”

  “Mandates are sort of wish lists,” said Elliot, “don’t you think?” And with the exception of 501 Pennsylvania, I didn’t see many of them as being set particularly anywhere. Tell the producers they have to make the show in B.C. I know they were forever shooting projects out of Los Angeles up . . . er . . . over there.”

  “We could do that.”

  “Some establishing exteriors and b-roll from Washington and the rest is shot in a studio outside Vancouver . . . Jesus, it’s a three-camera —”

  “And at some level we will have to reflect the country.”

  “Okay, okay, like what?” Elliot didn’t want to talk about programming television, he wanted to discuss how he and Hazel could find a way to continue having sex.

  “In The Wonderfuls, Winnipeg plays itself,” Hazel pitched.

  “Why would it want to do that? Don’t write that down, Troy. And didn’t you find . . . the family name is ‘Wonderful’? Isn’t that a bit cute, a bit ‘on’?”

  “It seems the sort of show you are looking for.”

  “I liked parts. I loved the Amazing Kreskin but had to ask . . . why would a guy who can see the future move to Manitoba?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Yes, Troy.”

  “Just a point of information? Kreskin is not a psychic. He’s a mentalist.”

  “Thank you, Troy.”

  “Another concern,” said Hazel. “Before you put any of these shows into development, the producers should know that the CBC is going to have a proactive role in casting.”

  “Yes, I’d assumed we would be consulted, have approval . . .”

  “More than that. The shows are going to have to reflect Canada’s diversity.”

  “Isn’t that what you just said?”

  “In terms of the cast, not the locations. Ethnicity. The shows you picked are very white, and you’ve said yourself that’s a problem with the current season.”

  “My mother’s father was of Roma descent,” said Troy. “And my father’s grandfather was part Cree.”

  “Look,” said Elliot. “And don’t write this down, Troy. I could give a damn about race, creed, colour, sexual preference. It bores the shit out of me. I didn’t particularly see any of these characters as being white or black or brown. You’re
picking a fight. You’re writing, Troy. Stop that!”

  “These are my own thoughts, Mr. Jonson. Talking about my Cree ancestry just opened something in me.”

  “All right.” Elliot turned to Hazel. “We can take those concerns into account, but within reason. Obviously the Wonderful kids can’t be Chinese with a black mom and a Turkish dad.”

  “I think we would get in trouble assuming that,” said Hazel. “They could be adoptive, or they might be from earlier unions . . .”

  “Right.” Elliot thought of Ascencion: his estranged son’s stepmother was a Salvadoran lesbian.

  “It’s not just people of colour. We’ve had complaints that there haven’t been enough Ukrainians.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Elliot. “How would you know?”

  “You say that and you can expect the Congress of Ukrainian Canadians to intervene at the next CRTC licence renewal,” said Hazel.

  “Funny, you used to have to change your name from Levitch to Lewis, now it’s the other way around.”

  “Can I write that down, sir?” asked Troy.

  “No,” said Elliot. “What I’m getting at is, regardless of all that, you simply have to cast the best actors.”

  From the silent glance exchanged between Troy and Hazel, Elliot judged this was a dramatic departure from practice.

  “But,” said Hazel, “when we have exhausted the supply of good actors available to a particular project . . . ?”

  Elliot looked away and out his window. Freezing drizzle made the view gelatinous. A slice of milky lake was visible beyond the convention centre. He knew from experience that network meddling never made a television project better. But Hazel was making it clear that if Elliot were to have his way, he would have to take a hand.

  Spring was always so far away in Canada. At Locura Canyon the cover crop between the vines would be green by now, the occasional wildflower showing. Walt would be squinting at the canes, anticipating and worrying about bud break. Hazel was consulting her BlackBerry.

  “Leo Karek is apoplectic.”

  “Why?”

  “I sent him an email earlier, giving him the broad strokes of the changes you are proposing —”

  “Are you punishing me for what happened last night?”

  Troy looked at his sneakers.

  “I had better go see him.” said Hazel. “Put this fire out.”

  “No,” said Elliot, standing. “I’ll sort Leo.”

  Leo was waiting for Elliot in the middle of the television newsroom. It was a vast space, open concept taken to ridiculous extremes. (There was a report on Elliot’s desk detailing how this workplace design was proving to be a complete failure. The CBC had been warned it would be, by a number of highly paid consultants. Elliot had asked, in a widely addressed email, why the Corporation had gone ahead with a plan it knew would fail. Nobody responded.) By positioning himself in the centre of this forum, Leo was showing that he desired a public confrontation. Elliot, soured by Hazel’s conduct, was more than happy to give it to him. The asshole was standing with his hands on his hips and his chest out, like a gunslinger, when Elliot finally reached him.

  “Hazel tells me you’re having a kitten.”

  “What the hell do you know about news!”

  “That it’s on a lot and is generally a downer.”

  “A ‘downer,’ Hollywood? Is Afghanistan a ‘downer’?”

  “And how. Mostly it’s a mystery. You guys certainly can’t explain it.”

  “I will not have the flagship news program of the national public broadcaster turned into another A&E circus.”

  Leo was speaking loudly, almost shouting, and had drawn the attention of the nearby cubicle workers, whose heads were popping up out of their boxes like prairie dogs.

  “Nothing has happened yet. These are proposals.”

  “Move ‘the depressing stuff’ to the back half of the show?” Leo scoffed.

  “Why not? What’s the urgency, Leo? When was the last time news broke at ten thirty? Have you heard of the Internet, Leo? Twitter? BlackBerrys and iPhones? Cable news is obsolete, and you’re in network. And as for editorial opinion or analysis, I can get that, custom-made for my particular bigotry, at any of a number of blogs.”

  “I won’t see the news service, which is at the very heart of this institution, reduced to just another TV show.”

  “You’ve been living with the illusion that it was ever otherwise?”

  “You’ve got your fist up Rainblatt like a puppet, don’t you.”

  “I haven’t even bothered to consult him. Nobody cares anymore, Leo.”

  “Bullshit. I care, and I’m taking a stand on this one.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve contributed so much to this organization. While I’m sorry to see you go, I want to say I admire your principle.”

  Leo looked perplexed and then pained, as if stricken with a headache of tectonic proportions. Elliot raised his voice now and spoke to as much of the room as could hear him.

  “This may surprise you, but I have nothing but respect for Leo Karek’s view of the role of News at the CBC. If I didn’t have to balance different aspects of the operation at a time when it, candidly, teeters on bankruptcy, I think I could even share them. Leo has chosen his own beliefs over professional standing.” Elliot spied Hazel, Troyless, watching from the distant wall. “Leo has had the integrity to walk away from the top broadcast news job in the country knowing full well that in the new media environment and economy, there’s likely nothing out there for him better than sessional work at Ryerson. That takes guts. I’m impressed. And I want to make it clear that I will understand if many of you now rise in solidarity and follow him out the door. Not only will you be standing on principle, you will be seeing to it that fewer of your colleagues will have to be let go in the coming cuts.”

  A few people who had stood in their cubicles to watch were now discreetly getting back in their chairs. Those in Elliot’s line of sight pretended to get straight back to work, donning their headphones or clicking with theatrical import on their keyboards. Karek didn’t even bother turning around. Elliot offered Karek his hand.

  “Best of luck with your future endeavours, Leo. You’ll understand why, given how this has ended, I won’t, as much as I would like to, be able to recommend you.”

  Elliot was on the elevator returning to his office when Hazel appeared before its closing doors.

  “Leo’s still just standing there,” she said, as the doors closed.

  Seven

  HAZEL MADE A last-minute decision to take a ski holiday with her sister and a large flock of nieces and nephews, who were on March break, in Zermatt.

  When she returned to work, Hazel’s organizational skills were such that finding plausible reasons to avoid Elliot was child’s play. Elliot guessed that his personal secretary, Stella, was conspiring in it, sharing his schedule with her longtime ally. Hazel was only ever in Elliot’s presence with human shields. She was there for the endless meetings with the innumerable “heads” of this and that. She was in the room to witness the easy capitulation of the creative team of 501 Penn. She was there when Elliot expressed his disappointment to the group at the result of their revisions. She was there when script after script failed to live up to its pitch, when compromises about casting and location and story were discussed. She was never there by herself.

  Moreover, whenever they did have a conversation — with Hazel using Troy as her ventriloquist’s doll, or Stella as chaperone — they seemed always at odds.

  Why was he beating himself up over what shows he, they, programmed? It was Canadian television: if they produced a bum season, it wasn’t like the citizenry didn’t have something else to watch. The dial was flooded with options. Why did it matter if Hazel put on a bunch of well-intentioned efforts that nobody in the frozen expanse watched? It would be, in essence, a government project that hadn’t worked. A season of television on the CBC was just a community wharf. There was no audience — they were
all watching American crap on the Canadian privates — and there would be no uproar. Besides, Elliot had no intention of staying on at CBC; he had no personal stake in the coming season. He’d been too generous, was giving too much of himself to the job, to Canada, a country he’d quit. Why should it be his burden alone?

  His financial situation had improved. His plan was to return to California as soon as he could safely lay claim to a severance package, likely the end of the first season with himself at the helm. He’d shake up News to save the Corporation a few dollars, see a couple of decent new shows onto the air, and then split. Back home he’d sell his house in Los Angeles and move up to the vineyard, dedicate himself full-time to the effort. He might have to make compromises, sell some Zin, downsize, but with more modest needs he could make a boutique operation work. The programming meant so much more to Hazel, why shouldn’t she have a greater say? She wanted to carry some of the load, let her.

  He called Hazel and got Troy.

  “Ms. Osler is in a meeting.”

  “Fuck off, Troy.”

  “Are you harassing me, Mr. Jonson?”

  “No, I’d do that with a stick. Tell Hazel she can have the fucking season she wants but she has to come up here and talk about it with me in private.”

  “‘. . . fucking season . . .’ — I’m writing that down.”

  “If it shows up as the title of your memoir, I want a thank-you.”

  “If I ever write a memoir, Mr. Jonson, you are sure to be mentioned.”

  Within the hour Stella told him that he had a three-o’clock with Ms. Olser.

  “But don’t take from this that I’ll necessarily have sex with you again.”

  “As long as the ‘necessarily’ is there. Just so intimacy is not excluded as a remote possibility.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “And that could happen again.”

  “I hope not.”

  “I enjoy being with you, Hazel.”

  “Don’t say any more than that.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “So we’re going with Reason?”

  “Despite having seen photos of the host, this Dr. Palme, I defer to your judgement.”

  “What about 501 Penn?”