“‘True and Equal,’ our motto, remember? This is going to be great. I can feel it!” Fatima glanced at her computer screen. “Crap!” she said, jumping up. “I’ve gotta run to the graphics department. They just produced a map that’s missing Maryland! I’ll see you on the set.”
I sat down at a computer in the corner, which I could tell had previously been occupied by someone not in peak health. Pushing aside a box of tissues, an empty packet of aspirin, and a crumpled bag of potato chips, I pulled the keyboard to me. On the wall, someone had hung a small wooden sign, like the kind you get at a souvenir store: NEVER LET THE FACTS GET IN THE WAY OF A GOOD STORY. Funny, I thought, as I reached for a stapler and started trying to sort through all the material without the distraction of the dryer.
“Good morning, Team Fun.” I turned to see Rob breezing into the pod, unencumbered by any papers. “Is everyone ready to make some TV magic? Has the New York Post been delivered yet?” he asked. “Oh, hey, Amanda. You feeling okay?”
“Uh, you know, I’m a tad nervous,” I admitted.
“You’re not gonna yak, are you?” he asked, taking a few steps back. “Are you fluish? Cause you look sort of . . . bluish.”
“What?” I asked, putting a hand to my own face to feel for a temperature before remembering I was made up like an undead anchor from the underworld. “Oh, right. I think I got some bad makeup. Does it look bad?”
“Not if you’re auditioning for Zombie Apocalypse,” Rob said, then pointed to my massive paper mountain. “What’s that? Your senior thesis?”
“Aren’t these the clippings we’re supposed to study?”
Rob snorted, turning to the producers. “People, the rainforest is being depleted. Amanda doesn’t want to be responsible for the death of more trees.” He leaned up against my desk and bent down to speak sotto voce. “Don’t overthink this. We give both sides, we have a few laughs. This isn’t brain surgery.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, wishing I had a drop of his cocksureness.
“Now if you’ll all excuse me,” Rob announced, straightening up. “I’ve got to go to my office and pick the perfect tie to complement Amanda’s vibrant outfit and corpselike complexion. See you in a few.” He slapped me on the back and strode out.
Chapter 11
The A Block
5:50 A.M. “Can I take you to the set now?” Jada asked. I’d lost track of time, trying to absorb more climate change stats. “We have ten minutes until the show starts.”
“Ten minutes!” My heart started racing around my chest. This was the moment I’d dreamt of, well . . . all my life. Jogging after Jada, I thought of Mom and me at the breakfast table with Suzy Berenson. I was about to be that voice for people waking up around the country.
Jada’s heels skidded along the polished floor, and I followed her fast shuffle onto the elevator. The doors opened one flight up, revealing the hallway filled with a dozen people, guests and their handlers spilling out of the greenroom. There was Arthur Dove again, standing by the coffee maker this time. He nodded at me and raised his paper cup in a cheerful salute.
“Knock ’em dead, Amanda!”
Man, Dove is so friendly. Maybe we’ve been wrong about him. I gave a nod and speedwalked down the hall, clutching my research packets against me. When I got to the studio door, I pushed it open and a wall of people turned their anxious faces to me, all speaking in a chorus.
“Take a seat on the sofa, Amanda,” Larry instructed.
“Amanda, I’ve got your microphone and IFB here,” Bruce said, holding up a battery pack in each hand. “Do you have your earpiece?”
“Amanda, I need to spray ya. Ya got one hair sticking straight up like Alfalfa,” Angie said, releasing a cloud of noxious hairspray over the crowd.
Then Jess caught sight of me. “Oh, hell, no! Hell, no,” she said. “Girl, what happened to your face? Roberta should be arrested. I cannot fix this in the next five minutes.” She dabbed at my face with one of her sponges.
Underneath the voices, I could hear Elvis Costello coming from an iPhone on the set and it seemed perfect. What is so funny about peace, love, and understanding?
Rob sang and tapped his pen on the desk like a drumstick.
“I didn’t realize there’d be a serenade,” I said, hoping no one could detect my trembling hands.
“This is Rob’s morning ritual,” Larry said. “He plays this before every show. It turns him from cynical to agreeable in one easy step.”
“Hey, Larry, see this?” Rob called, holding up his middle finger. “It doesn’t mean thumbs-up.”
“Does it mean we’re going to be number one in cable news?” Larry asked.
“Touché,” Rob said.
I sat down on the sofa, and three pairs of hands began molesting me from all sides. Angie tugged, teased, and sprayed. Jess wiped my blood-red lips with a Wet-Nap, then reapplied gobs of pink gloss. Bruce unzipped my dress to the waist, attached two battery packs to my bra, then zipped me back up faster than I could say, “What the—!”
Two small hands poked through the hive. “Here are your news scripts if you need them. You read the news at the top and bottom of each hour,” Jada explained.
“One minute till airtime! Kill the music, Rob,” Larry yelled. “Clear the set, everyone!”
I stood up to leave.
“Not you, Amanda,” Larry said.
“Oh, right,” I grimaced.
This is it, I told myself. This is the moment.
“Have a great show, everyone! We’re live in five, four, three, two . . .!” Larry pointed at Camera 1, a musical sting sounded, and Rob began.
“Good morning, everyone. And welcome to the launch of Wake Up, USA! Starting today, we’re bringing you something different in morning news. This show is for those of you who’ve tuned out network morning shows because they’re too light. And the rest of you who’ve tuned out other cable news channels because they’re too one sided. Welcome to your new home. I’m Rob Lahr.”
Larry pointed to me to read into Camera 2.
“And I’m Amanda Gallo,” I said, surprised to see my own name in the teleprompter. “We’re going to bring you both sides of every story. So you get all the information in one place—away from the polarization and vitriol—to a new place where we can start to solve problems.
“And to prove how different we are, we begin with an important topic that the other morning shows won’t touch because they think it’s too complicated and controversial. It’s climate change.” I caught a glimpse of my face in the monitor. Whatever Jess had done had helped. I didn’t look great, but I didn’t look ghoulish.
“That’s right, Amanda,” Rob said, nodding at me. “We’ll have Congresswoman Carpenter on this hour to help us unpack it. She’s just written a new book called The Danger of Denial. And later we’ll have two scientists here who say the Earth is not getting warmer, it’s getting colder! Again, you’ll never hear all of that in one place.”
Larry waved at me and pointed to Camera 2. My mouth had become so dry it was hard to unstick my tongue from its roof. “Also, we’ll have the senior adviser to Victor Fluke here. Arthur Dove will explain Fluke’s position on global warming. And in our third hour, Gisele Bündchen will be here to show us how she stays in shape.”
“You’ve got my attention,” Rob said to me. “You ready for this wild ride?”
“I’ll fasten my seat belt,” I told him. “Wake Up, USA! starts right now!”
The music to the open sounded and adrenaline flooded my body. Ah yes, I know this sensation, this current of electricity coursing up my spine, the same rush as a roller coaster. The closest thing to euphoria I’d ever known.
• • •
8:10 A.M. We were in commercial break. Two hours in and my racing heart had slowed to a steady gallop. The nerve endings in my numb fingers were tingling once again. The sensation
in my body, no longer Daytona 500, now Pacific Coast Highway; I was cruising on all cylinders and taking in the scenery.
“Good morning, all!” Arthur Dove said, he and his exuberance entering the studio. “This show is looking good! And you two are cookin’ with gas. How ya feeling, Amanda?” he said. “This guy taking care of you?” Dove slapped Rob’s back.
“So far, so good,” I said, not knowing exactly what Rob “taking care of me” would look like.
“Good, cause I don’t want to have to come back here and give him what for. You hear me, Rob?”
“Don’t worry,” Rob said, “she’s in good hands.”
“Quiet everyone! We’re back in five, four, three, two . . .” Larry yelled.
“Welcome back,” I started. “Presidential candidate Victor Fluke has held lots of rallies but not been interviewed by the press in three months or spelled out any specifics on his platform. This week Fluke posted a statement on the campaign website saying he has a plan to ‘Make Every American Successful.’ Fluke’s adviser, Arthur Dove, joins us now to explain.”
“Howdy,” Dove said, turning up the Texas. “I’m pleased as punch to be with y’all this morning on your maiden voyage. But I do have to clarify something you just said, Amanda.”
Uh-oh, had I gotten the statement wrong? Wait, was it posted on a different website?
“See, Amanda, you said Victor Fluke hasn’t spelled out his plan but that’s not true. Mr. Fluke has spoken to lots of real people about his plan to make them successful. We prefer to take our message directly to the voters rather than the misleading media. But hey, I’m here today to give FAIR News a shot.”
“And we appreciate you being here,” Rob said.
“We don’t hate the media,” Dove said. “We just don’t like the media bias. For instance, the misleading media isn’t reporting the fact that Virginia Wynn stole the primaries from her Democratic opponents.”
Huh? I almost said to his non sequitur. “Based on what information?” I asked, as soon as I got over being stunned that he would make that bald accusation on national television.
“Let’s unpack that,” Rob followed. “How did she steal the primaries?”
Rob’s question made me grip the sofa—it treated Dove’s outrageous claim as if it were true.
“Oh, man, we’ve got a mountain of evidence,” Dove said. “First of all, we know the Wynn campaign registered illegals in Texas, and Arizona, and who knows how many other states.”
“What’s your evidence?” I asked.
“Victor Fluke and I have spent the past three months studying all the procedures and results in twelve primaries that Virginia supposedly won. We’ve interviewed dozens of eyewitnesses and heard a whole bunch of stories that made what little hair I have left stand on end.”
“Mr. Dove, you’re making very serious accusations here,” I said. “But again, what’s your evidence?”
“All right, Amanda, you want evidence. Let’s see, where should I start? In Hawaii, for example, the organizers ran out of ballots, so Wynn operatives created more from Post-its and scraps of paper. In that state, she ended up with more votes than participants. I’m no math whiz, but that don’t add up.
“Or take Nevada,” Dove went on. “Do you know Wynn supporters there flushed some ballots down the toilets? Now, last time I checked with the FEC, that ain’t allowed. And how ’bout Florida? State election officials received two thousand complaints of voter fraud, many from folks who say they saw busloads of foreigners just idling in the parking lots of voting sites. We’re working on getting sworn affidavits. And how ’bout the reports of campaign ‘volunteers’ registering the names of so-called voters who happen to share the same names as the entire starting lineup of the Dallas Cowboys? As we say in Texas, somethin’s fishy, and it ain’t a tuna boat.”
“That does sound suspicious,” Rob agreed.
That sounds like something we should have known if the segment producer had done his job! Jesus!
“Listen, here’s the point,” Dove went on. “Victor Fluke wants everyday Americans to be successful, not illegal aliens and foreign sponges. So, on Election Day, let’s put Americans first.”
I was hoping Rob would dive in at that point with some ammunition to fight Dove’s fraud claims, but he didn’t. “Let’s talk about the issues,” I said. “Does Victor Fluke believe in global warming?”
“Amanda, I heard your other guest last hour, Democrat Congresswoman Carpenter, talkin’ about global warming and I had to laugh. Virginia Wynn and her cronies are trying to buffalo the folks into buying their green energy agenda. But the public doesn’t buy it,” Dove said. “Victor Fluke and his supporters know that the temperature goes up and it goes down. And weather is not connected to drivin’ or drillin’. Victor Fluke knows that the U.S. needs to get off our dependence on foreign oil and that drilling in ANWR would be like sticking a needle in a whale—it wouldn’t hurt a thing. Meanwhile, Wynn wants to give her friends in green energy taxpayer money that won’t do a damn thing to change the weather. She’s taking away regular Americans’ freedom to be successful in the fuel industry.”
“But Mr. Dove,” I said, “Ninety-seven percent of scientists say climate change is real and it’s dangerous.”
“You know, Amanda, ninety-seven percent of doctors used to think leeching was a good way to treat scarlet fever. Sometimes science gets it wrong. And everyone should be wary of the so-called science since we know scientists are cooking the books on this stuff. Everyone remembers what happened when the researchers at East Anglia University didn’t find any evidence of global warming: they buried their findings and made stuff up.”
“But the Arctic ice caps and glaciers are melting. That’s hard evidence,” I said. “That’s not cooking the books.”
“Well, hold on, Amanda. See now you’re cherry-picking. The ice in Antarctica is increasing. NASA scientists found it hit a record high recently. More ice than they’ve ever measured before. And new data shows the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas have lost no ice over the last decade, which, of course, blows up the projections of the UN climate change panel. They predicted the Himalayan glaciers would melt by 2035, when, in fact, for the past eight years the ice increased. So you see, temperatures go up, they go down. All cyclical.” Dove smiled at me. “Talk about an inconvenient truth.”
My face was flush with heat, imagining Charlie in his apartment furiously scribbling citations to science articles and Mom and all her friends harrumphing at the TV. I had no idea if anything Dove was saying was true and I was scared shitless to debate on national TV what sounded like real facts and stats—as opposed to what I had: one highlighted paragraph, a vague memory of what Congresswoman Carpenter had said two hours ago, and a long-held hunch.
“So, sounds like both sides have a point,” Rob said, interrupting my staring contest with Dove.
Larry held up a piece of white cardboard with black letters on it and shook it at me: thirty seconds.
Dove piped up again, directly to me. “Anyway, listen, y’all, this is exactly why Victor Fluke is running. It’s time to share his secrets of success with America.”
“Wrap,” Fatima said in our ears. “Twenty seconds to black. Read the tease.”
Larry was swirling one finger fast in the air and pointing the other one at me to read into Camera 2 before the commercial cut us off.
“And coming up,” I read, “Gisele Bündchen is here to help us make our booty extra hot.” Tell me I didn’t just say that.
“And we’re clear!” Larry yelled.
Dove stood up and slapped Rob’s back. “I’m serious, Amanda, don’t take any guff from this guy. And listen, here’s my only advice to you: Don’t believe everything you read. Have a good day, y’all.”
Dove strode out and I turned to Rob. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” he asked.
&n
bsp; “Why didn’t you help me shoot down his bullshit?”
“I didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire!” Rob said. “And that was some fine TV you were making there.”
“What does that mean?”
“That back and forth was great.”
“Great TV? We let him say whatever he wanted!”
Rob smirked and I had a bad feeling Prickly Rob from the chemistry test was about to make a comeback. “We’re supposed to give both sides.”
“We’re supposed to give viewers real info and try to find solutions,” I told him. “We didn’t do either!”
“You don’t think we solved the existential crisis of climate change there?” Rob asked with a blithe smile, like he might wink at me next.
“Rob, everything he was saying was wrong.”
“How do you know? Are you a climatologist?”
“No, but I know he’s full of shit.”
“How?”
“Because everyone knows global warming is real.”
“You ever read the East Anglia stuff?”
Fuck. I didn’t even know what that meant. I gave Rob a heavy sigh to let him know I was done debating this, then turned and began busying myself by reading viewer comments. On the screen, the show’s Twitter feed was up and in line after line I saw my name.
The liberal agenda of @AmandaGallo is disgusting! She makes me sick.
My stomach contracted like I’d been punched, and my eyes moved down to the next.
Everyone knows #climatechangeBS is made up by global warmists on the left. Tell @AmandaGallo to do her homework next time! #f’ingidiot.
Do my homework? Fuck you, you troll. You try doing a segment in front of a million people with Topher’s research packet. I clicked on the next one.
Hey @AmandaGallo, Good job with Congresswoman Carpenter. And I like your dangle.
I didn’t know what that meant and I didn’t want to know, but I checked my nose anyway, and then my bra, to make sure nothing was hanging before reading the next one.
Amanda Wakes Up Page 11
