Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  “Um-hum,” I nodded.

  “So can we ask you a question?” the first guy said.

  “Depends.”

  “Why do you work at FAIR News? I mean, I’m sure you could get a job at a real network.” He said it as compassionately as a college career counselor.

  “And where would that be?” I pressed, though I had a hunch.

  “Anywhere else. ABC, NBC. One guy I graduated with went to be a researcher for Gabe Wellborn. I mean, I know that’s the pinnacle, but maybe someday you could work for him instead of someone like Benji Diggs.”

  I felt my jaw clenching. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said, lowering my voice so as not to yell. “You don’t know the first thing about Benji Diggs or Gabe Wellborn. Benji Diggs is trying to get both sides to talk to each other. And by the way, Fluke’s followers are real people. They have real feelings, too. They bleed when they’re hit in the head, too.”

  The guys exchanged nervous glances, like, “Hey, get a load of the crazy lady,” which only spurred me on. “You guys should get out more often and expand your minds. And I don’t mean with edible marijuana. I mean by meeting people outside your little orbit. Try seeing the other side sometime.” I turned around, my face hot, and felt their stares lingering on my back.

  I scanned the room for Charlie, suddenly desperate to grab ahold of his hand. The party had gotten more crowded, and I found myself avoiding eye contact while searching for shelter, like a bathroom where I could hide. Charlie’s probably bored senseless by now. The faster I find him, the faster we can get the fuck out of here and go home to my couch and share a pint of chocolate ice cream. There he is, thank God.

  Over near the makeshift bar where I’d left him, Charlie stood next to Karen, in a circle of people holding beer bottles and laughing, riveted by some sort of gag Karen was reenacting.

  “So Professor Halloran says, ‘This isn’t a bank, Burke. You can’t just come here and make deposits when you feel like it,’ and he tosses my paper back at me with the pages flying like confetti!” Karen’s hands flew up and sent a handful of cocktail napkins fluttering up in the air. Everyone squealed in surprise.

  I tapped Charlie on the shoulder. “You ready to go?”

  Charlie turned and looked at me. “What? We just got here. It turns out Karen and I know lots of the same people. She was a TA for Halloran! How funny is that?”

  “Hilarious,” I said, stone-faced. “Can I talk to you for a second?” I grabbed Charlie’s arm, tugging him away from the circle and into the kitchen. “Listen, something’s up here,” I whispered. “Everyone’s staring at me. I feel like I’m wearing a scarlet letter. F for FAIR. We need to go home.”

  Charlie walked to the sink, where he put down his empty beer bottle then stuck his hand into a tub of ice and extracted a new one, grabbing an opener off the counter and popping off the top.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “You’re taking one for the road?”

  “Listen, Amanda, I don’t want to rush out of here. When is the last time we went to a fun party? We used to do this a lot, remember? Maybe you should talk to some of these people. This is your opportunity to let everyone know about the stuff going on at FAIR. Don’t you want to expose the crap they do with Fluke, the producers’ pathetic research packets, the fact that Benji Diggs decides what you should report based on ratings?”

  “Actually, no, Charlie,” I said. “I don’t want to be a mole. I like being a journalist, remember?”

  “Good luck with that,” Charlie snorted.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean good luck at FAIR News. You always wave the journalism flag, but they’re silencing you. Benji won’t even let you report the housekeeper story.”

  “I told you. He said we need to get the woman. He doesn’t want to cover rumors. That should be a good thing!” I took a deep breath to calm myself down.

  “Look, let’s not talk about work. For once. Let’s just have fun here tonight.”

  “But I don’t feel comfortable here. I feel like I don’t belong in this crowd anymore. They hate FAIR News. They don’t get what I’m trying to do. They don’t care about hearing the other side. They don’t even think there is another side.”

  “Conservatives don’t care about the other side either,” Charlie pointed out.

  “Right! The country has retreated to their corners! And I’m out here in the wilderness, trying to call everybody to the middle for a conversation. It’s kind of a lonely place.” I was hoping that was the point when Charlie would throw his arm around me and tell me I wasn’t alone. We were in this together.

  “That’s a nice notion, Amanda,” he said. “But it’s naïve. You can’t have it both ways. You’ve got to pick a side. These are our people. You’ve spent so much time at FAIR, it’s like you’ve forgotten who your friends are.”

  “I do pick a side, Charlie,” I said more emphatically. “In my personal life. And in the polling booth. But the rest of the time, if we all just stay in our comfy corners, then we’re not going to find solutions or even hear each other. You’re the one who talks about Tip O’Neill and Ronald Reagan fighting by day, then sharing drinks in the White House at night. I mean without that, we might as well divide into two separate countries right now. The Divided States of America.”

  “I’m okay with Texas and Alabama seceding, frankly,” he said with a smile, and I felt like he hadn’t heard a single other word I’d said.

  “Guess what? It’s not just those states,” I said more loudly, trying to get his attention and using my thumb to point back at the partygoers. “Do you know there are more people who call themselves conservative in this country than liberal? What are you going to do? Ignore the whole heartland?”

  “Amanda, take it down a notch. The people at this party are nice people. These are our friends. If you feel like they’re singling you out, why don’t you just tell them that you’re working at FAIR for the paycheck. Everybody understands that.”

  “Because that’s a total cop-out! Yes, I need the paycheck. But I’m also trying to accomplish something. Look,” I said, smoothing out my tone and trying a new tack, a more practical one, to get Charlie to understand, “the producers at Wake Up, they’re really just kids. And you’re right, they have no clue what journalism is. But I think I might be getting through to them. They’re doing some better research, they’re checking their facts more. I’ve gotten some of Topher’s stupid pitches killed. You know, baby steps.”

  A crooked smile pulled on Charlie’s cheek. “You think you’re changing FAIR News?”

  “Yes, I think I might be,” I said with conviction, hoping I was right. “Fatima is going along with my suggestions. She’s pressing the producers to be more true and equal.”

  “True and equal? Listen to yourself, Amanda!” Charlie said. “It’s like you have Stockholm syndrome. You’re buying the bullshit that Benji is feeding you. You think that jackass Ro-ob”—Charlie stretched his name into two syllables—“is a journalist? He’s an idiot!”

  I retracted my head as though Charlie had thrown a jab, though I didn’t know why that one stung. “Maybe you’re the one with Stockholm syndrome,” I said, my voice ticking up again. “Maybe you’re not dealing with the fact that the country is bigger than Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah, I get it, Amanda. We’re in a bubble. But that doesn’t mean you need to pander to the redneck racist homophobes in the rest of the country.”

  My eyes grew wide. “Oh, that is what you think. You think that people in the Midwest and South are redneck homophobes. You think the Fluke followers are all racists.” I shook my head. “I used to think that, too. But now I know them. I hear them.” At that moment, I realized I was using my pointer finger to jab Charlie in the chest, so I stopped. “And here’s the kicker. Those people like watching me on the news. So maybe if they are all as narrow-minded
as you think, maybe I have a chance to expand some minds. Maybe I could make them open to compromise. Maybe I could help heal the division. I’m in a position to do that!”

  “Wow,” Charlie said slowly, staring at me and shaking his head. “That’s quite a messiah complex. You really think you can bring the nation together by working at Benji Diggs’s Fluke factory? I think, Amanda, that you are genuinely confused.”

  I stared at Charlie and felt sick that I’d ever considered sharing the silly idea that we would someday visit Tom and Joyce. God, maybe I was confused.

  “You tell yourself you’re in journalism to change the world, but you’re the one who’s changed,” Charlie went on. “Your clothes. Your hair. Your politics. You care more about your viewers than what real people around you—” he gestured to the party. “Okay, I’ll say it—educated people think about what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah, Charlie,” I said, my voice now sharp and sardonic, “I’d say what I’m doing on national TV is a tad more important than whatever these bloggers are writing.”

  “Ah, so you admit it,” Charlie said, taking a step away from me. “You like the fame and power. This isn’t about hearing both sides. It isn’t about being fair. It’s about you and your childhood dream.”

  I stared up at his face. “Why don’t you want this for me?”

  Charlie paused. “All yours, Amanda,” he said, putting down his full beer on the counter and moving past me to walk away.

  “Wait, are we leaving?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “but not together.”

  Chapter 24

  Right and Left

  I’d never noticed how quiet my apartment could be on a Sunday morning without Charlie making coffee and giving a running commentary on the Week in Review section. I slumped onto the sofa and tried to think back to how we’d gotten to this point. We seemed a long way from our best times. And it was painful to remember. Our trip to Orcas Island last year. The two of us with his friends, grilling fresh salmon. One night after a couple of bottles of red wine, we’d taken turns reading aloud from a David Sedaris book. We’d laughed and laughed and it seemed to me that night that Charlie and I were meant for each other and we should get married and live off the land in farm-to-table harmony, or whatever that translated to in Midtown Manhattan.

  God, was Charlie right? Had I put my career above my love life? Had our relationship always had issues? I couldn’t remember now how I’d felt before.

  I looked at the phone, wishing I could call Laurie, but 9:00 A.M. was way too early for her to be conscious. I dug in the sofa cushions for the remote and clicked on FAIR’s weekend show, which was covering another Fluke SUCCESS! rally, this one in Wisconsin. I flicked it off and reached for the phone.

  “Did you get the article I sent you on the health-care system?” Mom started after answering.

  “Got it, thanks,” I said. The fact that my mother considered herself my primary source for news usually amused me, but this morning it made me want to hang up.

  “So did you watch Margot’s special with Virginia Wynn Thursday night?” she asked.

  “Uh, no. I was a little busy at the Fluke rally, remember? But I saw some clips online.”

  “Wasn’t she so impressive? I don’t mean Margot, I mean Virginia Wynn. She’s so smart and all of her ideas on gun violence are smart and commonsensical. She’s working with the Brady Campaign! That’s why I can’t understand why anyone would ever oppose them.”

  I sighed. “Because that’s not who she should be working with, Mom.”

  “What do you mean? They’re the foremost authority on gun control.”

  “Yeah, that’s my point. That will never move the needle, because she’s preaching to the choir. What Wynn should do is go to New Hampshire, or Texas, or Alabama, and go to a gun show. And sit down with all the people there and hear them. You know? All the people who think she’s out to get them. Get their ideas on stopping gun violence. See what they’re willing to compromise on.”

  Mom snorted. “That’s never going to happen.”

  I sighed. “I know that.”

  “I have a funny story to tell you,” she rolled on. “So, you know the neighbors Joe and Sally, who I told you are big FAIR News fans? Particularly Joe. He’s probably seventy years old and he loooves you.”

  “Ah yes, my fan base . . . old men,” I said, trying to sound upbeat, hoping not to have to tell Mom about my fight with Charlie.

  “Yes, well, they were asking about you, as they always do, and how it is that I’m a liberal and you’re a conservative Fluke fan! I laughed and assured them you’re a good liberal, too. That covering Fluke is just your job.”

  I sat silent on the other end of the phone.

  “Amanda? Are you there? Did I lose you?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Mom asked, her voice getting a note higher. “You’re still a liberal, aren’t you?”

  I sighed.

  “Amanda?”

  “I’m not even sure what that means anymore, Mom.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know what that means?”

  “I mean, I guess I’m tired of having to fit into a liberal or conservative box. Why can’t they both have good ideas? I’ve been struggling with this, Mom. Maybe you can help me. Can we play a little word game?”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice tilting upward with apprehension.

  “Describe liberal in three adjectives.”

  “Well, let’s see,” she started. “I’d say generous.”

  “Yup, I’d say that, too,” I replied. “But I learned something shocking last week. Conservatives actually give more money to charity than liberals. Can you believe that?”

  “No,” she replied, “I can’t and I don’t. I’ve read it’s actually the lower class that gives a larger percentage of their income to charity than the upper class.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “We did a talking point on this. It is true that the poor give a larger chunk of their money to charity than the rich, which is amazing, you’re right. But it’s conservatives who do most of the giving. I read an article on how conservative households give thirty percent more to charity each year than liberal households. Oh, and get this! They also volunteer more of their time. And give more blood!”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Mom said after a moment. “That must be from one of those right-wing outfits that does pseudo research.”

  “It was in the New York Times. Oh, and by the way, conservatives are also happier than liberals!” I said, almost slapping my own forehead.

  “I don’t remember seeing that,” Mom said, terse. “Well, maybe Republicans give more money because they make more money than Democrats.”

  “Nope. The study adjusted for income. In fact, the liberal families on average made more money than conservatives. See, Mom, we have these notions about the other side, and I gotta tell you, it’s been mind-blowing for me to find out where I’m wrong.”

  “What about Charlie’s friend John you told me about? The one that started that arts program that brings theater and dance and poetry into impoverished schools,” she countered. “That’s what liberals stand for.”

  “You’re right, Mom. And you know what John told me the last time we had dinner with him? That the teachers’ unions are bleeding the system dry. So dyed-in-the-wool Democrat John, altruistic do-gooder, thinks tenured teachers and lavish pensions are the death of the arts. Does that make him a liberal or a conservative?” I asked.

  Mom tsked. “I guess you’d have to ask him. But I would also say that a defining characteristic of being a liberal is tolerance. Conservatives are intolerant of anything that threatens their values.”

  “Again, I agree with you. But maybe liberals are only tolerant of their own causes, like climate change and gay marriage—not of conservative causes like gun
rights and lower taxes.”

  “Well, you seem to have given this more thought than I have. I don’t have other examples at the moment,” she said. “This is just what I feel and have always felt about liberals. We’re more kind.”

  “I’ve always thought that, too, Mom. And I’m giving it a lot of thought lately because I interview people on both sides every day, and it’s weird, these Fluke supporters are also kind. They said the crew and I could stay at their house last week in New Hampshire.”

  “That’s nice. You could have watched them write their vile signs.”

  “Liberals have vile signs, too, Mom. There were a lot of f-bombs on posters.”

  Mom sighed and I could tell our little game was wearing thin. “Look, honey, these are interesting issues and I’m glad you’re thinking about them. I just don’t want to see you lose yourself and what you stand for. What does Charlie think?”

  I paused, last night coming back like a stab wound. “He thinks I’m losing myself.”

  Mom was quiet on the other end, then, “You know there’s more to life than just your job.”

  She didn’t have to say “like having a family,” I heard it and at the moment it felt painfully out of reach.

  “Listen, Mom, I’m trying to figure it all out. How to be fair to both sides and solve problems. And what being successful means to me.”

  “It’s terrible that Victor Fluke has co-opted that word. I can’t hear ‘success’ without feeling ill.”

  “Well, this might make you feel better. Laurie thinks she is on the verge of getting the housekeeper to speak. She’s been working on it for months. And if that happens, Fluke’s supporters will finally see the truth about him.”

  “Well, I know you’re doing your best, too, sweetheart. And just remember, there’s a lot in life we don’t get to choose, but you do get to pick your own path. I can’t remember who said that.”

  “I think it was Oprah.”

  “Probably,” Mom said.

  “Thank you, Mom. I’ll try.”