The Rationing

by Charles Wheelan

  45.

  I ARRIVED AT THE CNN STUDIO JUST AFTER SUNRISE. THE morning sun was reflecting sharply off the shiny exterior of the building as the black sedan dropped me at the entrance. News of the Outbreak was palpable. The street was mostly deserted. Many of the stores and shops had handwritten signs on the door saying they would not be opening DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES or UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Later, when we had made some headway convincing the public that Capellaviridae does not “spread,” stores and shops began to open as an act of solidarity and strength. Starbucks was the first company to issue a statement saying that all of its stores would be open, as “this is a time for Americans to come together, not to rush away from one another in fear.” It was an important step in our efforts to stem the panic. Still, some 40 percent of Starbucks employees called in sick in those first few days.

  The CNN building was abuzz with activity, in striking contrast to the eerie, semi-deserted street outside. A producer was waiting for me in the lobby. She, like most of the other people scurrying across the lobby, was wearing a white face mask. “I know you’ll understand if I don’t shake your hand,” she said.

  I laughed involuntarily, causing her to take a half step back. “It’s not even the right wrong response,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, perhaps offended but also deferring to me as “the expert.”

  I explained, “Most of us are already carrying Capellaviridae, so there is no point in trying to protect ourselves from the virus. But even if for some strange reason you were not infected, the virus is transmitted by a biting insect, so there is no point in wearing a face mask. See? It’s the wrong wrong response.”

  “Say that on camera,” she said. “That’s perfect. We need to get you into makeup.” She used a badge to swipe me through security and pushed me gently toward a bank of elevators. An elevator door opened and we stepped inside. Two other people joined us, both wearing face masks. They spread out to the corners of the elevator, keeping us all as far apart as possible. “Eleven. This is us,” the producer said. “Have you ever been on television?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Just have a conversation. You’ll do great.”

  Makeup was a small, harshly lit room with several barber-type chairs. “He’s yours,” the producer said, handing me off to a very large man in a tight white T-shirt sipping coffee. “I need him back in five.”

  “Five?” the makeup attendant exclaimed with mock indignation. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” As if to put a finer point on it, he turned to me and said, “Get in the chair, you’re a mess.” My suit was wet, as was my hair. My face was damp with perspiration. “Where to begin?” he asked. I pulled the tie out of my pocket; it was creased at two-inch intervals from having been wadded up for hours.

  “Should I put this on?” I asked.

  “No! No, that is not going to work,” he said, taking the wrinkled tie from my hand and literally tossing it aside. “You’ll be fine without it. But we need to get that jacket dry or it’s going to reflect on camera.” He used a blow dryer on both my jacket and my hair. Then, with striking efficiency, he applied makeup to the shiny places on my face and combed my hair, spraying it with something to hold it in place. The producer appeared in the doorway holding a clipboard and looking slightly anxious.

  “Okay, I need him,” she said. The producer steered me around a corner into a large studio with banks of desks arrayed across the open floor. At the far end of the room, I could see the familiar CNN news desk illuminated by bright lights. The room was a hive of activity, with reporters and producers scurrying back and forth off camera. The familiar Linda Schuham was sitting at the anchor desk, interviewing someone whom I did not recognize. There was a large map of the United States illuminated behind the anchor desk; both Schuham and her guest pointed at the map on occasion. An older man with a long gray ponytail stepped beside me and said in a raspy voice, “I’m going to mike you up.” I could smell tobacco on his breath as he clipped a microphone on my lapel, wrapped the extra cord around a small transmitter, and then slid it inside my jacket pocket. “You don’t need to do anything,” he said. “I’ll turn it on from here. Just remember to give it back to me when you’re done.” The White House had been emphatic about the three points I needed to make: (1) no terrorist attack; (2) the virus does not spread; (3) we have the capacity to keep the country healthy. The last point was clearly debatable, but panic was not going to do anyone any good. I would do my best to make the situation feel under control as Americans woke up to the Capellaviridae news.

  The Communications Director had given me a pep talk as I rode to the studio in the sedan. “Stick to the talking points,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

  “I want to make sure I get those points across,” I answered.

  “No. That means you are not going to say anything else. Those three points, over and over. That’s it. If Linda Schuham asks you what your favorite color is, you say, ‘What’s important to understand right now is that there has not been a terrorist attack.’ Got it?”

  It seemed easy enough until I found myself gazing across the room at the news desk, with cameras surrounding it from all angles. The producer said, “We’re going to break in thirty seconds and then I’ll take you up there.” I did one more mental checklist of the points I needed to make. The producer must have seen the concentration on my face, because she said, “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a conversation. You’re going to have about three minutes.”

  “Three minutes?” I asked, incredulous. It had never dawned on me that I would have so little time.

  “That’s actually long for a news segment at this hour,” she said. “Remember, follow Linda’s lead and have a conversation.”

  Of course, that was the opposite of what the Communications Director had advised me, I thought, recalling his final admonition: “I don’t care what the fuck she asks you. Don’t even listen to the question. When her lips stop moving, you give the answer you want to give.” The program went to break. The guest stood up to leave, a different producer escorting him off the set as I was steered into the bright lights. A young woman rushed up to Linda Schuham, handing her a bottle of water while conferring about something. The producer guided me to my seat on the set. I felt awkward and stiff compared to what seemed like the fluidity and ease of everyone around me. The lights were bizarrely bright, giving everything on the set a fake plastic feel. Linda Schuham shared a laugh with the woman who had brought her the water and then turned to me and said in a surprisingly chipper voice, “Thanks so much for coming on. Just explain to me what’s happening like you were talking to your mother.”

  “We’ll just have a conversation,” I offered.

  “Exactly,” she said.

  From somewhere behind the bright lights beating down on me, I heard, “We’re on in five-four-three-two, and live.”

  46.

  THE PRESIDENT AND HIS SENIOR ADVISERS WATCHED ON THE television in the conference room on Air Force One. Linda Schuham looked somberly into the camera and delivered her introduction: “Many of you are waking up to the news that America is suffering a potentially devastating public health crisis: a previously benign virus, widespread in America, has turned deadly. This is happening at a time when America’s supply of Dormigen, the one drug that can be used to treat this virus successfully, is in short supply. Our guest is one of America’s top scientists and an adviser to the White House.” She turned to me and said, “Welcome to the program. Why are we just learning about this now?”

  “That’s a good question, Linda,” I said, trying to buy myself time. It really was a good question. As the chaos had unfolded that morning, I found myself wondering if our secrecy had done more harm than good.

  On Air Force One, the Communications Director yelled at the television, “No. No, that is not a good question. Do not answer that question.”

  It felt awkward, almost rude, but I went with the talking points. “The most important thin
g to realize is that there has been no terrorist attack—”

  She cut me off: “The White House put out a statement to that effect. If that’s true—”

  “It is true,” I said firmly.

  On Air Force One, the Communications Director continued his commentary: “Okay, good, good.”

  Unfortunately for me, Linda Schuham had faced more than a few guests who showed up with talking points in their pockets. “Back to my original question,” she pressed. “How long has the White House known about this virus, and also about the looming Dormigen shortage?”

  The Communications Director pleaded with the television, “Do not go down that rabbit hole.”

  I answered, “The most important thing right now is to manage the public health situation. What people need to realize is that the Capellaviridae virus is extremely common. Many of us are already carrying it. Only in some small fraction of cases will it become dangerous.”

  The President, watching with the others, said, “That’s good.”

  “Nice pivot,” the Communications Director added.

  Linda Schuham took the conversation in my direction. “So I might have the virus right now? Or you might have it?” she asked.

  “Yes, we’re probably both carrying Capellaviridae,” I said.

  “Might the virus be spreading through our studio as we speak?” she asked in mock alarm.

  “No. Absolutely not,” I answered. “That’s the wrong way to think about Capellaviridae. The virus is already out there. You and I have probably been carrying it around for twenty or thirty years, maybe since we were born. The danger here is more like cancer than the flu.”

  On Air Force One, the Strategist asked loudly, “Did he just say ‘cancer’?”

  “Fuck me,” the Communications Director said.

  Linda Schuham asked, “Cancer? Is that supposed to make people feel better?”

  I tried to climb out of the hole. “What I mean is . . .” No one heard the rest of the answer, during which I tried to explain how lurking viruses work, without actually understanding how lurking viruses work.

  Linda Schuham threw me a lifeline. She asked, “When Capellaviridae turns dangerous, Dormigen is effective, yes?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “And yet the nation is running out of Dormigen. How did that happen? How many people might die as a result?”

  She put talking point number three on a tee for me. I explained, “The White House and all federal agencies are working around the clock to bolster the nation’s Dormigen supply. Our allies have shipped us millions of doses. We are working on alternative ways to treat the virulent form of Capellaviridae. We are managing this public health challenge.”

  On Air Force One, the Chief of Staff said, “That’s a strong finish.”

  The Strategist replied, “But you can’t mention the c-word. That’s going to be the headline: an epidemic of cancer, spreading.”

  “Cancer doesn’t spread from person to person,” the Chief of Staff said. “That’s why he made the comparison.”

  “No one’s going to understand that,” the Communications Director complained, shaking his head in frustration.

  “At least we’re beating back the terrorist story,” the President offered.

  In fact, the terrorist story was alive and well. We had not yet even seen the worst of it. In a nondescript suburb of Houston, Tony Perez was just finishing his work for the day. He had been up early, about four-thirty Central Time, digesting the news of the day and then, as he would tell the Outbreak Inquiry Commission, “Putting a different spin on it.” In fact, Perez was the reigning king of fake news: creative, compelling, prolific, and shockingly well read. In a burst of imagination that morning, Perez had reported that a Latino separatist group had introduced Capellaviridae to the United States and would provide an antidote only if Congress agreed to their demands.

  47.

  I WALKED OUT OF THE CNN STUDIO INTO THE BRIGHT MORNING sunlight, not sure what to do next. The rain had cleared and the day was pleasant in an early spring kind of way. There was no car waiting for me. I heard nothing from the Communications Director after my segment. Maybe that was because he was displeased with me; more likely it was because there was so much else going on. I knew I should not have used the cancer analogy. I felt that even as I was saying the words. My impression had been reinforced by Linda Schuham’s reaction as I made the comparison. I saw a glimmer of surprise in her eyes—recognition that she had knocked me off my talking points and unearthed something newsworthy in our conversation. That is what CNN paid her a lot of money to do.

  I sat on a bench across from the CNN building, taking in the surreal scene around me: harried, concerned people walking purposefully on a beautiful spring day. Now what? I looked at the cell phone the Communications Assistant had given me. There were 151 voice messages—so many that it seemed pointless to return any of them. Tie Guy had left me a text on my secure phone: “Call me ASAP.” I had not spoken to him since the news broke. I figured he wanted to hear firsthand what was happening, or maybe he wanted to critique my CNN performance. (No one appreciates how difficult it is to stay on message in a very short conversation with a host who is working hard to steer the discussion somewhere else.) Or he might be angry, given that I had been less than forthright with him. In any event, I was not eager to have any of these conversations, so I did not call him back. Instead, I sat on that bench in the sunshine, watching people in face masks scurry by while I waited for someone to tell me what to do next.

  Tie Guy sent me a second text on the secure phone: “Call me ASAP. It’s important re: Capellaviridae.” This time I decided to call him back, but as I was searching for his number in my contacts, the Communications Director called. I answered immediately: “Hey, I’m sorry about the cancer comparison—”

  “It’s over,” he said quickly. “Don’t do it again. The President is speaking in about thirty-five minutes. Get someplace where you can watch the speech. You’re going to do a satellite radio tour—all the drive-time shows. They’ll give you the details when you get there. Stick to the talking points,” he said, hanging up before I could answer. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he texted me an address for a studio about fifteen blocks away. I would be able to watch the President’s speech there, but I would have to hustle to get there in time. There were far fewer cabs on the street than usual; the safest option was a brisk walk. I should have called Tie Guy back as I was walking, but my mind was already on the President’s speech and the radio interviews I would have to do immediately after he finished.

  48.

  LIKE ALL SUCCESSFUL WRITERS, TONY PEREZ STUCK TO A DISCIPLINED schedule. He awoke early, both because his writing was sharpest in the morning and because his stories did best when they appeared early. Many of us had developed the habit of perusing the headlines on our devices when we woke up in the morning, or after settling in at the office with a hot cup of coffee. Perez was not just a gifted writer of fake news; he was also a sophisticated consumer of data. He spent his afternoons studying the metrics for his masterpieces: who read them, who shared them, what stories did best with different kinds of readers, and so on. Real news outlets do not have the luxury of changing the news to suit the tastes of their readers. New York Times readers would no doubt prefer sunny weather and a balanced federal budget, but if those things are not really happening, the editors have no choice but to report the less pleasant stuff. Tony Perez, on the other hand, woke up every morning to a blank canvas. What would most fascinate or captivate a housewife in Atlanta or a bored software executive riding a bus to work in Silicon Valley? Perez drew laughter during his testimony before Congress when he described himself as “an artist,” but he was not necessarily wrong. He was clearly a creative writer.# Not that I have anything but contempt for him and his ilk: if I had seen him walking on the road the morning he wrote his first Capellaviridae story, I would have run him over with my car (if I owned a car). But even I have to concede that
he was very good at what he did. Advertisers loved him; at the time the Capellaviridae story broke, Perez was earning over $700,000 a year from online advertising—not bad for an unemployed PE teacher who had been living in his parents’ attic just two years earlier.

  Perez had seen that first Capellaviridae story posted by The New Yorker, as well as the early follow-ups generated by the consortium of news outlets reporting on the story. Those pieces were scary and incomplete. For Perez, this was a gift, as it allowed him to fill in the details. He knew from experience that his best stories, like successful Hollywood movies, needed a villain. He also knew that his readers hated politics, but they lapped up political conspiracies. As Perez sat at his kitchen table in sweatpants and a T-shirt, he immediately recognized Capellaviridae as an opportunity to weave together a scary pathogen with political intrigue. “I write fiction that feels like news,” Perez told the Outbreak Inquiry Commission. “It has to be nested in reality.” Perez was lambasted for portraying himself as some kind of cross between Edward R. Murrow and Picasso, but his testimony was fascinating. His genius, if I dare use that word, lay in taking events people knew to be true, introducing layers of fabricated but intriguing detail, and producing a compulsively readable story that felt accurate to his most loyal readers. As he would later testify, “Nobody really knew what was going on. I offered one possibility.”