by Nic Tatano
"Thank you, that's very kind."
"So what do you want to talk about—"
"Ah, nice try, Senator."
"Hey, you can't fault a girl for taking a shot."
We shared a laugh, and I could see how the woman could charm even the most hard-boiled reporter.
Fifteen minutes later her interview was in the can. It was a spirited give and take; she didn't dodge any tough questions, I didn't lob any softballs, and she avoided anything that sounded rehearsed. She talked rather than recited. Again, I didn't agree with everything she said, but I couldn't help but like her personally as I walked her to the door.
"So, I was talking to Gavin," she said, "and he told me that should I decide to run you would be assigned to the campaign."
I nodded and smiled, thankful that Gavin was actually sticking to his word on something. "Yeah. So we could be tired together."
"Well, maybe by then you'll have learned some tricks and can give me advice. We redheads have to stick together. Although I'm not sure the rest of the media could deal with two spunky ones on the same plane."
"True. As far as attitude is concerned, we could have been separated at birth." We laughed as we reached the door. "Here's one piece of advice I can give you right now, Senator: be prepared to have no social life."
"Already there, honey. Sometimes I go weeks without seeing my husband."
"At least you have one."
"Don't worry, Veronica, Mister Right is out there."
I held the door open for her, revealing a waiting limo. "Thanks for coming by, Senator, and it was great to meet you."
She shook my hand and smiled. "Pleasure was mine. I'll see you again soon."
I watched her energetic walk to the limo, waving at a few pedestrians as she moved.
Funny, the carrot Gavin had dangled was a carrot top. Ironic, huh?
And suddenly the thought of a campaign and Air Force One gave me a shot of energy that topped anything in a coffee mug. Maybe I could do this after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Upon further review, maybe I can't do this after all.
Three months into the new job, and I've realized my old boyfriend was right. I still don't want him back, but he was right. I'm not a morning person and never will be. You can't force an owl to be a chicken. (That one's from Savannah.)
This truly has become the job from hell. Forbidden fruit, as Alexander would put it. I can almost hear him saying, "I told you so. You should have run off to Connecticut with me and you could be baking cookies, servicing me every night, and thanking me for the opportunity."
I've become a physical wreck. Oh, those great breakfasts at The Little Bakery get me through the show all right. But it's the other twenty-two hours of the day that are killing me.
Here's my typical day:
Get up at two in the morning after being jolted out of bed like I've been hit with a cattle prod by an alarm which, at that hour, sounds like a Chinese gong.
Start the coffee pot, which I've loaded the night before since during my first week on the job I attempted to make some java while bleary-eyed and filled the coffee machine with flour, thus creating the first paste cappuccino.
Take a ten minute hot shower, drink two cups of coffee, stagger down to the limo in jeans or sweats, chasing raccoons away from the door in the process. I look up at what I thought were birds, but which Charlie informed me were actually bats since birds don't fly at night. Appropriate for the vampire shift, so I wave at them. Professional courtesy.
Drink two more cups of coffee after arriving at the station.
Breakfast across the street, which perks me up just long enough to get through the show.
Home by ten. Close the black curtains I've purchased to block out every ray of sunlight and make my apartment look like a hangout for a coven. Eat bowl of cereal, careful to add blueberries instead of the olives I used my first week. (New! Lucky Charms! Now with a full days serving of olives!)
Resolve to stay up without taking nap so that I will fall asleep at six and get eight hours.
Despite the caffeine content of four cups of coffee, I pass out on couch at noon after watching The Price is Right. (I always overbid.)
Wake up at four, covered with drool and somewhat rested. Eat lunch or dinner, depending on what I decide to call it.
Crawl back into bed at six in an attempt to sleep.
Give up at eight and watch television or read.
Fall asleep at ten.
Rinse. Repeat.
Social life? Seriously? Weekdays are totally out of the question. Weekends are spent in bed trying to catch up on sleep. I haven't been out with anyone since I did my swan dive into the lobster bisque and got a nine-point-four from the tabloid judge. I seem to remember what sex was like, but the memory is fading. I'm lonely as hell. My friends still are my friends, but they're on a different schedule, along with the rest of the world.
Sunday nights are the worst. After two days of my body almost getting back to normal, I have to crawl back into my coffin.
I know, I know, there's a big brass ring waiting for me in two years, eight months and twenty-eight days (who's counting) but I'm not sure it's worth it. I might be dead before then.
So, after two weeks of deep thought I'd decided on a course of action. To hell with the evening anchor job. I want my life back. And there's only one way to do it.
Try my best to get fired.
Oh, I wasn't going to make it obvious, like not showing up or dropping F-bombs on live television. It's going to be something natural. No one's going to be surprised. And no one's going to blame me.
Because everyone on the staff knows how exhausted I've been and what a physical wreck I am.
Now I had to let the whole country know.
***
I was filled with more energy than I'd ever had on this show, then realized I was simply excited about launching my plan. But I couldn't show it. Instead of sitting up straight as the intro music faded I slumped into my chair. Scott started with his usual upbeat welcome to the viewers. "Good Monday, everyone, and welcome to The Morning Show. I'm Scott Winter."
I started to talk and then stifled a fake yawn. "Oh, excuse me. And I'm Veronica Summer. At least I will be at some point."
"She was up past her bedtime," said Scott, always quick with the ad-lib. "Went to bed at eight."
"Just wake me when the prompter says it's my turn to talk."
Scott turned and made eye contact, shooting me a somewhat worried look that our two-shot camera could not pick up. I rubbed my eyes like people do when they first roll out of bed. His eyes widened a bit. Now I could tell he was seriously worried.
"So let's get started," said Scott, turning back to the camera, "because we've got a packed show for you this morning. A very special guest from Hollywood will be dropping by later on. He's just been named the most beautiful person on earth."
"Pffft, whatever," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly. "Eye candy aint gonna cure cancer, so what's the big deal?" I caught a glimpse of Scott taken aback in my peripheral vision. "As for the really important stuff that isn't superficial, we'll get you up to date on the budget situation in Congress and take a look at how the new tax laws could effect your paycheck. And later on we'll have a visit from a nutrition expert to show you how to make a very healthy school lunch for your children that won't impact your budget."
"Right," said Scott. "And in the second hour—"
I cut him off. "You know what, Scott?"
Scott turned and gave me a wide-eyed look that I knew meant What the hell are you doing? "No, what?"
"I'm thinkin' there are a whole bunch of parents out there who just dragged themselves out of bed a half hour early to make those lunches for their precious little snowflakes. Well … here's a news flash for you moms and dads out there." I leaned forward and raised my voice. "KIDS CAN ACTUALLY PUT A SANDWICH TOGETHER BY THEMSELVES! HELLO, MCFLY!" I leaned back and returned to my normal tone. "Kids, stop playing with F
acebook and listen up. You get your peanut butter, you get your jelly, you slap it on two pieces of bread and toss it in your Harry Potter lunchbox with a banana and a juice box. It's not rocket science! Let mom and dad sleep an extra thirty minutes and make your own lunch because they work their tails off so you can have a two hundred dollar cell phone in the third grade and then chauffeur you to every conceivable activity they can think of lest they be thought of as bad parents. Mom and Dad, go back to bed. We're here for two hours anyway and you can catch up later." I waved my hand at the camera. "Go on. Get under the covers. The kids won't starve. Toss 'em a pop-tart and catch some more shut-eye."
Scott's jaw dropped. I took a quick glance around the studio and saw the same reaction from members of the crew.
I flashed a devilish grin at the camera. "And tomorrow, we might even teach your children how to make an exotic breakfast called … wait for it … scrambled eggs! If we have time we'll show them how to do something really tricky … pour milk into a bowl of cereal! An incredible life skill! Meanwhile, let's check on the latest news."
***
Nothing happened as we went to commercial because I had one trump card up my sleeve. I knew Gavin Karlson had one hard and fast rule he'd never broken. He would not, under any circumstances, enter the studio until the show was over. He would not chastise me through my earpiece. He believed, as I do, that yelling at an anchor in the middle of a show only made things worse.
Didn't matter, I was doing it on my own.
The level of snark had reached an all time high for a network morning show. I went off on tangents, ranted about stuff that bugged me like helicopter parents who bubblewrap their kids; wondered aloud while interviewing our fashion expert why anyone would pay four hundred bucks for a purse when you could buy a perfectly good illegal knockoff on the streets of Manhattan for thirty, because, what the hell, they were all made with shoddy workmanship in China anyway; slammed the Mets for not having a decent centerfielder and charging too much to watch a lousy team; argued that all Central Park mimes were so damn annoying they should be deported to France; and vented about people who brought babies to the movies. Get a damn sitter! Scott had tried to talk me down off the ledge during each commercial break, and I gave him the bobblehead, then took off again the minute the red light went on. I figured someone was no doubt compiling my greatest hits for YouTube (probably labeled "Morning Anchor Goes Batshit") and whole thing would get ten million hits before the day was out.
At one minute till nine Scott ended the show with, "We'll see you tomorrow morning. I think." The credits rolled over a two-shot as I waved cheerfully to the camera. I'm sure that even my faux perkiness looked sarcastic.
At one nanosecond after nine the wooden door to the studio flew open so hard it banged against the wall and shattered the little glass window in the middle.
No surprise, Gavin Karlson stormed into the studio, eyes narrowed directly at me. “In my office. Now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I followed Gavin, head down, pretending to be the student headed to the principal’s office. He was shaking his head as he passed his secretary, who held up a fistful of pink message slips while avoiding eye contact with me. She was on the phone and every line on the thing was lit up. He grabbed the message slips as he walked into his office, pointed to the chair opposite his desk without saying a word, then closed the door after I took a seat. It was all I could do to keep from smiling. He moved behind his desk, sat down, leaned back and folded his hands in his lap.
"Explain," he said.
"Explain what?"
His eyes became saucers. "Explain what? Oh, I don't know … why you were so incredibly obnoxious for the past two hours on national television."
"I don't even remember half of what I said. I'm fried, Gavin. Totally exhausted. If I said things that offended people I'm sorry, but I was basically asleep out there."
"Well, I'm sure you'll be able to read about it in every newspaper in America. Or watch yourself on the Internet."
I thrust out my lower lip in a pout, dipped my head and looked up at him through my eyelashes like a naughty little girl. "It was that bad?"
That question launched him out of his chair. "It was the worst performance in the history of morning television! I think you probably insulted every possible demographic out there! Not to mention what you said to our special guest!"
I played dumb again. "I, uh, don't remember—"
"The most beautiful man on earth! You asked him if his childhood idol was a Ken doll! You may as well have called him a plastic toy!"
I bit my lower lip, more to keep from laughing than anything else. "Oh."
He shook the pink slips at me and the irony hit me. (Maybe I'll get one later today!) "Meanwhile, I'm sure I'll be spending the rest of the day fielding phone calls and answering emails from irate viewers. I'd make you stay and do it yourself, but God only knows what you'd say!"
"Gavin, all I can say is that I'm sorry. I'm so exhausted I'm just not myself."
"Well, then go home and take a pill to knock yourself out." His phone buzzed and he hit a button. "Yes?"
His secretary's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Fincastle wants you upstairs. Right now."
"On my way," he said. He grabbed his suit jacket from a hanger on the back of the door and put it on. "Great. Now I'm gonna get my ass reamed by the CEO. I'll send you a bill for the Vaseline." He stormed out of his office, leaving me behind.
I got up from my chair and slowly walked out past his secretary. "I guess he's done with me and I can go home?"
"That would be a very good idea," she said, glaring at me.
***
I desperately wanted to get out of the building as fast as possible so I wouldn't have to do what I'd never done.
Lie to Scott.
Alas, 'twas not to be, as he was waiting for me at my desk wearing a worried look. "So," he said, "you still work here?"
"No clue. Gavin got called upstairs."
"What the hell was up with you this morning?"
I shook my head. "I don't know, Scott. I'm just so damn tired I guess the truth came out about everything."
"Listen, you might want to write Gavin an apology before you get out of the building. I've got some clout around here but I might not be able to save you on this one. Meanwhile, make sure you get enough rest so that it doesn't happen tomorrow. "
"The point may be moot. I might not be here tomorrow."
"I'll see what I can do."
Oh, shit. The last thing I needed was for him to go to bat for me. "Really, Scott, don't put yourself in the line of fire for me. My screw-up, my problem. You don't need to take a bullet for me."
"Bullshit. We're a team, remember?"
Damn Boy Scout. Then again, I knew I'd do the same for him if the roles were reversed.
***
Charlie dropped me off at my apartment without saying a word. Didn't even get out of the car to open the door for me like he always did. As soon as he pulled away and turned the corner I had a spring in my step, my fake yawns no longer needed. Just as I was about to head up the stairs a well-dressed fortyish businessman in an expensive gray suit spotted me and smiled.
"Hey, Veronica Summer. Great show this morning," he said.
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, right."
He stopped walking. "No seriously, it was hilarious. You aren't fake like all those other people on morning shows. That rant you went on about kids making their own lunches was hysterical. My wife actually went back to bed. Our teenagers bitched about it but they made their own lunches. After they left we started talking about taking back the house and our lives."
My face tightened. "You actually liked what I did this morning?"
"Are you kidding? I'm telling you, I was doubled over laughing. What a great way to start the day. I know it's April Fool’s Day and all, and it was probably a put-on, but you really ought to consider doing that every morning."
Oh, shit.
I'd completely f
orgotten it was April first. Would viewers think the whole thing was a joke? Would such a small oversight ruin my master plan? Would Gavin let me off the hook because he'd think it was me trying to be funny?
Dammit! I needed to get fired here and the universe was conspiring against me!
"I'd never miss a show if you keep it up," the man said, then looked at his watch. "Anyway, thanks for the fun wake up call and for making our kids more self-sufficient."
"You're welcome," I said, as he moved on.
The spring in my step disappeared. The man actually liked my snarky persona. Surely he was one out of millions. Seriously, how many people liked being insulted?
I shuffled up the stairs, heart racing as I dreaded reading the comments on the Internet.
What if the businessman had a typical reaction?
***
Thirty minutes later I was having another Sally Field moment, but with a small difference.
They like me. Sonofabitch, they really, really like me. The sarcastic, snarky, insulting me.
The complaints about my performance were few and far between. The laurels on the Internet were everywhere, some touching on the April Fool’s angle but most gushing about my brutal honesty and total lack of political correctness. My network email account spilled over with compliments, most of them from moms who had actually gone back to bed and made their bratty kids feed themselves. The tabloids had a few very short stories, all of which were waiting for an official comment from the network.
A single tear rolled down my cheek.
I'd made it worse.
It would be ever harder to get fired.
CHAPTER NINE
My first surprise of the morning came when Charlie opened the door to the limo.
Which wasn't empty.
Scott offered a soft smile as I got in and waited for the door to close.
"So, they send you to soften the blow of the pink slip?" I asked, noting the soundproof window behind the driver was up.
"Nope. You still work here."
Dammit.
"You didn't ride over here just to tell me that."
"Very perceptive. I spent a lot of time eavesdropping after you left."
