by John Kenney
“I’d say grow up. I’d say a real man never talks like this. I’d say beg this young woman’s forgiveness and the forgiveness of your audience, especially the female viewers.”
“Hal Winship. You’re a legend and we thank you for being here this morning. Coming up, Al Roker introduces us to a hundred-and-two-year-old pogo stick champion. This is Today on NBC.”
* * *
• • •
And Ted?
He had seen the video Wednesday evening, when he’d returned home for the emergency call. He had watched it, again and again, holding his hands against his forehead, as if trying to keep his brain from falling out. It was like he was watching someone else. He didn’t remember it. He couldn’t have said it. His voice, his face. It wasn’t him, he wanted to say. If he could just explain. He had a bad night.
* * *
• • •
Within an hour there was a video trending on YouTube of Ted screaming at the girl, and Hal saying “It’s a disgrace,” all to a techno-funk beat.
* * *
• • •
You could watch the counter on YouTube by hitting refresh every few seconds. Forty-eight hours in and it was at more than two million views. By week’s end it would be five million. The comments were unrelenting and savage. Some were sarcastic. Some were funny. Some suggested he should kill himself. By Wednesday the comments section would be disabled by YouTube customer service, in large part because a repeat commenter was threatening to kill Ted. The troll gave Ted’s Bedford address. The Bedford Police Department put a patrol car in front of Ted’s house.
Newspapers, the weekend newscasts, TMZ: all had stories. Someone from TMZ had gotten Ted’s cell phone number and called, asked for an interview. He’d hung up.
It would go away, he told himself.
* * *
• • •
Simon Samson waited for Tamara to speak. But all she did was stare out the window.
For almost seven minutes he’d made his case on Ted’s behalf. He’d brought numbers from the marketing department showing Ted’s value to the network. He’d had Roy someone-or-other, the head of advertising, call around to some of the largest advertisers of the broadcast, among them Pfizer (Viagra), Eli Lilly (Cialis), Procter & Gamble (adult diapers division), and Johnson & Johnson (Imodium) to get them to write letters on Ted’s behalf, about how they wouldn’t pull sponsorship. The general reaction to this request being “Have you lost your fucking mind, Roy?”
Simon Samson was head of the news division and had been for almost twenty years. He’d been brought in at the end of Hal Winship’s tenure and watched—after Hal’s retirement—as the once-preeminent network news broadcast in America slowly went down the toilet with Hal’s handpicked successor, George Beebe. George was a fine reporter but Hal had, in a rare judgment misstep, relied too much on the old-boy network, on a friendship, to put George in the anchor seat after Hal’s remarkable twenty-eight-year reign.
Six months in, ratings plummeted. Simon was brought in to revamp the news division. He and Ted had worked together in Boston. He convinced the network to let George go and put Ted in. Young, handsome. They focus-group tested Ted and he did surprisingly well.
Simon had urged Tamara that the sound move was to run a carefully scripted and produced apology show. Not merely an apology at the end of the broadcast, but a program about Ted, where you saw him with Claire and Franny, where he apologized on camera to Natalia. Simon had not run this idea by Ted yet but, considering the alternatives, was confident he’d agree to it.
Simon had ended his talk (he’d been up late the evening before and had risen early this morning, scribbling notes, speaking aloud as he shaved) with something he believed in his soul. That Ted Grayson was the last of the great American newsmen, that he mattered to the eight million men and women who tuned in each evening, that he was a valuable part of their day. And if Simon could speak on a personal note, he believed Ted was a good man who messed up and simply needed forgiveness. We’re a forgiving people, Tamara, Simon had said. If this had happened twenty years ago, the event would have been laughed about over drinks that evening, the poor intern or whoever was subject to a powerful white man’s temper or ass grab, inappropriate comment or random erection, would be given a gift certificate to Keens Steakhouse and an autographed eight-by-ten glossy of Ted. Here, Simon smiled and tried to chuckle but it sounded as if he were choking.
Done, and rather satisfied with his speech, Simon sat back and waited. He was a man used to getting what he wanted.
Tamara had listened, looking at Simon from time to time but mostly looking out the window of her office, high above Midtown Manhattan.
“Do you know when I stopped listening to you, Simon?”
She turned and looked at him now.
“It was around the time when you were telling me what a great newsman Ted Grayson is. Do you know what I started thinking about instead? I was thinking about how you guys don’t know the end of the movie. Now, I could tell you the end but I also don’t want to ruin it for you. You have no idea what’s outside waiting for you. I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to a middle-aged white man tell me that I should forgive another middle-aged white man who makes eleven million dollars a year and called a poor immigrant a Russian whore. You’ll have to forgive me, but as a forty-four-year-old woman who for most of twenty years of her working life has endured comments about my tits, ass, face, and gender from people exactly like Ted, I think I’ll give empathy and forgiveness a pass. I’ve personally used up all my forgiveness chits to men behaving badly.”
Simon said nothing, though his mouth did open a bit involuntarily.
“Your expression suggests that wasn’t the answer you were hoping for,” Tamara said.
“Christ. A little harsh, aren’t we?” Simon finally managed.
“Are we?” she snapped back. “If I had my way I’d cut him loose now, publicly, ugly. I’d distance myself so far from that kind of behavior that it would make your head spin. I’d have his seat filled and wave goodbye to his impotent, incontinent viewers and take the hit for a few months until they got used to the new male anchor’s young handsome face or the new female anchor’s remarkable legs, which we would showcase in most every shot, so that in six months’ time people would say, ‘Ted who? I think he died.’”
And for a moment Simon thought it was over.
“But unfortunately, despite my title, job description, and unusually large salary, I have a vagina, which in this board’s view means I’m incapable of making a major decision. The board wants him to stay, by the slimmest of margins, I might add. They want the apology. And it better be fucking good.”
* * *
• • •
The initial response to that evening’s broadcast was positive. In Ted’s ninety-second apology at the end of the broadcast, he spoke of the women in his life. Of Claire and Franny. “I am not merely a newsman. I am a husband and a father to a daughter. My words were ill chosen, offensive, and I deeply regret them.”
Calls came into the network switchboard. Older women, mostly.
“I believe in Ted.”
“If he were my son I’d wash his mouth out with soap and then give him a good dinner.”
“We all make mistakes. My husband used to yell at me and we’ve been married forty years!”
But that small sampling wasn’t the audience that mattered, the coveted golden children. The millennials, who had never and would never watch an evening news broadcast at 6:30 p.m. They were too busy staring at their phones.
No one had thought to reach out to Natalia.
The end was already happening. Ted just didn’t know it yet.
* * *
• • •
A video had been posted on YouTube by “Dick Man 1989” that showed footage from the new Ted promos, except it had the music from the movie Doctor Zhivago and a
spliced-together version of Ted saying, “You Russian whore . . . you Russian whore . . .” over and over.
What a lovely party.
Bhutan, Ted.”
Diana was talking. Ted was fairly sure her name was Diana. She was the host of a charity event, an evening Ted did not want to be part of but which Claire had urged him to attend, in part to support her fund-raising leadership for the something or other, and, more important, Claire said, to put a good face on “us” and “you.” They had not gone public with news of the divorce yet.
A small group of photographers, alerted by Claire’s fund-raising committee (for the homeless, it turned out), had gathered at the head of the long driveway to Diana’s home in Westport, Connecticut. What better way to fete the generous donors and bring awareness to homelessness than by hosting an exclusive event at a ten-thousand-square-foot home on three acres of waterfront property hugging Long Island Sound?
“How bad is this going to be?” Claire asked Ted in the car service from Bedford to Westport.
They were each looking out their own window.
“The party?” Ted said.
Claire waited.
“They’ve got it under control,” he said finally, though he didn’t believe they did. “They” being the network’s PR team, working with external forces at blogs, websites, and news outlets.
Claire’s legal team (which Ted was paying for) felt the timing of Ted’s faux pas was ideal for their upcoming settlement hearing. “Goes to character, Claire,” said her lead attorney, an angry woman who fake laughed a lot. “If he verbally abused this makeup woman, what did he do to you?”
What had surprised Claire when she finally heard the news, listened to her voicemail messages, spoke with Franny, turned on the TV, scanned the web, was her own reaction. Defensiveness. A need to protect.
She knew exactly what had happened. She’d bet a dollar ($20 million, actually, when the settlement was done) that he was in a mood that evening and snapped at the poor girl. He was many things, her husband. Annoying, cold, inconsiderate. He was depressive, moody, and controlling. But a misogynist he wasn’t. She’d watched the video of his explosion and had never known him to use that word.
“Ted,” Claire said, looking at him. He turned. She saw it on his face. She saw that he didn’t think it was under control.
Claire’s hair was down. He preferred it down. She had on a simple black dress, sexy shoes that looked expensive. Her lips were tastefully glossed and she wore For Her by Narciso Rodriguez. It was a scent she had worn for years. Ted had bought it for her, a long time ago, at Franny’s suggestion.
“They’re working on it,” he said, looking out the window.
Ted sensed a softening in Claire. Maybe there was hope. Maybe her Englishman had disappointed her.
“You look very nice,” Ted said. He didn’t know he was going to say it.
“Thank you.” She turned back to the window, embarrassed by the compliment. “You should be receiving the divorce papers early next week. Hoping we can sign soon.”
* * *
• • •
Ted saw them as the car pulled closer to the long driveway. A police officer standing next to a motorcycle at the entrance. Maybe ten people, mostly women, holding signs, chanting.
“Ted must go!”
Ted and Claire watched, in a kind of slow motion, as the car turned into the driveway, the driver’s window lowering, the noise of the protestors entering the car (“Shame on you, Ted Grayson!”), the singsong chant, the police officer looking in back, seeing who it was, nodding them in, the driver’s window going back up, near silence, a look between Claire and Ted, Claire blinking fast, then back to their respective windows, not a word spoken.
* * *
• • •
“Bhutan,” Ted repeated, staring at Diana. She was so thin. “How do you mean, exactly?”
They were standing inside a large white tent, three sides of which were closed, the fourth open to the Sound. Space heaters kept the place warm. Black-suited waiters offered hors d’oeuvres.
“It’s the new ‘it’ place. Stunning. The people, the mountains, the culture. You and Claire should go. Everyone’s going.”
“Are you going?”
“I have no plans to, no. Why?”
“I just . . .”
“They have something called the Gross National Happiness. Isn’t that adorable? Measuring happiness. We have something similar here in Westport. It’s called Gross Miserable People.” Here Diana winked. “Do you read Departures, Ted?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Diana laughed too loudly and hit Ted on the arm, nearly spilling his drink.
“It’s a magazine, you freak,” Diana said. “American Express publishes it monthly. Do you have an American Express Platinum card?”
“Yes.”
“Then you get it in the mail,” Diana said.
“Oh. Sure.” Ted still didn’t know what she was talking about.
“I know the editor.” Diana said this with the same gravitas she might have said, “I know Sting.”
Ted made the face he felt Diana wanted him to make, nodding appropriately.
Diana continued to speak about Departures magazine and its editor and the stories it told about the places and hotels and experiences available only to the very rich. Ted managed to mute Diana’s voice in his head and instead simply stared at her mouth moving.
Ted overheard snippets of conversation from different groups around him.
“A federal grand jury indictment . . . the man’s going to prison . . .”
“They found a tumor on his rectum.”
“He’s heir to a Dijon mustard fortune.”
He couldn’t spot Claire. They had walked in together, smiling, each looking away from the other, Claire stopping to say hello to someone, dropping Ted for what Ted knew would likely be the rest of the evening. Ted had gone for the bar, where Diana cornered him.
A casual perusal of the fifty or so guests showed a fairly uniform group: white, middle-aged, attractive, fit, well-dressed, smiling, sexually devious, deeply wealthy, unusually successful. They were members of an elite club, a club to which they were desperate to belong and yet, here, now, to which each felt like an outsider.
“I keep them,” Diana said.
Ted had forgotten what she was talking about.
“The magazines. I collect them. Keep them on the shelf. I think they’re a wonderful reference for travel, food, fashion. Very beautiful.”
Ted found this sad for some reason, a peek into Diana’s empty life. But then, Ted thought, who was he to judge her happiness? What was he but a worthless piece of shit? The story wasn’t going to be contained. This thought hit him full force, his brain releasing an array of chemicals causing him to feel mildly nauseated, cold, sweaty, tingly, afraid, and profoundly sad in a matter of seconds. He was getting texts from Simon. The initial small bump after the apology had worn off and now Ted was center stage on social media, naked, alone, and being beaten to death. No one was coming to his defense.
He took a large gulp of his champagne. Ted suddenly wished he could hold Diana, whisper to her, You are good. You are beautiful. Love yourself.
Diana smiled and said, “Ted likes the shampoo.”
Ted was confused and feared she was commenting on his hair and possibly his bald spot, though he couldn’t imagine that she could see it over his advanced height. He suddenly hated Diana.
“The shampoo,” she said, touching her glass to his. “The champagne. It’s not just for breakfast anymore.” She emptied her glass and winked.
“Oh, Ted,” Diana said. “You’ll have to excuse me. That’s Leopold and Faustia Freudlich. And they gave vastly more than you.” She smiled and hit Ted’s shoulder, raising her eyebrows, flirting. “Don’t go anywhere.”
And sh
e was gone, across the tent, a knower of names and where people’s children had gone to college, of who was marrying and divorcing and moving and dying. A woman, in other words. Arms wide, welcoming the world and life experiences, showing up, trying. Whereas men—and perhaps it was just Ted—preferred to be left alone, at home, wandering the house, going from room to room, often standing in a room having forgotten the reason they’d walked in in the first place. This was called life over fifty for the American male. Why would you want to go out when there was a fridge full of sandwich fixings, cookies in the pantry, and a Bond marathon on Bravo?
Ted looked out over the party. He was alone now, the others paired off in conversation. He turned briefly back to the bar but realized he didn’t want anything. Most times people approached him. He was, and had been for a goodly portion of the past twenty years of his life, the center of things. If he was in a room he was the focus of attention. Even in interviews with world leaders and rock stars. He was the one asking the questions, leading the conversation.
He should mingle, of course. This is what one did. He turned and mistakenly made eye contact with a couple he’d met before but whose names escaped him. They were wide-eyed and making a beeline for Ted, who, without realizing he was doing it, raised a finger and pointed to the water, though he had no idea why. He started walking away, smiling at them, watching as their smiles changed to confusion as he slipped behind the bar, beyond the tent, to the broad, lush lawn, toward Long Island Sound, where not another soul stood.
* * *
• • •
He walked and became aware of his own heavy breathing, watched as his polished shoes sank into the thick grass. He was reminded of ball fields, of running out to center field, running out to the twenty-yard line to start a game from scrimmage, the feeling of lightness and anticipation, the confidence of knowing he would play well, adjusting his cap, snapping his chin strap.