Elimination Night

by AnonYMous

  So this was Bibi’s mom.

  I could hardly believe what I’d just heard. It wasn’t much of a surprise that she didn’t trust Teddy, of course—I mean, who did? But Edouard? Her own son-in-law?

  As much as I wanted to ask her for an explanation (was Edouard jealous of Bibi’s success?) it didn’t exactly seem like the place or the time. Instead I opted for some generic expression of sympathy. By the time I opened my mouth to speak, however, Bibi’s mom had already wandered off, gin and tonic in hand.

  It must have been seven o’clock before I found the courage to leave. Not that I really knew how to leave: I’d arrived in Bibi’s Rolls-Royce, after all. And it didn’t seem right, either. I mean, there I was, at Bibi Vasquez’s house, in her inner-inner circle, doing what presumably millions of her fans would love nothing more to do. And yet I was, well, bored. Bibi wasn’t exactly a terrific conversationalist. She just made statements, with which everyone agreed. And they weren’t even interesting statements. In fact, her commentary on the ShowBiz coverage of Project Icon made me yearn to be home, in bed, reading a long essay in The New Yorker. I felt like one of those foreign military generals you see on the news, pretending to be amused by the latest interminable speech from their beloved dictator. And I suppose that wasn’t too far from the truth. For as long as I worked at Project Icon, Bibi’s power over me would be absolute. Without her—or Joey, for that matter—the show didn’t stand a chance of holding on to last season’s twenty million viewers. And without those twenty million viewers, the advertisers wouldn’t pay to air their commercials during the breaks. And without the commercials… well, the whole thing would fall apart. No show. No job. No chance of me going to Hawaii. No mai tais with Brock. Bibi’s mom was right: Everyone wanted her daughter for the money. Depressingly enough, that included me.

  Nevertheless, as it got dark, I had to go home. My hangover had entered the must-sleep phase, and I was no longer able to contain my yawns. Bibi had by now disappeared somewhere, so I found the maid who’d shown me in, and asked her for the address of the house, so I could call for a cab. “Oh, you don’t need to do that, Miss Bill,” she said—she knew my name!—“David is waiting for you outside in the car.”

  “David?”

  “Your driver.”

  I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t delighted by this news.

  In the kitchen, I said my good-byes—no one seemed particularly interested—and made my way back to the front door. It troubled me that I hadn’t spoken to Bibi. Had this been my fault? Had I failed some kind of test? And then, in the hallway, a hand grabbed my arm. I turned, and felt a cold trickle of fear; the sensation of a teacher waking you from a classroom daydream with a difficult question to which you don’t know the answer. It was Bibi, wearing pajamas.

  “I’m glad you could come over,” she said. Then, laughing: “I hope you like celery. Blame my new nutritionist. She says it’s okay to be famous for a big butt, but not a fat butt. So the cheeseburgers are on hold for now, along with all the other fun stuff.”

  “I love celery,” I blurted. “I’d be totally happy as a Wonder Pet.”

  I couldn’t believe that I’d just made a Wonder Pet joke. Only teenage stoners with nothing to do all day are familiar with children’s TV shows like Wonder Pets, and therefore know that Linny, the caped Guinea Pig, likes celery. What a hopeless dork.

  “Right,” said Bibi, absently. “Anyway: I just wanted to tell you, honey: It’s not true.”

  What the hell was she talking about?

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “About you, honey. About you being ‘poison.’ All that stuff that Joey said when he was being mean.”

  “Oh, that…”

  “It’s pretty rich, coming from him, y’know,” she continued. “I mean, he’s says he’s not in this for the money or anything, but that’s, like, total fuckin’ bullshit. Trust me: He’s more into the money than Sir Harold Killoch. Don’t fall for the act.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “At least I’m honest about what I want,” Bibi went on. “With Joey, it’s all this, ‘Hey, I’m just diggin’ the High Lama Yuti whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is. He’s the fake, not you.”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “Whatever,” she concluded. “Enjoy the Rolls, honey. Just stay away from David. He’s all mine.” Then she gave me a smile—the very same smile that had been framed in lights and hung from skyscrapers in every major world city—and walked away.

  I watched as she padded barefoot up the hallway.

  When the maid spoke, it made me jump. “Shall I let David know you’re ready now?” she asked.

  “I’m ready,” I confirmed, with relief. “Very ready.”

  I tried to sleep in the Rolls, but couldn’t. The day had been just too strange. Besides, the toxic fog of my hangover was now finally beginning to lift, making me feel suddenly energized. So I folded down the picnic table in front of me, tore a sheet of paper from the “BV” monogrammed notepad in the armrest, and began writing, pausing to think carefully between each line. And when we finally got back to Little Russia, I slipped the result of my work under Mr. Zglagovvcini’s door.

  It read:

  Hey there, Mr. Z:

  Okay… so I’m not including “oxygen” or any smartass bullshit like that. That said, here goes:

  SIX THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WIHTOUT

  Brock (my BOYFRIEND).

  Mom (tied with No. 1).

  One Hundred Years of Solitude (first edition hardback, gift from my dad).

  Maker’s Mark on ice.

  Sweet potato fries (or horseradish—tough call).

  Blue (the color, not Apt. 23-A’s goldfish, though he’s adorable).

  This DOES NOT mean I want you to create that profile, Mr. Z!!! I’m leaving for Hawaii to see “Mr. Invisible” very soon. If you want something to do, send me your own list.

  Later,

  “Crazy Woman” (Apt. 7-B)

  10

  N for Yes

  November

  OKAY, SO IT SOUNDS ridiculous, I know—but I could hardly resist asking myself the question: Had I made friends with Bibi Vasquez? Had our conversation in the hallway of her Secret Mountain home marked the beginning of one of those fairytale, princess-and-the-pauper-style relationships—like the ones you see in those corny English movies, which always seem to end with some poofy-dressed royal making an unexpected visit for tea to a humble, chintz-stacked, semidetached house in Olde Yorkminster (as the gawping, woolly-hatted neighbors peer on)?

  Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t actually want Bibi to make an unexpected visit to my apartment. There was nowhere for her to sit, for a start. And the only thing I could offer her, foodwise, was old cheese. And then of course there was the issue of Mr. Zglagovvcini, with his incessant coughing and lethal bouts of flatulence…

  If I was being honest with myself, however, I knew that friendship with Bibi was out of the question. Even if she wasn’t worth half a billion dollars, even if the LAPD didn’t close the street whenever she went to a restaurant, even if she wasn’t so busy, she had to schedule time with her kids via a global network of childcare logistics coordinators. Even ignoring all that, we’d still have nothing in common.

  I like to deflect attention; Bibi wants as much of it as she can get. In high school I was Little Miss Bookworm (or “the freckled dorkworm” as one of the more talented bullies put it); Bibi was named Most Likely to Marry a Movie Star. And then of course there’s the age difference. Bibi is twenty years my senior: old enough to be my mother! Not that anyone would know this by looking at us. Indeed, like most females of a certain wealth level, Bibi has essentially been freeze-framed by cosmetic technology—and will almost certainly remain that way for the rest of her professional life, or at least until the next major upgrade, from which she might very well emerge having lost another half decade.

  So why had she sent the Rolls-Royce to collect me? Just to give me her opinion of Joey? It was hard to th
ink of any other reason. Unless… unless Bibi was so lonely and insecure—as her mom had suggested—that she needed to fill her house with anyone willing to give her their uninterrupted attention for seven hours. What a depressing thought. Still, it would have explained the presence of all those random, grinning sycophants, even if they were all distant cousins.

  Whatever the case, any fantasy that I’d indulged in regarding my “special relationship” with Bibi came to an end a few weeks later, when it was time to start taping the city-to-city audition episodes of Project Icon. Our first stop, according to the calendar e-mailed to all members of staff, would be Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium in Houston. Now, this was of course the very first stage of the competition, to air in late January. And although no one expected it to get the ratings of the live shows at Greenlit Studios later in the season—they’re always more exciting because of the much narrower field of contestants, the telephone voting, plus the number of things that can go wrong while on air—it would be crucial in terms of establishing the relationships between the new judges.

  “It’s all about camaraderie,” as Len kept telling me, as if I were one of those zoo keepers you see on the news, whose job is to make two depressed, morbidly obese pandas from China have sex with each other. “If those guys don’t loosen up on camera, we’re gonna end up with no ad-libs. And it’s ad-libs that make great TV, Billy the Kiddo.” (Yes, Len had now started to call me “Billy the Kiddo.”) I restrained myself from pointing out to him that his previous effort to get Bibi and Joey to comingle—the “judges’ lounge” at The Roundhouse—had done nothing but provide the crew with a better quality of sandwich to steal.

  My first task toward achieving this let’s-all-pretend-to-be-friends goal: reserving the entire first-class cabin of an early morning American Airlines flight from LAX to Houston, due to leave the following Monday. I had even been loaned a cubicle at Zero Management on Sunset Boulevard—complete with workstation, headset, and telephone—to get it done. My plan was to put Joey and Bibi in seats 1A and 1F (the windows on either side), with their highest-tier assistants next to them, and Len, Ed Rossitto, Maria Herman-Bloch (along with a few other Rabbit executives) filling the row behind. Special nonalcoholic champagne would be arranged—I didn’t want Joey failing his pee test—as would a pair of former Icon runners-up to act as singing flight attendants. Cheesy, sure. But the panda-wrangler inside of me figured it might help to improve the mood. Meanwhile, I would be in the rear, behind the Curtain of Shame, my back against the bathroom wall. At least my champagne would be of the alcoholic variety.

  None of this seemed particularly difficult. An easy way to start the season.

  But, no. Nothing is ever easy on Project Icon.

  When I called Bibi to confirm the arrangements—I had stupidly assumed that she might actually pick up the phone—I was put through to Teddy, who screamed with such force down the line, the receiver was practically vaporized in my hands. “BIBI VASQUEZ HASN’T FLOWN COMMERCIAL IN FIFTEEN YEARS, YOU DUMB FUCKING INTERN!” he began (impressively, his rage needed no time whatsoever to gain momentum). “WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT HER TO DO, SHITHEAD? MOVE BACK TO THE GHETTO? GIVE BLOW JOBS TO GUYS ON TENTH AVENUE?”

  After the sound of plastic being forced to confront the most extreme laws of physics (did he actually keep a hammer by his desk?), the line hissed and went dead. “If you’d like to make a call,” said a disembodied female voice, “please hang up and try again. If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again…”

  I stared at the phone.

  Intern? Teddy really was a piece of work.

  Bibi, I was informed via follow-up e-mail, would be taking her own jet to Houston. All by herself.

  Cue a Joey problem.

  “Look, Bill—Joey wants to go private, too,” huffed Mitch, barely five minutes later.

  “Okay, Mitch,” I sighed. “Joey can take his jet. He can ride a camel to Houston for all I care. But we’re only paying expenses that are equal to the price of the first-class ticket.” This had been an order from Len, even though he’d already worked out a deal with Bibi to pay for her jet fuel, crew, and take-off/landing fees. Clearly this was unfair to Joey, but among the world’s many injustices, it ranked fairly low on my list of Things To Get Upset About.

  “Joey doesn’t own a jet,” coughed Mitch.

  “Well that settles it, then,” I laughed (a little condescendingly). “He’ll have to go first class.”

  Now it was Mitch’s turn to detonate. “No, Bill: You’ll GET him a jet. Rent one. Borrow one. Steal one. Whatever it is you’ve gotta do, he gets the same as Bibi.”

  Second hang-up of the day.

  And that was the end of the negotiations. Bibi went on her own plane; Joey went on a chartered one. If they’d looked out of their windows at thirty-seven thousand feet, they could have waved to each other. So much for camaraderie. As for the executives, they flew American Airlines, as planned. Meanwhile, me and rest of the staff were rebooked on cheaper tickets, the kind with multiple layovers—Las Vegas, Phoenix, Albuquerque—to at least give the appearance of trying to stay within budget. It took us fourteen hours to get there, at a cost to the Rabbit network of $103.47 each.

  The tab for Bibi and Joey’s flights? $734,677.27.

  That, I swear, is no exaggeration.

  I should probably explain that Houston wasn’t going to be a normal casting call, largely because of the long delay in signing the judges’ contracts. In fact, to keep production on schedule, the entire Project Icon crew had already been to Houston over the summer, to get pretty much everything in the can apart from the scenes involving the panel. Not that the viewers at home would ever know the difference. After the credits sequence, there’d be a long, swooping shot from a helicopter over Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium, revealing ten thousand or so screaming teenagers in the parking lot outside, waving and jostling their signs (all this taped back in August); and then, after a few zany interviews, tearful backstories, and scene-setters from inside the grounds (also taped in August), the screen would cut seamlessly to contestants entering the judges’ audition suite, one by one—as if it were all happening on the very same day—to do their thing.

  In reality, of course, the auditions in front of the judges would be taking place months after the original cattle call. What’s more, of the ten thousand contestants who’d originally showed up, only a hundred or so now remained, because most of the vetting had already been done by yours truly, along with a hastily assembled team of my fellow junior producers/office punching bags from Rabbit, Zero Management, and Invasion Media. Again, this wouldn’t be clear from watching the show. It would look as though the panel had sat through the entire thing—what troupers!—when in fact they’d skipped the whole seething-mass-of-humanity part of the competition altogether. In fact, they wouldn’t even have to go near Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium, because their scenes would be shot twenty miles north, in the penthouse suite of an eight-star downtown hotel. (The only issue with this being continuity: Some of the ditzier contestants would inevitably forget to wear the same clothes for both shoots, meaning I’d have to take them shopping for the closest match possible. Which I knew from experience could be infuriating, especially if they’d turned up to the first audition in costume—try finding an inflatable banana suit in a Houston mall at eight a.m.)

  As for the original cattle call: Hell.

  It goes like this: Day One, you get to the stadium at five a.m., and there are twice as many people lined up in the parking lot than can actually fit inside. That’s because those ten thousand contestants bring another sixty thousand friends, pets, and family members. Most have camped out all night, making the place look like a postapocalypse refugee camp. And only about—oh—a dozen of them are talented. As in, could-be-famous talented. The rest are either delusional, in it for a laugh, or willing to do anything for attention. Hence the stripping Benjamin Franklin on a unicycle, and the woman who turned up to sing a duet with her parrot. And of course a
few are genuinely deranged. It’s scary, actually, when you think about the dozen or so Project Icon suicides, including that guy who broke into Nigel Crowther’s house, left a demo of his album on the kitchen table, then hung himself from the upstairs balcony using a microphone cord.

  Day One is the easiest, though, because all the contestants really have to do is line up for wristbands—in return for which they must show some ID and sign a wad of paperwork, promising they won’t post any YouTube videos, tweets, blog entries, et cetera, or even tell anyone if they make it through to the next round, as this would destroy all the tension when the show finally airs. Day Two is when things get seriously intense. In total there are probably twenty prejudges, and we sit behind long tables positioned in the center of the arena, separated by black curtains. You feel like some exotic creature in a cage on display at the county fair. And what with the background noise—a stadium full of kids reciting lyrics, trying to find their pitch, strumming guitars—it’s a struggle to hear your own voice, nevermind the finer qualities of the four thousandth rendition you’ve heard in one morning of Don’t Worry, Be Happy. (If I am ever given the option to erase a song permanently from history, this will be my choice.)

  The first round of auditions is done in bulk—six contestants at a time. They line up in front of you, looking generally terrified and desperate, and take it in turns to sing. You’re allowed to give them thirty seconds each, maximum. A lot of them refuse to stop, thinking that the more they go on, the better their opportunity for convincing you. Others are only too happy to give up and forget it ever happened, as if they’re doing it just to say they’ve done it; to tick it off a list—the problem being that if you don’t commit, you don’t stand a chance, as with most things in life. When they’re all done, you ask each one to approach the table, and you either cut off their wristband, which means they’re out and have to be escorted immediately from the premises, or you give them a bright orange ticket, which grants them entry to the “Talent Lounge” where they await the next stage.