Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

@FAIRNews. Please get rid of @AmandaGallo. She’s a progressive imbecile! She’s not even pretty. Send her to @MSNBC where she belongs. @MargotHamilton is so much better!

  I closed the laptop fast.

  • • •

  8:45 A.M. Fifteen minutes left in the show. My head had that empty, woozy feeling that follows a big brain drain. After the climate change debates, came the piglet and puppy race that resulted in a slew of piglets getting loose in the studio, and scampering around as the crew chased them and Larry yelled things like “I smell bacon!” and “This segment is going to the dogs!” It was all a little dizzying. I bit into my third dry bagel and took another swig of now cold, bitter greenroom coffee.

  “Amanda, your next segment is in the demo area,” Larry called, studying his rundown. “It’s with Gisele Bündchen.”

  “Right now? Shit! Do I have time to change?”

  “Sure,” Larry said. “You’ve got ninety seconds.”

  I leaped off the sofa and sprinted down the hall to Angie’s room, yanking down the zipper on my dress while trying to hold my mic pack on my bra. I stepped out of the dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor, then hopped around, tugging on yoga pants and a T-shirt. I sprinted back to the studio barefoot, where I was surprised to find Gisele Bündchen clad in a hot pink Lycra tank top and tight gray yoga pants, already stretched in an inverted V shape, her volleyball butt pointed high to the ceiling. The floor crew was huddled around her, not blinking.

  “You know, Gisele, I’ve always thought yoga could be great for my back,” Panzullo said, rubbing his own shoulder. “It gets really sore from carrying this heavy camera all day.”

  “Have you tried Thai massage?” she asked.

  “Thigh massage?” he replied.

  “You’ve been here for a couple hours, huh, Gisele?” Casanova asked. “You must be hungry. Can I grab you a bagel or something?”

  “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t eat bread,” Gisele said, moving onto all fours and arching her back like a cat. “I’m gluten free.”

  I felt Larry sidle up next to me. “She’s a gluten for punishment,” he whispered.

  We came back from commercial, and for the next three minutes Gisele guided me through a series of stretches and lunges, all of which struck me as sexually suggestive. I couldn’t see the monitor, but it seemed like Panzullo was shooting us directly from behind, exposing our rear ends to the world. I tried using my head to signal him to move to the left but his lens stayed trained on Gisele’s ass.

  “I’m not sure this is my angle,” I called out, upside down, looking through my own legs.

  “Oh, trust me,” Rob called back, “it is.”

  “Okay, wrap it up,” Fatima directed in my ear. I straightened up, light-headed, and looked into the camera. “More Wake Up, USA! in just two minutes.”

  “Great job, Gisele!” all the guys said in unison.

  “Amanda, head back to the sofa,” Fatima instructed. “We have one minute left. Let me know if you have any viewer tweets or Facebook posts you’d like to read. Maybe something on global warming?”

  “Yeah, here’s a good viewer email,” Rob said, pointing to his computer screen as I took my seat.

  TO: WakeUpUSA

  FROM: GladI8her

  RE: Amanda’s thighs

  Amanda, spread your hot, juicy thighs! Keep going! Don’t stop now. I’m not done jerking off.

  Dozens of emails with my name on them, most with dirty subject lines, spanned the page. “Oh, gross!” I said, feeling that last bagel working its way back up.

  “GladI8her . . . hmm,” Rob mused out loud. “Coliseum reference, I assume? He must be a history buff. Anyway, he’s sent about a dozen emails with the same ‘juicy thigh’ theme. I think he found your sexercise very, um, stimulating. Hey! Should we turn one of these into a full-screen graphic? We could call it Favorite Viewer Email.”

  “Rob, knock it off,” Fatima said. “Just tease tomorrow’s show.”

  “Roger that,” Rob said.

  “We’re back in ten, nine, eight . . .” Larry shouted. “Rob, stop reading email and look up! Don’t blow the landing!”

  “Blow this,” Rob shouted back at him, then smiled as the red light on Camera 3 turned on. “And that’s our show today. Thanks so much for joining us on our premier. But before we go, I just want to read one email here. We’ve gotten a lot like this.” I jerked my head toward Rob and he looked back, his left dimple flaring. “It reads, ‘Dear Wake Up, USA!, what a refreshing show. Thanks for bringing us both sides of the story.’”

  I exhaled.

  Rob smiled at me. “Amanda, excited to come back for more?”

  “Not as excited as you are,” I accidentally said, then we cut to commercial and the show ended.

  “That’s a wrap!” Larry yelled.

  “Great first show everyone,” Fatima said. “Let’s have a pitch meeting in the Think Tank in ten.”

  I stood up, feeling like I’d just run a marathon: winded, stiff legged, with that woozy post-adrenaline sensation, exhausted but euphoric. Rob strolled off the set and Larry offered his hand to help me step down. “Great job today,” he said. “You’re off to a good start.” Then, more softly, “I know Rob’s not easy.”

  “Yeah, he’s sort of a—” I stopped, deciding to bite my tongue.

  “Dick?” Larry suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s the word.”

  “Well, you handle him better than any of the other women here. For what that’s worth.”

  “Thanks, Larry.” I gathered my notes and started out of the studio, wondering when I’d see Benji and what he thought. And Mom. And Laurie. And Charlie!

  I stole into the now empty greenroom and sat down in the corner.

  “Hi, Mom!” I said when she picked up.

  “Oh, sweetheart! I’m so glad you’re calling. You were absolutely terrific!”

  “Really? You think so?”

  “Oh, yes. And those topics you had were not easy. And, oh my, Arthur Dove. I don’t know how you managed to keep a straight face.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Well, you did a great job, even though some of your guests were not exactly”—she paused and I waited to hear her analysis—“fact based. I don’t know what these deniers are thinking.”

  “I know,” I said, my stomach starting to churn for not challenging them more. “I’ve got to talk to the producers about getting better info. In fact, I better go.”

  “I’ll look forward to hearing much more.”

  I hung up and looked at the clock on the wall, calculating that Charlie might have a few minutes before his 9:30 class. I dialed his number.

  “So?” I asked when he didn’t immediately offer. “What did you think?”

  “I thought you were great . . .”

  I heard a “but” coming. “But what?”

  “But the Arthur Dove segment was wildly irresponsible. I think in the future, you know, when you’re more comfortable, you’ll be able to challenge your guests more. And your producers should book less insane guests. You know?”

  Charlie was right, but that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “Yeah,” I said, then I went silent and Charlie shifted tone. “But, hey, you did really well, babe. I’ll see you later?”

  “Yup.” I sat holding my phone, then dialed Laurie’s cell.

  “I can’t talk,” she said upon answering.

  “Did you watch my debut?” I asked.

  “Oh, shit. No, I couldn’t.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been on a stakeout all night.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I said. “I’m only anchoring a national morning show!”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Uh, I can’t really tell. I need you to watch and let me know. Charlie didn’t love it.”

  “H
as Charlie ever seen a morning show?” Laurie asked.

  I had to think about that one. “I mean, the TV’s been on near him sometimes in the morning. Does that count?”

  “I don’t know if I’d use Charlie as my one-man focus group,” she said. “He finds C-SPAN compelling. I’ll watch some clips online. And I’ll try to swing by tonight.”

  Chapter 12

  Pitches

  I hadn’t had occasion yet to be in the room that Benji had coined “the Think Tank,” but I’d walked by its glass walls for the past few months, staring in at show meetings, wondering what exciting decisions were being made in there. The space was really just a long conference table and chairs, surrounded on all sides by glass, in the middle of the newsroom.

  Pushing open its door, I stepped in toward Fatima and a half dozen bleary-eyed twentysomethings, most of their faces smeared with a maroon goo. In the middle of the table sat a deep rectangular aluminum tray filled with racks of ribs slathered in barbeque sauce. Next to the tray, two paper plates were stacked high with bright yellow corn bread squares. The producers looked like a pack of hungry hyenas surrounding a fresh kill.

  Rob sauntered in right behind me, pointing to the bin. “What’s that, the rest of the piglets?”

  “Arthur Dove sent these ribs over. He said he wanted Amanda to try them,” Fatima explained.

  “Yay, Arthur Dove,” someone mumbled with her mouth full.

  I felt a little sick that Dove was doting on me. But I also felt hungry. So I sat down and pulled up a rib.

  “Oh, and did you see his tweet?” Fatima asked, wiping her hands and reaching for her phone. “Here, let me read it: ‘Hope you caught my conversation with @AmandaGallo and @RobLahr on @WakeUpUSA! Super smart show. #bothsides.’ Hashtag both sides,” she repeated. “How great is that? You guys need to check your Twitter accounts. I bet they went up by thousands today.”

  People munched agreement. And I scratched my head. Maybe the segment looked better on TV than I remembered it. Or maybe Dove was a master media manipulator.

  One of the producers, notably abstaining from the ribs orgy, sat bolt upright and cracked his knuckles. His buzz cut and ripped biceps made him look like a lost ROTC cadet. In front of him stood a water bottle filled with bright yellow liquid.

  “How long are you going to go without food?” the redheaded girl next to him asked, sucking her sauce-covered fingers.

  “They say two weeks is optimal,” the ROTC-wannabe answered.

  “Dude, that’s fucking idiotic,” said a guy dressed in black, sitting on the left side of the table. My eyes lingered on his dyed goth-black hair, his multiple ear piercings, and the scorpion tattoo on his forearm.

  “What are you guys talking about?” I asked in what I hoped would be a team-building way, before I went ballistic on their shitty producing.

  “Topher’s doing a juice cleanse,” the redheaded girl told me, pointing to the buff kid.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because he’s manorexic,” she answered.

  “No,” Topher said. “Because it’s great for you!”

  “Says who? Your spiritual leader, Rush Limbaugh?” the goth guy asked. “He doesn’t look like he’s been doing much of a cleanse . . . unless it’s a cheeseburger cleanse.”

  “Mmmm, cheeseburger,” another guy said.

  “It works!” Topher insisted. “A lot of people do it. It’s lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper. It’s basically lemonade.” He shook up the mixture in his bottle.

  “It looks like a urine sample,” the goth guy remarked. “Dude, you know you’re just going to lose muscle mass.” Strange, I thought, for someone clad in black who didn’t look like he’d ever set foot inside a gym.

  “Hey, here’s a pitch idea,” the goth guy said to Fatima. “Morons who do juice cleanses.”

  “I like it,” Fatima said. “Rob, Amanda, why don’t you guys do one and we’ll follow your progress?”

  “Are you kidding?” Rob said, gesturing toward me with his thumb. “This one eats like a trucker at a Cracker Barrel buffet. She wouldn’t survive a cleanse.”

  “Can it be a bagel cleanse?” I asked, self-conscious, suddenly aware that Rob must have been counting how many I’d inhaled.

  “I think it would be cool to put all the wacky fad diets to the test: juice cleanses, grapefruit diets, Caveman diet, HCG diet,” the redhead suggested.

  “Great idea, Tiffany,” Fatima said, pointing a pen at her. “We’ll get one doctor who says these diets work and another who says they don’t. How about Dr. Bob on that tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to book a doctor who’s not obese?” Tiffany asked.

  “Right,” Fatima nodded. “Let’s get, um . . . who’s that blond doctor they use on Fox with the big boobs? What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know, but book her,” Rob said.

  “I have another medical pitch,” said a pretty black girl sitting at one end of the table.

  “Go ahead,” said Fatima.

  “There’s a report that finds many more kids today are being diagnosed with ADD and being prescribed medicine than ten years ago. But some doctors say the kids are overmedicated and maybe they just need to focus better.”

  “I like that it has both sides, but is it new?” Fatima wondered. “Rob, what do you think?”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. What?”

  “Oh, my God. Next pitch.”

  “I have a good one,” Topher said. “Fake astronauts just returned from a fake mission to Mars.”

  “Is this fake news?” Fatima asked.

  “No, this fake story is real,” he said. “They actually simulated a journey to Mars for 520 days. Basically ever since Obama killed the space program, people have to take fake space trips.”

  “I like it,” Fatima remarked. “Try to find a NASA guy who says we need to revive the space program and then some budget hawk who says, no, it’s not worth the money.” She turned to me. “Amanda, do you have anything?”

  I hadn’t brought any pitch ideas but thought back to the articles I’d glanced at in the New York Times before the show. “Well, I read this morning that Bono thinks AIDS can be completely eradicated in the next five years. He’s come up with a way to distribute antiviral drugs throughout Africa that will—”

  “What’s the other side?” Fatima interrupted.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I mean, I like the story, but what’s the other side? Everyone thinks curing AIDS is good, right?”

  “Well, yes, it’s a major medical breakthrough. I don’t know if there is any other side.”

  “We need another side,” Fatima said. “Remember, guys, this is our brand. True and Equal. Every guest segment has to have two sides, okay, and preferably stories that don’t already have solutions. Also we need a couple of interesting headlines for our news blocks. We’ve got twelve more hours of TV to produce this week. So let’s hear some more pitches, bitches.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Can we talk about today’s show for a second? A little postmortem?”

  “Sure,” Fatima said, not looking up from her laptop.

  “Okay, I think we’re going to need a lot more research and information for our guest segments. We can’t have guests on who make wild claims and don’t provide any evidence.” I needed to say that in a group setting so no one felt singled out. Plus I could indirectly show Rob how wrongheaded he’d been on set about Dove.

  “Oh, my God,” Tiffany said, pointing at her iPhone. “Do you see all the pickup we’re getting from the Dove stuff about the voter fraud? I keep getting Google alerts. Washington Post, Politico. It’s trending on Twitter. They’re all citing Wake Up. Wait, wait, here’s another one. New York Times. It says, ‘FAIR’s new morning show wasted no time making a splash in the crowded cable field. On Wake Up, USA! Arthur Dove
accused Senator Virginia Wynn of voter fraud in the primaries and told anchors Amanda Gallo and Rob Lahr of Victor Fluke’s plans to make every American a success story.’”

  “That’s fucking awesome!” Fatima said. “We’re already breaking news! Guys, this is great. We need to do another segment tomorrow on the Wynn voter fraud stuff.”

  I didn’t want to feel as excited as I did hearing my name in the New York Times, but after being in the witness protection program known as Newschannel 13, it felt amazing to be in the middle of the action. Rob turned to me for a high five and I reluctantly offered one up.

  “Hold on a second,” I said. “Yes, it’s fantastic that we’re already getting attention, but we had nothing to counter Dove’s claims. Thousands of complaints of voter fraud? Eyewitnesses who saw illegal aliens voting? I mean, this is nuts. We need to confirm these things or he can’t say them.”

  “But we didn’t say them,” Topher said. “We can’t help what a guest says.”

  “No, but we can correct him,” I said, “and try to stop him from making inflammatory claims with no evidence.”

  “She’s got a point, Topher,” Fatima said. “Why don’t you start trying to find these eyewitnesses to voting scams. See if there really are affidavits.”

  “Hey,” Morgan said, “is Fluke doing any TV?”

  “Complete radio silence,” Topher said.

  “Dove liked us. Maybe we can get Fluke to come in,” Fatima said to Topher. “Start working on that. Call Dove again, become his best friend.”

  “Copy that,” Topher said.

  “Okay, guys, let’s talk about tomorrow. Benji called the control room during the show. He thought the global warming theme really worked. So let’s come up with another hot-button topic for tomorrow.”

  “Maybe we should do something on abortion,” Jada suggested from the corner. “That guy who’s suing his ex-girlfriend to stop her from getting an abortion. He’s says it’s his baby, too, and he has rights.”

  “Ooh, that is good,” Fatima said.

  “Ugh,” Rob said. “Abortion—not morning TV.”

  “Have there been any court rulings on that issue?” I wondered.