“Well,” Laurie said, “let’s just say Victor Fluke’s Put Americans First bullshit is bullshit.”
“That’s a news flash?” Charlie said with a testiness that was new.
“No, but what I have is. And that’s all I can say.”
“If you told me he murdered someone, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Charlie said.
I felt my phone vibrate. “Oh, good, here’s the rundown!” I said. “Oh, my God.” I scrolled up and down twice to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me and I was reading it correctly. “Victor Fluke is on tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
The Dangle
4:00 A.M. “Hey, cutie,” Roberta whispered, sticking his head in the greenroom, interrupting my studying.
“You scared me,” I said. I’d come in early, hoping to get into Jess’s makeup chair before Margot could get there. But Jess wasn’t in yet and now here was Roberta in a massive blond wig with Pre-Raphaelite waves. Oh, right, it was Beyoncé Tuesday.
“My goodness, look at you! Without any makeup you look like you’re twelve years old.” Roberta put his hand to his mouth to cover a coquettish smile. “Oh, my gosh, you’re so pretty. Come on, let’s get you started. It’s going to take Jess fifteen minutes to set up anyway. And I’m all ready for you.”
Thus began a process I feared might last forever: Roberta would do my makeup at 4:00 A.M. and Jess would undo it at 5:00.
• • •
5:55 A.M. Larry checked his watch. “You’re cutting it a little close to air, Amanda,” he said as I blew past him like a tornado of notes on my way to the sofa.
“I know, I know. Sorry,” I said, dropping my papers on the table, where I could claw at them when needed in a few minutes.
“You look lovely this morning, Amanda,” said Casanova, coming out from behind Camera 3 and grabbing my hand, then spinning me, waltz style. To the left of Casanova, I caught a blurred glimpse of myself in a monitor. My body looked lumpy.
“Larry, can I see myself in Camera Two for a second?” I frowned. “I think this dress Meg picked out may be giving me a muffin top. Or maybe it’s from actual muffins.” I didn’t mention I’d just inhaled a chocolate one.
Larry pressed a button on the control pack he wore on his belt. “Camera Two for Amanda, please.”
With a flash, my body was full frame on four huge monitors, an unflattering belly pouf projected around the studio. Oooph, maybe the camera does add fifteen pounds. And then I said something I never thought I’d say. “Does this dress make me look fat?”
The crew guys exchanged nervous glances, like their spidey senses were tingling.
“I don’t know,” Rob said. “Take it off and let me have a look.”
“Watch it, Rob,” Casanova said.
I sat and tried to pat down the belly bulge, then gave up to log on to the laptop. “Shit,” I said to no one in particular, feeling my stomach start to churn. I needed more information. I’d fallen asleep last night before I’d researched all of Fluke’s past inflammatory statements on abortion. Just then my stomach gave a long, loud growl.
Rob looked up. “Was that you?”
“Sorry. I think that last muffin is wearing off,” I said. “I’m ravenous. When do you eat on this shift?”
“Eat?” Rob said. “I take a Five-Hour ENERGY shot and power through.”
“I can have one of the crew get you breakfast, Amanda,” Larry offered. “If that would egg-cite you.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes, Larry,” Rob snapped.
“The yolks on you, Rob,” Larry said. “Now kill the music and have a great show, everyone! We’re live in five, four, three, two . . .” Larry pointed to Camera 2 for me to start but, yikes! I wasn’t ready.
“Hello, everyone! Top of the muffin to you,” I heard myself say. I froze. Rocco laughed, then cleared his throat as cover. “I mean morning!” I said. “Good morning, everyone.” I put my hand to my mouth.
“You never know what to expect when you Wake Up, USA!” Rob said. “And today is no different. We have a huge guest joining us in our seven o’clock hour. After three months of media silence, Victor Fluke will be on our program live.”
• • •
6:20 A.M. My hands were tingling again, this time from nerves. Topher’s research packet on the abortion case sucked. He hadn’t been able to book the woman wanting the abortion, just her attorney. But he booked her too late, he said, for a preinterview. So I had no idea what to expect.
“Welcome back,” I said to Camera 1. “I want to bring in Donna McLeod, the attorney for the woman being sued by her ex-boyfriend to prevent her from having an abortion. Ms. McLeod, as you know, the ex-boyfriend Kevin Pearl has a sad story. He lost his wife in a car accident six years ago. He says he’s always wanted another child and he is willing to raise this child on his own, completely absolving your client of any parental responsibilities. What’s your response?”
“Amanda, your viewers should know that this case has been taken up by an extremist antiabortion group. That’s who is funding this lawsuit. They’ll use any excuse to criminalize abortion. And this is another of their blatant manipulations.”
I blanched at her answer. Once again, I was hearing important info for the first time. Plus, the attorney was giving the facts, but her delivery was impersonal and off-putting. She wasn’t connecting the case to the real person.
“Ms. McLeod, we just interviewed Mr. Pearl. He says he is not interested in outlawing abortion. This is not political to him. He’s simply fighting for his rights as a father. Should fathers have any rights?”
I waited for her to explain that yes, in this world of gender equality fathers should have rights and we should certainly talk about those, but at the end of the day, it’s the woman’s body and the way our laws work, that’s who ultimately makes the decision.
“As I’ve said, Amanda, this story is being used by extremists who are trying to deprive women of access to health care. That’s what this is about.”
She was sticking to her talking points like glue, missing the sensitivity quotient that would let viewers know she heard the father. I sat trying to figure out how to elicit the human side, when Rob jumped in.
“So let’s unpack this,” Rob said. “You’re saying if a woman wants to have a child and the man doesn’t, tough luck—the man is on the hook financially for that child for eighteen years. But if the man wants a child, and is happy to financially support and raise the child, but the woman does not, tough luck again for the guy, that baby should be aborted. How’s that fair?”
Donna didn’t say Rob’s name as she had mine in her response. “I’m not going to dignify this frivolous lawsuit,” she said. “Obviously, abortion is legal and it’s the woman’s right to choose.”
“So what kind of message is that for men?” Rob asked.
“We recommend that anyone not wanting a child use birth control,” she said.
She was right, of course, but her advice seemed a tad tardy for this situation.
“That’s not a satisfying solution for the father in this case,” I said, trying to give her one more chance.
“Wrap,” Fatima said, before the attorney had a chance to respond.
“We’ll see what Victor Fluke thinks of this issue,” Rob interjected, “when he joins us in the next hour.”
We hit the commercial break and Rob clicked on his computer screen.
“Holy shit!” he said. “Do you see all these tweets?”
“No,” I said, chewing the inside of my cheek at what was about to be unleashed. Somehow I’d inadvertently tag-teamed with Rob to make the attorney and the woman look bad. It wasn’t my intention to come off as antiabortion, but I had a terrible feeling that’s what had happened.
“I’ll read some,” Rob said, looking over his shoulder at me. “Here’s one: @AmandaGallo just busted the abortion
bitch @FAIRNews. #banabortion.”
“That’s not what happened,” I said, feeling sick with interviewer’s remorse. Maybe I challenged her too much.
“Here’s another,” Rob said, “from @helentucker. ‘@AmandaGallo hates women. Her conservative agenda is obvious. She should be ashamed of herself. There’s a special place in hell for her.’”
Rob raised an eyebrow at me. “Hmmm. I think Helen may be off her meds.”
If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot the laptop. “That’s enough,” I told him. “I don’t want to hear anymore. I have to get ready for the Fluke interview.”
“Wait, here’s a good one,” Rob went on. “‘Send the right-wing @AmandaGallo to Fox News where she belongs. #womenshealth #supportPP.”
Rob laughed like this was all hilarious.
“Larry, how much time do we have in this break?” I asked.
Larry checked his watch. “You’ve got three minutes.”
“Wait, wait,” Rob said. “You’ll like this next one. I promise. It’s from @Michiganmomma. ‘@AmandaGallo cracks me up. #topofthemuffin. She even makes that tool next to her seem nicer.’”
“I do like that one,” I admitted.
“Last one, last one,” Rob said. “It’s from your boy @FrankinFresno. This guy tweets a lot. Big fan. ‘@AmandaGallo. You’re killing it. Love the dangle. Keep up the good work.’”
Against my better judgment, I asked, “What the hell is a dangle?”
“You know, a dangle.” Rob pointed down at my nude pump, which I was surprised to see hanging from my heel. “You let your shoe dangle off your foot. You know you do that, right?”
My hollow stomach groaned again. “No, Rob,” I snapped. “I’m not focused on my foot. I’m focused on the show, like you should be. Fluke is coming up!”
Rob put his hands up in a defensive position. “Hey, I’m not the one playing footsie with the viewers. Try it on Fluke. Your dangle might disarm him.”
“Good one,” I said, stone-faced.
“Maybe your foot will be his Kryptonite.”
“Maybe it’s his Achilles’ heel,” I said, then stuck my tongue out at Rob.
“Oh, touché!” Rob said, lighting up.
My God, this was ridiculous. Rob’s sophomoric nature was rubbing off on me. I straightened up and started digging for my Fluke notes, growing even more anxious when I saw how little I’d written down last night before falling asleep.
“Amanda, your breakfast is here,” Larry called out.
I grabbed the container out of Larry’s hands. “How much time?”
Larry checked his stopwatch. “Ninety seconds.”
“I can do it in eighty.” I needed to get some real food in my stomach to quell the nervous, nauseous feeling, even if it was cold eggs and dry toast. I popped open the plastic top, and tore into the plastic wrap for the fork and knife, when I noticed Rob wearing a curdled expression.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
“It’s called eggs,” I said.
“Really? Cause it smells like ass. I thought maybe Jeremy had shit his pants.”
Jeremy looked up from his book behind Camera 1. “What did I do?”
“We’re back in thirty seconds,” Larry yelled. “Clear the table of all drinks and food!”
“You know, Rob, you can really be an ass—a child sometimes.” I was about to say asshole, but I knew my mic was hot. “Too bad some of us aren’t fueled by Red Bull and ego.” I tossed my uneaten cold eggs in the garbage.
• • •
7:50 A.M. I was starving and grouchy. I had a whole six minutes to kill while Rob interviewed a soldier fighting for a bill to get IVF funding for military families, which was being blocked by conservatives in state legislatures. Now seemed like a good time to run to the greenroom and grab another muffin. I stood up, my legs stiff from sitting, just as the soldier in a wheelchair glided into the studio, followed by four young children and his wife. The soldier stopped at the six-inch riser of the set, unable to go any farther.
“Here, let’s make this easy,” Larry said, guiding the soldier’s wheelchair back to the flat demo area where Larry positioned the kids in descending height to the left of the soldier and the wife to the right. I tiptoed behind Rocco’s camera, trying to avoid the family on my way to the kitchen.
“Amanda?” the wife called. “Is there any way we could get a picture with you?” Her round cheeks reddened. “I know how busy you are.”
“Oh, okay, sure,” I said, slightly annoyed that she was cutting into my muffin time. I sized up the family in a split second: southern, from some state I always had a hard time identifying on a map, Tennessee probably. The mom’s age was tough to pin, could be thirty-two or forty-two; the baby weight was still plumping her face. Her flat blond hair was shoulder length with standard-issue bangs. She could use some highlights, I thought. The three boys, with blond crew cuts, stood quietly and in a line. The little girl on the end was wearing a pink dress and eyeglasses held on by a thick rubber band stretched around the back of her head, that stayed put as she gazed up at the studio lights.
“Here,” Larry offered, taking the camera from the mom’s shaky hands, “let me snap one of all of you.”
The mom crouched down to the same level as the wheelchair and I did the same, the soft padding of her arm touching mine and trembling as the flash went off.
“There you go,” I said, springing up. I never knew what to say to these families whose life experience seemed so foreign to mine. This was probably their first time in New York, I assumed. The wife was as far from a Jersey girl as I was from a Georgia peach.
“Thank you, Amanda,” the wife quivered. “You don’t know how much this means to us. My goodness, you’re even prettier in person.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said.
“Thank you for doing this story. Ronnie and I wouldn’t have been able to have these two without IVF, you know, after he got injured. But most people can’t afford it. And these lawmakers who want personhood amendments don’t understand that they would outlaw IVF, because, you know, they forbid doctors from performing any procedure that destroys or discards embryos. We’re very grateful that FAIR wants to hear all sides of the abortion debate.” She reached out and hugged me.
“Oh, okay, thank you,” I stammered, realizing with a pang of chagrin that maybe she and I had more in common than I’d thought. Maybe I’d been way too quick to judge.
“Hey, buddy.” Rob had moved from the desk to the demo area and was patting the soldier on the back. “I see you brought the whole crew today.” Rob sounded like he was talking to an old college pal. “And thank you for your service, man. We couldn’t do any of this without you.”
Thank you for your service? Thank you for your service. Rob’s words played in my head as I walked out of the studio. I would never have thought to say it.
I meandered slowly toward the muffins wondering if my time was already up, but Larry wasn’t calling me back. Right before the kitchen, I stopped to stare at a bustling pack of people in front of the coffee machine. There, sticking straight out of the top of the pack, a half foot above the rest, was Victor Fluke’s head. All strong, angular features, Fluke looked like he was waiting for someone to add him to Mount Rushmore. I stood frozen, unsure whether to approach or turn and run.
“Just a second, gentlemen,” I heard him say as he swept his arm to part the pack, “I want to say hello to someone.” Two young guys in blue suits and blank expressions flanking Fluke folded out like swinging doors, taking the exact same split-legged stance, arms down and right hands gripping their left wrists.
In person, Fluke was more handsome than I remembered: tall and broad shouldered, with roguish dark hair. “Amanda Gallo,” he said, then smiled a winning smile and extended his right hand. “I’m Victor Fluke.”
It felt weird to have someone so famous in
troduce himself—like a ridiculous gesture of false modesty—but I resisted the impulse to snort and say, “Duh! Of course you are!” I wanted to stand still and study him, to try to determine who he was more like: the celebrated showman P. T. Barnum or a standard-issue bullshit artist. But, as if by magnetic force, I moved toward Fluke.
“You do a terrific job,” he said. “I’m a big fan.”
“Is that right?” I replied, sarcastic and satisfied that I’d just busted him in a bald-faced lie because you don’t watch the mainstream media, right? Plus, I just started on this show yesterday, you dummy, so you can’t be a big fan. Ha! Gotcha!
“Yes, whenever I came to New York I always watched Newschannel 13, frankly because I liked watching you. I mean, it’s not a great channel otherwise.” He gave me a comical head tilt that said, You know what I mean. “At the risk of sounding a little obsessed, I’ve always enjoyed your stories. I remember you did a blind ice cream taste test, oh, probably a year or so ago. You probably don’t even remember it. But I enjoyed that one.” He took a deep breath before pivoting to a look of concern. “And then, of course, I watched your coverage of that horrible standoff at the post office. What an awful situation that was. Anyway, I was very excited when you got this big break at FAIR News.”
“Thank you,” I said softly. God, was I wrong about everyone?
I stood frozen, blinking at him. His voice was deep and gravelly, almost hypnotic. And all of a sudden I was thirteen, sitting on the sofa watching Home of the Brave while Mom made dinner and every so often would glance over at the screen and shake her head. “Sam Stockton . . .”
“So, Amanda, as you know, I haven’t done much media lately, but when Arthur told me that I could sit down and talk to you, well, I figured that’s a damn good reason to break my mortuarium.”
“Moratorium,” I said, spellbound.
Amanda Wakes Up Page 14