Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  A feeling of euphoria swept over my doubts. Who was I to argue with the viewers? Plus I loved hearing Benji say “we,” and that what “we” were doing was working. “Wow, that’s wonderful,” I said, then paused wanting more of his wisdom but worried I might ruin the mood.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s interesting, because the feedback on social media is, um, not overwhelmingly positive, I’d say.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Um, it depends. When I was challenging the woman’s attorney, they said I was a right-wing, antiabortion woman hater. And when I was challenging Fluke, they said I was a left-wing, liberal baby killer. Those were the more pleasant ones.”

  Benji snorted. “Then you must be doing something right! And you know what? Fuck them. These are losers in their mothers’ basements who think they have power because they can log on to the Internet. See, everyone is still trying to put you into some box. You must be a liberal or a conservative because that’s all they’ve ever known. Cable news has trained them into thinking that everyone is one extreme or the other. FAIR News is total cognitive dissonance for them. And it’s going to take a while to deprogram them from the cable cult that’s been brainwashing them.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I said. I was so glad that Benji was reminding me of all this. We were doing something groundbreaking. Of course it felt uncomfortable.

  “Anyway, who cares what they say as long as they’re watching? Did you see all the pickup your Fluke interview got?”

  I nodded.

  “And hey, did you see the tweet Fluke sent out about you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, it was great! Let me read it. ‘Thanks to @AmandaGallo and @WakeUpUSA for a terrific interview. A great journalist.’ Your Twitter followers went up by four thousand. You’re at ten thousand! You can’t buy that kind of publicity. You’re doing it, Amanda. It’s working.”

  • • •

  It turned out it wasn’t just losers in their basements watching Wake Up, USA!, it was also members of Congress.

  I had just walked into my apartment, surprised to find Charlie already there with the TV on. “Have you seen this?” Charlie asked, pointing across the room. He sounded appalled, like he was about to show me something valuable that our dog had destroyed. Except we didn’t have a dog. I followed his finger point to the TV screen.

  “And that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Senator Kathy Burns was saying into the microphone at a press conference. “As a mother and grandmother, I find abortion morally reprehensible and vile. I applaud FAIR News for highlighting the long-overlooked issue of fathers’ rights. And as I said, anyone who saw the father’s story on Wake Up, USA! this morning knows it raised a number of questions that taxpayers deserve answers to. That is why I am joining with Victor Fluke today, calling for my colleagues in the Senate to vote to defund this organization.” Charlie hit mute.

  I didn’t know my hands were over my mouth until I tried to speak. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “They’re using your segment to argue for defunding Planned Parenthood.”

  I fell on the sofa next to him, feeling the weight of that. That must be the reason for three voice mail messages from Mom.

  “Look, obviously you’re not responsible for Senator Burns deciding this is her cause celeb. But it sounds like your show did crank it up again.”

  My buzzer sounded.

  “That’s Laurie,” I said.

  Laurie came in, dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and collapsed on the couch before acknowledging us. She acted like my roommate who happened to live in a different apartment across town.

  She looked at me. “Why do you look like your dog died?”

  “I don’t have a dog,” I told her, though I thought Laurie might be a mind reader.

  “You look like something happened.”

  “Something did happen,” Charlie told her, motioning to the TV. “Kathy Burns is citing Amanda’s show as the reason to hold hearings to defund Planned Parenthood.”

  “Hmm,” Laurie said. “I don’t think they have the votes.”

  “The point is,” I said, turning toward Laurie, “are you responsible for what people do with the information you and Gabe put out there?”

  “Of course not,” Laurie said. “Our job is to provide the information. How people use it is not our fault.”

  “Yes!” I said, pointing at Laurie for Charlie, as though she were Exhibit A in my case for exoneration.

  “I got Kenny the Rat, you know from the Winter Hill Gang, to talk a couple of weeks ago when nobody thought he would. That’s my job. And I can’t be responsible for what happens next.”

  “Yeah?” I said, sensing there was more. “Wait, not the one who was killed in that car explosion last week?”

  “Well . . .” She took a swig of her beer. “That one was unfortunate.”

  “Jesus, Laurie.”

  “Look,” she said, “I’m here for one beer. I don’t have time to dissect the challenges of a free press. I gotta get back to work. Gabe and I are getting closer to breaking that big Fluke story. If the fucking lawyers would get their asses in gear, we could report it.”

  “So what is it?” Charlie asked.

  Laurie let out a long exhale, then grabbed her big black bag like she’d just robbed a bank and it was full of loot. “We got this letter. Obviously, do not breathe a word of this. I shouldn’t even be talking about it.”

  “Of course,” I said, pulling the big wicker chest I used as a coffee table closer, so she could lay out whatever was in her bag.

  “These will reveal the real Victor Fluke, underneath the character in this dramedy we’re all living. Consider this your private preview.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a thin manila folder.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked.

  “It’s a letter from Fluke’s former nanny. She says that for years Fluke and his wife used a housekeeper from Haiti, who they paid off the books and who . . . wait for it,” she said, holding up her hand, “wait for it . . . was an illegal alien. Ta-da!”

  Charlie nodded. “That’s pretty good.”

  “But beyond a letter from a nanny, whaddya have?” I asked.

  “Glad you asked,” Laurie said. “It gets better.”

  “This nanny, who in the past two weeks has become my new best friend—sorry Amanda.”

  I nodded with understanding. Temporary best friends were part of Laurie’s M.O.

  “So, my new best friend, um,” she looked down at the letter, “Emilia, right, Emilia, says the Haitian housekeeper left under sort of suspicious circumstances and that she heard that Fluke bought the housekeeper a house somewhere to get rid of her but keep her in the U.S.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “About fifteen years ago.”

  “This is good, Laurie,” Charlie said, more upbeat than I’d seen him in weeks. “Maybe this will be the silver bullet that stops Fluke.”

  “Really?” I asked, looking at both their excited faces with skepticism, not because I doubted the story but because having met the guy in person it seemed like one fifteen-year-old silver bullet might not be enough to kill off Sam Stockton’s evil twin. “Won’t Fluke just say he didn’t know she was here illegally or he got rid of her the second he found out? Or he’ll say he’s ‘evolved’ since then.” I shrugged. “I don’t think this is enough to scare away the legion of Successful Man-iacs.”

  “Well, obviously there’s more to the story than meets the eye. Who buys a house for their maid?” Charlie said.

  “Where’s the house?” I asked.

  “Emilia is a little unclear on that. She heard it was in New Mexico, in some small town. I’ve been digging through real estate records but I haven’t found anything yet.”

 
“Maybe he didn’t buy it in his own name,” Charlie said.

  “Right,” Laurie said. “And I can’t find anything in the housekeeper’s name . . . yet. But Emilia is pretty certain about this. And she’s dying to go on camera and tell the story. She hates Victor Fluke. But BNN’s lawyers are slow rolling this. They say I need a second source. It’s making me crazy.”

  “I don’t blame them,” I said. “I mean, maybe the nanny has an ax to grind against Fluke. Maybe she had a beef with his wife. Why’s she just coming forward now, after fifteen years? I don’t know. I’m dubious.”

  “Cherchez la femme,” Charlie said, nodding at both of us.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Did you ever read Alexandre Dumas, The Mohicans of Paris?” he asked.

  I looked over at Laurie and readied myself for another Charlie Treatise on Historical Fiction. “Um, no.”

  “Well, the phrase is French obviously. And it literally means ‘look for the woman.’ At the root of every mystery is a woman. So basically, you find the woman, you find the story,” he said. “Find that housekeeper.”

  “Ah, cherchez la femme,” I said to Laurie in my best French accent. “Cherchez la femme.”

  Chapter 16

  The Demo

  I was late for the pitch meeting, having been held up by the studio crew trying to cajole me into going to what they described as their Wednesday morning “staff meeting” in “Studio M,” which I learned was code for a postshow boozefest at McLoone’s, the Irish bar across the street. Their offer was about as tempting as a root canal. What I really wanted was a nap. But I played along, telling them in as noncommittal a way as possible that I might show.

  In the Think Tank, the usual assemblage of segment producers and production assistants sat around the conference table, some doodling on pads, all looking exhausted. Rob was leaning back in a chair, typing into his cell phone. Goth guy Morgan was just winding up for a pitch.

  “So here’s a very interesting science story that I think would be great. Scientists in the Galapagos are now studying sea turtles because they never get sick, ever.”

  Silence.

  “How do they know they never get sick?” Tiffany asked after a delay.

  “Well, first of all, they live to a ridiculously old age—like 150 years. And scientists think if they can unlock the secret to their longevity, it can translate to us.” He looked around victoriously.

  Fatima glanced up from her laptop. “When do we get to the very interesting part?”

  “That’s just it!” Morgan said. “We could figure out how to live to be 150.”

  “Is it by eating seaweed and walking very slowly?” Tiffany asked. “Because I can do that.”

  “You of all people should like this,” Morgan told her. “You majored in zoology!”

  “Psychology,” she said.

  “Whatever. It’s a great story.”

  Fatima wasn’t feeling it. “Next pitch. Jada?”

  “There’s a story out of Oklahoma about a man who was saved from choking to death by the airbag in his car.”

  “Interesting,” Fatima said. “How?”

  “He was choking on a raisin and he drove off the road and hit a telephone pole and the airbag deployed and dislodged the raisin.”

  “Is there video?” Fatima asked.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll check.”

  “Okay, next. Amanda, do you have anything?”

  “Hold on.” I was stuck on the raisin story, my lifelong fear of choking getting the best of me. “How was he choking on a raisin? I mean, that’s so much smaller than his windpipe.”

  “You can choke on anything,” Topher said authoritatively. “You can even choke on water.”

  “You can?” I asked, trying to hide my panic.

  Fatima looked up from typing. “Maybe it was a golden raisin. You know how big those are?”

  “Yeah, they are big,” I said, making a mental note to throw out the ones sitting on a shelf in my kitchen.

  “Maybe it was a craisin,” Morgan offered.

  Rob looked up from his iPhone for the first time. “Wait, what does this have to do with a turtle?”

  Morgan jumped in. “Has Fluke weighed in? Was the raisin grown in America?”

  “You’re all losers,” Fatima said. “I have a show to produce. Does anyone have anything?”

  “Yeah, I have a great outrage story,” Topher began. “The FBI is sanitizing their handbook to make it more PC and not offend Muslims.”

  “How so?” I asked, wary of anything Topher thought was great.

  “They’re taking out any phrases that might be offensive to Muslims,” he repeated.

  “Ooh, that is good,” Fatima said, beginning to type into her laptop. “That definitely has two sides.”

  “Such as?” I pressed Topher.

  “I’m sure it’s things like ‘terrorist’ or ‘radical Islam.’ You know, all the words that Virginia Wynn doesn’t use so she doesn’t offend terrorists,” Topher said.

  “Don’t you mean offend Muslims? Or do you use the two terms interchangeably?” I asked. “Besides, what’s your source?”

  “Senator Davis wrote a letter to the FBI telling them to change something like eight hundred pages.”

  “We should book a debate between some liberal Islamic imam and Aisha Muhammad. She’s great because she’s Muslim,” Fatima said, thinking out loud.

  “And hot,” Morgan chimed in.

  “Giddyup,” Rob said.

  “Plus,” Topher said, “she thinks radical Islam is going to blow up the world and she’s not afraid to say it.”

  “Shouldn’t we first see what text was expunged?” I asked, annoyed. “Maybe we could find the letter, for starters?”

  “Good point, Amanda. What does the letter say?” Fatima asked Topher, shifting her eyes to mine and nodding like we were on the same page.

  “I don’t know, but I bet there’s a bunch of PC stuff in there. Probably,” he said.

  “Good God, Topher. You sound like a dumb shit,” Fatima said. “Do your homework next time. Cause my Pakistani grandma’s getting sick of the media hating on Muslims, okay? Next pitch. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  A terrified-looking intern looked up. “Sally,” she whispered.

  “And you have a pitch? Go ahead,” Fatima guided her.

  “Yes, a conservative watchdog group says they’ve found the voter registration list where Wynn volunteers registered fake names, like the Dallas Cowboys and Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny. The FEC says it’s looking into it.”

  “Oh, that’s great! That’s what Fluke was talking about. We should do a bunch of segments on that tomorrow,” Fatima said, starting to type.

  “Isn’t that kind of small ball?” Rob asked.

  “Not if her volunteers are committing voter fraud,” Fatima said. “That’s a scandal.”

  “But if it’s one rogue volunteer and one registration list, that doesn’t rise to the level of scandal,” I said, trying to build on Rob’s skepticism.

  “We’ve got nothing else for tomorrow,” Fatima said.

  Jesus, Laurie, hurry up with that Fluke housekeeper story, would ya, before we go down a Bugs Bunny rabbit hole.

  “I have another one,” Morgan began. “So, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services just released a report—”

  “Stop right there,” Fatima said. “You’re really starting a pitch with a report about Medicare?”

  “Yeah, I thought we could have the HHS secretary on to discuss—”

  Morgan was interrupted by loud snoring coming from Rob. “Oh, sorry, I nodded off for a second.”

  Even I had unconsciously picked up a paper and started perusing the Style section.

  “You’ve GOT to think about the demo, people,” Fatima explained. “We can’t be
pitching stories for sixty-five-year-olds.”

  “But that’s who watches cable news,” Morgan said.

  “Yes, but we don’t want them. We certainly shouldn’t be giving them a reason to watch,” Fatima emphasized.

  “Yeah, haven’t they suffered enough?” Tiffany asked.

  “Tiffany, go,” Fatima said, moving on.

  “Okay, fashion pitch. Models are wearing pajamas out at night.”

  “Which models are those?” Rob said.

  “A lot of them,” Tiffany said. “The pictures are all over online. I can get a pair for Amanda to model.”

  “What now?” I said, putting down the newspaper and deciding to pay more attention starting then.

  “Good, get Amanda a pair and, oh, that reminds me,” Fatima said. “Production called. They know it’s six months away, but they want us to start thinking of costume ideas for Halloween. Benji thinks FAIR might get a few tickets to the White House Halloween Party, and he wants us to hit it out of the park. How awesome would that be? So production wants to get a jump on some concepts and not wait till the last minute—and we can definitely come up with much better ideas than they have. They want Amanda and Rob to go as a Rubik’s Cube.”

  The White House! Oh, my God! I was so excited by the idea of going to a party at the White House that I hadn’t absorbed the rest of it, until one of the interns asked, “What’s a Rubik’s Cube?”

  “It’s lame, that’s what,” Rob said.

  “How about they go as Beyoncé and Jay Z?” somebody said.

  “I know!” Tiffany said. “Kim and Kanye! Kimye.”

  “That’s so last Halloween,” another intern said. “How ’bout Kylie and Kendall Jenner?”

  “Aren’t those both girls?” Rob asked.

  “Oh! How about Caitlyn Jenner!” Morgan suggested. “That would be perfect for you, Rob.”

  “The hell?” Rob said.

  “I mean because she has such a deep voice.”

  “I know, right?” Tiffany said. “It’s like she’s not even trying to be a woman.”

  “How about Woodward and Bernstein?” I said.