by Nic Tatano
I'd really thought Rica would have the hardest problem, Southern California being obsessed with youth and all. But the real Silicon Valley surprised me.
Since Angelinos are used to such hard-hitting journalistic fare as "Smiling Naturally White Using Botox" and "Regaining Your Balance After Large Implants", one would think they'd have little use for a female anchor who actually qualified for a ten-year high school reunion. But apparently Hollywood's aging actresses (those over twenty-nine who found roles hard to come by) saw the debut of Rica's new anchor team as a watershed moment. Rica found a Meg Ryan lookalike named Carolyn Baynard, who is in her mid-forties but remarkably well preserved. She's also the master of the double entendre ad-lib, which, when directed toward her co-anchor, sends a clear message to the viewer that the man sitting next to Carolyn is her catch of the day. (The other part of the subliminal message is, "Honey, this could be you.")
Carolyn's co-anchor arrived with a built-in promotional campaign. Rica bypassed the viewing of resume tapes and those pesky journalism requirements, Los Angeles being what it is, went directly to an advertising agency and tabbed well-known underwear pitchman Dirk Anderson. Southern Californians couldn't go a mile without seeing a billboard that featured his ripped abs being caressed by tighty-whiteys that left nothing to the imagination. Thirty-year-old Dirk had amazing chemistry with his co-anchor, and the two were an immediate hit. On one occasion Carolyn said, "Dirk Anderson is on assignment tonight," paused, raised one eyebrow, and had every woman in LA wondering if the guy was under the anchor desk.
His five-part series, "Boxers or Briefs" was simply a no-brainer. But teaching Carolyn how to shop for men's underwear using a tape measure and a balloon was a stroke of genius.
Rica, of course, said his references were perfect, and that he made the gum fall out of her mouth when she had an orgasm. (I'm still not too clear on Brooklyn sex metaphors, but she smiles when she says it.)
Neely took a page out of Rica's book, but reversed things a bit, since Texas is, after all, the beauty pageant capital of the world, as well as the setting for weird cheerleader crimes. For her female anchor she chose former NFL cheerleader Dawn Mullaney, a sultry brunette Texan in her early forties who had retained a body that still cried out for hot pants, boots and a halter top. So Neely got them for her, then sent her to try out for a cheerleading squad with women half her age. Her dance moves had every cowboy wondering if the hitching post outside the barn would be better served standing vertically in the bedroom.
Since Texans like things bigger, Neely reached down into a tiny market and came up with Iowa sportscaster Nick Hallinger, a twenty-nine-year-old former linebacker who had blown out his knee during his rookie year with the New York Giants. At six-foot-five and 240 pounds, Hallinger looked as though he could bench-press Toyotas, but his kind blue eyes and wavy dark hair led you to believe he'd save a stray kitten.
Then Neely took things a step further, deciding to ditch the traditional anchor desk and have both anchors stand during the entire newscast. Dawn barely came up to Nick's shoulder, and between his impressive stature and her killer legs, they looked like the top of a wedding cake. Dawn made it a habit to always sign off first at the end of the newscast, then turn and look up longingly at her co-anchor who told viewers, "Have a great night," before looking down and smiling at Dawn.
As always, a local tabloid managed to dig up pictures of Dawn on a cheerleader swimsuit calendar and Hallinger during a bare-chested weigh-in from a bowl game (there are those damned leaks again!). Under the headline Rah-Rah and Ga-Ga, the photo splash made the anchor team hotter in Dallas than jalapenos.
So at this point you're probably thinking, "Hey, Syd saved her job with great ratings and women over thirty all over the country are rethinking their sex lives." And you'd be right.
But given enough ointment, there's always a damned fly.
It's Scott Harry, the trophy buck who helped save our New York affiliate.
He's in love.
And you won't believe who the object of his affections is.
* * *
"He's in love? With you?" asked Jillian.
I bit my lower lip and nodded slowly. The endless sound of slot machines provided audio wallpaper as I turned my attention back to the casino buffet breakfast. I shoveled a forkful of pancakes soaked with syrup into my mouth and savored the rush of the sugary sponge. The conversation stopped, I looked up, and saw three women who had stopped eating begging me for more details with their eyes.
"You can't just drop news like that and go back to your breakfast," said Neely.
"Details," said Rica. "Now."
I swallowed, took a sip of water, and looked around to make sure we were out of earshot. Sin City was crawling with television executives for the annual convention, and news like this sure wouldn't stay in Vegas. Two huge old women with fanny packs, who had bathed in Jean Naté, occupied the nearest table and were totally focused on their food, shoveling it in so fast that sparks were probably imminent from their knives and forks, so I figured we were safe.
"Okay," I said, lowering my voice a bit. They all leaned forward. "Last week he shows up at the hotel room after the Friday late newscast, just like always. Only this time he's got a dozen roses."
"Sounds like a real gentleman," said Neely.
"He also had a ring," I said.
"Oh, shit," said Rica. "An engagement ring?"
I nodded.
"What did you do?" asked Jillian.
"Well," I said, "let's just say that after I told him our working relationship was just that, he would have needed a tub of Viagra and a forklift."
"He really believes that you're romantically interested in him?" asked Jillian.
"Scott Harry is not exactly Stephen Hawking," I said. "One day I was talking about how you remember where you were on important days in history, like on 9/11 or the day Kennedy was shot. And he says, ‘Ted Kennedy got shot?'"
"Good God, what a complete moron," said Neely, who then added the Southern disclaimer. "Bless his little heart."
"What exactly does that mean anyway?" asked Rica, turning to face her.
"What?" asked Neely.
"The bless his little heart thing," said Rica. "You always say that."
"It's considered impolite in the South to say something bad about someone else," said Neely, "so you just add bless his little heart at the end and it cancels out the insult. Why, how would you say it?"
"He's a friggin' idiot," said Rica, just before taking a bite of a bagel.
Jillian started frantically waving her hands. "Can you two stop with the North and South stuff? We're dealing with some serious shit here. Syd's eaten two plates of pancakes because she's not getting any Y-chromosomes, and her main anchor is hopelessly lovesick while trying desperately to remember what the hell he was doing when Ted Kennedy was shot."
"If this convention were in Dallas, they'd turn that into a country song," said Neely.
"So what's his current status?" asked Jillian.
"His performance has slipped," I said.
Neely furrowed her brow. "You already told us he couldn't—"
"On air, for God's sake," I said, shaking my head. "He looks like a lost puppy."
"So waddaya gonna do?" asked Rica, spearing a sausage with her fork.
"He's got a two year contract," I said. "His ratings are great. There's really not much I can do."
* * *
You see trophy wives all the time in New York. The couple always looks the same. Rich old fart who could raise a "separated at birth" question with a Sunsweet prune, and a twenty-something vapid blonde on his arm. He only wants sex, she only wants money, bada bing, bada boom, let's draw up a pre-nup. She multitasks in the bedroom, either counting the cracks in the ceiling or the days till she can bail with enough for a Palm Beach condo.
Old joke about trophy wives:
Man walks into a bar and sits next to a really attractive woman. "Would you sleep with me for a million dollars?" he asks
.
"Absolutely," she says, suddenly sitting up straight on her barstool.
"How about a hundred bucks?" he asks.
She gets indignant. "What kind of a girl do you think I am?"
"We've already established that," he says. "Now we're just haggling about the price."
So now I sorta know how a man feels, except, being a woman, I'm not as shallow. (Stop laughing. Stop! Okay, you got me.) While I need a trophy buck, actually sharing the rest of my life with someone who could moonlight for Chrysler as a crash dummy isn't on my to-do list.
Scott showed up at my townhouse after the late Friday newscast like nothing happened, the wrong head in control. He apparently (like any man would) thought that all I needed was a reminder of how much he belonged on my list.
Then I would come to my senses.
While my senses suffered the usual high-speed blowout on the sexual Autobahn, and the Zorro outfit he wore was a nice new wrinkle, I regained my faculties during re-entry.
"You look like you enjoyed that, Ms. Hack," he said, looking down at me while propped on one elbow.
I let my body melt into the five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets as my brain synapses continued to fire sparks. "That's an understatement." I closed my eyes, my face still flashing like a firefly, hoping he would just shut the hell up and let me—
"You can have that every night for the rest of your life."
Annnnnnd…. Cue the cold shower!
I slowly opened my eyes and saw the puppy dog with the granite body just inches from my face, about to kiss me. I sat up before he had the chance. "Scott, I thought we already resolved this."
"I thought you might miss me in Vegas and change your mind."
"No, I haven't changed my mind."
He leaned over to the cherry end table and picked up a glass that had a touch of scotch left in it. "Maybe you need some time to think." He downed the rest of the liquor.
"Maybe you need to remember who hired you." I leaned back against one of the four posts of the bed, which had moments before served as an impromptu stripper pole. "I'm your boss. Why do you call me Ms. Hack in the bedroom if you think I love you?"
"I thought it was part of the dominatrix thing you had going."
Dear God…
"So that's all I am to you? A piece of meat?"
Oh, man, I wish I'd had a camera rolling. Coming from a man that would have been the sound bite of the year.
Hey, great idea for cable… an entire network with older women and younger men.
But back to our regularly scheduled sexual encounter….
"In return you get to anchor in the number one market in America."
He threw back the covers, grabbed his underwear from the ceiling fan blade, and started to get dressed. "You've been leading me on."
"I've done no such thing, Scott. When I interviewed you, I told you that if you wanted the job you should come to my room."
"I thought you were attracted to me."
"I am, physically, but not in a romantic way."
The hurt in his eyes grew and he turned away. He finished getting dressed and started to head for the door. He stopped a few feet from it, picked his car keys off the dresser and turned to face me. "I want out of my contract," he said.
"Not gonna happen," I said.
"We'll see."
* * *
"So let me get this straight," said Jillian from the speakerphone. "Young man who has trouble spelling IQ is offered a job anchoring in New York City. But wait! There's more! As an added bonus, he got to sleep with his hot, red-headed boss to get the job. And there's a problem?"
"Apparently," I said, wishing they were in my office instead of just voices on the weekly Thursday conference call.
It was Neely's turn. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't most men jump at the chance for mind-altering sex on a regular basis while bypassing the usual dinner and courtship stuff?"
"Courtship? That still exists?" asked Rica.
"In the South it does," said Neely, turning on the drawl. I could almost see the dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.
Rica laughed. "In Brooklyn, courtship's when a guy says, ‘Meter's running. You wanna have sex, or what?'"
"Then most men are from Brooklyn, 'cause that's what they want," said Jillian. "No holding car doors open, no cuddling, no ‘so, what are you thinking?' questions, just clean-out-the-pipes-air-out-the-brain-blast-furnace-sex with a woman who looks like she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender."
An image of a black leather miniskirt and red platform heels that Scott liked flashed through my brain, along with a picture of a blast furnace blowing his hair out of place. I shoved it to the back burner for later.
"And guys say women are hard ta figure out," said Rica. "Fuhgeddaboudit."
"So what should I do?" I asked, looking at the speaker like it was some sexual magic 8-ball.
"Screw him," said Rica.
"She'd like to keep doing that," said Neely. I heard chuckles all around and couldn't help but smile.
"You know what I meant," said Rica.
"So what's the situation this week?" asked Jillian.
"He's not speaking to me," I said. "Though yesterday he went from brooding victim to looking like he's up to something."
"Think he'll show tomorrow night?" asked Jillian.
"We'll find out soon enough," I said.
* * *
Actually the answer swatted the front door of my townhouse around five in the morning on Friday. It arrived in the form of a New York tabloid, complete with a front page picture of Scott Harry and a headline that made my jaw hang open like a trophy bass.
Anchor Goes "Undercover" to Keep Job
Ho.
Lee.
Shit.
I dashed back inside the heavy oak front door, slammed it, and pressed my back against it like I was hiding from a firing squad. Then I quickly unfolded the paper.
It got worse.
Cougar Boss Turns Scott Into Dirty Harry
By Cassandra West
Apparently the news business is no longer couched in secrecy.
It's simply a couch.
Of the casting variety.
That's the story from local anchor Scott Harry, who claims that he was hired by News Director Sydney Hack in return for sex. Harry adds that weekly trysts with his boss are a requirement should he wish to keep his job.
"I've spent every Friday night with Ms. Hack at her home since I was hired, and I only got the job after sleeping with her," said Harry, who has pumped up ratings for the station since his arrival but has grown tired of the arrangement. "I recently asked to be released from my contract, but was told that providing sexual favors was part of my job description."
The attractive, copper-haired thirty-something Hack, known as both Neutron Syd or The Red Queen in the broadcasting industry, raised eyebrows when she hired twenty-nine-year-old Harry and paired him with middle-aged Caroline Jensen, creating what is often referred to in journalistic circles as The Cougar Report. Curiously enough, the biggest ratings increase for the station occurs in the middle-aged female demographic.
Hack could not be reached for comment.
"Yeah, you can't get a comment if you don't pick up the damn phone," I said aloud.
Just as the phone rang.
* * *
It was so quiet I could hear my pumps crunch the royal blue carpet that led to the CEO's office.
I could also hear my heart pounding in my head as I opened the glass door to the reception area.
"Ah, Ms. Hack," said Kendra, the young Asian receptionist who had been busy opening mail. "You're expected. Go right in."
"Thanks," I said.
Then Kendra did something I didn't expect to see at a career wake.
She smiled at me.
Okay, I've never done anything to this woman. She can't possibly be happy that I'm getting fired.
I knocked softly, opened the heavy mahogany door and entered the execu
tioner's den. Thankfully the CEO was on the phone and I got a stay for a few minutes.
"Yes, thank you," said Madison Cartwright, the founder of the network. The slender forty-year-old blonde smiled at me and extended an open palm toward the chair in front of her desk. I took a seat in the red leather chair and hung on to the arms for dear life as she continued the conversation. Her pale blue eyes matched her silk blouse, both lit up by the bright sunlight that poured into the corner office through windows that offered a terrific view of the Chrysler. "Stroke of genius, if you ask me," she said, twirling a slim silver pen in her long manicured fingers. "She's here right now. I'll call you a little later." She hung up, brushed her shoulder-length hair back and looked at me. "Sydney, I'm sorry I didn't get to meet with you Friday but I had a family emergency." She slapped her hands face down on the desk. "All I can say is that I sure never expected something like this from you."
"I'm really sorry, Madison," I said. "I should have—"
"Actually I'm glad you didn't tell me because I'm terrible at keeping secrets." She leaned forward and lowered her voice, even though the office door was closed. "So tell me, how'd you get Scott to go along with it?"
Now I'm really confused.
"Go… along…"
"Syd, the phones have been ringing off the hook. Half the women calling are congratulating you and the other half want to know how to get into news management." Then she held up a printout that I recognized as the daily ratings chart. "And the overnights for this past Friday are through the roof."
"So, you mean, you're not—"
"What? Mad? Are you kidding? We're the talk of the industry. You proved that women don't have to be put out to pasture at forty." She flipped the ratings printout to me. "The young women love him, the old women love him, and they all love you for giving him a mature co-anchor and letting them know the rules can be the same for women as men. You've empowered us, Syd. You turned back the clock to the 1950s so we can make up for lost time and chase the cute men around the desk. Frankly, I'm wondering why the hell I have a female assistant."
I exhaled for perhaps the first time in three days.