by Nic Tatano
"And hot damn is the same as scorching hot?" asked Jillian.
Neely nodded. "One and the same. Top of the line."
"Michael from California is next," I yelled, trying to bring order.
A blonde, blue-eyed anchor in a pastel suit filled the screen. He looked more suited to a surfboard than to a news desk.
"Eh, doable," said Rica.
"I was thinking exponentially cute," said Neely.
"Doable," said Rica and Jillian in unison, as I slid the tape the length of the table.
"Let's see if we can get two in a row," said Jillian.
"Say hello to Bill from Bristol, Tennessee," I said, as the tape rolled.
"Good face for radio," said Rica, about two seconds into the tape.
"Bless his little heart," cracked Jillian, getting into the Southern spirit of things.
"Edward from Florida," I said. The screen filled with an extremely tall, extremely skinny man.
"Looks like an advance man for a famine," said Neely. "Gong."
Twenty tapes later (including one which featured co-anchors that left some doubt as to which was the man and which was the woman and was followed by Neely's tomahawk jam of it into the dumpster) I finally popped in a tape and watched a glob of pizza almost fall out of Rica's mouth.
"Whoa," said Rica.
Twenty-seven-year-old Vance Hiller's face jumped off the screen and grabbed our undivided attention. With no anchoring experience, the tape featured the reporter out doing a variety of stories in the field, one of which included him in a pair of tight running shorts that revealed tan, sinewy legs. Tall, slender but well built, nearly black hair and piercing sea-foam green eyes which peered out of a face that was all angles and planes.
"Is he real or computer generated?" asked Jillian.
"Really, it looks like someone designed him," said Neely. "He's a virtual reporter. But I wouldn't mind checking his virtual references."
"Gongs?" I asked. (Kidding of course.)
"You outta your friggin' mind?" said Rica.
I slid the DVD down to Neely and she placed it in the "hot damn" box without any argument. She patted the box's first occupant for good measure.
By eleven thirty we'd gone through more than four hundred resume tapes, two large pizzas, two six packs of beer, and had seen Neely toss tapes into the dumpster with incredible flair. (We all agreed her jump shot was impressive, but the behind-the-back swish into the trash with an anchor from West Virginia could have been a hit on YouTube.)
"Done," I said, plopping down in the chair. The dumpster at the end of the room was overflowing with DVDs and VHS tapes.
"So where do we stand?" asked Jillian. "What's the grand total of the guys who are left?"
Neely looked through each box and began counting. "There are half a dozen hot damns… four exponentially cutes…. and twenty who were considered doable."
(It should be noted there would have been twenty-one doables but Neely unceremoniously dumped the first surfer dude when she found another California anchor she liked better.)
"So," said Jillian, "Where do we go from here?"
"Fly them all in as soon as possible and get rolling on the interviews," I said.
"Hang on a minute, guys," said Neely. "I'm a little concerned."
"About what?" asked Jillian.
Neely picked up a DVD from the doable box and held it up. "There is a great deal of quality that separates the hot damns and the exponentially cutes from the doables," she said. "If I know I can have someone from the first two boxes, I don't really want anything from the other box."
"You know, she's got a point," said Rica. "If I'm stuck in the Peoria airport, then a doable is… well, doable. But if there's lobster on the buffet, I sure as hell ain't eatin' tuna salad."
Jillian nodded. "So if I've got this straight, we should ditch the doable box or our viewers will be stuck eating tuna fish instead of fantasizing about someone who is exponentially cute."
"I'm not even gonna try to figure that out," I said. "So just dump the box."
Neely took the box and sent twenty careers careening into the dumpster.
Which left us with ten guys we really liked.
To fill twelve slots.
Do the math.
We're hittin' the streets.
* * *
"I heard you had a gong show last night."
I looked up and saw that my first visitor of the morning was Scott Harry, who was standing in my doorway, hands in pockets. What a surprise, he didn't look happy. "Hi, Scott. What can I do for you?"
(Oh, by the way, gong shows are no secrets among the rank and file. As for Scott, I know exactly what he wants, but I'm going to make him say it. He wants to be part of the network, so bad he can taste it, but we're keeping him right where he is, taking care of local… and his spot on Madison's to-do list. However, I can't let him know that he hasn't a prayer of getting on the network, so the carrot must be dangled at a discreet distance.)
"I assume you're getting around to staffing the new network."
"Yep," I said, pausing to take a sip of my coffee, which had gotten cold. "Lots of people to hire and not much time to do it."
Oh, you should see his face. It's killing him. He looks like a man who's been constipated for a week only to find out all the laxatives have been pulled off the market by the FDA.
"I…uh…" Scott stopped and walked into the office, taking the seat directly in front of my desk. (The chair is a low-boy, by the way, two inches shorter than normal. A little psychological advantage.)
"Yes? Something on your mind?" (I wear my best "playing dumb" look. All women are born with this innate capability. It's embedded in our DNA, just like the shoe chromosome. The equivalent for men is the not-listening, bobblehead nod.)
His shoulders were hunched and his neck taut as he looked at me with his now patented "wounded doe" face, despite his lack of brown eyes. "I was hoping to be considered for one of the anchor slots on the network. I mean, I love working local, (forced smile) but this is a great opportunity."
"Don't worry, Scott, you'll be considered." (I'll have to ask Neely what the penance is for a blatant lie.)
Scott exhaled and the tension melted from his body. "Thank you. I mean, I hadn't heard anything. So I assumed—"
Watch this. "So how are you enjoying your time with Madison?"
Ah, such a joy to watch the color drain from his face like the last strawberry Slurpee coming out of the machine at Seven-Eleven.
"She's very nice. But… I miss you."
Aw, shit. And the day had started off so well with Jason and I doing our little Cirque de Soleil number before breakfast.
I got up and walked around the desk, leaning on the edge and extending my legs so that they nearly touched his. If he was going to screw with my day, I was going to torture him. "Scott, we've been through this. Several times. Our relationship is purely professional."
"I just—"
"What are you gonna do, Scott? Try another trip to the tabloids? Did you really think anyone would see a man who has to sleep with his hot boss as a victim? Every guy in New York thought you were an idiot to complain. And then half of those called me wanting a job here."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Just keep Madison happy." (And I know she's happy from her note that read, "Thanks for the leftovers.")
"Just Madison?"
"Yes. Madison is a great gal with a rockin' body and you should consider yourself lucky that I don't make you sleep with Carla the producer."
His face tightened and I could tell the image of the overweight troll in a state of undress was flashing through his mind.
"Now go," I said. "Do your job, keep Madison entertained, and we'll keep you posted on the network gig."
He got up, turned and shuffled out of my office without saying a word.
Men.
* * *
The term "meat market" is a throwback to the eighties, but never seemed more appropriate
as we occupied the corner table in the back of one of Manhattan's trendiest bars. The electricity in the place sent a charge through my body, while various expensive colognes and perfumes made the room smell like a walk through the Bloomingdales fragrance department where the Stepford girls spritz you. In reality, our hunting expedition tonight wasn't much different than trying to pick someone up. The men and women in the bar were looking for someone attractive to sleep with, and I was looking for someone attractive to sleep with, under thirty, who could read a teleprompter and knew that Ted Kennedy had never been shot. I sipped my Bailey's and tried to unwind as the cream with a bite ran down my throat, but things were getting too exciting. Tomorrow New York's top modeling and talent agencies were going to fill our office with male models and actors. (I know, I have such a tough job.)
"What time do we start tomorrow?" asked Rica, not looking at me but scanning the crowded uptown bar for any hot prospects. One attractive man in his forties smiled at her, but was repelled by the force field of her death stare. He bounced off, shook his head, and headed out the door, letting in the sound of New York's heartbeat: car horns and police sirens.
"Nine o'clock," I said. "We'll do a preliminary screening, then call back the ones we like for reference checks."
It was wall-to-wall people and noise but one man at the bar somehow managed to connect with Jillian across the packed watering hole. "Oooh, I just got a shiver," she said.
"Which one?" asked Rica, trying to follow Jillian's line of sight.
Jillian nodded toward the bar, her eyes still paralyzed by the man's stare. "Sitting at the corner talking to an older guy but looking right at me. Gray pinstripe vest. Dark hair. Light eyes. Five o'clock shadow."
Rica glanced around, trying to look through the wall of people. Finally she spotted him. "Damn, he's cute."
"He's even beyond exponentially cute," said Jillian, suddenly possessing Neely's dreamy-eyed look. "It's a whole new level of cute."
Rica turned to me. "Waddaya think, Syd? Should we go talk to him?"
I was about to answer "yes", when the man hopped off his bar stool and headed across the floor to the men's room. I finally got a good look at the total package and my smile faded.
He was short. And I mean really short. Five-three, five-four tops.
"Aw, dammit," I said.
"What?" asked Rica.
"He's just a little thing."
"So?" asked Neely. "He's an exponentially cute little thing. We just sit him on a Manhattan phone book and tilt the camera up at him when he's on set."
"You're missing something. That plays havoc with our plan to have our anchors stand during part of each hour," I said.
"No, you're missing something, Syd," said Neely, just as our waitress arrived.
"Another round, girls?" asked the tall, slinky brunette in the short black spaghetti strap dress.
"Make it so," I said.
The waitress, who looked around thirty, wrote our drink order on her pad, shoved a pencil behind her ear and was about to leave when Neely touched her arm. "Excuse me, can we ask you a couple of questions?"
The waitress shrugged. "Long as they're quick," she said. "I got a lotta tables."
Neely looked back at the men's room just as the man emerged. "How tall are you?" she asked.
"Five-eleven. About six-two in these heels. Why?"
"See that guy walking to the bar?" Neely pointed at him. "Real cute, dark hair."
The waitress craned her long, slender neck around the crowd and squinted. "You mean the little guy in the dark vest?"
"Yeah," said Neely.
"What about him?"
"Would you ever consider going out with him?" asked Neely. "I mean, being as tall as you are, do you find him attractive?"
"I'd do him in a New York minute," said the waitress, licking her lips. "He'd make a great Friday night snack."
"You don't have a problem with a man that much shorter?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Hell, I date shorter guys all the time. Most of the ones taller than me are pretty stuck on themselves. The shorter ones try harder, they're more polite. Better personalities and sense of humor. And they don't try anything funny 'cause I'm bigger than they are." Suddenly she put her tray down on our table, leaned forward, and lowered her voice. "Plus, I'll let you in on a little secret. They obey."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"They're so afraid you'll ditch them for a tall guy they'll do anything you want. I guess I feel more in control with a guy like that. It's sorta nice being the man in the relationship, if that makes any sense." She looked back across the room at the man, dark eyes suddenly steamy with lust. "But yeah, I wouldn't mind bending him across my knee and spanking that tight little ass."
Interesting mental picture I hadn't considered.
"Thanks," said Neely.
"What's the deal?" asked the waitress, picking up her tray. "You guys taking a marketing survey or something?"
"We work in TV," I said. "Just keeping in touch with how women think."
"Let's put it this way. They're all the same height lying down," said the waitress. "I'll be right back with your drinks." She turned and headed back to the bar.
"Syd, we are really missing something here," said Neely. "If we want to convey the notion that women are in charge, why can't a few of our female anchors be taller than their male co-anchors?"
"She's got something, Syd," said Rica. "A lot of women wouldn't mind takin' that guy home, even if he is a munchkin. And look at Jillian. She looks so possessed I'm gonna have to call a priest."
I turned and saw that Jillian was in some sort of schoolgirl trance, which I might expect from Neely. But Jillian, I'd never seen her this way. The cool, always in control girl looked like she was in the ninth grade suffering from her first crush. "Jillian? Earth to Jillian?"
"Huh?" she said.
"Have you heard a word we've been saying?" I asked.
"Yeah. Sort of. Not really," she said, still staring at the man.
I looked up at the guy who had returned to the bar. He shook hands with another man who handed him an envelope, then paid his bill, picked up his drink, and headed for our table.
"This oughta be fun," said Neely, cocking her heard toward Jillian. "Woman hit by Cupid's arrow. Film at eleven."
"Someone reel in her tongue before he gets here," said Rica.
I elbowed Jillian who snapped back into reality just as the man reached our table. He stood between Jillian and Neely but it was obvious he had his sights on Jillian.
"Hi, I'm Shawn Carlyle," he said.
Whoever said good things come in small packages must have been talking about this guy. Mid-twenties, perfectly proportioned, slim hips, broad shoulders accented by a tailored white French cuffed shirt. Turquoise eyes you could get lost in. Rugged square jaw, long dimples covered by a day's growth. And yes, a tight little spankable ass.
Yeah, I'm starting to see Neely's point.
Jillian was still too busy staring to answer, so I picked up the ball. "Hi Shawn. I'm Syd, and this is Rica, Neely and Jillian."
"So, girls night out?" he said.
"This is actually an extension of a business meeting that started this afternoon," I said.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," he said.
"No problem," Neely said. "We like to mix a little pleasure with business. We'd just wrapped up the business part anyway, so you can hopefully provide the pleasure."
"You guys all work together?" he asked.
"We run the news division for CBN," I said.
"That sounds like a neat job. I took a journalism course in college and it seemed like a lotta fun."
"So what do you do, Shawn?" asked Rica.
"I work on Wall Street," he said, eyes suddenly filling with a tinge of sadness. "I've been there three years since I got out of college and it feels like thirty."
Jillian still hadn't said a word, hadn't stopped staring, and her freckles were lit up like they were on fire. He glan
ced back in her direction and shot her a quick smile.
"Not happy with the career?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I just need to find something else to do. I'll be dead by forty if I keep this up. And honestly, my heart's not in it. Money's good, but I'm not happy. It may look exciting on TV, but the job just wrings you out."
"Well, you know," I said, "we're in the process of hiring a bunch of people for our new cable network. In fact, we start interviewing local candidates tomorrow."
"I read about that on Page Six. I already watch your local news. You guys do a good job."
"You like our news?" asked Rica, furrowing her brow.
"Yeah," he said. "You guys keep it simple. No agenda, no one trying to tell me how to think or how to vote. No one trying to shout someone else down during an interview. And the women on your station are credible, not a bunch of beauty queens. I mean, don't get me wrong, they're extremely attractive, but I get the feeling they actually know what they're talking about."
That click you just heard was Mister Edison turning on a thousand-watt light bulb over my head.
There's a young male audience for our product. Who knew?
The guy was not only extremely cute but smart. I wanted to know more. "Have you ever been in front of a camera?" I asked.
"No. Why?"
"Like I said, we're hiring a lot of people."
He smiled and looked down at the floor. "I'm sure I don't exactly fit the traditional anchorman profile."
"We're very untraditional, in case you hadn't noticed from watching our newscasts," said Rica.
"Well, yeah, I guess you are," he said.
"Speaking of untraditional, what made you walk over here?" Rica asked. "We're not exactly girls right out of college."
His hands went into his pockets as he slouched, and suddenly I saw a sheepish teenager about to ask a girl out. "Well, I knew it was a long shot, with me being… well… me. But I… how do I put this without offending you?" He pulled one hand from his pocket and placed it on top of Jillian's, patted it a few times, then stared directly at her. "The, uh, women my age aren't terribly… stimulating."
Jillian gulped. Her longing eyes faded deeper into a dream state, as her head tilted to one side. She still hadn't said a damn thing.