by Nic Tatano
Rica ducked her head out the door and looked at the light. "Sure beats a sock on the doorknob."
* * *
"My name is Todd Jones. I was wondering if you've had a chance to look at my tape."
The call was typical for a News Director, and one I usually avoid because if the job applicant is calling you, it means you haven't called them, which means you didn't like their tape, which means you're stuck trying to let someone down nicely. But the secretary was out sick and I made the mistake of picking up the outside line.
"We've already narrowed things down to our short list," I said, trying to sound polite. "If you haven't received a call by now then I'm afraid you haven't made—"
"Well, then could you offer me some feedback on my tape? At least tell me what you didn't like?"
Yes, of course, I remember every single tape we looked at. Of course if you were gonged, I might have caught a nanosecond glimpse of you before deleting you from my memory forever. And if Jillian tossed you in the trash before…
"I'm really sorry, but we looked at so many tapes it would be impossible for me to remember what yours looked like."
"You'd remember me. I'm forty-five and bald with a moustache. Very distinctive look for a news anchor."
"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."
Long pause. "You didn't look at my tape, did you?"
The swish you just heard was a red flag going up. This was more than just a typical job call, the guy was on a fishing expedition. I needed to cut this short and be careful doing it.
"Sir, lots of managers looked at lots of tapes." (Actually true. We looked at the over-30s tapes from men and the under-30s tapes from women as Jillian threw them away.) "I'm sorry yours wasn't chosen. Best of luck in your job search."
"That's all I needed to know." Click.
Okay, now I know something is up. And Madison's appearance in my doorway with a worried look confirmed it.
"I just got a strange call," she said.
"I just got one too. Guy wanting feedback on his tape, but this wasn't the typical kid out of college making a follow-up call."
"What did he sound like?"
"Mature, deep voice. No accent, good diction. Said he was forty-five."
"I think I talked to the same guy. Said he was a freelance magazine reporter doing a story on the broadcast industry's hiring practices."
Uh-oh. "What did you say?"
"I told him I wasn't interested in being interviewed."
"Good," I said.
"Besides your three cohorts, who knows the hiring criteria for the cable jobs?"
"No one. Everything has been done behind closed doors."
"Well, keep it that way," she said. "We can't afford any leaks before the launch."
I looked through the glass panel of my office out into the newsroom. "I'm wondering if we already have one."
* * *
The "speed dating" theme of tonight's group dinner was Neely's idea.
Our two dozen new hires filled the hotel ballroom, dressed to the nines as they sipped drinks and mingled. The muted beige walls served as a backdrop to the array of colorful outfits worn by the women. The lone bartender, a sharp-looking blonde in her forties, was constantly in motion, mixing drinks as fast as she could for a group determined to get loosened up. Incredibly, she seemed to be able to mix drinks without looking, as she was riveted to the selection of men in the room.
Our twelve female anchors ranged in age from thirty-five to forty-four. All single, smart, experienced newswomen who could give a twenty-year-old a run for her money in a bikini. (By the way, we couldn't exactly hire married women or those with children for these gigs. We're not homewreckers. Plus, we can't have kids running around an R-rated workplace. We have morals!)
When we were done hiring, the final breakdown of the bucks came out this way: four hot damns, five exponentially cutes and one Denton Hale, who was in a class by himself. Neely created another category, since we hired one more Pocket Chippendale to go along with Shawn.
Little did the bucks know they were going to be part of a unique broadcasting experiment.
"This is going to be fun to watch," said Rica.
"I must say, I'd never have thought to put our anchor teams together this way, but it actually makes sense," I said.
"They've had an hour's worth of booze," said Jillian. "They should be in a good mood by now."
Neely grabbed a spoon from one of the tables and clanged it against her cocktail glass. "Okay, everyone. I'd like you all to take a seat at the very long table at the side of the room. Men on one side, women on the other. We're going to play a little game before we sit down to dinner."
The group headed for the table and began taking their seats. The bartender exhaled a sigh of relief and leaned forward to watch the festivities.
Neely moved to the head of the table and waited till they were all seated. "Now I know you've gotten to know some of your new co-workers this evening, but I want you to have a chance to meet every single person here tonight. So, here's how this is going to work. If you've ever seen speed dating, you'll understand the process. You'll spend three minutes talking to the person opposite you. When I ring the bell, the men will get up and move one chair to the right and the guy at the end of the table will move to the front. Everybody clear?"
They all nodded.
"Okay," said Neely. "Begin."
"You get the feeling she's done this kind of thing before?" asked Jillian.
Rica nodded. "I get the feeling she's working on a book titled Throwing Sex Parties on a Budget. She could be the new horny version of Martha Stewart."
"When choosing accessories for your tryst," said Jillian, nose in the air while speaking with an affected accent, "make sure your handcuffs are lined with a natural fabric, as synthetics may leave an unsightly rash."
When the first three minutes were up, Neely rang a bell she'd brought and the men did their rotation thing.
I leaned over toward Neely. "It occurs to me that there's a bit of a flaw in this system," I said.
"What's that?" asked Neely.
"When the music stops tonight, we're gonna be the only ones without chairs." I said.
"You're assuming the other girls won't want to share," said Jillian.
"You're getting awfully adventurous since your little cavegirl foreplay episode with The Snack," said Rica.
Jillian just smiled and batted her eyes.
An hour later, every woman had gotten a close look at all the choices on the buffet.
"Okay," said Neely. "Now that you've all had a chance to meet, let's sit down and enjoy our dinner."
And the next thirty seconds told me that Neely was a genius. She didn't tell them where to sit, nor were there place cards on the tables. The group stood up and each woman worked her way through the crowd, seeking the man who had piqued her interest for three minutes or during happy hour. They all paired off quickly and moved to the three round tables that had been set up. No one was left standing, as this wasn't exactly like choosing up sides for sandlot baseball. Just like that we had our anchor teams. Gotta have that chemistry.
"That went smoothly," said Jillian.
The group had just polished off a decadent chocolate dessert and was settling down to coffee. Neely stood up and brought out a large brandy snifter that held a bunch of hotel room keys.
"I hope you've enjoyed our little get acquainted dinner," she said. "But the evening is not over yet. If all the women will step up here, we have a little gift, which I'm sure you'll agree beats the hell out of welcome wagon coupons."
The women lined up and Neely handed out a hotel room key to each one. Each woman moved back toward the tables, chose a man, and headed out of the hotel ballroom to the elevators.
Neely slapped her hands back and forth like she was a baker brushing flour from them. "There. All done. Tomorrow we'll find out which teams have natural chemistry."
"We don't even get a consolation prize?" asked Jillian. "I at least thought th
e woman who grabbed Denton might want a little help."
"Yeah," said Rica. "Like you'd share."
"Sorry," said Neely. "One must make sacrifices for the greater good."
“I got your sacrifices right here,” said Rica.
CHAPTER FIVE
I'm a little nervous this morning, because today is our network's Upfront, and the chilly theater is filled with newspaper and magazine columnists sharpening their pens and filling them with bile instead of ink.
The Upfront is the big hoo-ha that showcases what's coming on the network in the fall. They're called "Upfronts" because they allow advertisers to buy time "up front" before new shows go on the air. Advertising buyers get a sneak peek at what's in store for September and if they like what they see, they'll buy. If the print media creates some buzz for a show or two, they'll really buy.
In addition, General Managers and sales executives from affiliates show up from all over the country so they can shovel in the free shrimp and get a picture with a hot babe who said one line in a sitcom the previous year but looks fantastic in a string bikini. Reporters and columnists see Upfronts as a venue to vent at the industry that doesn't produce "quality" programming up to their impeccable standards and won't hire them. (And yes, that's the reason "critics" love to slam everything; because they aren't part of it all. In the media, those who can, do. Those who can't, criticize.)
Each network has an Upfront every summer. They rent a big venue, like Radio City, and bring in assorted stars; one or two from the most successful shows, and a whole bunch who are starring in new series they hope will succeed. "Names" always get preference over "unknowns", unless the unknowns have some sort of "IT" factor. (Hence the term, "IT Girl.") Occasionally someone from the news division pops in to tell how they strive for objective political coverage, and that usually gets the biggest laugh of the day from the audience.
Last year at the CBN upfront, Amanda's predecessor had the insanely stupid idea to bring the network stars out in character, which might have played well in Podunk, but not in Manhattan. Considering the themes of the shows, they looked like the front row at a Willie Nelson concert. Twenty-four legs, and about as many teeth. Then the previous head of the entertainment division went on about "an exciting new dating reality show set in Arkansas in which a man dates five women only to discover three are close relatives." The show, titled "Kissin' Cousins", thankfully died a grisly death after four episodes when it was discovered the man had previously fathered a son with seven toes on each foot, which, he proudly pointed out, enabled his kid to count to twenty-four by the first grade.
And now you know why the woman got canned and was replaced by Amanda.
Thankfully, the old CBN will be dead and buried in two months. Actually, Amanda has pretty much blown out the schedule and is running movies most of the time, all of which have a decidedly female appeal. But we're not talkin' romance-novel-damsel-in-distress appeal; all the movies feature strong female characters who can kick ass like Sigourney Weaver fighting acid-bleeding aliens. Meanwhile, Amanda has certainly given prime time a new look with some of the shows scheduled for the fall. And if these don't get our message across…
"Legal Briefs" features a former model who put herself through law school by posing for underwear catalogs. She graduates at thirty-five, hangs out a shingle, and starts her own firm. But she's short of clients and misses her old career. So she does an occasional photo shoot, one of which features her in horn-rimmed glasses and a thong sprawled out across a jury box promoting a line of unmentionables known as "no objections." The practice takes off and triples her workload, forcing her to hire hot young male attorneys right out of law school. Then, as Amanda put it (with one raised eyebrow), "Each episode ends with a new recruit practicing a closing argument on his job interview." (And, each media person attending found a thong with the "no objections" logo in the goodie bag. Talk about promotions on a shoestring.)
"Boy Friday" is a twist on the old 1950s term used to describe a woman who did just about everything around the office, while the men in the office did her. In this case the "boy" is played by David Harrington, who, as every woman in America knows, is the 22-year-old hardbody in those jeans ads that never show the jeans. He works for an advertising firm run by four attractive women in their thirties, and is frequently required to be a "stand-in" for "mock-up ads" that usually require him to take off his shirt, among other things. Of course, the women never tell him he's modeling for clients that don't exist. He's such a ditz! He also goes for coffee, just so the viewer knows who's boss.
"Injections" features a bunch of young, attractive male nurses who operate the immunization clinic at a hospital, which is, of course, also staffed by libidinous thirty-something female doctors who are committed to the principle that no hospital bed remain empty. Amanda is trying to create a national catchphrase with this one.
And finally, there's "Hung Jury" which is a legal dramedy. In this one, a sultry, oversexed thirty-something babe (are there any other kind on this network?) operates the hotel next to the courthouse which is used to sequester jurors. But little do the judges know that she's on the payroll of a sleazy defense attorney. The items on her "room service" menu are delivered and voila! Young, hunky male jurors amazingly have a change of heart and discover that the defendant is always innocent. Case dismissed!
That's all well and good, but I'm a bit twitchy because Amanda and Madison are going to introduce our new anchor teams after they're done rolling out the entertainment clips. While we're absolutely thrilled with the hires we've made, I'm still wondering how the media, and particularly the print media, is going to deal with it. Then again, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity.
It must be true. I mean, who would have guessed Scott's little trip to the tabloid would have paid such dividends and ultimately launched a cable network?
Jillian evidently noticed my anxiety and patted my hand as we sat in the front row of the theater. "Syd, relax. This is our day." However, I did not release the white-knuckle death grip I had on the red velour arms of the chair.
Neely was on my other side and chimed in. "Really, Syd. You should be excited, not nervous."
"Yeah, if the press doesn't like what we've done, screw 'em," added Rica.
Amanda wrapped up her presentation to great applause. I turned around to survey the crowd, and noted most of the noise was coming from the women in the audience. They obviously liked what they'd seen from the entertainment division as the clips were highly entertaining. I exhaled a bit of tension, and turned back to see Madison walk to the microphone.
"Good morning," she said, placing a script on the podium. "Today we're going to change the face of broadcasting. Literally. Did all you fine journalists write that sound bite down?"
The crowd snickered as Madison smiled. She could work a room like few television executives I've ever seen. "Today we're going to introduce the people who will revolutionize the way people in America get their information. The Consolidated Group Report, or CGR, as it will be known on the air, will not only keep you up to date with what's happening in the world, but will seek to make your lives a little better. And, I'm serious, I want you to write this part down, because this is actual news… we're going to do it without a political agenda. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn who is in the White House."
That one got a cheer, even from the men.
"CGR will not look like any network you've ever seen. Because our main agenda is women. But even if you've got a Y-chromosome, you'll still want to watch," she paused for a laugh, "because we're also going to tell you how to treat the woman in your life… and that might just make your life a lot better. And we're going to teach you some things you didn't know about women. So if you are a woman, or if you like women, we invite you to tune in and get everything you need without the bias, without the shouting, and without the death and destruction. Women of America, the rules have changed. We're in charge."
That got a big cheer from the gals in the a
udience.
"Now please welcome the women and men of CGR!"
She waved her hand to the side with a flourish as the twenty-four anchors marched onto the stage. Twelve gorgeous women in somewhat revealing outfits (all primary colors), each paired with a trophy buck in matching dark pinstriped suits and red paisley ties. (Yeah, I borrowed the idea from the game show with the models and the briefcases. So sue me.) I turned and stole a glance at the crowd, about four hundred people scattered around the Broadway theater we'd rented.
The men looked puzzled.
The women looked like they'd just bounded down the stairs on Christmas morning and found a hardbody in a Speedo and a Santa hat under the tree asking who'd been naughty and who'd been nice, and if your name happened to be on the naughty list you could stay.
The anchors went down the line introducing themselves to the crowd.
The lights dimmed, and a five minute promotional piece filled a giant screen behind the anchors. The video featured every member of the staff, and left no doubt as to which sex was calling the shots.
When it was done, the lights came back up and Madison took control. "I know you probably have some questions and we have time for just a few before lunch."
A bald, overweight, fiftyish man in the second row, who looked like he'd slept in his short-sleeved shirt, raised his hand and Madison called on him. "I'm not sure how to put this question without offending anyone…"
"Watch it, Brad," said a middle-aged female reporter sitting nearby. The crowd chuckled.
"But," he continued, "there seems to be a, how shall I say this… common denominator with your anchor teams."
"Really?" said Madison, wide-eyed and playing dumb for the women in the crowd, who were eating it up. "I hadn't noticed. What common denominator were you referring to?" She scratched her chin and searched the heavens with her eyes as the crowd snickered. "Oh, wait a minute, I think I see what you're getting at. All of our men are wearing the same outfit!"
Big laugh. Now she had them.