by Nic Tatano
* * *
I'm sure you've gathered by now that if I'm still up at three-thirty in the morning it's because the man sharing the bed with me needs his references checked yet again.
In this case, the only thing getting any action around me is the coffee pot.
The girls were already in the studio when I arrived, bleary-eyed and yawning but still excited, as the beehive of activity swarmed around them under studio lights already turned up full. Production assistants carried scripts, cameramen checked their shots, and the director headed back to the control room to rehearse one last time.
"Morning," said Neely, as I joined the group. She held an oversized coffee cup and was noshing on a cruller. The smells of the sugar and the vanilla-flavored brew filled my nostrils and made me hungry.
"Looks like a real TV station," I said.
"I still can't believe this is actually happening," said Jillian. "This could be one of those watershed days for women."
"It could," I said. I looked around and didn't see our first anchor team. "Where are Vance and Alana?"
Rica pointed up. "Loft," she said, with a mouthful of bagel.
Now I was wide awake. "Now? They don't have time for—"
"Good morning, Syd," said Alana, her heels clicking on the freshly waxed gray marble floor as she headed in my direction.
"Hi Syd," said Vance, waving at me and wearing a big smile as he headed for the set with a script in his hands.
"Congrats on getting this off the ground," said Alana. She extended her hand and I shook it. "I must tell you I'm honored to be one of the anchors kicking this thing off."
I was more concerned with her preparation. "You guys were in the loft? Isn't that cutting it a little close?"
"We were just up there for five minutes," said Alana. "Vance was very… well, he was in a nervous state. We just played a little doctor. He asked me to open wide and say ahhhh, and I swallowed the entire tongue depressor."
The Southern euphemisms for sex never cease to amaze me. But coming from a strawberry blonde with a cute little pug nose and devilish green eyes, it fits.
"Not an easy accomplishment in five minutes," said Neely, who oughta know. (She looks down and suddenly loses interest in the cruller.)
"Well," I said, calming down, "thanks for taking one for the team."
A puzzled look grew across Alana's face as she touched up her lips. "Sydney, my dear, it's not like it's an unpleasant experience. Boy needed a little release, that's all. He'll pay the bill for cleanin' out the pipes this afternoon."
* * *
Lest you think we're just like men when it comes to management, let me clear things up.
We never micro-manage.
I've worked in stations where a manager hovered over anchors in the newsroom, hovered over the director in the control room, hovered near the set during a live broadcast. These "helicopter managers" never fully earn the respect of their employees because employees know they're not trusted to do their jobs. And when you've got a boss hovering over you and you can hear the beating of the rotors, you're more likely to make mistakes. Stand up too quick and the blades take your head off. You can't breathe normally if you're always walking on eggshells, and that just sends your creative muse into vapor lock.
That's why at two minutes till five, I'm in my office with the girls. Madison is at home watching, and Amanda is doing the same from her hotel room. (They both have the company of bucks from the night shift, but we know they'll take a break at five. This is too important to just record and watch later.) We've hired good people who are smart, and we're trusting them to do well. We don't need to look over shoulders.
"You guys wanna hear something funny?" I said, as I flicked on the giant flat-screen monitor in my office. The screen cleared and was filled with one of the many promotional spots we'd done for the channel that had been running for the past three weeks. A countdown clock ticked away the seconds in the corner and showed we were less than two minutes from the kick-off.
"What?" asked Jillian, getting comfortable on the couch.
I picked up a sheet of paper from my desk as I dropped into my leather swivel recliner. "I was checking the overnight ratings just to see what the competition is doing these days, and we actually have been showing up."
"Excuse me?" said Neely, furrowing her brow.
"We're already getting a one share just running promos and that countdown clock," I said.
"You mean to tell me," said Rica, pointing at the screen, "that enough people have been actually watching this stuff to show up in the ratings?"
"We get a two share after midnight," I said. I grabbed my coffee and sent some hot caffeine rocketing into my veins as I flipped the paper in the direction of the couch.
Jillian caught it and shook her head in amazement as she looked at it. "Interesting. More than half the viewers are men."
"Women over thirty, the final frontier," said Neely. "We're America's last untapped resource."
"Considering your escapades of the past few months, I wouldn't refer to us as untapped," said Rica.
"Ten seconds, guys," said Jillian, pointing at the monitor.
The room went silent as the clock ticked down to zero.
The screen went black for a moment, then faded up on the CGR logo.
Bold orchestral music that was loaded with energy filled the air, then faded down a bit. "Welcome to your theater of information," said a mature but spunky female voice. "Now, live from New York, this is CGR."
The logo dissolved into a two-shot of Alana and Vance seated at the set, both wearing warm smiles and looking a lot more awake than we felt.
"Good morning everyone, I'm Alana Stephens, and welcome to CGR."
"And I'm Vance Hiller. Thank you so much for joining us on our first day."
"We're embarking on something very different," said Alana, her dazzling eyes jumping through the high-def plasma. "And we hope you'll stay with us as we bring you something that's never been attempted in broadcasting; a new way of looking at things."
"And CGR isn't just for women," said Vance. "There's plenty of good information here for guys as well, so stick around."
One hour later it was clear we had nothing to worry about. The first sixty minutes had been flawless, and left no doubt as to the agenda of the network or who was in charge.
"They look great," said Neely.
"The whole product looks great," said Jillian, just as my private line rang. "The set is spectacular."
It was Madison. "If the girls are there with you put me on speaker," she said, and I did. "I'm really proud of you guys," she said. "It looks better than I ever imagined. This is a terrific start."
"Thank you," I said, and the girls chimed in.
"I'll be there in an hour," she said.
"A little early for you," I said.
"Scott's not exactly in the mood anymore."
Well, so much for the perfect start to my day. "I'm sorry, Madison."
"Whatever. He went home just before five."
And I'm sure he'll be all smiles when he gets to work.
* * *
By six that evening I wasn't sure how I was ever going to come down off the lift the day had provided. Although I was probably going to follow Alana's lead. A few minutes after her shift ended at eight this morning she walked into my office, face flushed, leading Vance by the hand, and said, "Loft. Keys. Now." I knew the look as the natural high all anchors have coming off the set, which makes it impossible for people who work the late newscast to get to sleep before two in the morning. Anyway, an hour later she wandered back, licking her lips as she tossed me the keys. "Breakfast of champions," she said, as I put the keys back in my desk.
"I'd better put the cleaning service on standby," I said. "I think it's gonna be a busy day for the loft."
She shook her head. "Not necessary this time. Vance went off-script."
"Huh?"
"My feet never touched the floor, much less the bed. Vance won't need to go to th
e gym today after keeping my hundred and fifteen pounds in the air for half an hour. I just joined the mile-high club without getting on a plane."
There are those Southern euphemisms again. Who would ever guess that an anchor going off-script would mean he would nail his co-anchor against the door like Sonny Corleone?
Despite Vance and Alana's flying circus, the usage of the loft would necessitate a quick trip to Bed Bath and Beyond by noon, where we discovered you cannot buy five hundred thread-count sheets in bulk. Meanwhile, my phone had been buzzing with congratulatory calls, most from women I hadn't heard from in years who saw the bandwagon rolling and wanted to jump on it for a ride. Or jump on the men we'd hired. (Sorry, too late on both counts.) The sales manager dropped by to tell me that advertisers were lining up after sampling the product, while Madison had been fielding more interview requests from every local newspaper and a dozen entertainment publications. Amanda dropped by to invite us all out to the most expensive restaurant in town.
We had officially achieved "IT" status in less than twenty-four hours. (Of course, you can lose it just as quick in this business. The higher the mountain, the longer the fall.)
The anticipation of the public had been rewarded.
In fact, it looked like we'd delivered even more than promised.
* * *
I woke to the smell of brewing coffee and frying bacon. I opened my eyes and saw a whole bunch of newspapers neatly stacked on the pillow next to me.
"Ah, you're up," said Harrell, our fill-in anchor, as he entered the room carrying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He wore a pair of gray boxers and nothing else as he sat on the edge of the bed and handed me the glass.
"And you've been shopping," I said, patting the newspapers while sipping the ice cold tart citrus, swirling it around my mouth to kill the fire-breathing dragon.
"I ran down to the newsstand." I looked him up and down. "I did put on pants, if that's what you're wondering."
"Very nice of you, though I'm sure no one would have complained." I cocked my head toward the newspapers. "Did you read 'em yet?"
"Waiting for you." He smiled, then reached over, grabbed the tabloid on the top of the stack and handed it to me like a fragile heirloom. "Figured we could read the reviews together." He pointed at the headline and slapped his face in feigned amazement. "Oh look, we're on the front page!"
I sat up, stretched my eyes open, and was greeted by a one hundred forty-four point validation of what we'd done.
Cougars Roar in Cable Debut
I ripped open the paper and found the story on page three, as Harrell slid into bed next to me to read along. I moved closer, stealing his warmth and breathing in his Aramis cologne. Then he put one long arm around me and held both ends of the paper while I rested my head back against his chest. (If everyone read the morning paper this way, no one would ever get to work.)
CGR is the Cat's Meow
By Jessica Hale
Back in the 1970s, when women began to seriously infiltrate the television news business, there was a common rallying cry among the men who controlled it.
"Keep the broads out of broadcasting."
Well, CGR has taken the industry full circle. The new 24-hour cable network that promotes itself as a "theater of information" has a decidedly female slant, and one that belongs to women of a certain age.
These "broads" are experienced, authoritative, credible, and oh yeah… extremely attractive women over thirty. Each paired with a younger (in some cases, much younger) hunk who is easy on the eyes. The gals do the heavy lifting on CGR, taking care of any stories that might remotely resemble hard news; the fluff, lifestyle, and gossipy pieces go to the men. The traditional gender roles are totally reversed, while political correctness doesn't exist. Double entendres between the anchors are commonplace, making you wonder if there's more than just a working relationship among the anchor teams.
And it makes for addictive viewing. Especially if you're a woman.
"Sounds like we've got at least one loyal viewer," I said.
"So," said Harrell, "I'm easy on the eyes?"
I looked up at him. "Ridiculously easy on the eyes," I said. I turned, picked up the next paper and handed it to him, then settled back in my trophy buck recliner with my glass of juice. "And other body parts as well."
We pored through the papers like kids opening toys on Christmas morning. The reviews were all basically positive, though a few deducted points for our blatant sexism. The word cougar crept into just about every piece that was written. Only one snooty newspaper took dead aim, focusing on the CGR acronym with the phrase, "Was SLT already taken?"
"I think," said Harrell, "that you may be the first female television news executive ever accused of being blatantly sexist."
"Hey," I said, turning to face him. "I love a good compliment."
He started to nuzzle my neck, but the phone rang. (Phonus interruptus.) The Caller ID told me I needed to answer. Harrell grabbed the cordless and handed it to me. I took the phone while he wrapped his arms around my waist. "Hello?"
"Syd, it's Madison."
"Hi, Madison. Did you read all the reviews?"
"Yes, and they're great. But I need you to come in as soon as possible."
The serious tone in her voice told me this wasn't good. "Problem?"
"Not over the phone, Syd. Just get here as soon as possible." She hung up.
I leaned back and gave Harrell a kiss. "Gotta go."
"What happened?"
"Don't know. But there's some fire that needs to be to put out and I've got the extinguisher."
Paradise sure has a short shelf life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Madison and Amanda were already in the conference room with a female suit I didn't recognize. The woman was holding some papers that had a light blue cover.
Which either means you just bought a house or you're being sued.
"Syd, great job yesterday," said Amanda. "I can't be more pleased with the product or the response. Some terrific reviews in the papers."
"Thanks. What's up?"
"We're being sued for discrimination," said Madison.
I knew it! The Monopoly Guy had been waiting for the right moment.
"What a surprise," I said.
"Oh, Syd, this is Stacy Heller, one of our corporate attorneys," said Madison, who didn't look as concerned as she sounded on the phone.
"Pleasure to meet you," said the lawyer, extending her hand across the table. She was a fortyish, pert brunette in a light gray suit and a lacy beige silk blouse buttoned all the way to her neck. Her hazel eyes shone bright with sincerity through her bone frame glasses. "Loved the premiere yesterday. It was a great success."
"Thanks, you're very kind," I said. "Will we be in business long enough to enjoy it?"
"Don't worry," said Amanda.
"You said that when I mentioned this the first time," I said. "Now it's real."
"What do you know about the plaintiff?" asked the attorney, who scanned the legal document. "Todd Jones."
"Not much, really. He apparently applied for one of the anchor jobs. Forty-five-year-old guy who looks like he should be handing out get out of jail free cards."
"Did you ever see his tape or look at his application?" she asked.
I shook my head. "He's way too old so we never saw his tape. We sorted out the applications and didn't consider any men over thirty. Of course, we didn't consider any women under thirty. So don't be surprised if some twenty-two-year-old bimbo jumps on us as well and starts some class action."
"Madison tells me you talked to him on the phone. Do you think you were being recorded?"
"I do now."
"Can you recall the conversation for me?"
I recapped the call for her, short as it was. "We're screwed, aren't we?" I asked.
"Not necessarily," said the attorney. "You broke down a lot of barriers. You hired a lot of women no one else would touch because of their age."
"And a lot
of men with zero experience," I added. "Plus, there are a few… tiny little details concerning our hiring practices and, uh, other duties our employees have."
The lawyer looked at Amanda. "Something else I should know?"
"Go ahead. Tell her," said Amanda.
Now I know how Neely feels when she goes to confession. "Okay. Well, in no particular order, all the men had to be extremely good looking and agree to have sex with us so we could, uh, check their references before hiring them. The ones we signed sleep with their co-anchors on a regular basis. And we have a secret loft on the top floor that sees more hook-ups during the day than a cable installer."
The lawyer pulled off her glasses and her eyes grew wide. "You're serious?"
"You can't make up stuff this good," I said.
She turned to Amanda and Madison. "You knew about this?"
"Not only do we know about it," said Madison, trying to hold back a grin, "we're part of it."
"The fringe benefits around here are incredible," said Amanda. "And I'm only here a few days each month."
The attorney's mouth hung open. "So that story I read about Scott Harry a while back was all true?"
More nods.
"And you have a room upstairs that you use during business hours?" she asked.
"The sheets are on fire," I said.
"Damn, I'm in the wrong business," said the attorney, shaking her head. "I thought making out in the law library when I was a clerk was pushing the envelope."
"So how is that going to play in a court of law?" I asked.
"I wouldn't be lying to say that kind of testimony puts us in uncharted territory."
"You've gotta settle with this guy," I said. "Discrimination is one thing, but this other stuff can't come out in open court."
"It won't come out as long as he sticks to the age issue. He doesn't work here, so he doesn't know about your… benefits package. But let me worry about the legal implications," said the attorney, who looked remarkably calm despite our outlandish revelations. "We do have several good cards to play."