It Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "And … ?"

  "It got real interesting as the day went on. Gavin came back from Fincastle's office looking like he'd had a prostate exam with an umbrella."

  "I would've liked to have seen that. His walk, not the exam."

  "The expression on his face was better. Anyway, by that time the phone had started ringing off the hook. All the calls fried the switchboard and the network's website crashed. When the smoke cleared it was apparent that the overwhelming majority of viewers loved what you did. Right before lunch Fincastle comes down to Gavin's office, and he's very calm. They have this long conversation about how you may have stumbled onto some little bit of broadcasting gold. Anyway, they're waiting for the overnight ratings to see if we got a bump in the second hour. And they've got the April Fool's Day excuse if they decide to rein you in."

  "Bottom line?"

  He shrugged. "Hard to tell. You may have changed morning show strategy forever. They may want you to keep doing what you did yesterday."

  So much for my brilliant strategy. People actually like sarcasm in the morning. Who knew?

  "What time do the overnight ratings come in?"

  "Usually a half hour before we hit the air."

  "So I'm not gonna know if I'm supposed to be perky girl or snarky girl till then? Or unemployed girl?"

  "Basically. They're not ready to decide if they love you or hate you. Only the overnight ratings know for sure."

  I shook my head and leaned back. "Talk about guys who don't have a backbone."

  "I was actually thinking of other male body parts that usually come in pairs."

  I couldn't help but laugh despite my fatigue. "So what do I do?"

  ***

  I now know what a defendant feels like waiting for a verdict. The great ratings jury is still out.

  For three and a half hours I've been sitting on the fence, as Gavin has been holed up in his office the whole time with the blinds drawn. The coward has been communicating with the staff on the phone and via text messages.

  I'm not one of those people.

  With the exception of Scott and my writer, the staff has been avoiding me as if I were a leper. The hairstylist barely acknowledged I was in the chair and practically yanked the hairs out of my head with her brush. The makeup artist did everything she could to avoid eye contact while she worked at warp speed in order to be done with me as quickly as possible. They don't want to take the chance of guilt by association, which is the typical rats deserting a sinking ship strategy in this business. Of course if the overnight ratings got a huge bump in the second hour, they'll all act like life-long friends tomorrow. Nice to know I'm working with a bunch of spineless wimps who need to check with management before deciding which way the wind is blowing.

  Anyway, with the jury still deliberating, I have three possible verdicts:

  Guilty, death by hanging. (I get fired! Yay!)

  Not guilty by reason of insanity (now known as the April Fool's Day defense), two and a half years probation, no sleep or social life.

  Not guilty, free to be as snarky as possible for the remainder of my contract. No sleep or social life, but I don't have to attempt to be perky.

  And if the final option turns out to be the one, I'm going to turn into a sarcastic diva and demand everyone who ignored me this morning get reassigned to another show.

  Scott and I were going over our scripts on the large rectangular table that sits at the head of the newsroom. He looked up at the clock every few seconds. "Will you please stop doing that?" I asked.

  "I just want this to be over."

  "It would've been over if our dickless managers could make a decision using their own brains."

  And then Gavin's door opened.

  Everyone stopped. The room went silent as he headed straight for me.

  A smile slowly grew across his face as he looked at me.

  Sonofabitch.

  ***

  It was now time for Plan B.

  Gavin sat down at the head of the table as Scott closed the door of the conference room. I grabbed a chair at the opposite end, while Scott, looking confused, took a seat in the middle. Giant photos of Bill Recker and the other great news anchors of the past covered the walls. Would I be up there with them?

  "Why are you sitting way down there?" Gavin asked.

  "I assumed you'd want to be as far away as possible from the person who turned in the worst performance in morning show history." I leaned back, folded my arms and glared at him.

  He smiled and laughed a bit. "Well, Scott will tell you I do have a tendency for knee-jerk reactions." I continued to glare and said nothing. Scott looked back and forth, like he was in the wild west watching a gunfight about to take place.

  Gavin leaned forward. "Anyway, bygones. The viewers loved what you did, as evidenced by the overwhelming support we received in emails and phone calls."

  "Bygones, my ass. You had to wait till now to tell me that?" I said. "I've been here three and a half hours wondering if I'm going to be fired."

  I wasn't letting him off the hook and he began to squirm. For once I had the upper hand over management because I now knew damn well yesterday was no doubt a ratings bonanza and all of a sudden they needed me and my sarcastic attitude on the air. Desperately.

  There were now two possible outcomes, as the game had changed and I was the one who had moved the goalposts.

  One, I act as obnoxious as possible with Gavin and hope he fires me for insubordination. Which, unfortunately, is unlikely to happen because management will put up with a difficult anchor for high ratings. (see: Favor, Katrina)

  Two, I act as obnoxious as possible with Gavin, he doesn't fire me, but I tuck his family jewels away in my pocket for the remainder of my contract while getting to act sarcastic on the air. I still don't get my life back, but I can at least be myself and have fun during my days as a zombie.

  Gavin finally breaks the silence. "I, uh—"

  "You, uh, had to wait for the overnights before making a decision. I'm not stupid, Gavin. Until five minutes ago I could have just as easily been fired if the ratings in the second hour had crashed."

  He bit his lower lip and looked down at the table. "But they didn't. They went up sixty percent in the second hour. And the last fifteen minutes set a record for this show."

  "So, bottom line, you want snarky girl this morning and for the next two years and change. Meanwhile, you won't need to use your April Fool's Day excuse to explain my actions yesterday."

  Gavin's eyes widened as if he suddenly realized he was no longer dealing with Katrina the idiot. Then he slowly nodded. "You're obviously a very perceptive person, Veronica."

  Finally I flashed a sinister grin. "You know, snarky girl has had time to think, and she's more than willing to tender her resignation—"

  Gavin put up his hands like he was being held up. "No! No! Please don't overreact, Veronica."

  Dammit.

  Finally Scott chimed in, obviously noting this was about to escalate. “Guys, everything’s gonna be fine.” He stood up and walked toward me, then extended a hand. “C’mon, let’s do a kick-ass show. You can be as sarcastic as you like.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  CRANKY MORNING ANCHOR IS NO APRIL FOOL

  By Jonas Fender

  Viewers of The Morning Show on Monday came away with a new experience: being greeted by a crack of dawn host who hates getting up as much as the rest of us. For two hours Veronica Summer went on an unsurpassed snarky rant that forever buried any inclination a critic might have had to refer to her as "perky", which has long been the industry requirement for women on the morning shift. The woman left in her wake a handful of insulted guests, shocked parents, and the PC police ready to haul her in for questioning under hot lights. Anyone expecting a cheerful "good morning" came away thinking one of two things: Ms. Summer had completely lost it on live TV and would surely be fired, or it was one of the most elaborate April Fool's jokes in network television history.

  April seco
nd proved the latter to be false.

  Or was it?

  If Veronica Summer and the network's intent was an April Fool's joke, it came away as a ratings bonanza. If it wasn't, the ratings spike no doubt saved her job. Ratings skyrocketed to record levels in the second hour of the show as the Twitterverse exploded about her performance, while a network source said viewer comments and phone calls were overwhelmingly in favor of snark in the cornflakes on a regular basis. That same source told us Executive Producer Gavin Karlson held a very heated closed door session with Summer right after the show ended, which makes this reporter wonder if the network was indeed in on the joke. If it was a joke.

  But that was before the overnight ratings arrived.

  So on April second, the spunky redhead returned in the same mood, leaving co-host Scott Winter to play straight man and mop up the sizable amount of sarcasm she spewed all over the studio.

  The ratings went even higher.

  Same deal April third. April fourth. And April fifth. The ratings continued to climb like the stock market on a bull run.

  Ms. Summer seems to be thoroughly enjoying "being herself" while holding nothing back as far as personal opinions are concerned. Though when she has a serious interview, she wears her journalist hat quite well and obviously has the gravitas to hold her own with heads of state. But when the interview subject falls under the pop culture umbrella, for which she obviously has no use, she really lets loose. Any future reality show guest might do well to wear body armor.

  It will be interesting to see if this strategy plays well long term. If it does, will it signal the end to the parade of morning anchors who give you a cavity? Will those cheerful hosts be shown the door while the competition conducts a search for people who can be both sarcastic and appealing?

  Time will tell.

  I stifled a yawn as Layla and Savannah sipped their Sunday brunch mimosas. "I'm still exhausted, but I did have a hell of a lot of fun this week."

  "Have you told Scott that you were actually trying to get fired?" asked Layla.

  "That little detail must never leave this table," I said. "It would break his heart."

  "Maybe it's working out for the best," said Savannah, always the optimist.

  I shook my head. "Getting fired would have been the best outcome, but this is better than having to fake it."

  "Regardless," said Layla, "you were hysterical. A couple of people at my gym nearly fell off the treadmill they were laughing so hard."

  "So what's up for this week?" asked Savannah. "Management staying the course?"

  "Surely you know our network executives won't tamper with a ratings hit. I'm their new best friend forever even though they were ready to have me drawn and quartered Tuesday morning."

  "Sounds like politics," said Savannah. "So are y'all gonna continue actin' like a toad in a dry well?"

  Layla and I furrowed our brows while trying to decipher this Southernism.

  "Would youse guys prefer I simply used pissed off?" she asked. "Or I can go with panties in a wad."

  "Either is fine," I said.

  "So," asked Layla, "what guests might be the recipient of your flying cutlery this week? That is, if anyone's stupid enough to sign up for a visit."

  "It's actually just the opposite." I smiled as I reached into my purse. "They're lining up for abuse. The bookers' phones are ringing off the hook with Hollywood people saying whip me, beat me, make me feel cheap. But I haven't looked at the guest list this week." I handed a single sheet of paper to her. "Here, knock yourself out."

  Layla unfolded the sheet as Savannah leaned over to take a look. Suddenly their eyes bugged out.

  "Whoa," said Layla.

  "What?" I asked.

  Savannah licked her lips. "Dexter Bishop is on your show tomorrow."

  My face tightened. "Who?"

  "Who?" They asked in surprised stereo and looked at me like I had two heads.

  "Sorry, I don't recognize the name."

  "Y'all never heard of Bish the Dish?" asked Savannah.

  I shook my head. "No. Who is he?"

  "He's that gorgeous British judge on Dance Off," said Layla. "Basically the reason most people watch that show. He's also sarcastic as hell. The two of you could have been Siamese twins, conjoined at the brain."

  "What's Dance Off?" I asked.

  "Good God," said Savannah. "It's on your own damn network and I think it's the number one show in America. It's that contest where celebrities pair up with professional dancers and once a week someone gets voted off the island, like on Survivor. And please don't ask what Survivor is."

  I rolled my eyes, reached across the table and snatched the paper from Layla. "They really expect me to interview someone from a show I've never seen?"

  "I'll do it if you don't want to," said Layla. "Damn, he's beyond hot." She reached into her purse and pulled out an iPad, did a quick search, then handed it to me. "This is who will be sitting next to you tomorrow. You lucky bastard."

  I looked at the tablet and my jaw dropped. The guy was so perfect he almost looked computer generated. Maybe thirty-five, medium length dark hair that cascaded over his forehead, deep-set olive green eyes, a jawline that had been carved out of granite and the deepest dimples I'd ever seen. "Damn."

  "Or as we say in the south," said Savannah, "day-umm."

  "So, you wanna come over and do some binge watching on Netflix?" asked Layla.

  "I'm not wasting my day off watching that reality garbage," I said.

  "Consider it research," she said.

  "You'll be the envy of every woman in America," said Savannah. "That man gives me the vapors."

  "Whuh?" I asked.

  "Sorry. He makes me hot and bothered. Mostly hot. I'd have biscuits in the oven and my buns in bed for something like that."

  "Yeah, but there's probably nothing upstairs. Anyone who works on a reality show has to be shallow," I said.

  "So dive into the pool, hit your pretty lil' head and let the man give you mouth-to-mouth," said Savannah.

  "Whatever," I said. "You guys can live vicariously through me tomorrow."

  "Great," said Layla. "I'll be eating corn flakes while you wake up with an English muffin."

  ***

  For most of the world "homework" ends the day you're done with college or, for those who frequent Wal-Mart, ninth grade. For reporters, there's an assignment every single day.

  Nothing can sink a reporter's career like being unprepared. The Internet is filled with television news gaffes featuring people who failed to do their research and ended up looking stupid by asking a dumb question. Of course I've always done my homework, and I read a lot anyway, so that's never been a problem.

  But today's homework made me feel like I'd gotten an assignment to do a term paper in Latin.

  Because I had to do some research on this Dexter Bishop guy. Of course Layla said, "I'll be happy to research him for you. Make me your assistant for the day."

  You should know that nothing irritates me more about network television than reality shows. They manage to tick me off me on several fronts. First and foremost, they have replaced scripted shows, which means a whole lot of writers and actors and technical people have lost a ton of work. Second, they usually feature people who either: might have a future as a crash test dummy; are inbred to the extent that they could be their own grandfathers; have enough body piercings to set off the metal detector at LaGuardia Airport from ten feet away; or a combination of all three. Bottom line, the networks save a ton of cash by simply having a few photographers follow a bunch of idiots around then pay an editor to make said idiots look as stupid as possible.

  And then millions of idiots watch them.

  While Dance Off is not technically a reality show as it is categorized as a "competition," it does fall into that group of shows favored by people whose lips move when they read. In this case, "celebrities" (and that's a real stretch in some cases, since the show is filled with has-beens and never-will-bes) are paired with profe
ssional dancers, train for awhile, then perform in front of a live audience. Viewers then vote via phone and the couple with the lowest score is outta here. The winning couple gets a garish trophy that is uglier than the leg lamp in A Christmas Story and choose a charity to which the network makes a decent donation.

  And, as I'm told is always the case with these competition shows, there are judges who rip these people to shreds.

  And, as is always the case, there's a sarcastic British judge.

  In this case it is the aforementioned Dexter Bishop, a/k/a "Bish the Dish."

  Just what I need for a Sunday afternoon. Research on a "celebrity" who is famous for being famous.

  A nice breeze floated through the open window as the clicks from my keyboard mixed with the sounds of traffic and the occasional cooing of pigeons on the window ledge. I typed "Dexter Bishop" into the search engine and was greeted with the first batch of more than ten million possible results. Along with the massive amount of reading material, I noted a handful of images across the top of the page.

  What the hell, may as well start with the eye candy. I mean, I am a thorough reporter. I'm a journalist, but I'm not dead.

  Click.

  What came up on the screen made me think a drool guard like the ones they have at Chinese buffets might be a good accessory for my laptop. The man not only filled out a three piece suit like a model, but some tabloid shots of him on the beach revealed a perfect body underneath the gray flannel. Not an ounce of fat was evident on this chiseled physique, his hairless torso highlighted by toned pecs and a six-pack that would be a wonderful place to rest one's head.

  I mean, if I was interested in this sort of man.

  I clicked on a clip of video and his soft British accent filled the air. And I'm a sucker for British accents.

  Stop it, Veronica. He's plastic. He's an android. (Though I'd love to hear him say, "Resistance is futile" like Captain Picard on Star Trek.)

  I shook my head in an attempt to jolt myself back to reality, reminding myself that the Ken dolls of the world are bad for one's health and that spectacular looks and complex human emotions are usually mutually exclusive. I clicked back and opened the magazine article which was the top hit on the search.