Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,23

laid-back personality. The fact that he let me do my own thing.

Now Len’s phone was ringing again in long, ragged tones.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Hang on a minute… it was actually ringing. As in: Ringing here in the room, somewhere behind—

I turned, and there was Len, walking toward me, his face so paralyzed by preshow Botox injections, he might as well have spent the night in a cryogenic chamber. Behind him: Bibi, Joey, JD, and Wayne—four across, like a slo-mo credits sequence. Teddy and Mitch lingered behind, each trying not to acknowledge the other’s presence, but failing conspicuously. I felt light-headed with relief.

Oh, thank you, God. Thank you.

Joey had out-crazied himself this time: He was barefoot, with a feathered scarf around his neck and what appeared to be a shark’s tooth lodged in his hair. Still, he had nothing on Bibi. For this important occasion, Teddy had selected for her a golden chain mail dress, crotch-high plastic boots, and detachable cape. She looked like a visiting extraterrestrial queen from the forty-second century. As for JD and Wayne, they’d both chosen dark gray business suits, in two very different sizes.

“You ready now?” asked Len, pointing in my direction.

I was aware of some kind of movement in my jaw, but no sound was coming out.

Sensing my confusion, Len said, “Oh, these guys all had a little breakfast together at Wayne’s place—a camaraderie-building exercise. Then we decided to do some prerecorded press stuff outside before we got going. New start time is 11:30 a.m. Doesn’t give you long for the run-through, so chop-bloody-chop, Bill. Take them up to conference room five. I’ll meet you back here when you’re done.”

Classic Len: I was too unimportant to be told about the change of plan, so he’d let me flap around up here, questioning my own sanity, until I figured it out for myself. What an ass—

“C’mon, Bill, cock-a-doodle-doo!” yelled Len, clapping his hands. “We’re on in ten.”

Unbelievable.

“Okay, everyone,” I announced as loudly as I could, to disguise the fear in my voice. “I’m going to give you the run-through, so follow me, please. Conference room five.”

I led the way confidently, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other. No one followed me. So I returned to the lounge area, repeated my instructions, and tried again. Still no luck. Then I noticed the reason for the distraction: Mitch had cornered Len before he could leave the room and was chewing him out about something. “You’d better not fuck us today,” I heard him threaten. “I mean it. Joey still hasn’t forgotten about that dressing room bullshit you tried to pull on us.”

“No one’s fucking anyone, okay?” Len hissed, impatiently. “As we explained to you before, Mitch, the dressing room situation was all in Teddy’s imagination.”

Mitch didn’t look convinced—and for a moment, I found myself sharing Len’s frustration. Why did these celebrity managers have to be so… angry all the time? Couldn’t they put their trust in human nature for one second? I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to view the world through such a dark vortex of cynicism.

Like I said before: I still had a lot to learn.

As Len finally broke away (where the hell was he going, anyhow?) I tried yet again to marshal the panel. This time, they fell in line behind me. Conference room five turned out to be on the floor above, with a U-shaped table in the middle, some cheap plastic chairs, and an overhead projector that probably hadn’t been switched on since the Clinton administration. The place smelled vaguely of beer and ashtrays. Or maybe it was urine and ashtrays, it was hard to tell. Whatever the case: Joey couldn’t have looked more at home if he’d just been returned to his mother’s womb. Bibi, on the other hand, seemed disgusted. Fortunately, one of Teddy’s assistants had brought some plastic wrap for her to sit on.

“So, uh, hi everyone,” I began, excruciatingly. “How was breakfast?”

“We all held hands and sang Kumbaya,” replied Wayne, nastily. “Now can you give us the run-through—or is there something else you’d like to know? We had eggs, if that helps.”

Suddenly, heat in my face. “Okay, yes, right,” I said, between shallow breaths.

“She’s sorry,” Wayne snorted. “My God, where do they get ’em? Producer school?”

Titters.

Joey wasn’t laughing, though. He lifted his bare feet onto the table and said, “Take your time, Bungalow Bill. Ain’t no hurry. Don’t listen to HAL fuckin’ 9000 over there.”

That’s the big joke about Wayne Shoreline, of course: That he’s not actually human. It’s