Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,31

we emerged into a kitchen with a floating central countertop that was more continent than island. Beyond it was a table of UN Security Council dimensions, a clutter of wooden chairs, and perhaps two dozen people, none of whom I recognized. Judging by the mix in ages, they were family, not friends. All were focused exclusively on a tiny woman in a white and gold jumpsuit, pacing the floor under a wall-mounted television while brandishing a highly complicated-looking remote. “Wait, wait,” she was saying. “You gotta fuckin’ see this shit. This shit is fuckin’ unreal. How do I unpause this motherfucker? Oh, here.” She jabbed at the device and the image on the screen became unstuck.

“OH! MY! GOD!” she exclaimed, hand over mouth.

The real Bibi was now looking at the celebrity Bibi on the screen. I recognized the footage instantly: It was from the press conference at The Roundhouse—the last few seconds, when all three judges were on stage together, locking arms. This wasn’t the raw video feed, though. It was a clip, repackaged for an episode of The Dish, the sarcastic nightly entertainment show hosted by Jordan Wade, one of Wayne Shoreline’s less successful friends. From what I could gather, Jordan was making a joke of the improbably large fish tooth that dangled from Joey Lovecraft’s blown-out mane. “Dude, where d’you get that?” Jordan was asking the camera, holding up a rubber shark. “How did it get up there? Were you, like, cutting your hair with a hammerhead—and it just fell out?”

Bibi screeched with pleasure.

“D’oh!” mimicked Jordan. “Happens to me all the time! Damn those hammerheads and their shitty-assed dentistry! Still, give the fish some credit: It didn’t eat your head, right?”

“Goddamn, he’s a fuckin’ funny motherfucker!” wailed Bibi, catching my eye for a moment, but ignoring me nevertheless. It was though she were on stage, midperformance.

“Did Teddy write that?” someone yelled, struggling to be heard over the television.

“Of course!” snorted Bibi. “Well, not Teddy personally. It was that scriptwriter guy he hired. Y’know, the one who won that Oscar for that… war thing.”

“Teddy can get Jordan fuckin’ Wade to talk shit about Joey on his show?” asked someone else.

Bibi tapped her nose theatrically, as though this were some big trade secret.

Delighted laughter.

Not quite knowing what to do, I sat down. The guy next to me—European accent, expensively dressed, and seemingly desperate for Bibi to notice him laughing and slapping the table after everything she said—nodded an acknowledgment of my presence, then passed me a bowl of celery sticks. Unfortunately for my hangover, this appeared to be the extent of the lunch. I began to wonder why Bibi had brought me here for… this. It didn’t make any sense.

And it wasn’t about to get any clearer.

After The Dish, Bibi went through her DVR playlist, selecting all the other shows that had featured the Project Icon press conference. Seven in total. Then it was time for a screening of the unedited footage of the event, which I noticed featured my left foot (complete with hiking shoe) protruding briefly from one of the wings.

“Wayne Shoreline is such a douche nozzle,” Bibi kept saying during the introductions.

The room jeered in agreement.

Due to the frequent pausing, all of this went on for perhaps two or three hours.

“She curses more in real life, don’t she?” said a voice to my left, near the end. I turned to see an Afro-Caribbean woman, perhaps late sixties, wearing bejeweled jeans and a purple leather blazer. Was this… Bibi’s mom? I didn’t have the nerve to ask.

“Hmm,” I nodded, diplomatically.

“Such a perfect face. And such a dirty, dirty mouth. You know what we call her?”

I shrugged.

“Ghetto Barbie. It’s worse when Edouard and the kids aren’t here.”

I smiled, not sure if it was safe to agree.

“It’s hard for her though, poor baby,” the woman continued, as if for her own benefit. “Everyone wantin’ her for her money. Y’know, in my own way, I know how she feels… when I came here from the islands, I worked as a baby nurse for a rich white lady in Manhattan. And oh—the men who chased me! Everyone wanted themselves a baby nurse for a girlfriend. Cash income. Woman away all the time, working nights, so they could play around. Ha! I learned the hard way how it worked. That’s why I wanted my Bibi to get herself an education, find a man with a college degree, so he could take care of her. But it didn’t work out like that, I guess.”