according to the calendar e-mailed to all members of staff, would be Creamywhip Megacheese Stadium in Houston. Now, this was of course the very first stage of the competition, to air in late January. And although no one expected it to get the ratings of the live shows at Greenlit Studios later in the season—they’re always more exciting because of the much narrower field of contestants, the telephone voting, plus the number of things that can go wrong while on air—it would be crucial in terms of establishing the relationships between the new judges.
“It’s all about camaraderie,” as Len kept telling me, as if I were one of those zoo keepers you see on the news, whose job is to make two depressed, morbidly obese pandas from China have sex with each other. “If those guys don’t loosen up on camera, we’re gonna end up with no ad-libs. And it’s ad-libs that make great TV, Billy the Kiddo.” (Yes, Len had now started to call me “Billy the Kiddo.”) I restrained myself from pointing out to him that his previous effort to get Bibi and Joey to comingle—the “judges’ lounge” at The Roundhouse—had done nothing but provide the crew with a better quality of sandwich to steal.
My first task toward achieving this let’s-all-pretend-to-be-friends goal: reserving the entire first-class cabin of an early morning American Airlines flight from LAX to Houston, due to leave the following Monday. I had even been loaned a cubicle at Zero Management on Sunset Boulevard—complete with workstation, headset, and telephone—to get it done. My plan was to put Joey and Bibi in seats 1A and 1F (the windows on either side), with their highest-tier assistants next to them, and Len, Ed Rossitto, Maria Herman-Bloch (along with a few other Rabbit executives) filling the row behind. Special nonalcoholic champagne would be arranged—I didn’t want Joey failing his pee test—as would a pair of former Icon runners-up to act as singing flight attendants. Cheesy, sure. But the panda-wrangler inside of me figured it might help to improve the mood. Meanwhile, I would be in the rear, behind the Curtain of Shame, my back against the bathroom wall. At least my champagne would be of the alcoholic variety.
None of this seemed particularly difficult. An easy way to start the season.
But, no. Nothing is ever easy on Project Icon.
When I called Bibi to confirm the arrangements—I had stupidly assumed that she might actually pick up the phone—I was put through to Teddy, who screamed with such force down the line, the receiver was practically vaporized in my hands. “BIBI VASQUEZ HASN’T FLOWN COMMERCIAL IN FIFTEEN YEARS, YOU DUMB FUCKING INTERN!” he began (impressively, his rage needed no time whatsoever to gain momentum). “WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT HER TO DO, SHITHEAD? MOVE BACK TO THE GHETTO? GIVE BLOW JOBS TO GUYS ON TENTH AVENUE?”
After the sound of plastic being forced to confront the most extreme laws of physics (did he actually keep a hammer by his desk?), the line hissed and went dead. “If you’d like to make a call,” said a disembodied female voice, “please hang up and try again. If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again…”
I stared at the phone.
Intern? Teddy really was a piece of work.
Bibi, I was informed via follow-up e-mail, would be taking her own jet to Houston. All by herself.
Cue a Joey problem.
“Look, Bill—Joey wants to go private, too,” huffed Mitch, barely five minutes later.
“Okay, Mitch,” I sighed. “Joey can take his jet. He can ride a camel to Houston for all I care. But we’re only paying expenses that are equal to the price of the first-class ticket.” This had been an order from Len, even though he’d already worked out a deal with Bibi to pay for her jet fuel, crew, and take-off/landing fees. Clearly this was unfair to Joey, but among the world’s many injustices, it ranked fairly low on my list of Things To Get Upset About.
“Joey doesn’t own a jet,” coughed Mitch.
“Well that settles it, then,” I laughed (a little condescendingly). “He’ll have to go first class.”
Now it was Mitch’s turn to detonate. “No, Bill: You’ll GET him a jet. Rent one. Borrow one. Steal one. Whatever it is you’ve gotta do, he gets the same as Bibi.”
Second hang-up of the day.
And that was the end of the negotiations. Bibi went on her own plane; Joey went on a chartered one. If they’d looked out of their windows at thirty-seven thousand feet, they