CHAPTER 30—PLEASE STAND BY

Bursts of ABS-branded balloons festooned the small lobby. Signs with arrows pointing down the stairs led ABS volunteers to a green room and the on-air membership campaign HQ. Two elderly greeters wearing name tags looked concerned as Suzanne, Wilma and the Fellow rushed past.

“Excuse me. Hello?” said a greeter.

Suzanne flashed her ABS ID at them and continued down the stairs. The ID was a new measure introduced by John Brady. Over her ID photo she had taped a picture of a computer.

“It’s okay, ladies, I’m an ABS freelancer. Really. These people are phone volunteers. Call Frank in the studio if you need to.” Her voice echoed down the stairs. “Thank you for your time and dedication to ABS. We couldn’t continue without you.”

The basement buzzed with the reedy excitement of an opening night. An assortment of volunteers, most of them regulars, shuffled and scurried down the corridor. These people had a fanatical devotion to ABS: elderly women, awkward and solitary middle-aged males, the mentally challenged, the physically challenged, the emotionally challenged and the challenged in general. Suzanne wheeled around a corner and into an excruciatingly fluorescent-lit lunchroom. A cluster of volunteers eating cookies and playing cards sat around a table. In a corner, ABS programming droned on a television monitor, a grainy, colour-faded ­documentary about marmots. She recognized several volunteers from campaigns gone by, when she’d drop in occasionally to gorge on the excellent craft services provided by one of Edmonton’s top caterers.

“Hi there,” she said. Looking around, she noticed there was no food, no spread. “Where’s the food?”

Mildred, a large woman in her sixties who liked to complain about the arthritis in her hands, pointed to a couple of grease-stained fast food buckets on a counter.

“Fried chicken? That’s it?” said Suzanne.

“And fries,” Mildred drawled, shifting the cards in her hand.

Wilma and the Fellow had followed Suzanne into the lunchroom. A couple of the volunteers glanced at them haughtily. The Fellow leaned in the doorframe. Under the glare of the fluorescent lighting, his appearance was macabre. He smelled of urine and decay. Suzanne pulled up two chairs for the Fellow and Wilma to sit down.

“Say hello to our newest ABS volunteers, Wilma and . . . Fred. They’ll be manning the phones at the eight o’clock break.”

Among this collection of fringe players, there was still a pecking order. Mildred rolled her eyes and tossed down a card. Harriet, a well-groomed woman whose trademark was yellow shawls, folded her arms.

“He’s not appearing on camera looking like that, is he?”

“Like what?” asked Suzanne. “A Newfie? An eastern bum and creep?”

Harriet took visible offence. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Fred here is a writer. He’s been working very hard on a novel. I’m sure, as a woman who appreciates the artistic process, you understand how details like hygiene might escape his mind at times.”

The Fellow drooped over the chair. He pulled a mickey from his jacket pocket and took a swig.

Wilma shrugged and looked around at the volunteers. “I don’t know him,” she said.

Suzanne reeled. Her brain and mouth burned. The only thing propelling her was mania. She opened the fridge and grabbed some juice. She guzzled a bottle of juice, then handed some to Wilma and the Fellow. “Help yourself to whatever’s in those buckets. I have to go to the studio. How did the last break go, Dave?”

Dave, a man with cerebral palsy, confined to a wheelchair, showed a faithfulness to ABS that was truly touching. He had a mischievous sense of humour and could always be relied on to chitchat about the other volunteers. She knelt down beside him to hear his response.

“Nnnooottt sssssooooo ggoooodddd,” he said.

“Dave, can you keep an eye on my friends for me? Show them the ropes? They’re newfies—I mean newbies. ABS ­keeners.”

Wilma picked at the remainders in one bucket. The Fellow had the other bucket cradled in his arms. He tore into the chicken, skin and bones hanging from his open mouth. Harriet ­shuddered.

Suzanne whispered to Wilma. “I’ll be back. Take care of Mr. Fellow.”

“I’d better be on TV because this sucks. I don’t feel too well. Do I get makeup?”

Suzanne hurried out of the lunchroom and into the studio. Two cameramen were off to the side reading the Edmonton Sun. The set—a podium and a riser where ten phone volunteers answered calls—blazed under the lighting grid. The next pledge break was ten minutes away but phone volunteers scrambled to keep up with ringing phones.

To the right of the set, Jason, wearing a boxy suit and shiny tie, gesticulated madly at Frank. Frank nodded and tapped the clipboard he held. Suzanne stood back in the dark for a moment and listened.

“You have to change this now, Frank! These people want my blood! I had no idea anyone even watched this station.”

“They watch to complain.”

“I’m trusting that what I say is correct!”

Pain shot through her head, from the back of her skull to the top of her scalp, and then stabbed behind her eyes. Her vision blurred. She scrunched her eyes and took deep breaths. She couldn’t watch Jason harangue Frank any more. Her heart skipped and thumped. If there was any reason for her malignant self-affliction, her pathological drunkenness, it fumed and wrung its hands close by. That Neanderthal in the off-the-rack suit and Brady, his dark overlord of a boss, defiled the purity of the ABS body. Their stupid, nearsighted views, their grasping, greedy hands molested that body. She swallowed and ambled over to the men, stuffing her trembling hands in her pockets to hide them.

“Hello.”

Jason gawked at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I wrote tonight’s script. How’s it going?”

Frank smiled at her, then frowned. He glanced at his watch and walked away. “Five minutes, guys.”

“Yeah, tonight’s script,” said Jason curtly, “about the content. It’s upsetting people. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You wrote this.”

“In an effort to communicate. Ad lib, if that makes you more comfortable.”

He waved a script at her. “This is tomorrow night’s show. I’ll just read this. There’s no swear words in this one. Why would you write ‘Eat the rich and fuck the poor’ ­anyway?”

She glanced at the name on the script he waved. Pauline.

He bared his teeth. Sweat beaded through his makeup. “I won’t read anything else that’s offensive or false.”

“Suit yourself. Can I take a look at the other script, please?”

Jason shoved the paper at her. Suzanne skimmed the first page. All reasoned, provincial government–approved argument straight from the ABS policy mandate, flat and courteous appeals for donations. Suzanne gaped. Pauline had double-crossed her. Pauline, the woman she’d had lunch with, the woman she’d looked to for reassurance, if not lesbian inklings, had lost her nerve. Unless Gordon had submitted careless, non-factual copy, she would be hung out to dry.

The cameramen put down their newspapers and waddled back to their machines.

“Two minutes!” shouted the floor manager.

Fresh phone volunteers began to file in to replace the ones that had handled the last flurry of calls. Suzanne crowed when she saw a confused Wilma and Mr. Fellow straggle in. Someone had plastered bright colours on Wilma’s cheeks, eyes and lips. Mr. Fellow had his hair combed back and his face was matte with powder. He stood at the side of the set looking frightened. Suzanne rushed over.

“Wilma. Why don’t you sit next to Mildred. Fred, why don’t you sit by the edge of the set, next to Dave.”

Mr. Fellow shook his head. “Don’t want to.”

“Look, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll buy you a 40-pounder right after this. I promise. Trust me. You’re helping. You’ll be okay. I know you’re okay.” She escorted him to a chair. “If the phone rings, pick it up. That’s all you have to do.”

Dave ran his motorized wheelchair up a small incline and settled in behind the table. “Dave, can you reassure Fred here that he’ll be fine,” she asked.

Dave gestured for Suzanne to move in close to him. “Ttthhhaattt ggggguy is ffuuuccckkked uupppp,” he said.

“ONE MINUTE.”

Wilma sat next to Mildred, who turned her back and chatted with Harriet. Wilma barked at Suzanne. “This is bullshit!”

Suzanne flinched and moved over to Wilma. She patted her hand. “Wilma, this is television. Of course it’s bullshit. The bullshit we love.”

“No. These broads are bullshit. They’re jealous I have ABS connections.”

“Pay no attention to them. Now, when the phone rings, pick it up. That’s all you have to do.”

“What do I say?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Your nose is bleeding.”

Suzanne wiped her nose with her hand, blood streaking her wrist.

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

Suzanne squeezed the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back. A couple of the phone volunteers noticed and whispered. She moved out from under the stage lights and found a tissue box.

“Those tissues are mine,” said Jason.

“TWENTY SECONDS!”

Blood leaked from her nostrils. Suzanne pressed some tissues to her nose. “Have a good one, Jason.”

He saw the blood and stood back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Remember, feel free to ad lib.”

“TEN SECONDS. NINE . . .”

Jason took his position behind the podium. He animated his face to Camera 1. Suzanne left the studio, holding the tissues to her nose. She kept her head down to avoid alarming anyone. She ducked into Dressing Room 2 and closed the door.

On the counter by the makeup mirrors a monitor flashed the ABS titles. She tossed a pile of men’s dress shirts off the couch and lay down, elevating her head on the armrest. Blood continued to flow from her nose, soaking the tissue into a soggy ball. She reached down, grabbed a dress shirt and pressed it to her nose.

Up came Jason and the studio on the monitor. The ABS public television membership campaign for February was on the air, live.

CAMERA 1: JASON:

I hope you enjoyed tonight’s episode of Creatures Large and Little. I didn’t know the marmot was a squirrel, did you? Well, I’m from Toronto, I don’t know much about anything north of the 401, west of Mississauga or east of Scarborough. I think there’s a lake somewhere . . . Marmots apparently are gregarious rodents. Sort of like myself—

Jason cut himself off and smiled uncomfortably. He forced a chuckle. Suzanne glanced at the clock on the wall in the dressing room. Another eight minutes to go. She squeezed the shirt to her nose, feeling light-headed. On TV, Jason glowed, as if from radioactivity.

Now, before we air Inspector Callaghan I’d like you to pick up the phone, dial 1-800–555–1212 and give us your money. Give us your money. Your money. Your cheque, your money order, your pre-authorized credit card payment. Ignore the other charities: the sick kids, the emaciated adults, the shivering homeless, the abandoned animals, the depressed artists, the lost youths, the lonely immigrants, the bankrupt farmers. What do they do for you? Do they entertain you? Do they bring you hours of uninterrupted high-quality television programming?

Do they make your kids laugh?

One by one the phones started to ring. The image cut from Jason’s puzzled expression to a pan of the phone volunteers. Wilma smiled and waved at the camera, while Mildred reached over and picked up Wilma’s receiver, handing it to her. Mr. Fellow slouched in his chair and dragged from his bottle. Dave valiantly poked at Mr. Fellow’s ringing phone, dislodging the receiver from the base. The image cut abruptly back to Jason. He reeled off his lines from the teleprompter:

Give us your money. Now! Don’t ask where it goes. You don’t want to know. We say programming, but how do you know for sure? Why am I saying this? There’s new management at ABS. Did you know that? I’m the new face of ABS. This is it. Say goodbye to decency and polite discourse. To sincerity and purpose.

“That’s it! I’m not reading off the prompter any more!”

Jason waved his arms in protest.

The television image cut to a close-up of a grave-looking Mildred engrossed in conversation on the phone. She mouthed the words “I’m sorry” several times. The murmur of the phone volunteers grew louder and more staccato. The image cut to a wide shot of the set, Jason off to the side wringing his hands.

A cameraman shouted “AD LIB” and “ROOEY’S COMING.” Jason plastered a smile on his face and continued:

So, keep those phones ringing, folks, we need to raise a million dollars . . . or else . . . I bet the programming on ABS keeps you watching, uh . . . Inspector Callaghan is on next. It’s one of our most highly rated shows. I’m not sure what the numbers are exactly.

Suzanne gloated at the catastrophe. The image cut to Wilma yelling into her receiver and slamming it down. Then a quick cut to Dave’s bent head and twisted mouth. Then a quick cut to a pan of the volunteers frantically jotting down notes. Then a quick cut back to a beleaguered Jason, gawking at the volunteers. He pivoted and faced the camera:

Look at these people who’ve volunteered their time to be here. I mean . . . just look at them.

Jason swept his arm to indicate the volunteers. Mr. Fellow was face down on the table. Jason shot a glance at his watch:

Only . . . four more minutes to go until we bring you the next show. Yup, only four more minutes . . . okay, now it’s about three minutes forty seconds . . .

Suzanne heard frantic shouts and rushing in the corridor. She stopped applying pressure to her nose and looked at the balled, bloodstained shirt. The nosebleed was not going away.

Back on the television, Jason smiled and shook his head:

Folks, we are listening to you when you call in, believe me. But please remember to pledge an amount of money when you do call in. Let’s just calm down and proceed with the fundraising . . . Where’s Rooey? I said, WHERE’S ROOEY?

Jason swung around in search of someone to bail him out. The camera panned over to reveal Leslie in the corner in full Rooey costume, except for Rooey’s head. When Leslie saw that he had accidentally been caught, he stared into the camera. The image cut back to a bemused Jason.

That, uh, that . . . wasn’t Rooey, exactly. So call the number on your screen right now and help me—us.

Jason wrung his hands and grinned. Off camera, phone volunteers could be heard apologizing. The image then cut to a still of an ABS mug and a title that said “Technical Difficulties: Please Stand By.”

In the concrete cool of the dressing room, Suzanne sighed. She couldn’t have asked for a more disastrous opening night. But instead of feeling victorious, a grim fatigue sank in. Nothing could sate her mind. Jason looked like an ass and sounded like an ass. But in this joyless plant of a television station and in this bunker of a dressing room, she didn’t care any more. Exhausted and numb, holding a blood-soaked shirt to her face, she licked a trickle of blood from her lip anticipating salt, but tasted nothing.

Angry shouts came from the corridor. She looked at the monitor and saw the opening credits for Inspector Callaghan. The prime time break had finished. She heard Jason threatening someone.

“Pull the plug on this now! I’m not going back out there tonight! No way! John’s on his way down here, Frank! He’ll kick your redneck ass. You’re all two-bit nobodies. Fucking Edmonton! Fucking Alberta!”

The dressing room door swung open and Jason slammed it shut. He kicked a gym bag on the floor. Suzanne stirred from the couch and pulled herself up. He kicked over a chair and hurled a hairbrush at the television monitor.

“Something wrong?”

He whipped his head around and noticed Suzanne on the couch, holding one of his shirts to her face.

“What . . . what are you doing with my shirt?! That’s fucking expensive!”

She pulled the bloodstained shirt away from her face. Blood trickled into her mouth. She wiped it away with her wrist and eased up off the couch.

Jason made fists and came at her. He breathed in her face, inches away. “Get out. Now. Take your blood and yourself and leave. You freak. I’m telling John all about L.A. I helped you, you know. You don’t remember, do you? You were sprawled out in the corridor. I had to look in your pockets for your key and get you in your room. You staggered inside and I had to steer you toward the bed. You just flopped onto it, rolled right over and hit your head on the bedside table. That’s how you got your black eye, you disgusting drunk. You’re gonna be fired.”

Suzanne shook. She stared hard into his narrow eyes. “You fucking moron. You piece of white-trash shit.”

He clenched his jaw. “Me? Right back atcha’, sister.”

She pointed at him. “You did it, didn’t you? Let Audi feel you up for money. You were in the pictures with Diana. It was you.”

“What pictures? What the hell are you talking about!” Jason’s eyes widened. “You’re insane. Get out. Get out!”

Suzanne looked down at her shoes and sucked in air. “You can’t hide from me any more.” She turned away from him and inched toward the door. She open it, took a few steps and fainted.