Big Time
For the sake of the show’s continuity, DBS is leasing space from Wendy, so our offices are still in the South Loop WeWIN studio. We’ll continue to film audience segments here, too.
I find a seat in the back of the conference room and set my purse down on an adjacent chair, saving a spot for Deva. As I settle in, I notice there’s a steady buzz of conversation, and it all seems to be centered around the same topic.
“Where’s the fruit tray?”
“Probably with the croissants. Which is to say, not here.”
“Seriously? No one stocked the Keurig machine? Seriously?”
“I’m starving! Are the sandwiches coming soon?”
For the first time in Push staff history, the credenza behind the conference table is not groaning under the weight of all manner of treats—muffins, scones, bagels, doughnuts, cookies, cream cheeses, an assortment of nut butters, six kinds of juices, platters of fresh fruit, sandwich fixings, and ice baths brimming with boxed salads, yogurt, kefir, and individual servings of cottage cheese. In fact, there’s not a morsel anywhere. Personally, I’m fussy about my food’s origin, so I had a spinach salad and some hummus before I arrived and I’m fine, but still, it’s odd not to see the usual spread.
“What are people going to have for lunch?” I say, more to myself than to anyone around me.
“Whatever they buy for themselves,” says a masculine voice behind me. I whirl around to see an attractive man, maybe in his mid- to late thirties, leaning against the wall. I don’t recognize him, but there are some new faces here. A few of the Push staff opted for the contract buyout, and a couple went to the scripted-television division, so we’re an equal mix of old and new. Yet outside of the lights/camera/sound guys, we don’t have a ton of male employees, so I’d definitely have seen him before if he were a returning staffer.
This particular gentleman is a shade over six feet tall, deeply tanned, with an almost imperceptible smattering of gray at his temples blending in with his short blond waves. The brown eyes are an unexpected twist. I’m normally a fan of light eyes/darker hair, like Sebastian, but I could see how others would find him handsome. He’s broader than Sebastian, too. (All that biking and volleyball keeps Seb on the lean side.) My point is there’s something decidedly rugged and outdoorsy about him, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find, say, a kayak strapped to the roof of his car. I bet he owns one of those sloppy, friendly breeds of dog, too. Maybe a Lab or a retriever. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t quite place my finger on what it is.
I’m distracted by admiring the cut of his blue gingham shirt with the cuffs rolled up just so (is it possible to be attracted to someone’s wrists? Because his are prime specimens; I suspect he could dig a well or smack a tennis ball like no one’s business) when what he’s said sinks in and I snap to. “But that’s ridiculous,” I argue. “Wendy’s a fanatic about making sure snacks are available. She grew up poor and that forever changed her view on hunger—that’s a big part of her story. In fact, combating hunger is her battle cry. Over the years, she’s done dozens of shows on food insecurity and the chronic link between malnutrition and obesity. Surely you’re familiar?” Huh. That is one square jaw he has there. Not quite as magnificent as the wrists, but fine all the same.
Sebastian’s wrists are the tiniest bit dainty for my liking. You’d think they’d be, I don’t know, meatier maybe, from playing volleyball, but they’re not. He wears a couple of bracelets, too. Not a fan. Sometimes I think, “Hey, nice arm party you’ve got going on there, Johnny Depp.” Of course, the last time I teased him about something innocuous—maybe the Drakkar Noir in his bathroom?—he went off the grid for a solid three weeks. Sensitive, that one.
“People are fat and malnourished? That dog don’t hunt.”
Is he flirting with me or is he actually dense? I’m generally attracted to intellect, so clearly this would rule him out. Clearly. Is he one of those guys who isn’t aware of his looks or their impact on people?
“I assure you, I’m right. Are you at all acquainted with the concept of food deserts? People in low-income areas don’t have ready access to many unprocessed foods, so even though their caloric needs are being met, their nutritional needs aren’t.”
He merely shrugs in a manner I find intensely annoying, so I press on. “Wendy’s been a board member for a number of hunger-fighting charities and she’s a tireless advocate for SNAP—Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Programs. The—let’s face it—convenient by-product of her passion is that no one here has to buy his or her own lunch ever, and not just on the days we film.”
He smiles and I’d be blind not to notice how straight and white his teeth are. Somebody’s parents invested in orthodontia. Did I already award bonus points for not wearing bracelets? Then he says, “I don’t believe in free lunch.”
And like that, any charm this man could potentially have held suddenly dissipates.
I give him a tight smile. “I guess we’ll leave that up to the new executive producer.”
“Guess we will.” Then he ambles off, presumably to annoy someone else.
Deva arrives moments later and settles in next to me. “Salutations, Reagan Bishop.”
I quickly air-kiss her cheek. “Hey, Deva, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve apparently hired yet another obnoxious staffer and I already hate him.”
She studies my face and then looks me up and down. “Are you sure? Your aura is radiating clear red right now, which is more indicative of passion.”
As if! “Then you’re reading me wrong.”
“If you were a murky red, I’d sense anger and . . .” Then she takes in the set of my mouth and my crossed arms and decides not to pursue the reading. “Okay, Reagan Bishop. I’m sure you know what’s in your own heart. Let it be full of hate if that’s your preference.”
The conference room is packed to capacity and the meeting was supposed to start a few minutes ago. We’ve all been summoned here, but it occurs to me that I have no idea who’s actually running the show now that Patty and her team are gone. As we’re burning daylight, it’s hot, and I’m sure we’re violating fire code, I feel like it falls on me to finally ask, “Excuse me, who’s in charge here?” We all crane our heads to see who’s stepping up to run the show, both literally and figuratively.
And Mr. Outdoorsy Handsome Wrists replies, “That would be me.”
Shit.
• • •
“The key word this season is big. I want big stories about big lives with big results. You follow?” declares Benjamin Kassel, our new executive producer (and free-lunch antagonist). He’s been sent here from LA to run the show, or possibly ruin it; I’m presently undecided.
I glower from the back of the room. Actually, no, Benjamin Kassel, I don’t follow you. I’m too distracted by the sound of everyone’s rumbling stomachs and your refusal to use our given names.
Am leaning toward “ruin.”
He points at Mindy, who’s wearing a black T-shirt embossed with the words “Hail to the Thief” in white lettering. “You! Radiohead! What’s this season going to be?”
“I don’t know?”
Oh, come on, kid. This isn’t exactly an SAT question or remembering your date’s name before you take the walk of shame in the morning. She looks around for help and Craig mouths the answer to her. “Is it . . . big?”
Kassel claps so loud I jump in my chair. “Yes! And what’s going to make it big? Anyone?”
I mutter to Deva, “His ego, perchance?” (“Wrists” would also be an acceptable answer.)
Benjamin “call me Kassel” spent the first twenty minutes of this meeting telling us all about his illustrious career, the highlights of which include dropping out of UCLA after his junior year and executive producing a show called Make ’Em Eat a Bug. Color me not impressed.
He points to me. “Something to share with the group back there, Peace Corps?”
My hackles are instantly raised. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seems like you have input. Love to hear it.”
I sit up straight and level his gaze. “I absolutely have input. First, I believe I speak for the group in saying it’s offensive to not be called by our given names. Dehumanizing, in fact. For example, I am Dr. Bishop, so when you call me ‘Peace Corps’ it diminishes everything I’ve accomplished as a professional.”
His amusement fades and he puts on a serious face.
That’s more like it.
I’ll not have my credentials mocked; I sacrificed too much to earn them.
“Sorry. From now on, I’ll call you Dr. Peace Corps.” The shit-eating grin returns. Stupid orthodontia. “When you’re finished giving the world a hug, Doctor, how will you contribute to making this show big?”
Definitely “ruin.”
With as much control as I can muster, I say, “As I’ve done most successfully for two seasons, I plan to continue using cognitive strategies to help our pushees achieve maximum behavior modification through evidence-based treatment. In my experience—”
“Boring! I need asses in seats. Anyone else have a bright idea? Anyone?” He begins to point at various staffers. “You, Sideburns?” Our hipster/muttonchopped sound engineer simply shrugs. Then he gestures toward the dark-haired makeup artist who arrived late and is still wearing her backpack. “How ’bout you, Dora the Explorer?”
Under my breath, I tell Deva, “You want an ass in a seat? Then maybe you should sit down.”
Deva replies, “For what it’s worth, Reagan Bishop, I’m seeing the murky red now.”
Kassel begins to pace in front of the whiteboard at the head of the room. “Here’s the deal—everything about this show is wrong.” At that, the audience starts to grumble, except for Mindy, who’s mentally spent from answering such a difficult question and is now surreptitiously sending texts.
I whisper to Deva, “Why? Are our pushees not eating enough bugs?”
One of the preppy blond production assistants raises her hand. I’m perpetually intrigued by her vast collection of embroidered belts and gravity-defying collars. She’s as sharp as a tack and ambitious to boot, so naturally Dr. Karen grabs her first whenever she can. “Wendy said we were doing God’s work!”
“Bup, bup—don’t get your panties in a wad, Muffy.” Ironically, her name is Muffy. “Let me amend my statement. Push is at a five in terms of drama. That’s being generous. We need to turn it up to eleven.”
“How do you propose we do that?” I say, louder than I intended.
“First of all, we need better guests.”
Craig volunteers, “They’re called pushees.”
“Uh-huh, they were, and now they’re called guests, Horn-Rims. About the guests—boring! Bulimic ballerinas who don’t let us film them bingeing and purging? Boring! Families who can’t communicate their feelings? Boring! A hoarding grandma? Listen, if there’s no flattened cat under that rubble, then she’s wasting all of our time. Hoard big or go home.”
Everyone’s mouth is hanging open at this point. I can’t be the only person in the room wondering if Wendy’s just punked all of us.
Backpedaling a bit he says, “Don’t get me wrong—no one wants to see a flat cat. Do you want to see a flat cat, Tank Top?” He points to the second cameraman, who replies, “Nope.”
“Me, neither, I don’t want to see a flat cat . . . well, at least not until sweeps. Point being if we’re not in cat-flattening territory, then we haven’t gone far enough! That grandmother who was able to hide so much of her disorder? Boring! I want trash up to the windows and spilling out the door. Understand? I want neighbors testifying about the smell in front of city council. I want to see bony ballerinas pirouetting knee-deep in empty Ben and Jerry’s cartons and Doritos bags. I want families tossing chairs, all right? I want crazy on the outside where the audience can see it, am I right, Radiohead?”
To which Mindy replies, “Big?”
“See? Radiohead gets it. The rest of you will, too. If we’re going to change everything, we have to change everything. Now, how do you guys normally find guests?”
“We filter requests from our Web site and viewer mail,” says Ruby, one of the associate producers. Ruby used to run a YouTube channel and gained a bit of a cult following with her webisodes, so Wendy snapped her up, looking past her Goth-girl exterior, saying talent like hers shouldn’t be wasted on the Web. Bar none, she’s our best associate producer.
“You don’t source them yourselves?” Kassel asks.
“That hasn’t been necessary,” Ruby replies. “We’ve had a lot of luck with the pool of applicants who contact us.”
“Well, Nose Ring, your pool is shallow and boring, and that changes today. For the first month while we build an audience, we need to go big, big, big, so I’ve lined up some celebrities. Mostly D-list. Okay, entirely D-list. I’m talking ex–reality show people, aging teen stars, has-beens, basically anyone who’s willing to bare their soul for a chance to be on TV again. And a check, of course.”
Faye, a senior producer and Wendy Winsberg veteran, interjects, “We never pay our pushees.”
“Which is why we’ve gotten what we’ve paid for to date. The new strategy is we use those famous enough to garner ratings, but not so famous that they can afford the house makeovers on their own.”
I don’t even realize my hand is in the air until he calls on me. “Problem, Peace Corps?”
I’m so rattled that I’m practically sputtering. “Since when do we do home makeovers? This program is about pushing individuals to change their behavior, not . . . product placing refrigerators.”
I will not have my work upstaged by a guest receiving a free Ford F-150.
Kassel snaps his fingers at Carol, the office manager, sitting at the head of the table, who’s done nothing but take minutes since the minute he started talking. “Yo, Note Pad, write that down. We need to approach Sears about a sponsorship. They’re in bed with Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, but maybe their deal isn’t exclusive. Okay, covered that. Who can tell me how you guys divide into teams once you’ve picked your guest?”
Ruby tells him, “We employ a collaborative approach. As a group, we choose who we’re going to help and we make assignments accordingly. Once we decide on the lead producer, we assign according to everyone’s interest and level of commitment.”
Kassel nods. “So that’s ridiculous. Antiquated. You looking to form a trust circle or are you trying to make powerful television? Well, we’re done with the old ways and we’re changing everything from the ground up. Radiohead, what do you have to say about that?”
Mindy glances up from her iPhone. “I’m hungry?”
Kassel high-fives Mindy. “Yes! That’s right! You’re hungry. We’re all hungry—hungry for change. And the time for change has come. First up, enough with the management by committee. You’ll work in small groups and you’ll like it. We’re going to specialize. There’s no need for everyone to have their hands on every aspect. We’ll divide and conquer! This is going to be great, I promise.”
Then why doesn’t it feel great?
I’m beginning to fear Patty was right—maybe you really can’t trust a promise from a network guy.