Easy to Like (12 page)

“What am I watching?” he asked.

“Hold on, what time is
it? . . . Okay, it's
Banff
911
.”

“Right.”

“Don't blame the creative team. They
have something new on your desk now and —”

“Why wouldn't I blame the creative
team?” Elliot asked, though he hadn't yet decided, having watched only a couple
of minutes with the sound off, whether he liked the show or not.

“Originally there was going to be a lot
more skiing and resultant injuries, more helicopter medivacs from the mountains,
that sort of thing . . . but it was too expensive. And the
lead didn't have the kid, she was leaving the husband. We had to have an Alberta
show and it had to feature traditional family values. Stanford insisted on the
horse angle; he felt if the show was from Alberta it had to have horses.”

“Are you watching it now?”

“No, but I've seen them all. And look,
there was a notion, noble if antiquated, that the CBC could gather the whole
family around the television together. It was wishful thinking. I don't think
you should be concerned about what's gone on in the past.”

“How are this show's numbers?”

“In the range of the survey's
error.”

“So we won't be renewing it?”

“Unless we can't get another show from
Alberta.”

“There's a regional quota?”

Hazel did not answer right away. Elliot
was learning to be mindful of any hesitation in her speech.

“Not officially. Never acknowledged. It
is certainly not the way I would do things.”

“Understood. Thank you, Hazel.”

“Any time.”

“By the way, what were you
watching?”

“Watching? No, I was reading.”

“That's what I'd like to be doing. A
book and a glass of wine.”

There was another silence. Elliot felt
a need to fill it.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Me? . . .”

“Is there a show in it?”

“God, no. Leastways not for us.”

“Shame.” Elliot did not know what else
he could say.

“Don't . . . Try
not . . . It would be best that you not mention that I was
reading.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, goodnight.”

“Yes. You too. Meetings tomorrow — with
News.”

“That should be straightforward.”

“News? Oh, no. Leo Karek, the
editor-in-chief . . . he really doesn't like you.”

“But he's never met me.”

“He hates what you stand for.”

“I don't stand for anything, I'm in
entertainment.”

“Exactly. See you tomorrow.”

Hazel knew it
all.
Elliot arrived in his office perhaps three
or four minutes late to find a cube in a suit staring at his watch. Karek was
all right angles, boxy head on a steamer trunk, limbs jointed assemblies of
blocks. His was the pained and flushed visage of a constipated man struggling
for relief. He rose stiffly and shook Elliot's hand.

“I hope you weren't waiting long,” said
Elliot.

“Big news day.”

“Right.” Elliot wondered why. He'd
scanned the
Toronto Post and Leader
over breakfast
and nothing had registered.

“The financial statement. The federal
government is tabling a mini-budget today.”

“Of course. The mini-budget.” Elliot
worried that he sounded as though he were making fun. “Coffee?”

Karek shook his square head. Squared
hair, too, razor-straight lines across the back of the neck and the bottom of
the sideburns. In need of caffeine himself, Elliot called for coffee anyway. He
tried looking relaxed, smiling, leaning back in his chair in the hope that his
mood, even if affected, might rub off. From the unchanging expression on Karek's
face, Elliot saw it would not.

“Let me say first,” Elliot said, taking
his cup from Stella, “that my immediate concern is next fall's
schedule . . . as it pertains to everything
but
news.”

Karek grunted something Elliot could
not make out.

“And, you know,
realistically . . .” — Elliot was grasping for something to say —
“where the news is ‘new,' I mean, how much planning can you do? How
to . . . anticipate? If there's a big disaster, we want to
be there. If we have to bump an episode of . . . 
Banff 911 . . .
 because shit is
blowing up and people, especially Canadians, are throwing themselves out
windows, so be it.”

This did not put Karek at ease. Elliot
could see it would take more time than he was willing to waste to win the Cube's
trust.

“Budget?” Karek asked. “Have you looked
it over?”

“I have,” Elliot lied. He was sure it
was among the hundreds of pages of incomprehensible financial statements and
projections he was supposed to have read by now. “And while this may be a
disappointment . . .” He could actually hear Karek tense, the
fabric of his suit gather with a crackle of static. “. . . there will be some
adjustments . . . but I'm really obliged
to . . . freeze it at last year's level.”

Karek had drawn insufficient air to
yell at Elliot so said only, “I see,” rather too loudly. Cube had expected
cuts.

“I want to take advantage of the
accumulated knowledge in this building.”

Karek held his breath.

“. . . and in the
regions.”

Karel exhaled with relief.

“You, for instance, it's
what . . . ?” Elliot said, gambling with confidence that Karek
had been around the Corporation for years.

“Started in the newsroom in Regina.
Radio. Sports.”

“Wow.”

“Local sports. Summer replacement.
1972.” Karek said it as though the dimensions of his tenure at the CBC were only
now dawning on him. He was doing life.

“I want to leverage that sort of
investment.” This sounded great, thought Elliot, despite being unsure what it
meant. “I've made my notes on my copies of the budget. Why don't you have a look
at your copy, tell me how you imagine resources being reassigned, and I'll take
that into account.”

“Done. What about consolidation of
radio and television news?”

Elliot waved a hand vigorously over the
papers on his desk as if shooing a fly.

“Radio? I mean, really, who gives a
shit.”

“Right,” said Karek. “Fuck them.”

“Absolutely,” said Elliot, wondering if
this stance was a bit bold considering he knew nothing about radio. The
imposture Elliot had undertaken came easily, but it was still exhausting. “Great
to meet you,” he said, pushing his chair back from the desk.

“One other thing. There are rumours you
plan to move the evening news.”

“Where do these rumours come from?”

“Probably something you said during the
hiring process. I don't know.”

“Well.” Now Elliot stood; Karek
couldn't but follow him to his feet.

“So? No?”

“Everything is under consideration.
Let's talk about it after I've seen your budget revisions.”

Elliot saw that this offhand avoidance
of the matter was, however unwittingly, a vicious sneak attack, gamesmanship in
the power dynamics of the office. Karek was winded by the statement, pushed back
against a wall by a stronger combatant. The chunky sap limped from the room.
Elliot could get the hang of this. He made a mental note to ask Hazel what was
up.

“The time slot for the evening
news, at ten p.m., cuts into prime time,” Hazel explained.

“Yes. Yes, it does. It's crazy.”

“But say we moved the news to eleven
and had an extra five hours of prime time every week.”

“Yes?”

“We would have to program it with
prime-time shows,” said Hazel.

“Expensive.”

“Very. You haven't solicited my view,
but I think moving the news is exactly what has to be done if we are going to
program the shows we should.”

“Karek said he'd heard that the rumour
came from my interview . . . but I'm sure the scheduling of
the news never came up. They hardly seemed like gossips, the panel.”

“Rumours defy physical principles of
the universe, they can come from nothing.”

“The universe did come from nothing,”
said Elliot. “That's the conceptual leap that people have such a hard time
making. That's why they invented God.”

“Existence is a rumour?” Hazel laughed.
It was a high-rolling, convulsive, and entirely winning whinny.

“Mine, anyway,” said Elliot.

“Not a believer?” Hazel asked. She
seemed genuinely interested.

“No. Yourself?”

“I've heard rumours of stuff you said
in the interview. Men in suits, in my experience, gossip as much as
schoolgirls.”

“What have you heard?” asked
Elliot.

“You made a tremendous impression.
Perhaps they couldn't keep their tongues because they were so excited.”

“Specifically, what am I supposed to
have said?”

“That the CBC could serve everyone,
every way.”

“I think I did say that.
It's . . . inclusive.”

“You've set the bar high.”

“We've got audience research people,
yes?” said Elliot. “They profile the viewer?”

“So they allege.” Hazel was amused by
this, and Elliot wasn't sure he liked that.

“Then I'd like to get a picture of
everyone
,” he said, before thinking.

“Sure you don't want to start with a
list of ‘every way'?”

“You're right.”

“Every way as it relates to
broadcasting, right? Not a list of every way anything can happen in the rumoured
universe.”

“No.”

“And in terms of ‘everyone,' you meant,
I presume, all people who comprise a potential audience. Not
all
people.”

“Of course, I mean the people who watch
television, otherwise, fuck 'em.”

Hazel made a performance of taking down
the directive in a notebook.

“The scheduling of the news is germane
to the discussions of the coming weeks,” she said.

“Why?”

“Almost your entire calendar for the
next two weeks consists of meetings regarding the next season.”

“Shit. I was hoping to take a brief
trip home.”

“Home?”

“My vineyard in California. It's been
so hot this year they're harvesting early, some stuff is already in vats
fermenting. I really need to be there.”

“Is it nice?”

“It's the land.”

“I don't follow.”

“As opposed to the office.”

“I see.”

“The earth and seasons in a glass, and
it makes you feel good, it's great stuff.”

“Unless you can manage to get back and
forth in a day, you're probably not going to be able to go.”

“We'll see.”

“You'll have to take me sometime.”

“I'm sorry?”

“To your vineyard.”

“I would love to.”

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Counoise

I think maybe no cunny in the blend this
time round.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Counoise

No. Must. Why??

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Re. Counoise

Weird barnyard notes.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Re. Re. Counoise

I like some of those.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Re. Re. Re.
Counoise