Easy to Like (18 page)

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. oidium & other
fungus

Suicide

The restaurant's location — or
rather, its situation — came as a surprise to Elliot. It was on the fifty-fourth
floor of an office tower in the financial district. Given the restaurant's name,
he expected wilfully kitschy Canadiana, a room dressed like the set of
Forest Rangers
, smoked bison jowls and beaver cheese
on the menu. But this was a modern spot. The expansive view out the windows on
the south and west sides of the establishment, above downtown and far out over
Lake Ontario, was spectacular. The patrons were dolled up and ebullient, having
a blast. The whole place was, appropriate to Elliot's mood, flying.

A gracious young woman unburdened
Elliot of his coat. Hazel was already seated. Elliot spotted her immediately, as
her chair was pushed away from their table, into the traffic lanes of the wait
staff. She appeared to have taken this position to better examine a metre-high
floral arrangement at the room's centre. So engrossed in the flowers was she
that she did not see Elliot enter.

This allowed Elliot to study Hazel
unobserved as he was escorted toward her. The grey skunk stripe in her hair gave
away her years, but the deep crow's feet pointed to positively girlish eyes. Her
dress, while conservative, always came with a funky, rebellious accent — a saucy
belt, an almost too loud piece of vintage jewellery. Her legs, emerging from a
short skirt and curled to one side of the chair, were long. She often showed
arms with noticeable musculature, hard biceps the shape of an egg, and ropey
triceps. But then everybody went to gyms these days.

Hazel noticed Elliot only when he
placed his file folder on the table.

“Oh,” she said, “you really did mean
this to be business?”

“Was I unclear?” Elliot accepted the
window seat offered by the waiter.

“No.” Hazel moved gingerly from her
chair, on the aisle side of the table, to the seat opposite Elliot. She still
seemed distracted by the flowers.

“It's gauche, I know, bringing papers
to dinner but . . . to be perfectly candid I can scarcely
contain my enthusiasm. Next fall is going to be a fantastic season of
television.”

“A first.”

“Anything to drink before you order?”
queried the waiter.

“A double gin martini, please,” said
Elliot, “not too dry, olives.”

“Could you half-and-half cranberry
juice and club soda?” asked Hazel. The waiter nodded and left.

“It's a radical shakeup. Some of the
returning news and current affairs shows aren't going to like it,” Elliot said.
“Wanna hear the week?”

“Please,” said Hazel.

“Monday. Blue Monday. Back to the
grind. The first day of the rest of your life.”

“I think you're misreading that
expression. I think ‘the first day of the rest of your life' is a statement of
optimism.”

“No, no, no. Really, you think?”

“Confident.”

“You're sure it's not a situation like
with that song ‘Don't Worry, Be Happy'?”

“How do you mean?”

“People missed that it was meant to be
read ironically. People took that at face value.”

“I sure did.”

Elliot shook his head. “One of most
plaintive things I ever heard. I'd hear that on the radio and I tell
you . . . the darkest sort of thoughts. At least we can
agree that Monday is no one's favourite day.”

“Well . . .”

“You like Mondays, Hazel?”

“I find my work fulfilling.”

“Most people don't.”

“Most people? You sure?”

“Confident. So Monday is
the
day for comedy.”

“You want to move it from Tuesday?”

“What's Tuesday? It's serious, Tuesday.
It's acceptance. It's not funny. If Monday is the first day of the rest of your
life, then Tuesday, well, Tuesday is all the rest of the rest of your life.
Stick with Monday for a second. Comedy.
501 Pennsylvania
Avenue
?”

“I know it well,” Hazel beamed. “I love
that project.”

Elliot held up his hand. “Not exactly
as presented.”

“The writing, I thought, was
sharp.”

“Rather too. Dialogue in the pilot
script drew attention to itself and not the characters.”

“I'm surprised you chose it.”

“This all comes from that demographic
profile you gave me, Hazel. Of the many things I took from it was the Canadian
obsession with America. With
501
we throw the
regulators a bone while doing what's essentially an American sitcom. A comedy
set at the Canadian Embassy in Washington: it's perfect.”

“I thought maybe
The Border
served that purpose.”

The Border
was a broad half-hour comedy about a unit of Canadian Border Services. They were
predictable misfits, always running afoul but finally getting the better of
their over-equipped, trigger-happy, paranoid American counterparts down the
road.

“No, I like
501
Pennsylvania
more than
The Border
. I'm
thinking of Kulvinder Singh.”

“Who?”

“I imagined a bunch of people working
in a weather office as the audience,” said Elliot. “Kulvinder Singh is one of
them. He's a New Canadian. To him border security is a serious matter. Since
9/11 he's had trouble crossing into the States despite the fact that he's Sikh.
And horror stories dating back to the partition of India are family lore.”

“You've lost me, Elliot. This Sikh guy
you've imagined?”

“Kulvinder Singh.”

“Right. He's not going to find abuses
of power at the border funny.”

“Exactly. In defence of
The Border
, his kids could find the whole thing
hilarious. They might eat up the show precisely because it so obviously
transgresses a feeling held by their parents. But this is the CBC, young people
don't watch it.”

“You've imagined this Kulvinder Singh's
family too?”

“Not yet,” said Elliot. A shimmering
martini was set before him. Hazel took a sip from her juice and turned back to
the floral arrangement. “Is there something about the flowers, Hazel?”

“Oh, heavens, no. Don't think me rude,
Elliot, but the windows . . .” Hazel glanced at the view and then
made a gesture of pushing it back with the flattened palm of her hand. “My
vertigo.”

“Of course. You mentioned that before.
I'm sorry — I had no idea when I booked it. Do you want to change tables, or go
somewhere else?”

“No, no, no. I've heard only good
things about this place. It's not that serious, just a tingle.”

“I'm sure they would understand.”

“No. This is wonderful.”

“You're sure?”

“
501 Pennsylvania
Avenue
is a very — what, ‘barbed'? — satire,” Hazel said, making it
clear she wished not to discuss her phobia. “The character of the ambassador — I
mean, he's venal, he's almost criminal — and you know I love him, he's funny.
The embassy staff are
so
jaded. His wife, she's
screwing half of Washington. In the past it would have been considered too much
for CBC.”

“I said it would have to be changed.
Number one, satire is not on. Critics love it, real people turn it off.
501 Pennsylvania
as currently imagined is too
scathing, too ironic.” Elliot tasted his martini. It was delicious. “Do you
realize what portion of our audience is on antidepressants? The medication makes
their world literal; they take it to see and accept things only as they are. The
inability to comprehend irony is a side effect of the drugs.”

“So change it to . . .
?”

“Lighten it up, make it a broader
comedy. The ambassador, make him a hapless but well-meaning goof. Give him and
the wife some kids. The chief of staff — do you remember a show called
Benson
?”

“The creative team behind
501
— they're pretty attached to the satirical aspect
of the show, I mean, for them that's the whole point. I don't know
if . . .”

“Hazel, I have some experience on the
creative side of this business and I think I can say with some confidence that
if we say, ‘Make it
Happy Days
or we're going with
The Border
instead of your show,' then they'll
change it.”

“I know that Jeremy McManis is going to
want to discuss it.”

“Who's Jeremy McManis?”

“Creative Head responsible for the
project.”

“Oh, right, I'd forgotten all about
him.” Elliot snapped his fingers. “I'll get Jeremy to read the writers the riot
act, that'll be much easier. Next —”

“What time slot are you thinking
about?” Hazel sipped a bird's portion from her glass of juice.

“Nine o'clock.”

“Okay . . . and . . . what I'm getting
at is the news. Are you going to leave it at ten o'clock?”

“I am.”

“You don't know how relieved Leo Karek
is going to be. He's been phoning me at home. Having not heard anything, he
assumed the worst.”

“It's not that I didn't think about it.
I mean, it's stupid to be blowing that slot on news. But in the end, given our
limited dough, I thought we might as well stick with fewer of the better shows.
And I've figured out another way to address the news-in-prime-time problem.”

“Oh?” Hazel sounded worried.

“Yep. If you're going to have news in
prime-time, then
make
it prime-time news. These guys
are always starting with the grimmest shit, the biggest disaster. ‘It bleeds, it
leads.' Or worse, ‘the deepening crisis in Ottawa.'” Elliot made a gesture of
hanging himself. “What about the entertaining human-interest stuff? Let
it
lead for a change.”

“They will resist that.”

Elliot waved off Hazel's caution.

“The last half-hour can still be a
wrist-slasher. It's not like it's been trenchant analysis in a long time —
everyone knows it's showbiz. They're the worst sort of ratings whores in News.”
Elliot waited for a rise but Hazel said nothing. He continued. “Another thing we
need: national weather. How can we have a national news broadcast and not have a
national weather forecast? There should be a short hit at the top of the hour.
And we need some weather celebs too, a team with,
like . . . a goofy, affable guy, a hot
babe . . .”

“Leo will —”

“I've anticipated his reaction. I have
a plan.”

“Yes?”

“When he sees the alternative he won't
complain about having to do a bit of lite in his first half-hour.”

“Are you going to bully him?
Blackmail?”

“I think he'll respond to both.”

“You're really taking to this senior
management role.”

A waiter was standing next to the
table. He handed them menus and told them the specials. As Elliot had
anticipated, there was gustatory Canadiana on the menu, even something with
bannock, but on the whole it looked good. He ordered sweetbreads, she the bison.
She wished to skip the appetizer. Elliot insisted she share some of his foie
gras. The wine list was perfunctory and Elliot wondered if he might speak with
the sommelier about alternatives.

The sommelier, eager as a puppy, was
soon at Elliot's side.

“What do you have in the way of
Californian wine?”

“Are you thinking Napa, Sonoma, a
Cab?”

“Do you know Locura Canyon?

“I'm afraid not.”

“From around Paso Robles.”

Elliot must have said the right thing,
for the sommelier's excitement leapt.

“You know what we just received today?
The Haldeman Estates Toujours Prêt. It scored ninety-seven points in
Wine Advocate
.”

“Oh.” Elliot's voice dropped an octave.

“Announced yesterday.”

“I guess you've got some leading
Canadian wines?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Just the best Canadian red you've got,
then.”

“Very well,” the sommelier said, before
shuffling off with evident disappointment.

That Haldeman's beastly cough syrup had
received the high score grated on him. It was predictable, he supposed, given
the publication's taste in things.

If Hazel had noticed the souring of his
mood, she didn't let on. “Okay,” she said, “if Monday is going to be all comedy,
I want to advocate for another show.”

Elliot already had another one picked
out, but he said, “Go on.”