Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [186]
It was a moment that only these two human beings would ever fully understand. They stopped and faced each other, each visibly moved by what the other had said, and then shook hands solemnly as if to say, “I agree”—a gesture worth more than all the peace treaties in the world.
68
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
18 May, 2018
“Well screw you too, and the big white horse you rode in on,” Wellington screamed at one of his largest former sponsors before slamming his phone down. This is a fitting end to my worst week in this business, he thought. His guts were still churning as he contemplated the meeting he would have in a few minutes with visiting network executives from Atlanta.
Just then, his receptionist, Amanda, poked her head through the door and announced, “Mr. Crane, your visitors are here.”
“For heaven’s sake, Amanda, you know what to do,” he responded. “Get them seated in the conference room, and tell them I’ll be with them in about five minutes.”
He quickly downed another double vodka in preparation for his battle with the network executives. These back-office bums are no match for me, he thought as he psyched himself into an attack mode. The best defense was a good offense, and he was prepared. The vodka was having its desired effect, and, as he looked in the mirror, he liked what he saw. Like a volcano, he erupted into the conference room of the waiting attendees.
“I’m not going to mince words with any of you,” he said, as he stormed into the room without even a preemptory greeting. “My ratings are down, and you’d better get out your checkbook and beef up my advertising budget.”
“And a good afternoon to you, too, Wellington,” replied Myron “Manny” O’Neil, a former Marine colonel turned marketing executive. “Actually, you’re right about one thing: your ratings are down, but it has nothing to do with your advertising budget.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Crane bellowed belligerently, not totally sure he could browbeat Manny like he did the rest of humanity.
“The nosedive in your ratings isn’t because of your advertising budget. It’s because of you and your program. You’re losing your audience, Wellington; your market share is dropping like a rock.”
“That’s preposterous, Manny, and if you don’t change your attitude fast, I’m out of here,” Wellington responded, thinking, I sure could use a drink.
“Well, first of all,” Manny replied softly, “you’re under contract with us, in case you’ve forgotten, so if you choose to walk, you’ll never work anywhere in the United States again—at least not in the media business. Second, you had better start rethinking your own attitude or your days are numbered.”
“What’s the matter with you, Manny? I’m still getting fifteen million listeners a day, and that’s almost unequalled in our business.”
“That’s true, Wellington, but you’ve dropped from twenty to fifteen million listeners almost overnight, and our surveys show it’s a runaway trend line pointing south.”
“But I …” Crane was silenced by Manny’s gesture of finger to mouth. For the first time since his interview with Clayton McCarty on Fitzwater’s show months ago, he felt intimidated.
“From our viewpoint,” Manny said in a steely voice, “your grassroots support is dwindling. You’ll always hold on to your five million or so die-hard fans, but we can’t command the same kind of advertising revenue with this reduction in listeners. Furthermore, you’ve lost five major sponsors and several local stations have dropped your show. Here, Wellington—” Manny’s voice rose as he shoved the letters across the table—“take a look at these letters from sponsors and affiliated stations if you don’t believe me.”
Wellington grabbed the letters and scanned them briefly with a scowl on his face before saying, “I don’t buy this crap, but you hold the cards. What would you have me do, Myron?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“For openers, I’d have you tone down your rhetoric a few notches. You’ve been pounding on the McCarty administration since he took office, and in case you haven’t noticed,