Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [44]
This was Leigh’s day off, so Howard drove her home. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart, and don’t forget that I love you.” He kissed her cheek.
Leigh managed a weak smile, stepped out of the S-Class Mercedes and walked into her apartment building.
Howard pulled away and headed for Sellevision. As he merged onto the freeway, he caught a glimpse of his aquiline nose, slightly sunburned, and hoped that it didn’t peel. He also thought, What excellent rhinoplasty.
W
ith a grave expression on his face, the news anchor read the Teleprompter. “In other news, killer teens continue to terrorize schools across the country. The latest massacre occurred yesterday in rural Alabama, where a twelve-year-old boy executed seventy-two of his classmates with an Uzi submachine gun. The youth, now in police custody, is said to have listened to music by the recording artist Celine Dion. And now for sports.”
“Cut,” the director shouted. He folded his almost carpeted arms across his barrel chest and walked over to the news desk. “Max, ya gotta sell the news. What’s with this sour face?”
Max swallowed and cleared his throat. “Um, well, I just thought, you know, since this is about a kid killing other kids, it should, you know, be sort of on the serious side.”
The director, a large, balding man with one thick black eyebrow running horizontally above his eyes, was losing patience. “Look, this shit happens all the time. Americans are bored with killer teens. Maybe in the nineties it got under people’s skin, but not anymore. This stuff is so over.”
Max nodded his head.
“Jazz it up! You know? Put a wink in it.”
“A wink,” Max said. “Okay, I’ll try that.”
The director exhaled and turned around. “All right, okay, let’s take it again from the top.” He clapped his hands. “Everybody quiet now, and . . . action!”
Again, Max recited the news copy, this time trying to impart a certain edge of restrained wit to the delivery. He even smirked slightly when he mentioned Celine Dion.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” the director shouted. “Okay, this isn’t working, but I have an idea.” He spun around and started yelling. “Mitch, hey Mitch! Where the hell is Mitch?”
“I’m right here!” shouted one of the guys wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a half-eaten croissant in his hand.
“Mitch, buddy, I want you to throw a key light on Max’s chin. Maybe something a little off to the side, something to really emphasize the cleft. Do that for me, buddy?”
“Sure thing,” Mitch said, tossing the rest of his croissant into a nearby trash can and running off in search of a key light. The director then stomped back over to Max. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Forget what I said before. This time, I want you to be sexy.”
“Sexy?” Max asked, unsure.
“Yeah, I want you to think Brad Pitt meets Dan Rather. The fact is, fifty-nine percent of our viewers are women.” Then, liking his own idea more and more, the director said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and rubbed his hands together fast. “This could be good, so just really seduce the camera. Forget you’re reading about killer teens. Pretend it’s poetry.”
After the audition, Max phoned his agent, Laurie.
“She’s in a meeting,” the receptionist said after putting Max briefly on hold. “Any message?”
“Tell her I just got out of the audition with WXON for the anchor spot.”
“Mm-hmm-hmm,” the receptionist mumbled into the phone as she wrote. “And a phone number where she can reach you?”
“She has my number. I’ll be home in a couple hours, have her call me there,” he said, then added, “when she gets a chance.”
Max walked down Broadway, thinking about his chances with the station. He thought that what he may have lacked in journalistic appeal, he made up for in personality, believability, and looks. Plus, he was just so natural in front of the camera. It was difficult to read the director, though.
Then, as he was walking, he saw a $50 bill, right there on the sidewalk. He bent over and picked