The Great Typo Hunt_ Two Friends Changing the World, One Correction at a Time - Jeff Deck [52]
“What if they can’t do it after?”
“They’ll make the time.” He’d finished his own burger a few minutes ago and now plucked survivors from a cardboard dinghy of fries. Josh had ordered his Animal Style (mustard-fried patty, extra everything) off the secret menu, jumping into the adventure of In-N-Out headfirst with both feet (if that’s anatomically feasible) as he had with the trip itself. My new TEAL colleague demanded a fully realized adventure. He’d stepped off the plane in San Diego with a binder full of places to visit, shenanigans to undertake, and cuisine to consume along the West Coast; mustard-fried patties were but the barest beginning.
I returned to the producer and told him our slot with ABC was fixed, but we’d gladly do a shooting with NBC afterward. He said gruffly that he wasn’t sure about that, he’d have to call me back. I frowned, looked to Josh again. “I don’t know if he’s going to be able to do that. Maybe I should have tried to move ABC.”
“He’ll call back,” he said. “Listen, Jeff—I’ve worked with enough producers to know their act. They’ll wheedle you, they’ll guilt-trip you, they’ll bully you, whatever it takes to get the booking. But you’re the boss here. It should be on your terms, not theirs.”
I nodded at Josh’s hard-won wisdom. He’d been immersed in the Biz for a long time through his commercial production gigs back in Manhattan. He was a pro, a clear-eyed operator who could bash through bluffs and feints with the blunt assertions of a native New Yorker. I, on the other hand, had never dealt with the good folks of the television industry, and my negotiation skills historically consisted of saying “Well, OK,” and then running away. The seeming absurdity of the situation didn’t help, either. They wanted me, an itinerant editor, on millions of TV screens?
The producer called back. He’d relented; the League would have consecutive filmings by the two major networks.
The tale of TEAL had, by this time, proved irresistible to various journalistic outlets. Our coverage snowballed in the typical pattern that media stories follow these days, starting as a tiny sphere picking up jacks and thimbles, gaining greater mass as it went, until the ball of our exposure was gigantic enough to accrete cities and islands and the Earth itself. It began with an NPR morning show in New York. Since at that point I was less than twenty-four hours into the trip, and a thorough neophyte at media appearances, I succeeded in giving as awkward and ineloquent an interview as humanly possible. Elderly listeners developed arrhythmia and high blood pressure, and younger listeners swore off radio for life. The public-speaking industry held an emergency conference to address this new threat to oratory. Yet somehow the piece interested enough people for the Boston Globe to pick up the thread. From there, more radio, print, and online outfits put in their nickel on the League, until we arrived at the present surreal juncture.
We headed for my cousin Steph’s old apartment in Hollywood; she had moved out the prior week, but the place was available for a few more days. Benjamin was staying with a friend, so we wouldn’t see him until tomorrow for the ABC filming. As soon as Josh and I got to Hollywood, we understood why my cousin’s move had been a sage idea. We spent many fruitless hours circling the streets for a parking spot, like buzzards in a carrion drought. We ended up stashing Callie overnight in a sketchy garage for a jacked-up, illicit after-hours rate. The neighborhood, however, did have one advantage: with its many stores and cafés and tourist attractions, it would be rich territory for typo hunting.
The next day we met the ABC World News filming crew on Hollywood Boulevard, a block or two from my cousin’s old place. Benjamin had rejoined Josh and me—in fact, it was the first time that the three of us joined forces for typo hunting. But other factors complicated this auspicious occasion: the giant video camera floating in my wake, and the affable, gray-haired correspondent sauntering at my side. Ordinarily