John Scalzi - A Voice in the Wilderness

Albert Birnbaum, the “Voice in the Wilderness” and once the fourth most popular audio talk show host in the United States, told his car to ring his producer. “Are the numbers in?” he asked when she answered, not bothering to introduce himself, because, well. Aside from the caller ID, she would know who he was the second he opened his mouth.

“The numbers are in,” Louisa Smart said, to Birnbaum. He imagined her at her desk, headset on, mostly because he almost never saw her in any other context.

“How are they?” Birnbaum asked. “Are they good? Are they better than last month? Tell me they are better than last month.”

“Are you sitting down?” Smart asked.

“I’m driving, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Of course I’m sitting down.”

“You’re not supposed to be driving yourself,” Smart reminded him. “You’ve had your manual driving license pulled. If you get pulled over and they check your car’s trip monitor and see you have the autodrive off, you’re going to get it.”

“You’re my producer, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Not my mom. Now quit stalling and give me the numbers.”

Smart sighed. “You’re down twelve percent from last month,” she said.

“What? Bullshit, Louisa,” Birnbaum said.

“Al, why the hell would I lie to you?” Smart asked. “You think I like listening to you panic?”

“That’s gotta be bullshit,” Birnbaum continued, ignoring Smart’s comment. “There’s no possible way we can lose one listener in eight in a single goddamn month.”

“I don’t make up the numbers, Al,” Smart said. “I just tell you what they are.”

Birnbaum said nothing for a few seconds. Then he started hitting his dashboard, making him swerve on the road. “Shit!” he said. “Shit shit fuck shit shit shittity shit!”

“Sometimes it’s amazing to me that you talk for a living,” Smart said.

“I’m off the clock,” Birnbaum said. “I’m allowed to be inarticulate on my own time.”

“These numbers mean that you’re down by a third for the year,” Smart said. “You’re going to miss your ad guarantees. Again. That means we’re going to have to do another set of make-goods. Again.”

“I know how it works, Louisa,” Birnbaum said.

“It means we’re going to finish the quarter in the red,” Smart said. “That’s two quarters out of the last three we’re down. You know what that means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything other than we make sure we’re in the black next quarter,” Birnbaum said.

“Wrong again,” Strong said. “It means that Walter puts you on his watch list. And when Walter puts you on the watch list, you’re one step away from cancellation. Then that ‘Voice in the Wilderness’ bit of yours won’t just be a clever affectation. You really will be out in the cold.”

“Walter’s not going to cancel me,” Birnbaum said. “I’m his favorite talk show host.”

“You remember Bob Arrohead? The guy you replaced? He was Walter’s favorite, too,” Smart said. “And then he had three bad quarters in a row and he was out on his ass. Walter didn’t build a multibillion media empire by being sentimental about his favorites. He’d cancel his grandmother if she had three red quarters in a row.”

“I could make it alone if I had to,” Birnbaum said. “Run a lean, mean operation on my own. It’s totally possible.”

“That’s what Bob Arrohead does now,” Smart said. “You should ask him how that’s working out for him. If you can find him. If you can find anyone who knows how to find him.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have you, ” Birnbaum said. He was not above base flattery.

And Smart was not above throwing it back in his face. “And if you get canceled and leave SilverDelta, neither will you,” she said. “My contract is with the company, not with you, Al. But thank you so much for the attempted head pat. Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m heading to Ben’s soccer match,” Birnbaum said.

“Your kid’s soccer match doesn’t start until four thirty, Al,” Smart said. “You need to lie better to someone who has your calendar up on her screen. You’re going off to meet the groupie you met at the Broadcasters Association meeting, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Birnbaum said.

Smart sighed, and then Birnbaum heard her count to five, quietly. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not your mother,” she said. “You want to bang some groupie, again, fine with me. Just bear in mind that Walter is not going to be as free with the hush money when you’re two quarters in the red as he was when you were his top earner. And remember that you have no prenup, and Judith, unlike your second wife, is not stupid, but you might be, which is how she maneuvered you into not having a prenup. I hope the validation of your middle-aged ego and three minutes of exercise is worth it.”

“I treasure these calls, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Especially your subtle digs at my sexual technique.”

“Spend less time banging groupies and more time on your show, Al,” Smart said. “You’re not fading because your politics have suddenly gotten unpopular. You’re fading because you’re getting lazy and bored. You get lazy and bored in this business, and guess what? You’re out of the business. And then the groupies dry up.”

“Thanks for that image,” Birnbaum said.

“I’m not kidding, Al,” Smart said. “You got a quarter to turn it around. You know it and so do I. You better get to work.” She disconnected.

They caught up to him as he was heading out of the lobby of the hotel. “Mr. Birnbaum,” the young man said to him.

Birnbaum held up his hand and tried to keep walking. “Can’t sign autographs now,” he said. “I’m going to be late for my kid’s soccer match.”

“I’m not here for an autograph,” the young man said to him. “I’m here with a business proposition.”

“You can direct those to my manager,” Birnbaum said, yelling back to the young man as he blew past. “That’s what I pay Chad to do: field business propositions.”

“Down twelve percent this month, Mr. Birnbaum?” the young man called out to him as he headed into the revolving door.

Birnbaum took the entire circuit of the revolving door and came back to the young man. “Excuse me?” he said.

“I said, ‘Down twelve percent?’” the young man said.

“How do you know about my numbers?” Birnbaum said. “That’s proprietary information.”

“A talk show host who spends as much time as you do linking to leaked documents and video shouldn’t need to ask a question like that,” the young man said. “How I know your numbers isn’t really the important thing here, Mr. Birnbaum. The important thing here is how I can help you get those numbers up.”

“I’m sorry, I have no idea who you are,” Birnbaum said. “As a corollary to that, I have no idea why I should care about or listen to you.”

“My name is Michael Washington,” the young man said. “On my own, I am no one you should particularly care about. The people who I represent, you might want to listen to.”

“And who are they?” Birnbaum said.

“A group who knows the advantage of a mutually beneficial relationship,” Washington said.

Birnbaum smiled. “That’s it? Are you serious? A shadowy, mysterious group? Look, Michael, I may get traction on conspiracy theories from time to time-they’re fun and the listeners love ’em. It doesn’t mean I think they actually exist.”

“They’re neither shadowy nor mysterious,” Washington said. “They simply prefer to remain anonymous at this point.”