Christopher Beha - Arts & Entertainments - A Novel

“This is my new thing,” he said by way of greeting. “In honor of Justine Bliss. Every bracelet sold raises money for— what, Lisa?”

He didn’t turn as he spoke his assistant’s name. Lisa stood behind him trying not to be noticed. She might have been a shy child protecting herself with a parent’s leg, if that child also carried a clipboard and a six-pack of Diet Coke.

“Head trauma,” Lisa said.

“Right.” Moody reached into his pocket and pulled out several more bracelets. “Give these to your friends. Spread the word. We’re going to rid this country of head trauma if I have anything to do with it.”

“That’s really admirable,” Eddie said.

With no visible prompting, Lisa freed a can from the six-pack and handed it to Moody, who took three quick sips without removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth. He put the can down and seemed to forget about it.

“I’m excited to have you involved with us,” he said. “You’ve gotten a lot of people’s attention in the past few weeks. What we’re working on, the big goal here, is a live delivery special when Susan goes into labor. That means we’ve got to get the story arcs up to speed. Right now there’s about a one-month lag between what we’re shooting and what we’re airing. So when they start shooting you in January, that stuff will probably air the beginning of February. By the time we’re into the middle of February, it will be more like two weeks or even a week in between. We’ve got a crew of editors and producers working pretty much twenty-four/seven digesting all this information we’re throwing at them and turning it around into hour-longs. As far as details-wise, your field producer — Lisa?”

“Dell is going to be in the field with them.”

“Your field producer, Martin Dell, can fill you in details-wise. Glad to have you on board.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Eddie said.

“Sure thing,” Moody answered in a flat voice that reflected the pained expression on his face.

“You’re the one responsible for determining the general direction of these story lines?”

“Arcs,” Moody said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Story arcs. Lines are flat and straight. That’s not very compelling. We’re trying to create story arcs. I consider story to be an area of core competence.”

“So you’re responsible for arcing this particular story? That’s your call?”

“It’s your call, really,” Moody said. Lisa pulled another can from the pack and handed it to Moody. He took the same three quick sips and placed it beside the first. “We’re pretty organic about all this business. It depends an awful lot on what footage we collect. We can’t just go making things up. It all has to happen first.”

“I guess what I’m asking is, I want to be there when Susan, when my wife delivers our babies. My daughters, I mean. I want to be there for their birth.”

To Eddie’s relief, the smile returned to Moody’s face.

“I can imagine why you would,” he said. “I was at the birth of one of my kids and it was all sorts of special. That was—”

“Clarissa,” Lisa said.

“My daughter Clarissa. It’s a beautiful thing. I wasn’t there when the other two were born, which was unfortunate. But it wasn’t up to me. Their mothers didn’t want me there. That’s life. You see where I’m going with this?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Lisa?”

“It’s up to Susan,” Lisa said. “It depends on whether she wants you there.”

“Well put,” Moody told her. “I have a problem sometimes with indirectness. I’m aware of it, and I’m working on it. Point is, what Lisa said, so far as answering your question goes.”

“You can’t make any promises, is basically what you’re saying?”

“Here’s the thing,” Moody told him. “This is the honest truth. A lot of these kinds of momentous occasions can get—”

“Overhyped,” Lisa said.

“Overhyped,” said Moody. “Did you know that I’ve been to three Super Bowls?”

An awkward silence followed, until Eddie understood that he was actually meant to answer the question.

“No, I didn’t know that,” he said.

“It probably sounds like a pretty good deal to you. But you know what I’ve learned?”

“What?”

“Sometimes it’s better to see these things on TV.”

THE FIRST TIME EDDIE appeared on Law & Order he arrived to the set and found more than a hundred people, makeup and wardrobe and catering and dozens of others whose jobs he couldn’t begin to guess, running around with headsets on or earpieces in, half of them looking perfectly assured and the other half completely panicked. Every task was unionized, so a gaffer could be fired for picking up a camera or a cameraman for touching a boom. Eddie spent the day standing in place, waiting for lights to be set up, hoping above all that he wouldn’t mess up when his brief turn at the witness stand arrived, which would cost everyone time and money and ensure that he’d never be hired again.

The director spoke briefly to the actress playing the Legal Aid defense attorney about to question Eddie, but not to Eddie himself, who didn’t have enough lines to merit anyone’s attention. There was no mention after the scene was over of how he’d done. He only learned that his performance was passable when he was hired back the next year. Nor had anyone ever told him he’d done something wrong during that second appearance, though he was never called in for a third. There had been other television appearances, perhaps a dozen in all. The crew that arrived in the imperial suite in the first week of the new year reminded him more of his student film days than of those experiences. He’d expected the enormous space to be packed on the day shooting started, but only six people came.

For two weeks he’d been living in the four-room suite by himself while Melissa visited her mother in California for the holidays. The visit seemed to conflict with her earlier description of their relationship, but Eddie assumed that Melissa’s new fame had drawn her mother’s attention. Eddie should have visited his own parents in Florida during this time, but he couldn’t bear to face them. He couldn’t trust them to keep any secrets, and he didn’t want to spend Christmas lying to them. His unwillingness to lie about a young girl he was seeing was not a good sign, since this was about to become his whole life. From then on the crew would always be there, so Eddie would have to stay forever in character. He would have to inhabit the story completely. It was just acting, he told himself. But this flew in the face of his belief that acting was something other than lying. Besides, even acting had not ended well for him.

It was something of a relief, then, to see the size of the crew. Contrasting this production with the scripted shows he’d done gave Eddie the feeling that he was the professional among amateurs, that he was in control. The field producer, Martin Dell, helped put Eddie at ease. He was about Eddie’s age, and he had none of Moody’s eccentricities. He offered a firm handshake and what seemed like a genuine smile.

“Very nice to finally meet you,” he said. “I’m looking forward to working together.”

Dell moved about the room with relaxed attentiveness, as if already playing scenes out in his head. He waved over his associate producer, Kara, a tall woman with short red hair and a serious expression who introduced the rest of the group.

“For the most part,” she said, “you’re going to be followed by just one camera, managed by Hal here.” Kara gestured at a large, unsmiling cameraman, who looked like a stoic from some postmodern parable. He had a beard he wore shaved tight along his jawline, as if to suggest the presence of a neck below, but it only added to the impression that his head had been dumped hastily onto the mound of his shoulders. “Hal’s assistant, Kit, might also be helping out.” Kit stopped briefly to wave a hand before he went back to carrying heavy equipment into another room. Kara pointed to a South Asian girl who was helping Kit carry equipment. “That’s Roma. She’s a production assistant.”