Sean Hannity sat in one of two matching dark wood chair with green leather seats in the office at the end of the hall on the third floor of 1211 Avenue of the Americas in New York City. The office formed the southeast corner of the building facing the traffic driving north on Sixth Avenue. The digital clock on the desk that faced Sean Hannity read 5:32. It was January, and there was a light snow falling outside the floor to ceiling windows of the corner office. The sun was setting and the car headlights danced on the snowflakes.
Sean Hannity had his right leg crossed over his left leg. His right foot was air tapping, and his back hurt. Hannity rubbed his hands on the armrests and could feel the sweat in his palms. He had been sitting for ten minutes, waiting for a meeting that was called by Roger Ailes. He looked to his right and out the open door of Mr. Ailes’s office; the well-lit office corridor was trafficked with earnest young interns and other administrative staff. No sign of Mr. Ailes.
The door to the left of the Mr. Ailes’s desk opened. Roger Ailes emerged. Sean Hannity did not know that Mr Ailes’s had his own private bathroom installed. Sean stood.
“Been here long?” asked Ailes.
“No. Just arrived,” said Sean. Sean was not certain why he lied. It was a sign of weakness. He knew that. But he felt compelled.
Roger Ailes sat in his large chair. Sean was waiting for Ailes to give him a sign to sit. But Ailes did not do so. So after an awkward moment watching Ailes shuffle some papers around, Sean took his seat.
“You wanted to see me?” asked Sean.
“That is why you are here,” said Ailes without looking up from his papers.
“Is everything OK?” asked Sean.
“We have some interesting information,” said Ailes. “Did you ever hear of the amygdala?” asked Ailes.
“The what?” said Sean.
“They are two almond-size parts of the brain. Deep inside,” said Ailes.
“Ah hah. OK. No, I never heard of them,” said Sean.
“They are interesting little suckers. They respond emotionally to stimuli. When the amygdala is not responding, the brain is not really interested,” said Ailes.
Sean had no idea where this was going. “OK. Cool,” said Sean.
“And the amygdala of people watching you on TV are not responding, Sean. That is a problem, ” said Ailes.
“I don’t get what you are saying,” said Sean.
“We commissioned a study to monitor the amygdala of people viewing our programs. It is very interesting,” said Ailes.
“How do they do that?” said Sean.
“Never mind how they do it. But the results have made us take a second look at our programming,” said Ailes.
“So you are saying that these things did not respond to my show?” asked Sean.
“I am saying that they did not light up to you, Sean. You are not making any emotional connection to our viewers,” said Ailes.
“I have to disagree, Mr. Ailes. I get emails everyday…”
“Fuck the emails,” said Ailes, cutting off Sean. “Emails mean nothing. This study goes much deeper than emails and anecdotal evidence. And it tells us that you are a dud, Sean,” said Ailes.
Sean knew that he had recently re-negotiated his contract, so this could not be some kind of tactic to pay him less money. “But sir, the Nielson ratings show that I am very popular in my time slot,” said Sean.
“We do not rely just on the unreliable Nielsons, anymore, Sean. We are going for the core of what touches our viewers. Let’s take your show with Sarah Palin, for example,” said Ailes.
Sean felt good about talking about his interview with Palin. It won that time slot hands down, one of the most watched shows of the week. Sean smiled.
“Yeah, that was a hit,” said Sean.
“Sarah Palin was a hit. The amygdala lit up like halogen bulbs when Palin was on screen and talking. They went dark when you were o screen talking. I could have had a dog sitting in your chair and we would have had a hit show with Sarah Palin,” said Ailes.
Sean tried not to take offense. “You are overstating it. A bit, don’t you think,” said Sean. “How did O’Reilly do on these tests?” asked sean.
“O’Reilly lights up the amygdala just fine. Here’s the problem, we think. You are an ass-kisser. You ass kiss everyone you agree with. The viewers know this. There is no drama when it comes to you, Sean. They know what you are going to say. And you say it. You are predictable. In fact, you are ass kissing me right now. You are fundamentally, a bore. And we never would have known this without those little amygdala telling us the truth,” said Ailes.
Sean re-adjusted himself in the chair. “You want me to challenge people more, is that it,” said Sean.
“This is a warning. You better do something. Because I ain’t going to keep paying what I am paying to have you just sit there and be predictable,” said Ailes as he picked up the telephone in response to a ring.
“Yes. OK, I will take it,” said Ailes into the receiver. Ailes covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. “I have to take this, so…”
Sean stood, Ailes returned to his phone call. Sean walked out of the corner office into the brightly lit corridor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hannity,” said a young intern with long blond hair as she passed Sean heading for the corner office. Sean nodded, put his hands in his pockets and walked back to his office.
Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta walked into Dressing Room #34 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles after the conclusion of the 2010 Grammy Awards. She was in seven-inch soled shoes with ten-inch heels, and her shoulders were burdened with what could best be described as silvery balloons that rose above the top of her bleached hair. Stefani, otherwise known as “Lady Gaga.” slammed the door shut, making a sound that penetrated her temples and made her flinch. Stefani turned to face her reflection in the makeshift mirror bolted to the wall of a room that Stefani knew was not designed as a dressing room. The Staples Center is set up to house many different kinds of events, mostly sports, and has only a handful of what entertainment professionals consider “full-service” dressing rooms, with bathrooms, hot tubs, a kitchen, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a lounge area. The walls of Room #34 were cinder blocks, painted in what Stefani considered a dull yellow, and there was definitely not a kitchen or lounge area. There was a sink. And the card table set in front of the mirror is where she plopped her two Grammy Awards. She went to the sink against the wall to her right and washed off all her makeup. Her eyes were think with black, and as she splashed her face, the black ran down her cheeks, giving her a gothic appearance. Stefani pulled out the hardware hidden in her hair which released the long strands which fell to her shoulders. She then ripped off her wardrobe, tearing it in places, and as each piece came off, she threw it to the floor. By time she was down to her white underwear and bra, she sat in the chair facing the table and looking at her two Grammys.
There was knock at the door. ”What” yelled Stefani.
“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door. Stefani rose and opened the door.
“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.
The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.
“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.
“What the fuck are you talking about? This is my shit-hole dressing room. I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.
“You can’t. This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.
“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.
“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.
“The Lakers. Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh? No. I doubt it. So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.
“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard. ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.
“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK. He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.
“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.
“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.
“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.
The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.
“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.
Stefani stood and looked at the guard.
“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.
“Yeah,” said the guard.
“You want to come in. Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.
“Come in?”
“Yeah, like come into my dressing room. I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.
The security guard looked down the hallway. He then looked at his watch. Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards. She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts. She then fingered her Grammy Awards.
“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.
The guard came into the room and shut the door.
Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm. She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials. Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival. She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats. Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi. Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.” Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence. This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment. Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.
Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed. Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together. It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it. This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm. Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket. The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black. Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.
“So what is this place?” asked Elin.
“You know what it is,” said Tiger.
“Well, actually, I don’t. It says clinic. (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.
“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.
“Oh yeah. What is that? Is that like an illness? Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.
“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.
“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick. Maybe you should start using your birth name. Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.
“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.
“Shame reduction work? You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.
“You’re joking,” said ELin.
“It’s part of the process. I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.
“They should fucking make you feel more shame. It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.
“And trauma work? what trauma did you go through, Eldrick? Tell me that? Like I didn’t have any trauma. Like the kids,” said Elin.
“Maybe you can check in with me. We can go through this together,” said Tiger.
“That is not happening,” said Elin.
“I have to talk about you and our relationship here. With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.
“You talk about me? You better not talk about me. This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.
“No, listen. After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.
“We have two children, Eldrick. What kind of goddamn fears do I have? None. And you don’t talk about me to them. It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.
“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.
“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it. What a load of crap,” said Elin.
“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin. That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.
“It’s Rachel, now? You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy. It is working,” said Tiger.
“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin. ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’ They are making this easy for you. Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.
“Yes,” said Tiger.
“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick. You are a prick. An asshole. A liar. And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.
Elin moved to the front door of the cottage. Tioger watched her as she walked. He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.
“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.
Elin turned to face Tiger. She looked at him. And then she opened the door and left. Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward. He did not cry. Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.
John Edwards was pacing back and forth in his study. He was in boxer shorts and a white dress shirt. He was wearing white sports socks with a navy blue strip around the top. Think of Tom Cruise sliding into frame in his underwear in Risky Business. Edwards was on his Blackberry Bold.
Edwards: So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage. I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage. I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer. What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it. OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what? You want what? Child support? You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough? Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford. I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me. Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call. Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue. So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.
Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters. He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry. He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises. He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun. He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun. He then slams the drawer shut.
Hillary looked at her thin stainless steel wristwatch. The time was 7:45 PM. Her throat had a slight burn from the speech she just gave in a Walmart parking lot to a crowd of Walmart shoppers and employees. There was no microphone, so she had to raise her voice to a level she knew was going to come back and haunt her. Not to mention the dry eyes Hillary confronted from the cool breeze blowing in her face during the Walmart speech. After the crowd gave her a cheer in response to “I am one of you,” Hillary Clinton moved quickly to a black Chevrolet Tahoe and got into the back seat surrounded by Secret Service. Hillary’s next stop was to be Charleston, a good forty-minute drive from the Walmart.
Hillary was alone in the backseat. The driver was Secret Service. In the passenger seat was another Secret Service agent. The side trip to the Walmart had been unplanned, and it threw a bit of chaos into the day because Hillary was not with any campaign staff, who were all waiting for her in Charleston at campaign headquarters. It was the Secret Service, the two in the front seat and the other two in the Chevrolet Suburban behind, that acted as Hillary’s traveling staff, helping her set up at Walmart and announcing Hillary’s presence to the Walmart store manager. The news media was there only because someone in Charleston had thought to send a wire out an hour before she arrived at the Walmart.
Hillary felt tired, her arms heavy, and she could hear herself breathing. As the car moved at sixty miles per hour down a long winding stretch of thick green backwoods, Hillary spotted the Green Tick Diner approaching on the side of the road.
“Stop at that diner. I need to go the bathroom,” said Hillary to the driver.
The Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot, followed by the Suburban from behind.
The parking lot was empty but for three pickups, all from the 1960s and all Fords and all light blue. Hillary noted the near droning similarity that everything took on for her in West Virginia.
Hillary wanted to throw water on her face and maybe get a Coke. The protocol was that two Secret Service agents were to recon the diner before Hillary left the vehicle. The agent advised the waitress at the register that Mrs. Clinton was planning to use the bathroom. The waitress, maybe about fifty, wearing a red wig with a cigarette dangling from cracked red lips, nodded without any noticeable reaction to the famous visitor in the parking lot. Hillary entered the diner, smiled at the red-wigged waitress and was guided to the ladies room by one of the Secret Service agents. The agent had made certain the bathroom was empty and stood sentry at the door to prevent anyone from entering while Hillary was in the bathroom. As Hillary passed the Secret Service agent, he handed her a black can of Coke Zero which he had purchased from the dirty blond twenty-year old girl that worked the counter. Hillary grabbed the can of Coke Zero without eye contact as she passed the agent and entered door to the bathroom that shut behind her as she looked up into the diner’s ladies room.
The ladies room had three stalls and three sinks. The sinks were embedded in a grey linoleum counter top. The linoleum had the thin-lined boomerang shapes, each about the size of a paper clip, as if thrown on the top randomly. Hillary popped the Coke Zero’s top and took a long swig. She placed the can next to the sink and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen the sink closest to the door, but it hardly mattered since the mirror she faced was cracked in various places, rivers of break lines running in all directions. One ran through the image of Hillary’s face as she noticed her makeup was caked and uneven from the nearly continuous wind she had faced all day in West Virginia.
She turned the faucet on and cupped her hands, collecting a small pool of cool water drawn from a well in the back of the diner. She splashed the water on her face and grabbed a paper towel from a stack lying on the counter top. She removed her makeup. She did not wish to be caught by the media without makeup, but it was unlikely the media would be anywhere near the Green Tick Diner. And quite frankly, she hated makeup. She found herself lopping on more and more of it to cover up more and more facial lines and hanging eye bags.
The toilet flushed. Hillary stood erect. The stall door, which was not shut, opened and out walked with a slow limp an old woman slumped forward, her head sticking out and down, the hump of her back nearly as high as the top of her skull, which peaked out through thinning silver hair. The old woman did not look at Hillary but moved slowly to the counter top, turned on the faucet and leaned on the linoleum with twisted hands. She was wearing blue jeans and frayed converse sneakers. The jean were cut about two inches above the ankle, exposing very pale skin treaded with blue veins. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt covered with a brown leather jacket.
Hillary glanced at the door with a moment of surprise, half expecting the Secret Service Agent to pop his head in. But the old woman made no noise that would have brought the agent rushing into the bathroom. Hillary relished these private moments, and so was irritated that the agent had not cleared the bathroom. How had he missed this old woman? She thought it was possible that the agent merely noted that each stall door was open and assumed that no one was sitting on any of the toilets. Well, I guess in West Virginia closing a stall door is not customary, Hillary thought.
“You that Clinton chick?” said the old woman as she was looking down at the water running down the drain. The old woman’s body position had not changed since she found her support on the linoleum counter top. It seemed like she was fighting some uncomfort or pain.
Hillary resisted a response. But that would be impolite, and as much as she had been accused of lacking any sense of civility, it was her inclination to be gracious.
“Yes,” said Hillary.
“What you doing here?” said the old woman.
“Well, there’s a primary today, and I am campaigning,” said Hillary.
“They’re ain’t nobody lives in this part,” said the old woman.
“We are driving to Charleston where my campaign headquarters is located,” said Hillary.
“Charleston folk are a bunch of crap-eaters,” said the old woman.
Hillary had never heard the term “crap-eaters” and wanted to ask, but she was then caught off guard.
“Hey, you ain’t that Hillary chick. That Hillary chick is an old hag. You trying to mess with me?” said the old woman as she glared at Hillary.
“No. No. I am Hillary Clinton,” said Hillary.
The old woman stared at Hillary, squinting her eyes.
“Hey, yeah, OK, I see it. You just ain’t got makeup on, is that it? You don’t look half bad without that shit on your face,” said the old woman.
“Thank you,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. What’s his name?” asked the old woman.
“You voted?” said Hillary.
“At the firehouse. This morning. Voted for the black guy. O somethin’,” said the old woman.
“Obama,” said Hillary.
“Yeah. Him. People ’round here don’t like the black guy cause he’s skinny and always smilin’,” said the old woman.
“Is that right?’ said Hillary.
“Shit. I need a drink. S’pose you could drop me at Bunn’s Bar down the road?” asked the old woman.
Hillary was inclined to tell the old woman that she was in a rush. But that would make no sense, and the old woman seemed to have an accurate bullshit meter.
“I need a drink too,” said Hillary.
“Nah. Bunn’s not for you. It’s filthy. Dirty shit all round. The crap-eaters in Charleston have plenty of clean bars fit for you,” said the old woman.
“What do you drink?” asked Hillary.
“Gin. Gin stinks, and I like to be reminded I’m a drunk. The crap-eaters in Charleston don’t smell their own shit. I like to smell mine. So can you drop me? At Bunn’s? It’s on the way,” asked the old woman.
Hillary really wanted to go to Bunn’s Bar and hang with this old woman for most of the night. She needed a gin too, though she preferred vodka.
“Sure. We’ll drop you off,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. I ain’t apologizin’. Just saying I voted for the black guy. To be different. And he’s different, you know,” said the old woman.
“Yes. I know. I know,” said Hillary.
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