Television Romance

Mass Murderer

INT. TABLE READ ROOM - DAY

"Tabley, tabley, tabley read," Juliet sing-songed as she took her seat. She was nervous the way she had been yesterday for the pitch meeting, but there was something comforting in the infantilizing of important meetings through song. Plus, she had a song stuck in her head to which she couldn't remember the lyrics, so "tablely, table read" was as good as any placeholder.

"You ready?" Bill asked. Juliet hadn't made it home last night and was still in her purple-shirt-baggy-pants-combo. The difference was that her greasy hair was now in a bun high on her head and her pants, like a giant magnetic, had acquired various objects over the past hours. She probably had a couple of pounds worth of stuff in her pockets, including but not limited to: pens, pencils, keys, a lighter, granola bars stolen from the kitchenette, safety pins, a flash drive, and, of course, her chapstick.

"As I'll ever be," she said, "I don't have to do anything anyway. You're the cast member here, remember?"

"Really? Shit!" She laughed and he was satisfied. That was the thing about comedians: they were all people pleasers. Especially the ones that denied it.

"Oregano Farmer," Greg said as an introduction. He was reading the first words in the big packet of papers that lay in front of each writer and cast member. "Oregano Farmer" was a sketch by-

"The MaN," Jerry muttered to Vian. They shared a look of secret satisfaction.

The first lines went to Nick the Newbie, who read them easily enough. Then it was Elizabeth, the blonde from Chicago. She breezed through.

It was Sam's job to read the stage directions and after years of practice, he always found a way to make the table laugh even with the most mundane actions.

Then the host started talking. Juliet had barely registered him when she walked in, only noting his uninteresting attire. He wore a grey shirt with a bright orange drawing of a fox, over which had been printed "No Fox Given." Something about the blocky illustration didn't elicit the same joy in Juliet she usually drew from strange clothes. Maybe it was the fact that she was pretty sure she'd seen the same shirt hanging in the boy's section of the local Target. But now her full attention soared over the long table to where he sat.

Within thirty seconds, every pair of eyes that did not belong to Sam, Greg, or the host himself found another pair to lock onto. Everyone was trying to telepathically communicate the same thing.

Are you hearing what I'm hearing?

It wasn't a bad accent or a bad joke. It was just the timing of everything he said. He read it awkwardly, as if he had just woken up yesterday with the ability to read English and was now taking it for a spin. Also, Juliet noticed, with every word his right eyebrow lifted as if there was an invisible ventriloquist's thread yanking them up.

The table read was four hours long and time seemed to inch by like a caterpillar. Juliet would look up and see a whole twenty minutes had passed, then look up three more times to find only two minutes had passed each time. The host kept interrupting a sketch to talk about something that almost sounded related, but under closer inspection was revealed to be a way for him to listen to the sound of his own voice. The viral video must have been an anomaly because he didn't say one funny thing that wasn't already on paper. And he accidentally sabotaged most of what was in writing too. By the end, the writers staggered out single file like zombies, clutching scraps of paper or writing utensils as that would safeguard them from the looming threat: a really bad show.

"Who vetted this guy?" Michael whispered to Juliet from over her shoulder.

"You'd have talk to Sam." She gestured toward the head writer who was doing a very poor job of extracting himself from a conversation with the host. Juliet couldn't hear all of what they were saying, but she caught excerpts. Mostly it was Sam rubbing his stubbly chin and going, "Well, I'll have to see-" and "I'm not sure-" only to be cut off by the host. Michael appraised the situation with a weary eye.

"You want to go in or should I?" he asked.

"You'll do it?" she asked hopefully.

"No, I just thought it would be easier for you if you felt like you had a choice." Too good to be true, she thought, I should've known.

"Fine. But you're buying me dinner."

"Easy."

"For me and Vian." Michael mimed weighing the options in his hands before he responded.

"Deal."

Juliet bounced on the balls of her feet several times before taking the plunge.

"Hey," she called, stepping toward the one-sided conversation, "Great work at the table read." She batted her eyelashes, aiming for doe-like.

"Thanks, I loved your sketch," the host said. Juliet was positive he had no idea which one was hers. She seriously doubted he remembered her name.

"You know, I'd love to go over some stuff with you. I have some notes," he continued. Oh no. She had waited too long to respond. It had only been a fraction of a second, but he leaped at the opportunity to keep talking.

"You know, I'm really busy right now but that sounds good so I'll see if I have the time," she told him noncommittally. It felt like talking to a six-year-old, telling them "Sure, I'll watch that movie about animated frogs as soon as I get a chance."

"It won't take long. Maybe fifteen minutes." That was a lie and she knew it.

"Sure thing," she eked out. Her organs shriveled with disgust at the idea of being alone in a room with him but, luckily she had already planned an escape.

"Do you mind if I steal Sam for a moment? I need to ask him something," she said with a friendly smile.

Miraculously, it worked. The host, placated, thanked her in too many words and stepped away to find another target.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, what the hell?" Juliet muttered without hesitation.

"I know."

"I mean, it was mass murder in there. And not in a good way!"

"I know."

"He seemed so normal at the pitch. It's like someone flipped a switch."

"I know." She sighed, both aware and thankful that he was giving her a moment to vent.

"So what do we do?" she asked.

"Try to write something good and trust that the audience will understand it's not our fault." It was very responsible advice but unsatisfying.

"How did he even get in? Don't they screen for this kind of thing?" What thing she was referring to even Juliet wasn't sure. Maybe pathological narcissism.

"I really don't know. There's something strange going on with the management. Someone else dropped out at the last minute and it was between him and the guy who does those pizza commercials." Juliet had no idea what pizza commercials he was talking about, which she guessed was why they were stuck with this host. Sam put his index and middle fingers to his temples.

"Any chance we can convince him the show is on Sunday and go without a host this week?" she joked.

"If only." He looked so distraught that she switched into a comforting mode, the way she did when Bill was stressed out about a big part.

"Aw, Samtastic, don't worry. We'll just cut most of his lines. No one will even notice he's there." He cracked half a grin.

"Knew I could count on you, Juliet."