Television Romance

Seven Years' War

INT. WRITING ROOM FOUR - NIGHT (CONT.)

"He's definitely the worst host this year," Jerry remarked, almost impressed, once the door had been shut for a while.

"I didn't know you could cancel out a good deed so quickly," Juliet mused. She pulled on the jacket and pushed the sleeves up at least six inches before her hands peaked out. The host may not have saved Reese's life, but he at least saved her a trip to the emergency room. Not even half an hour later, everyone in Four was back suppressing the impulse to hit him. Ah, the cyclical nature of life.

"Ugh, what a fucking sleaze!" Juliet shook her head as if she'd walked into a swarm of gnats. Her blonde waves rippled in a soft halo around her neck. Vian had one of the crazy-person kind of thoughts a writer frequently had during the so-called Seven Years' War. Maybe, if Vian reached out and touched it, Juliet's hair would actually be made of water.

"He's probably disoriented," Vian said, the words surprising her as they left her mouth.

"Just 'cause he's in a strange position doesn't mean he's allowed to be an asshole."

"Yeah," Vian agreed softly. It didn't.

"Doesn't make him less of a sleaze." She let the sleeve of Bill's jacket swallow her right arm like an anaconda and smacked Bill in the face with the end.

"Fucking nine-year-old," he muttered at her.

"Fucking nine-year-old," she mocked in a high voice. The door opened again and this time everyone jumped. Thankfully, the water bottle had been closed and set aside, so the only damage done was to their pride when they saw who was at the door.

"Sam wants to see you," said the orange-haired intern to Vian. Vian nodded.

Vian had a terrible impulse to say goodbye to her new friends. New? They weren't that new anymore; they'd know each other for almost six months now. In the last year, she'd seen these people more often than her own family. Her own fianceé, she admitted to herself, though she'd never admitted it to Rich. She surveyed the room now. It was the perfect ecosystem. Bill promising that this was the last time he lent her any of his clothes, Juliet retaliating that he wouldn't have to give her any clothes if could just avoid dumping water on her, Bill states defensively that there was an implied splash zone, and Jerry shooting rubber bands and the two of them to try and get them to shut up. Across the hall, Hugo was probably ramping up for another opera she wouldn't recognize.

She walked down the hall like it was a dream. How attached can I actually get to a place in four months? she thought, I'd be just fine if I never stepped foot in here again, wouldn't I? But she wasn't sure.

Sam's room didn't look like a typical executive office. His desk wasn't in the center, but instead pressed against one wall, like all the other writer's desks. Really, the only thing that separated Sam's room from all the others was that he didn't have to share. That and he was closest to the Bullpen. His desk, as always, was matted with piles of paper. His monitor was framed with neon post-its bearing various scribbled messages. As Vian walked into his office through the open door, he rubbed his eyes with one hand and used the other to pluck a post-it of the screen like a feather from a bird. He crumpled it and threw it over his shoulder where it landed on the floor to join a crude ring around a half-filled wastebasket.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, you'd better take a seat." There were a couple of folding chairs against one wall, the same kind as the ones in Table, and Vian felt time drag its feet as she opened one and sat down.

"I heard you, um. You called him an idiot to his face?" There was no need to be more specific.

"Yes."

"I'm not saying I wouldn't have done the same thing"--he looked directly into her eyes--"but that's enough to put you on thin ice now, Vian. Especially with everything going on with the show. The meeting on Monday..." He shifted behind in his seat, wheeling closer and farther from his desk. Vian thought that he looked uncomfortable with his authority in this situation, like he'd much rather be her coworker than her boss. It was clear that this was his least favorite part of the job.

"What"—she drew a breath—"What's going on with the show?"

"I'm not exactly sure. Just try not to berate any more hosts." Sam stood up.

"Of course."

"Alright, you're, uh, free to go. Let's try and get through this show before our host runs out of women in the show to hit on and starts making moves on the audience. He's going to give me more trouble than Michael," Sam sighed. Vian saw that he had shed his invisible suit of authority and was now talking to her as an equal again.

"No kidding. It took him like ten minutes to grab my leg," she said, feigning lightness. Sam's fell open an inch.

"He touched you?"

"Well, he touched my knee. That's why I... You know." She looked up at him patiently. He ran his teeth along the bottom of his top molars.

"I fucking love my job," he announced in a way that made it unclear to Vian whether or not he was being sarcastic. He certainly wasn't talking to her.

"Disregard everything I said before," he told her and marched out the door, "You should have punched him in the face. It's going to be a great show." Maybe Sam was a casualty of the same Seven Years' War hysteria just the same as everyone else.

~~~~~

Sam was a last-minute wizard. One had to be in order to survive as head writer. Within hours he had rigged it so the host had basically disappeared for the rest of the show, only popping up occasionally for a few one-liners. Vian was sure the audience was a little confused, but as a whole, the show went a thousand times better than any of them had anticipated after the table read.

"I bet he went home with his tail between his legs," Bill said.

"As he should," Jerry asserted.

"Fucking twerp," was Juliet's contribution. She tugged at the strings of Bill's grey jacket to even them out. After the meeting with Sam, Vian had told them all about exactly what happened in Five and they immediately sprung to their feet, threatening various illegal acts.

"And I guarantee you he's not going to find stand-up work for a while," Bill said, swirling her beer into its emerald green bottle.

"I guess yelling at members of the audience only gets you so far," Juliet said, "Who would have known?"

"Not me," Jerry deadpanned.

"So, tell us, Vee, how does it feel?"

"How does what feel?" Vian asked. So far, all she felt was relief that the week was over. The show had been off the week before and already she felt in need of another break.

"You've made a mark on the comedy world," Juliet laughed.

"Did I?"

"You got that guy blacklisted from at least a hundred theaters."

"He did that himself," she said and the four of them laughed, but she thought something else.

Good. It feels good.