Today's Reading
"Hey, our guests are real people. I only book actual humans on here as far as I know. Though we could get that disgraced Kentucky Derby horse in here if you want." Omar chuckled.
"Yeah, I don't know. Might be better, actually. I think some of these people traded their souls for sneaker endorsements."
"Ouch, El."
"Ouch nothing, I don't know what's worse—me pretending this is good for people or them pretending they care. I wasn't even supposed to be doing this, except for that New York Jets second-stringer who became a star because I made him cry hard enough to score three touchdowns in a playoff game. I didn't even know what the playoffs were for, Omar. Is that messed up or what? I sold out. I am so done."
And that was when she looked up at the orange sign right over the producer's booth whose portentous glow was flashing slowly. on air.
Ellie's stomach dropped to her shoes. She pointed up at the light with a trembling finger.
"O?" she asked. Surely there was some kind of electrical gremlin that had made it look like she was LIVE, ON AIR, right now because there was no other explanation for why that light would be lit. "Oh fuck."
Omar looked from Ellie's finger over to the other side of the booth and promptly leapt across the board to cut her audio and the live video feed. She stood up and tried to walk out of the line of the camera, forgetting that she was still wearing headphones that were plugged into a soundboard, and was immediately yanked back down to her seat. The right earpiece rotated off her ear and landed squarely in the middle of her mouth, smearing her Charlotte Tilbury gloss in Candy Darling pink up to her nose. That was when she ripped off the headphones, thrashing her wrist directly into the iced coffee, turning herself into a caffeinated Rorschach. Ellie's mouth, still smeared with gloss, hung open as a pool of cold liquid collected in a divot in the seat cushion of her chair. She was 100 percent certain that it was about to soak through to her underwear if she didn't stand up immediately. Still, her legs were stuck in cement.
Clusters of people passing through the lobby had stopped to see what was going on inside the fishbowl since the broadcast was audible through speakers planted along the ceiling. Those, plus the ten monitors set up around the lobby, never failed to capture everyone's attention, especially when the famously composed Dr. Beltrami just ripped an expletive through the studio and the airwaves beyond. Omar flipped a switch on the soundboard to continue the broadcast, but the screens stayed a cold black, reflecting the disaster back to her.
"Well, everybody, there you have it. Dr. B and I were just messing around a bit—trying a new segment, you know? A little behind-the- scenes for you here today, but it probably won't make the cut I think, ha ha." Even through the glass, Ellie could see a sheen of sweat glimmering on Omar's bald head. "So, we're off for the next couple of weeks, but don't forget to tune in for season seven of Games Over starting in August where we have a lot of great guests lined up like—" He shuffled through a notebook, threw it down, and hovered over his computer. "Uh... Like, ah—" he tried, jabbing at the keyboard, searching for something, anything, to right the ship. "And also Dr. B is very excited to share more great..." He trailed off, giving up.
Ellie didn't remember much after that. She could hear Omar close out the show and then lots of yelling from inside the booth while the show's outro music blared from all directions. She heard a "Coño" and a "Me cago en diez" and some other expletives as Omar screamed his way through the forensics of trying to understand what went wrong, but she was too dizzy with shock at that point to do anything beyond close her laptop, slide it in her bag, and walk straight out of the fish-bowl.
But leaving the scene wouldn't be easy. Not only had Games Over made Ellie a star, but it had also turned the plaza outside of the building where the studio was located into a permanent press box for paparazzi to hang out and wait for whatever A-lister was featured on the show. When the doors whooshed open, revealing the illustrious Dr. Beltrami in smeared lip gloss and a stained suit, the flashbulbs would start popping. Ellie was too numb with humiliation to think about finding a creative way to cover up the mess. There was nothing between her and certain social media implosion but the clear blue sky and sunshine.
Maybe Dougie Baylor wasn't hot enough to draw the cameras. Maybe the live feed was messed up and none of the paps heard the last two minutes of catastrophe. Maybe one of those massive sinkholes would open up like the one on 89th Street last summer and swallow her whole.
"Hey, Dr. B! Do you really hate athletes?"
As she stepped outside, a bearded guy with a camera lens jutting out aggressively from his face snapped Ellie's brain back into focus. He didn't even wait for her to answer before repeatedly hitting the shutter button on his camera. She ducked her head and marched straight toward the curb like she hadn't heard him, but the clicking sound was inescapable. It would have been smart to call an Uber, but she couldn't think of taking even one extra second to pull up the app. Right now, she was better off just looking for a taxi. She had to get off the street by any means at all. More time in public meant more chances to get photos of her from every possible, messy angle. A yellow car edged toward the curb with the center light lit, and Ellie did not hesitate.
...
