Swan Song
Grace
Back in the chemo suite for the last day of getting pumped with liquid death: this is my bargaining chip.
The one thing that people love more than a deal that brings in a lot of money is a deal that gives them a lot of good press and makes them look like a Good Samaritan while still making some money. That’s my hope, anyway, even though I have no reason to believe in the veracity of the theory.
The truth is that the biggest bankroll will win 99 out of 100 times. The other time, someone’s got their feet to the fire.
The doctor comes in and checks my bag. It’s about empty, but he tells me it’ll be a few more minutes.
My phone rings, and I’m slow to answer it. Right now, everything’s kind of slowed down.
“This is Grace Miller,” I answer.
“Did I get this address right?” Andrew asks. “I’m out in front of a hospital.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “My assistant Margaret should be waiting for you in the main lobby.”
“Why are we meeting in a hospital?”
“I had a previous engagement that I couldn’t get out of.”
He knows I’m sick, so he must know what I’m planning to do. Still, he comes up to the room. When he walks in, his face tightens as he tries to override any natural reaction he may have and replace it with a smile.
“Grace,” he says, “it’s good to finally meet you face-to-face.”
“It’s good to meet you, too,” I tell him, extending the hand at the end of the arm with the needle sticking out of it.
Gingerly, Andrew shakes my hand. “I’ve got to tell you,” he says, “right now, the boss is thinking of going with one of your competitors.”
“I’m sure he is,” I tell him. “I forget, your last name is Evans, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking around at the other patients in their own recliners in the chemo suite. “Look, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but-”
“Andrew,” I tell him, “you and I have a bit of history, don’t we?”
“I guess.”
“You guess,” I scoff. “We’ve been talking for almost a year.”
“Yeah, but to be honest with you, I never really thought you’d make an offer. Speaking of which,” he says, “what is it?”
“I’m sorry, what is what?” I ask, playing the only card I have.
“What is your offer?” he asks, looking at the silver bag of chemo hooked to the other end of the tube, supplying my bloodstream with the drug.
“Ten,” I tell him. “It may not be much, but we’re going to let you hang onto a lot more of your station’s flavor than any of the bigger guys will.”
“Ten million?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe if that word started with a b,” he says, “we might be able to do something, but you have to know that we’ve been hearing numbers that make yours, well, kind of insulting.”
“It’s certainly not my intention to insult you,” I tell him. “I’m just coming to you with what I have.”
Playing the victim isn’t really my cup of tea, even when I am a victim, but it’s keeping him in the room.
“I appreciate that,” he says. “How are you doing with your treatment, by the way?”
I’ve almost got him, but the space between almost and definitely is going to be next to impossible.
“I’m still here,” I tell him. “Other than that, I’d say you might want to ask me again when I’m a little farther away from this room.”
“I have a cousin that had cancer,” he says.
Anyone who’s ever walked into a chemo suite will be able to tell you that it’s difficult knowing how to act. Over time, you learn when to smile and when to ignore, but unless Andrew here’s been through the treatment himself, I’m pretty sure he’s working without a net here.
“How did that turn out?” I ask.
Cancer stories, even when they contain the word “remission,” don’t often end well. Judging by the long pause, I’d say that would be the case with Andrew’s cousin.
“I’d rather not talk about it right now,” he finally says.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Let me tell you what our money gives you that nobody else’s will. First off, you get to keep most of your programming. Over the first year or so, we’ll slowly start to introduce more of our content, but we have no problem with you keeping your higher rated shows. Higher ratings are good for both of us here.”
“That’s great, but-”
“Hold on,” I tell him. “Along with keeping a few of the more familiar faces, you’ll also get great publicity out of it. I mean, do you really think viewers are going to be impressed if you turn their beloved station into just another face for the big six?”
“Grace, you’ve got to understand that this is business,” he says. “We’ve got to make the best profit we can so we can do the things we want to do.”
“How much are the other guys really going to let you do?”
“They said we could keep all of our programming for one year,” he says. “From there, if we make a good impression, they may syndicate a few of our shows and-”
“You really think that’s going to happen?”
I’m just killing time now. My secret weapon is running a little late.
“They’re willing to put it in writing,” he says.
“Well, that’s the ballgame then, isn’t it?”
“Grace, I’m sorry-” Andrew starts.
“Ten million isn’t a lot of money in our business; I know that,” I tell him. “You’ve got to understand that we were a lot like you guys for a long time. Hell, we’re still a lot like you guys. How long do you think it’s been since the people leaving messages for your bosses and your bosses’ bosses have been able to say that?”
“I would imagine it’s been a very long time,” he concedes. “As you know, our station hasn’t been faring very well lately, but your board has thrown us quite the life preserver.”
“I take it your mind is made up, then?” I ask.
“I’m sorry to say it is,” he answers. “After all we’ve discussed over the last year or so, I felt that I should be the one to tell you, and I wanted to be able to tell you to your face.”
“That’s a shame,” I tell him. “By the way, have you ever given a press conference?”
“No,” he laughs. “Why would I ever have given a press conference?”
“No reason,” I tell him as Mags comes through the door.
“They’re ready for the two of you,” she says.
“Give us just another minute,” I tell her. “The doc still needs to unhook me from my chemo drip.”
“Do you want me to track him down?” she asks.
“If you would, Margaret,” I answer. God, I hate calling her Margaret.
“Who’s ready and what are they ready for?” he asks.
“I took the liberty of setting up a nice press conference just off the hospital property,” I answer.
Now he has that look in his eye. He knows exactly what I’m planning.
“No,” he says. “I won’t do it.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have that much of a choice,” I tell him. “We were planning on announcing today, and I’d bet that the print reporters Mags has sitting in the waiting room are going to tell their people if you leave a poor, sick, dying woman hanging right after she’s just gone through chemo.”
“You’re trying to smear me — and by extension, KJBP,” he says, stating the obvious. I’ve always wondered why people bother stating the obvious. Isn’t it already, well, obvious?
“I’m trying to give you the opportunity to come off like a saint and KJBP a savior,” I tell him. “The fact that once you leave this room, you’re going to be answering questions from the press while someone wheeling me right behind you shouldn’t make you nervous.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, I make my move.
In preparation for this round of chemo, I went ahead and shaved my head. I find that better than waiting for it to just come out on its own. This way, I don’t have to worry about half my hair coming off my head with a stout breeze.
Andrew doesn’t know any of that, at least until I reach up and slide my fingers through the hair of the black wig I’m wearing and lift it off my head. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Just making myself more comfortable,” I tell him. “These things can get so hot after a while. They really don’t breathe.”
“So if I don’t go out there and announce that we’re taking your offer, you’re going to make me look like a monster,” he says.
He’s very astute.
“It’s not going to work,” he says. “Even if you smear me, it’s not going to change anything. You don’t have the money or the influence to strong-arm us like this.”
“You’re right about the money,” I tell him. “The influence, though — the press has enough of that on its own.”
The doctor comes into the room and checks my bag, saying, “Looks like you’re done for the day, Grace.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I tell him, feeling sicker than confident. Oddly enough, that might just work for my benefit. “Would you mind if I take a puke bag to go?”
Andrew glares at me.
“Not at all,” he says, and grabs one of the blue plastic bags with the plastic handles and gives it to me.
“Margaret!” I call.
Mags comes in the room, and I tell her to grab my chair, that Andrew and I are ready to meet the public.
“I’m not going to give a press conference,” he says. “You may get a few reporters to see me leaving, but it’s not going to be the story you’re hoping for.”
“That’s certainly your choice,” I tell him. “You really can’t make a person give a press conference when they don’t want to, so I guess I’ll have to do it myself. I just hope this doesn’t get picked up on social media. I certainly wouldn’t want our competitors to think that your public image is so radioactive they have to end up withdrawing their proposals.”
“Grace,” he says, “is this really what you want to do? We have a history. We have-”
“We’ve talked on the phone and you’ve been dragging your feet ever since our first contact,” I tell him. “If you’re trying to appeal to our longstanding friendship, I’m afraid you’ll find that only works when there’s a longstanding friendship to appeal to.”
Not my best pitch, but hey, I’m not at my best here.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he says. “I was really hoping we could work together.” With that, he turns and leaves the room.
“I think it’s our time in the spotlight,” I tell Mags, and I move to the wheelchair.
This probably isn’t the ethical thing to do here, but it’s my only shot at getting what I’ve been working for ever since I started with Memento. Is it going to work? I’m not getting my hopes up.
Mags wheels me out to the waiting room, where we find Andrew being accosted by reporters. Hospital security is trying to convince everyone to leave, but not before Mags wheels me up next to Andrew, still holding the puke bag in my hand.
“Miss Miller,” one of the reporters says, “how is your treatment going?”
The press loves a good human interest story.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Charlie,” I start — yeah, I learned the reporter’s name about half an hour ago, “it’s not a walk in the park. It was really nice of Andrew here to come and pay me a visit.”
Andrew looks down at me, still trying to manage the nerve to say something.
“You all need to leave right now,” one of the security guards says.
Everyone starts filing down the hallway, and as quickly as Andrew tries to walk, Mags keeps me right next to him on the way down the hall. We get to the elevator and Andrew presses the button. I motion for him to come close.
“Why don’t we have a little talk on the way down?” I ask.
“You’re out of your mind,” he says.
“Well, either that or it’s you, me, and a few reporters from some of the better circulating newspapers in the country,” I tell him.
The elevator door opens, and Andrew hesitates a moment before going in.
“Just you and your assistant,” he says.
“Mags?” I ask.
She wheels me into the elevator with Andrew, and once the door closes, I get back into it.
“Can you see the headline?” I ask. “Representative from KJBP Runs from Cancer Patient.”
“This isn’t going to work,” he says. “I’m not going to answer any questions.”
“That’s your choice,” I tell him, “but you know the press. If you don’t give them a comment, they’re going to come to their own conclusions.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
“You’ve never met someone who’s got nothing to lose, have you?” I ask. “You may make a deal that’ll get you a big office in a nice, tall building, but those pictures of you coming out of the chemo suite with me in the background all bald and sad-looking are going to be with you pretty much forever. It’s really up to you what the caption beneath them turns out to be.”
“I’m not the fucking station owner,” he says. “I can’t just make this deal without the approval of my-”
“You say the words,” I tell him, “and I’m willing to bet your betters are willing to overlook a zero or two to avoid a public boycott.”
“This isn’t going to work,” he says. “People are going to see through it if you smear me.”
“You know what the one good thing about looking like me right now does for you?” I ask. “It makes people really sympathetic. Now, I’m not usually the type of person that’s looking to exploit my illness to get what I want, but you’re not leaving me much of a choice, now, are you, Andrew?”
“This isn’t going to work,” he says.
He says that right up until we come out of the elevator and he sees the cameras waiting out front.
“It’s up to you,” I tell him. “Today, you can either be the hero to your company’s bank account or you can make KJBP the station that cares. Do me a favor and give your boss a call. I’m willing to bet he says that a positive image is better for the growth of a company than a fatter bankroll.”
Actually, I’m betting his boss is going to say the exact opposite. I’m not delusional.
Luckily for me, though, Andrew doesn’t know any better.
This is almost too easy.
“I don’t know what I would say even if I did go along with it,” he says.
“Mags?” I ask, and my lovely assistant pulls a folder from her oversized purse and hands it to me.
“I took the liberty of preparing a statement for you,” I tell him. “I think you’ll find it rather flattering to you and your bosses. By the way, Mags, did you tell them to turn on their televisions? They’re probably going to want to see this.”
This shouldn’t work, and if I were talking to anyone with more experience handling the press, it wouldn’t. Andrew, though, seems to think that the media cares a lot more about this sort of thing than they actually do.
I may have forgotten to mention that to him...
“This is going to get me fired,” he says. “I can’t turn down better deals from bigger companies just to try to avoid some personal embarrassment. I don’t know who you think I am, but my job is to do what’s best for the company.”
“They sent you out here with real bargaining rights, didn’t they?” I ask. “What were the terms of your acceptance?”
“Take your offer and multiply it by about 50,” he says. “Do you really think a shot of me walking out of this building without giving you a deal is going to outweigh half a billion dollars?”
Actually, no, I don’t. This is a fool’s errand, and the most likely scenario is that I participate in humiliating a somewhat decent guy doing what anyone in his position would do.
“I think you’re more concerned with your public image than you think,” I tell him. “I think you know that even if you do go for your half a billion, you’re not going to have a job waiting for you when you get back there. They’ll tell you that it’s just politics and they’ll blame me for it just like you will, but they’re not going to be able to keep you on when that video’s playing over and over again on the internet.”
“You think I’m going to make a deal with you just to preserve my job at KJBP?” he asks. “Do you really think they’re not going to fire me if I throw away 490 million dollars?”
“Oh, they’re probably going to fire you either way,” I tell him. “If you go out there and read this, it’ll probably be your last act as an employee of KJBP, but the damage will be done and they’ll fold. They’ll have to because you made the deal. They might try to weasel out of it, but that doesn’t matter. We may not be big yet, but we’ve still got about a dozen lawyers more than you do. No matter what you do, you’re going to get fired, but read this and I think we might be able to find something for you at M.E.”
“This is blackmail. This isn’t remotely legal.”
“What are they going to do, throw me in jail?” I ask, and give out a nice, wet cough just for effect.
If Andrew opens his mouth, they’re absolutely going to throw me in jail. I’m not a month or two from the scythe; I’ve still got about another decade at least — assuming the treatment doesn’t kill me faster than the disease.
“Come on,” I tell him. “This is the deal that’s going to give you and KJBP a good name in the biggest market that you’ve ever known. There’s not another deal in the world that’s going to give you that.”
If you pay attention to the world of business, you’ll find that having a good name is one of the least important things there is. A bad name can be offset by good PR, and people have always respected power more than they’ve respected honor or decency — not to say that what I’m trying to do to Andrew is either honorable or decent.
There’s an easy out for him if he knew enough to use it: he could go out there and say a few words that would be respectful, but noncommittal. If he were to go out there and tell the press that he’s been working with me for years and that he’s going to see what he can do to sell a deal with his board and from there, all he’d have to do is wait for the big money announcement.
Nobody’s going to remember him in a week, no matter what he chooses to do.
Luckily for me, he’s too flustered at the sight of the cameras outside to think about any of that.
“And if I just go out the back?” he asks.
“They’ll track you down. I’ll make sure of that.” I turn to Mags, saying, “When do you think the reporters from upstairs are going to get down here?”
“Seriously, why are you doing this to me?” he asks.
“Just trying to help convince you to do the right thing,” I tell him.
There is no reason for him to go for what I’m offering, but after laying it on this thick, there’s just the slightest chance that he might do the dumb thing and give me exactly what I want.
“I thought you were better than this, Grace,” he says.
“I’m just a dying woman who’s been working on this too long to see it fall by the wayside. So, are we going to do a joint press conference or are you going to try and Mission Impossible it out the back?”
He takes a minute to think.
“They’re never going to abide by this,” he says. “Even if I go out there and do everything you want me to do, they’re never going to abide by it. You don’t have the clout.”
“Bet your career on that?” I ask him.
I wouldn’t. In fact, I seriously doubt KJBP would even fire him for the string of bad publicity I’ve got planned — call it spite — should he do what any responsible representative would do.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll read it, but if KJBP doesn’t go for it, I won’t have you dragging me through the shit for it.”
“You go out there and read that,” I tell him, “and you’ve got a job at Memento no matter which way it goes from there.”
That was the only perk I’ve been able to squeeze out in addition to the 10 mil offer.
Even though Andrew is right, KJBP is never going to stand by this deal, it’s still a personal victory to follow him outside and sit there, however wiped I am from the chemo, and hear him read the prepared statement saying that KJBP will soon be a subsidiary of M.E.
What I’ve neglected to tell Andrew is that when this deal falls through, I’m going to lose my own job. That’s just the position I’m in. My job was over the moment a member of our board mentioned the names of some of the biggest stations in the world.
People love an underdog story, but only if the underdog wins in the end. I have no chance of that. Human interest pieces are great, but people have a short attention span for this kind of thing and nobody’s going to care.
This isn’t going to change anything, and when KJBP announces that they’re going with whoever they end up going with, I’m going to lose my job.
What I do have is this moment, seeing the high water mark of my career. What’s ruining the whole thing is that Jace isn’t here to see it.