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“It’s no problem,” I manage, which sounds humble and understated when what I really want to do is leap up and high-five Nina. I want to fist-bump John. I want to kiss Nigel full on the mouth. Mostly, I want to wipe the frown off my dad’s face. This is great news. Why is he scowling like someone pissed in his cocktail?
“Sorry, John. Nigel,” my dad says, “forgive my confusion, but I guess I’m still trying to catch up. Friday, a very reliable source told me your team had drawn up the short list and we weren’t on it…”
I stop my head from swinging in my father’s direction. He’d had an unofficial thumbs-down since Friday and didn’t think to share that information with me?
“…today, I get a call for this meeting and find out we’re still in the running. Obviously, we’re pleased, but why do I have whiplash?”
John props his forearms on the table and leans in. “Confidentially?”
Dad nods. “Of course.”
Total waste of breath. Whatever John’s about to disclose will be breaking all over the gossip outlets before this meeting concludes, but we pretend it’s just between us. “You’re not the only one with very reliable sources. Late last week one of ours informed us Flynn Bateman is about to be the latest name trending with a MeToo hashtag attached. We conducted a quick but intensive investigation into the accusations, and while we are of course not prepared to comment on whether he broke any laws, we determined certain documented behavior fell short of the America Rocks ethical standards. He was one of our top contenders, due to his potential to reach the smartphone demographic on the platforms they favor and lure them away from their YouTube channels and Instagram feeds a couple hours a week.” John’s eyes shift to me. “Now you are. Unless you tell me someone’s got hard-to-refute evidence of you doing things that would make it impossible for you to sign a morals clause.”
“Of course not,” my father replies before I can even open my mouth.
“Brilliant.” Nigel sets his drink down, and I realize the meeting is basically over.
“What kind of morals clause,” Nina interjects, ever the pragmatist.
Nigel rubs his palms together. “Nina, John will have someone send over the gist of it first thing tomorrow morning, but the legal folks tell me it’s completely reasonable.”
“I’m sure they do,” she says without much concern, but I know she’ll go over every word and work that shit until she’s satisfied it’s fair. Beneath her Clair Huxtable facade beats the heart of a tireless detail-wrangler. “I’ll give it my immediate attention and let John know right away if anything doesn’t read right.”
“I’m confident you will.” His smile widens to include my father, who has been in on the rounds of auditions, discussions, and negotiations so far. “And I’m sure we can count on your continued discretion regarding this process.”
He follows that up with a wink, because we all know this, too, is part of the game. If you’re Nigel Cowie you don’t sip drinks on the patio of the Ivy with a guy plenty of insiders know auditioned for host of your show unless you want to fuel rampant speculation. Which he does, because having people buzzing about this is good for the show.
I figure it’s time for me to get in this meeting and say something. “Aside from ethics, Nigel, can you tell me what’s on your wish list for the next host?”
Across the table Nina gives me a tiny nod of approval.
Nigel sips his drink and considers how he wants to answer my question. “I loved Gray. Loved him. Admired him. He was one of my mates. But this process isn’t about finding another Gray Ellison. We had him, he was bloody amazing, and nobody can replace him. That chapter of America Rocks is closed. It’s on the next host to write the next chapter in a style and voice that works for them. Page one, someone with the versatility to appeal to the loyal, longtime fans while at the same time attract a new set of viewers.”
“I—”
“Right.” My dad cuts me off. “You don’t need another Gray Ellison, but you do need someone who can project a similar all-American image. Someone who knows how to watch what he says, what he does, and with whom he says or does it, because this franchise is handing over an audience, and the host’s choices have the power to alienate that fan base. Here’s the bottom line. Flynn Bateman wasn’t ready for prime time. We are. In today’s world you have no safe zone. So Vaughn”—he turns to me—“you need to keep in mind that every facet of your life is part of your brand and, by extension, part of the America Rocks brand. Does that make sense?”
Yes, but my face heats at my dad’s assumption that he needs to spell this out for me, especially in front of Nigel and John. He’s treating me like a kid, and everyone at the table realizes it except him. For two people who share DNA, he doesn’t know me at all.
“Yeah, Dad. Thanks. I think I’ve got it.”
My tone doesn’t invite any further discussion, but my dad doesn’t need an invitation. “Most importantly, you’ve got me.” He directs his attention back to Nigel. “I’m here to manage his brand, down to who he makes appearances with, who his name is linked to, and so forth. There will be no missteps.”
I tune out. Kendall’s angel face forms in my mind, silently contradicting my assertion that I’m not a risk to their brand. Okay, maybe I’m extra defensive on account of my actions last night, because in light of them I may actually deserve to be treated like someone without a fully developed prefrontal cortex, except my father doesn’t know a damn thing about what happened. I tune back in to hear my dad insist, “I have a strategy for everything.”
Nigel offers a neutral smile then raises his glass. “To strategy.” We all toast, and moments later, Nigel thanks us again for working him into our schedules. I give him credit for sounding sincerely appreciative for a man most people in this town would reschedule surgery for if it meant getting a meeting. Chairs are eased back, handshakes exchanged, and then John and Nigel sail off, making brief stops at other tables as they chart a course toward the sidewalk.
Dad and Nina launch into a review of the meeting. I listen as they trade impressions, but a fact keeps circling in my head like a hawk over prey. My dad’s control freak tendencies are getting worse as my career advances, not better. I respect his business expertise, and I appreciate everything he’s done to help me succeed, but I’ve got to set some boundaries with him. Before we end up hating each other.
A better man would have done it sooner, I admit a couple of hours later when I’m back in the privacy of my car. But my relationship with my father is complicated. When it comes to my career, I’m not just shouldering my hopes and dreams. I’m carrying his as well, because I’m the only one left to do it. I’m the second-string replacement for his paternal ambitions after the real star of the family—my sister—went dark far ahead of her time.
Even without the fucked-up family expectations, the stakes are high and getting higher. The producers of a massively successful reality show don’t often hand the reins over to an unknown quantity. If they do, everyone’s taking a risk, but if America Rocks goes off a cliff with Vaughn Shaughnessy driving, Vaughn Shaughnessy takes the blame. Failing to get the gig after making it this far will mean I clutched at a crucial moment. I had a real shot, but ultimately they deemed me too something—too inexperienced for network TV, too unfamiliar to audiences, too clumsy with the banter and interviews—and that would be disappointing because banter and interviews are my strong points. I can’t change my level of experience, or do much in the near-term to increase my profile in Middle America, but I can talk. More importantly, I know how to listen, and I know how to steer the conversation into everyone’s comfort zone. Lose your sister when she’s nineteen, on the verge of achieving her dreams, you learn how to walk and talk your way through hell and back. I like to think that’s why I’m uniquely qualified to land the job. But landing the job comes with a backdraft of pressure. I feel it. My dad feels it, too, and asserting control is his way of dealing with the tension and protecting me from failure.
Un
derstanding where his compulsion comes from doesn’t make it easier to tolerate, but nothing’s going to change unless I tell him to back off and figure out a way to make it stick. With that promise to myself issued and accepted, I toss the problem into a compartment of my mind labeled “Later” and focus on the satisfaction of advancing toward something I’ve put a lot of effort into accomplishing. It’s a good feeling.
The sun’s tinting my rearview mirror orange by the time I drive down my street, reminding me that I have a very narrow window to finish packing before a car arrives to take me to LAX. I may be tomorrow’s next host of America Rocks, but today I’m a guy with a commercial shoot in Miami. I hit the brake to make the left turn into my driveway and some of my king-of-the-world high fades. What went down on this slab of concrete last night is a prime example of the kind of behavior America, and the producers of America Rocks, will not forgive. Thankfully, they’ll never find out about that stupid lapse in judgment. Kendall won’t say anything. I mean, I’m not naive, and I don’t go around trusting people I’ve barely met, but she didn’t even tell her sisters, so I don’t see her doing some kind of “You’ll never guess whose drunk ass I saved” post all over social media.
