Little White Lies (17 page)

I gave each new member of my staff a friendly nod as I took a sip of my coffee. I now realized my mug was the only one on the table. I frantically tried to recall any shred of a contract signing. I couldn’t.

Deliberately or not, Anders addressed my confusion. “Contract
negotiations
was more like it, ha, ha. You are a pretty tough dealmaker, Mr. Ristoff. And we were a bit surprised to have you insist on ‘absolute creative control’—especially as you have no experience producing a television program. But when you said it was a deal
breaker
, well, we had to say yes.”

I forced a smile. “How did you get the credit card issued so quickly? I mean, you didn’t even offer me the job until Saturday night …”

“One of the advantages of owning several banks, Karl.”

I was still blanking out on this purported contract session, but I had to admit that demanding “absolute creative control” did sound like something I would demand after double-digit beers. And for as long as I could remember, I had wanted my own “scrivener”—basically a personal scribe to jot down all the brilliant shit I say all day to record it for
posterity. I imagined that
daysistant
and
nightsistant
sounded like my own slurred pronunciations of “day assistant” and “night assistant.” So maybe things weren’t going so terribly after all …

“Well, I do appreciate you meeting my demands. And I’d love to help you put these clearly capable interns to good use.” I made a point of talking equally to Anders and Karin, which relieved me of holding eye contact with either one of them for too long. “But I had the intention to hire some people from my circle to fill out my writing staff and to work in production.”

The Skools’ smiles simultaneously disappeared.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Karin replied.

“But … didn’t you just say I have absolute creative control?”

“I’m afraid the hiring of staff is a
personnel
decision, not a creative decision,” Anders offered by way of explanation. “Karl, we went over this on Saturday. We are already taking quite a large risk by putting you at the helm of this television program. We can’t take chances with outsiders on your staff.”

“Understood,” I replied.

Across the table, all smiles returned. “Now, Karl,” Karin said, “you had so many great ideas on Saturday. I loved your ‘White Men
Can
Rap’ concept. It is so—what is the word?—dope!”

Horror returned. I slurped some coffee and set the mug down quickly. “Well, that is certainly something to consider.” I slouched in an effort to portray effortless confidence. “But my first order of creative business is this: I want to change the name of the show.”

I hesitated. I expected disapproval. Instead, everyone at the table leaned toward me with eyes full of interest.

“How about this?” I raised my eyebrows and pointed friendly finger-guns at Karin and Anders.
“Real. White. Lies.”

Nobody responded. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

I took another hasty sip of coffee. “I’m talking about the lies that the military-industrial complex shoves down the throats of poor people. But funny.”

Karin shot a smile at her twin. “I like what I am hearing, Karl,” she said, “You are brimming with so many great ideas and concepts. So radical, so passionate. And the new title is brilliant. Anders and I have decided to delay your debut for one more week, so that you and your staff will have adequate time to develop the best show possible.”

Anders nodded. “Keep thinking, Karl,” he said. He glanced at his phone, signaling our meeting was over. “We will meet again tomorrow morning to discuss our progress. And by all means, have some fun tonight!”

I did have fun that night. I also had fun during the next two weeks: a fuzzy blur that involved zero preparation leading up to the premier of
Real White Lies
.

I also googled myself more than ever:

Karl Ristoff

Old white ghost-tweeter replaces young black tv host …

Karl Ristoff becomes the white in little white lies …

Coretta White loses tv job to ghost-blogger …

Karl Ristoff: man of mystery — soon to be history?…

Now I saw the benefits of never having set up a proper Facebook page. There were no old embarrassing photos of
me for public consumption—that is, unless you consider my driver’s license photo and my high school yearbook photos to be embarrassing, which they kind of were.

It seemed that the blogosphere was on a massive hunt to locate recent photos of Pulse TV’s newest star.

But I had a show to create. And partying to do. I also charged two of my top subcontract-tweeters—Kris and Sarah—with conducting opposition research on my new bosses, the Skool twins.

Alex would tell me nothing. In fact, she’d stopped returning my phone calls and texts. Maybe she was pissed I’d entered into an agreement with the Skool twins without consulting her first. Or maybe once again, like at those Peter O’Toole Society shows decades ago, she was just embarrassed to be associated with me.

I couldn’t blame her. The public record was rife with evidence of my misbehavior. Every morning there was an item on Page Six of the
New York Post
about my misconduct from the night before. TMZ had a fresh Karl Ristoff video nearly every day. In turn, my appearances there generated invitations to outrageous parties and exclusive nightclubs I had never imagined, even during my days of celebrity ghost-tweeting. The cycle of nighttime naughtiness was the perfect promotional storm for the debut of
Real White Lies
.

The show itself, however, did not look so promising.

Despite my guarantee of “creative control” over my own TV show, nothing quite came together. Prospective guests were rejected because of “booking issues” that I was assured had “nothing whatsoever to do with the direction.” A few were deemed “antithetical to the interests of our sponsors.” Somehow “creative control” meant I had
the power to think up any idea I wanted for the show, but with no actual mechanism to help me bring these ideas to fruition.

And then, all of a sudden it seemed, came the big night.

I did have one big pre-show success; I secured the rights for my choice of theme song. It was “Lies,” performed by the cartoon character Baby Cakes from animator Brad Neely’s
China, IL
series on Adult Swim. But even in the countdown to showtime, it didn’t bring me much pleasure. (Granted, I was hungover. Again.) When the cheap Casio drum beat came to a halting stop and the soundstage went dark, I wondered for the hundred-thousandth time:
What the hell am I doing? Who am I? What am I?

For once, the questions were pertinent. Masses of people were wondering the same things. Too bad I still had no answer. I stationed myself atop the same wack-ass concave video soundstage on which Coretta had met her televised demise just two weeks prior.

Déjà fucking vu
.

I was wearing my new rock star uniform—black button-down shirt, black denim jeans, outrageously expensive boots that looked like they might have been pulled from a sleeping hobo’s feet. Think Trent Reznor* wannabe. Not what I was going for; it’s just where my “look” ended up. Maybe
that’s
who and what I was, someone who just “ended up” with things—a look, a show, whatever, all wrong.

When the music ended, the stage glowed a yellowish-white. Now I was backlit and bottom-lit so that I initially appeared like a silhouette.

I’d prepared for this part, of course; I wasn’t winging it completely. We’d gone through a full dress rehearsal yesterday. But still, winging it was what it felt like.

“Good evening,” I said to the cameras and bright lights. My voice boomed from the invisible mic clipped to my shirt. “I’m Karl. Welcome to
Real White Lies
.”

That’s when the scripted portion of the evening ended. At least according to the script that we had followed yesterday. The house went black again. All at once I was hit with six consecutive blasts from a powerful spotlight. I cringed, momentarily blinded. Again the house went dark as eerie guttural bass tones hummed from the sound system, vibrating inside my abdomen.

“A little something different for you folks at home,” I lamely quipped, trying to recover. My voice was inaudible. Of course it was. My mic had been shut off.

The stage glowed once more, below and behind me, and I heard a collective gasp from the small studio audience. I turned to see a giant projection of buck-naked Karl Ristoff (thankfully with pixilated privates) holding a bottle of tequila and singing—poorly—an ancient megahit by Nelly: “It’s Getting Hot in Herrrre.”

The camera angle changed to reveal two uniformed NYPD officers, one male and one female, both unimpressed.

You can imagine what followed.

In case you can’t, I’ll spell it out in excruciating detail.

First a quick montage of me in various stages of undress at my “new home,” accompanied by generic circus music. I had no memory of any of it. Then came embarrassing shots from my oeuvre of low-budget rap videos: MC Expensive Meal draped with bacon; MCEM being straddled by an
Amy Winehouse lookalike; MCEM fighting over Viagra in an old folks’ home and then creeping through the bedrooms.

The videos had seemed innocent and funny when I’d made them.

In this context, however, I looked like an out-of-control idiot.

When the video ended, the stage glowed red, and the regular stage lights came up in front of me. I heard Anders before I saw him.

“And these are just the highlights, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced gleefully. I didn’t need to spot Karin to know that the Skool twins were repeating the flanking maneuver they’d pulled with Coretta. Soon enough they were at my side, each placing a gentle hand on a respective elbow.

I jerked away and crossed my arms in defiance. I stared directly into the camera, trying to muster as much self-confidence as possible. Mostly I was trying not to cry on TV. I knew there was nothing I could say, even if I did have a live microphone. And any attempt to snatch a mic from the Skools—any physical outburst—would only make me look like more of a fool.

So I listened.

Or pretended to. It was something about balancing the scales between me and Coretta … the importance of exposing frauds in our midst, including Coretta White, Karl Ristoff, and Alex Melrose of AllYou™, the fraudulent business that was largely responsible for this entire mess … the vapidity of gossip and the insanity of conspiracy theorists … the cancellation of
Real White Lies
(duh) and the announcement of a brand-new program to take its place—devoted to their SKOOLS 4 ALL initiative …

When they finished their public scolding/promo spiel, the lights went down.

Finally, something else I’d rehearsed for: the show had cut to commercials. The Skools attempted to escort me off the stage, offering vague apologies mixed with stern rebukes and threats of lawyers, tabloids—and most important, the police. But I knew better than to hang around and protest. I broke free and somehow found my way to the street below.

I didn’t bother trying to return to my “new home.” No doubt they’d already changed the locks. Instead I opted for the nearest bar, which happened to be inside a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. I ordered a large Lt. Dan’s Punch and slid my titanium Amex card over to the bartender. I had just made it to the bottom of my punch when the bartender approached me with a regretful look.

“I’m sorry, but your card’s been declined,” he said. He didn’t sound apologetic. He sounded oddly like Bill O’Reilly. “I’m required by American Express to destroy it.”

From beneath the counter, he pulled out a pair of thick bright orange rubber gloves, a large, long-neck beaker full of clear liquid, and a smaller cylindrical beaker. After he donned the gloves, he carefully poured the liquid into the smaller beaker. “Hydrofluoric acid,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Sorry, this is company policy.”

When he dropped my card into the beaker, it disintegrated before my eyes without so much as a fizzle. The liquid remained clear.

“That’ll be fourteen dollars for the punch,” he said, putting everything away. “And we do take cash. Would you like another?”

I shoved my hand into the front pocket of my expensive
jeans, pulled out my last crumpled twenty, and laid it on the bar. Then I shuffled out of Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and headed to a bar where the bartender knew my name. At least there I’d be able to drink on credit.

I sat in front of my computer, not knowing what to do.

I had just finished watching the livestream of Karl Ristoff’s first
“Real” White Lies
(ha!). I’d just been subjected to that horror show.

Yes, I was still furious with Karl for agreeing to take over the hosting duties after I had been crucified for all to see. (I know I said I wouldn’t use the word “crucify,” but I couldn’t resist any longer.) And yet it was still painful—
beyond
painful— to watch him suffer exactly the same fate. To explode on national television, thanks to the Skool twins.