âOKAY, SAM, THATâS A WRAP.â
The hot television lights were powered off, and Sam Porter pulled back from the small desk on the sound stage. He took a last drink of his water, and wanted nothing more than to be home in bed, preferably alone, nursing a cold beer, and watching the tape of todayâs show.
Four a.m. was too early for any human being of sound mind to be up, but heâd sacrificed in order to prep for this interview, which had been a slam-dunk. The Connecticut Senator was political roadkill, although now Sam felt like death warmed over and the night was still young.
The crew began arranging the studio for the next broadcast, cameras being rolled away to the side of the set as the mechanized take-down duties were performed.
He nodded in the general direction of his floor director. âThanks, Kristin. See you tomorrow.â
Kristin winked at him, putting aside her clipboard and headset. âMaybe youâll see me. Iâve got a hot dateâthink Iâm going to elope.â
He rubbed at his face with his palms. âJust as long as youâre back in the morning. Donât make me break in another one of you.â
âSure, boss,â she answered.
The crew started to take off. Goodbyes were always the shortest when the weekend was lurking nearby. Today was only Wednesday, but his staff were forward thinkers and Friday couldnât come soon enough.
âSam, wait a minute, will ya?â The voice of his producer boomed over the studio speakers, and Sam scowled in the general direction of the production booth. He wanted to get home, and Charles Whistleborne Kravatz III could be excruciatingly long-winded when he put his mind to it.
Charlie ambled into the studio, squawking into his cell. Impatiently, Sam tapped his foot until Charlie noticed, gave Sam an apologetic smile, and then kept talking for another ten minutes. Sam was just turning to leave when Charlie finally hung up.
âWeâve got a problem. The city manager pulled out and weâve got to find another guest for Thursdayâs show.â
âYouâre kidding?â
âSorry, Sam. Your fan base isnât huge out there.â
âYeah, well, someday. So what are we going to do? Know any Northern California radicals to put on?â
Charlie scratched his neck, parting the Brooks Brothers shirt buttons around his ever-expanding stomach. âI think we should do something less political. To offset the judicial expertâs talk about the nominee for the Supreme court. Big yawner. Give it some balance.â
âLike what?â
âI donât know. Human interest. Fluff.â
âI donât like fluff,â warned Sam.
âNo lectures, Sam. Hear me out. Youâre doing two solid days of hard, depressing crap. We need something more upbeat. Happier. Maybe not birdies and rainbows, but something to put people in a good mood.â
At the moment, Sam was several emotions removed from a good mood. âI donât know, Charlie. Let me think. Iâm tired and I need sleep.â
Charlie nodded. âDo that. And let me know.â He turned around to leave, and then turned back. âHey, I got a call about you while the show was taping.â
âNot another death threat, I hope?â
âHehe, no. One of your fans. Chairman of your favorite New Jersey political party. He tried to play coy, but I pegged him. They want you to be their drop-in candidate for the House Seat in the Fifteenth District, after Detweiler pulled out. Four months before the election? Who does that?â
Sam started to laugh. âMe? A candidate? Youâre kidding.â
âNope.â
Eventually Sam realized that Charlie was serious, mainly because Charlie was always serious.
Politics. His smile faded. âReally?â
âYeah. Since weâre right up against the election, itâs got to be a write-in candidate, and the party knows youâve got the name recognition to pull it off. They know they can trust you, your platforms are right. Itâs not that big of a leap, Sam.â
âYouâre kidding,â repeated Sam, still slightly in shock. It was flattering, it was intriguing, and most of all, it was something that heâd never thought about before. âIâm in television. I talk about politics. I donât do politics,â he said, weighing the arguments out loud.
âI take it thatâs a ânoâ then. Iâll send your regrets.â
Sam almost corrected that, but something held him back. âYeah, just tell them no,â he said, finality in his voice.
âGlad to hear it âcause weâd have to kill the show, and I for one would not be happy. Hell, Iâd have to find a new show. And I donât even wanna think about the network. Youâre a cash cow, and cash cows are hard to come by these days.â
âI didnât think about losing the show,â Sam murmured, wrapping his mind around the possibility of a new direction in his daily routine.
âYouâre thinking about losing the show, Sam?â asked Charlie, his faded blue eyes still sharp as theyâd always been.