Lessons in Chemistry (25 page)

“I’m fine, Rosa.”

“Maybe you should call Walter first. He never lets any of us meet with Lebensmal alone.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t worry.”

Rosa hesitated, looking at the clock.

“Go home. It’s not a big deal.”

“At least call Walter first,” Rosa said. “Let him know.” She turned to gather her things. “By the way, I loved tonight’s show. It was funny.”

Elizabeth looked up, her eyebrows raised. “Funny?”

A few minutes before seven, after finishing her notes for tomorrow’s show, Elizabeth hefted her large bag to her shoulder and walked the empty hallways of KCTV to Lebensmal’s office. She knocked twice, then let herself in. “You wanted to see me, Phil?”

Lebensmal was sitting behind an enormous desk covered with stacks of papers and half-eaten food, four huge televisions broadcasting loud reruns in a ghostly black and white, the air stale with cigarette smoke. One set was airing a soap opera; another, Jack LaLanne; still another a kids’ program; and the fourth,
Supper at Six
. She’d never watched her own show before, never once experienced the sound of her own voice coming through a speaker. It was horrible.

“It’s about time,” Lebensmal said irritably, as he stubbed a cigarette into a decorative cut-glass bowl. He pointed to a chair indicating that Elizabeth should sit, then huffed to the door and slammed it shut, pressing the lock button.

“I was told seven,” she said.

“Did I tell you to speak?” he snapped.

From the left she heard herself explain the interaction of heat
and fructose. She cocked her head toward the set. Had she gotten the pH right? Yes, she had.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded from across the room. But the blaring TVs muddled his words.

“Do I know about…
yams
?”

“I said,”
he spoke louder this time, as he returned to his desk,
“do you know who I am?”

“You are Phil LEBENSMAL,” Elizabeth said loudly. “Would you mind if I turned the TVs off? It’s hard to hear.”

“Don’t sass me!” he said. “When I say do you know who I am, I mean
do you know who I am?
”

For a moment she looked confused. “Again, you are Phil Lebensmal. But if you like, we could double-check your driver’s license.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Waist bends!” shouted Jack LaLanne.

“Dance party!” laughed a clown.

“I never loved you,” confessed a nurse.

“Acidic pH levels,” she heard herself say.

“I am
Mister
Lebensmal, executive producer of—”

“I’m sorry, Phil,” she said, gesturing at the television speaker closest to her, “but I really can’t—” She reached for the volume control.

“DO NOT,” he boomed, “TOUCH MY TELEVISONS!”

He rose, picking up a stack of file folders, and marched across the room, planting himself in front of her, his legs spread wide like a tripod.

“You know what these are?” he said, wagging the folders in her face.

“File folders.”

“Don’t get smart with me. They’re
Supper at Six
audience viewer questionnaires. Ad sales figures. Nielsen ratings.”

“Really?” she said. “I’d love to take—” But before she could take a look, he snatched them away.

“As if you’d even know how to interpret the findings,” he
said sharply. “As if you have
any
idea what any of this means.” He slapped the folders against his thigh, then strode back to his desk. “I’ve let this nonsense go on far too long. Walter has failed to rein you in but I won’t. If you want to keep your job, you will wear what I choose, mix the cocktails I want, and make dinner using normal words. You will also—”

He stopped in midsentence, put off by her reaction—or rather, nonreaction. It was the way she sat in her chair. Like a parent waiting for her child to finish his tantrum.

“On second thought,” he spat impulsively, “you’re fired!” And when she still didn’t react, he got up and stomped over to the four TVs and switched them all off, breaking two knobs in the process. “EVERYONE IS FIRED!” he bellowed. “You, Pine, and anyone and everyone who has had even the smallest role in aiding and abetting your crap. You’re all OUT!” Breathing hard, he went back to his desk and flung himself in his chair, awaiting the only two reactions from her that could or should inevitably follow: crying or apologies, preferably both.

Elizabeth nodded in the now-quiet room as she smoothed the front of her trousers. “You’re firing me because of tonight’s poison mushroom episode. As well as any other person associated with the show.”

“That’s
right,
” he emphasized, unable to hide his surprise that his threat had not impressed her. “Everyone’s out and it’s because of
you.
Jobs lost. All because of you.
Done.
” He sat back and waited for her to grovel.

“So to clarify,” she said, “I’m being fired because I won’t wear your clothes and smile into your camera, but also because—is this correct?— I don’t know ‘who you are.’ And to further make your point, you’re firing everyone associated with
Supper at Six
even though these people also work on four or five other shows for which they’d suddenly be in absentia. Meaning that those other shows will also be affected to the point where they will not be able to air.”

Frustrated by her obvious logic, Phil tensed. “I can have those
positions filled in twenty-four hours,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Less.”

“And this is your final decision, despite the show’s success.”

“
Yes,
it’s my final decision,” he said. “And
no,
the show is
not
a success—that’s the point.” He picked up the folders again and waved them. “Complaints pour in every day—about you, your opinions…your
science.
Our sponsors are threatening to walk. That soup manufacturer—they’ll probably sue us.”

“Sponsors,” she said, tapping her fingertips together as if glad for the reminder. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about them. Acid reflux tablets? Aspirin? Products like these seem to imply the show’s dinners aren’t going to sit well.”

“Because they don’t,” Phil shot back. He’d already crunched more than ten antacid tablets in the last two hours and his insides were still in an uproar.

“As for the complaints,” she acknowledged. “We’ve had a few. But they’re nothing compared to the letters of support. Which I didn’t expect. I have a history of not fitting in, Phil, but I’m starting to think that not fitting in is why the show works.”

“The show does not work,”
he insisted. “It’s a disaster!” What was happening here? Why did she keep talking as if she wasn’t fired?

“Feeling like one doesn’t fit is a horrible feeling,” she continued, unruffled. “Humans naturally want to belong—it’s part of our biology. But our society makes us feel that we’re never good enough to belong. Do you know what I mean, Phil? Because we measure ourselves against useless yardsticks of sex, race, religion, politics, schools. Even height and weight—”

“What?”

“In contrast,
Supper at Six
focuses on our commonalities—our chemistries. So even though our viewers may find themselves locked into a learned societal behavior—say, the old ‘men are like this, women are like that’ type of thing—the show encourages them to think beyond that cultural simplicity. To think sensibly. Like a scientist.”

Phil heaved back in his chair, unfamiliar with the sensation of losing.

“That’s why you want to fire me. Because you want a show that reinforces societal norms. That limits an individual’s capacity. I completely understand.”

Phil’s temple began to throb. Hands shaking, he reached for a pack of Marlboros, tapped one out, and lit it. For a moment all was quiet as he inhaled deeply, the radiant end emitting the smallest crackle, like a doll’s campfire. As he exhaled, he studied her face. He got up abruptly, his body vibrating with frustration, and strode over to a sideboard littered with important-looking amber whiskeys and bourbons. Grabbing one, he tipped it into a thick-walled shot glass until the liquid hit the rim and threatened to spill over. He threw it down his throat and poured another, then turned to look at her. “There’s a pecking order here,” he said. “And it’s about time you learned how that works.”

She looked back at him, nonplussed. “I want to go on record saying that Walter Pine has been absolutely tireless in his efforts to get me to follow your suggestions. This is despite the fact that he, too, believes the show could and
should
be more. He shouldn’t be punished for my actions. He’s a good man, a loyal employee.”

At the mention of Walter, Lebensmal set down his glass and took another drag off his cigarette. He didn’t like anyone who questioned his authority, but he could not and would not tolerate a woman doing so. With his pinstriped suit jacket parted at the waist, he locked his eyes on her, then slowly started to undo his belt. “I probably should have done this from the very beginning,” he said, snaking the belt from its loops. “Establish the ground rules. But in your case, let’s just consider this part of your exit interview.”

Elizabeth pressed her forearms down on the armchair. In a steady voice she said, “I would advise you not to get any closer, Phil.”

He looked at her meanly. “You really don’t seem to understand who’s in charge here, do you? But you will.” Then he
glanced down, successfully freeing the button and unzipping his pants. Removing himself, he stumbled over to her, his genitals bobbing limply just inches from her face.

She shook her head in wonder. She had no idea why men believed women found male genitalia impressive or scary. She bent over and reached into her bag.

“I know who I am!” he shouted thickly, thrusting himself at her. “The question is, who the
hell
do you think you are?”

“I’m Elizabeth Zott,” she said calmly, withdrawing a freshly sharpened fourteen-inch chef’s knife. But she wasn’t sure he’d heard. He’d fainted dead away.

The Get-Well Card

It was a heart attack. Not a massive one, but in 1960, most people didn’t survive even minor heart attacks. The man was lucky to be alive. The doctors said he’d remain hospitalized for three weeks, followed by complete home bed rest for at least a year. Work was out of the question.

“
You
were the one who called the ambulance?” Walter gasped. “You were
there
?” It was the next day and Walter had just heard the news.

“I was,” Elizabeth said.

“And he was—what? On the floor? Clutching his heart? Gasping?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well then
what
?” Walter said, spreading his arms in frustration as Elizabeth and the makeup woman exchanged glances. “What
happened
?”

“Why don’t I come back later,” Rosa said quickly as she packed up her case. Before she left, she gave Elizabeth’s shoulder a small squeeze. “Always an honor, Zott. An absolute honor.”

Walter watched this whole interaction, his eyebrows raised in panic. “You saved Phil’s life,” he said nervously as the door clicked shut, “I get that. But what happened exactly? Don’t leave anything out, start with why you were there in the first place. After seven p.m.? That makes no sense. Tell me. Omit nothing.”

Elizabeth swiveled her chair to face Walter. She reached for her number-two pencil, removing it from her bun and securing it in behind her left ear, then picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “He asked for a meeting,” she said. “Said it couldn’t wait.”

“A
meeting
?” he said, horrified. “But I’ve said—you know—we’ve
talked
about this. You are never to meet with Phil on your own. It’s not that I don’t think you can’t handle yourself; it’s just that I’m your producer and I think it’s always better if—” He took out a handkerchief and held it to his forehead. “Elizabeth,” he said, dropping his voice. “Between you and me, Phil Lebensmal is not a good man—do you know what I mean? He’s not trustworthy. He has a way of dealing with problems that—”

“He fired me.”

Walter blanched.

“And you as well.”

“Jesus!”

“He fired everyone who works on the show.”

“No!”

“He said you failed to rein me in.”

Walter turned an ashy gray. “You have to understand,” he said, clenching his handkerchief. “You know how I feel about Phil; you know I don’t agree with everything he says.
Have
I reined you in? Don’t make me laugh.
Have
I forced you to wear those ridiculous outfits? Not once.
Have
I begged you to read the cheery cue cards? Well yes, but only because I wrote them.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Look, Phil gave me two weeks—two weeks to find an appropriate way to make him see that your outrageous way of doing things actually works—that you get more fan mail, more calls, more people lining up for your studio audience than all of the other shows combined, and for those reasons alone, you should stay. But you know I can’t just waltz in there and say, ‘Phil you’re wrong and she’s right.’ That’s suicide. No. Dealing with Phil means stroking his ego, using the angles, saying what he wants to hear. You
know
what I mean. When you
held up that can of soup, I thought we’d cinched it. Until you told everyone it was poison.”

“Because it is.”

“Look,” Walter said. “I live in the real world, and in that world, we say and do things in order to keep our stupid jobs. Do you have any idea how much crap I’ve endured in the last year? Plus, did you even know this? Our sponsors are about to walk.”

“Phil told you that.”

“Yes, and here’s a news flash. It doesn’t matter how many warm and fuzzy letters
you
get—if the sponsors say, ‘We hate Zott,’ that’s it. And Phil’s research says they hate you.” He shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket, then got up and filled a Dixie Cup with water, awaiting the glug from the gallon jug, an unpleasant sound that always reminded him of his ulcer. “Look,” he said, his hand on his abdomen. “We should keep this between ourselves until I can figure something out. How many people know? Just you and me, right?”

“I told everyone on the show.”

“No.”

“I think it’s safe to say the entire building knows by now.”

“No,”
he repeated, planting his palm to his forehead. “Dammit, Elizabeth, what were you thinking? Don’t you know how being fired works? Step one: never tell anyone the truth—claim you won the lottery, inherited a cattle ranch in Wyoming, got a huge offer in New York, that sort of thing. Step two: drink to excess until you figure out what to do. Jesus. It’s like you’re not familiar with TV’s tribal ways!”

Elizabeth took another sip of coffee. “Do you want to hear what happened or not?”

“There’s more?” he said anxiously. “What? He’s going to repossess our cars, too?”

She looked at him straight on, her normally lineless forehead slightly furrowed, and just like that his attention turned from himself to her. He felt uneasy. He’d completely overlooked the
most critical component of her meeting with Phil. She’d met with him alone.

“Tell me,” he said, feeling as if he might vomit. “Please tell me.”

Were most men like Phil? In Walter’s opinion, no. But did most men
do
anything about men like Phil, himself included? No. Sure, maybe that seemed shameful or cowardly, but, honestly, what
could
anyone actually do? You didn’t pick a fight with a man like Phil. To avoid these outcomes, you simply did what you were told. Everyone knew it and everyone did it. But Elizabeth wasn’t everyone. He put a trembling hand to his forehead, hating every bone in his spineless body. “Did he try something? Did you have to fight him off?” he whispered.

She sat up in her chair, the light of her makeup mirror providing an extra aura of fortitude. He studied her face with fear, thinking this was probably the same way Joan of Arc looked right before they lit the match.

“He tried.”

“God!” Walter shouted, crushing his Dixie Cup in one hand. “God, no!”

“Walter, relax. He failed.”

Walter hesitated. “Because of the heart attack,” he said, relieved. “Of course! What uncanny timing. The heart attack. Thank the Lord!”

She looked at him quizzically, then reached down into her bag, the same bag she’d taken to Phil’s office the previous night.

“I wouldn’t thank the Lord,” she said, pulling that same fourteen-inch chef’s knife out of her bag.

He gasped. Like most cooks, Elizabeth insisted on using her own knives. She brought them in each morning and took them home each evening. Everyone knew this. Everyone except Phil.

“I didn’t touch him,” she explained. “He just keeled over.”

“Jesus—” Walter whispered.

“I called an ambulance, but you know how traffic is at that
time of day. Took forever. So while I waited, I made good use of my time. Here. Take a look.” She handed him the folders Lebensmal had waved at her. “Syndication offers,” she said as he registered obvious surprise at the contents. “Did you know that we’ve been syndicated in the state of New York for the last three months? Also, some interesting new sponsorship offers. Despite what Phil told you, sponsors are falling all over themselves to be part of our show. Like this one,” she said, tapping an ad for the RCA Victor company.

Walter kept his eyes down, staring at the stack. He motioned for Elizabeth to hand him her coffee cup, and when she did, he downed it.

“Sorry,” he finally managed. “It’s just that it’s all so overwhelming.”

She glanced impatiently at the wall clock.

“I can’t believe we’re fired,” he continued. “I mean, we have a hit show on our hands and
we’re fired
?”

Elizabeth looked at him with concern. “No, Walter,” she said slowly. “We’re
not
fired. We’re in charge.”

Four days later, Walter sat behind Phil’s old desk, the room swept clean of ashtrays, the Persian rug gone, the phone buttons ablaze with important calls.

“Walter, just make the changes you know need to be made,” she said, reminding him that he was acting executive producer. And when he balked at the responsibility, she simplified the job description. “Just do what you know is right, Walter. It’s not that hard, is it? Then tell others to do the same.”

It wasn’t quite as easy as she made it sound—the only management style he knew was intimidation and manipulation; that’s how
he’d
always been managed. But she seemed to believe—god, she was so naïve!—that employees were more productive when they felt respected.

“Stop flailing, Walter,” she said as they stood outside Woody Elementary awaiting yet another conference with Mudford. “Take the helm. Steer. When in doubt, pretend.”

Pretend.
That
he could do. Within days, he’d made a series of deals, syndicating
Supper at Six
from one coast to the other. Then he negotiated a new set of sponsorships that could double KCTV’s bottom line. Finally, before he could chicken out, he called a station-wide meeting to update everyone on Phil’s cardiovascular condition, including Elizabeth’s role in saving his life, and how, despite the “incident,” he very much hoped everyone would continue to enjoy their meaningful work at KCTV. Out of all those things, Phil’s heart attack got the loudest applause.

“I asked our graphic artist to create this get-well greeting,” he said, holding up a gigantic card featuring a caricature of Phil making a winning touchdown. But instead of clutching a normal football, Phil was clutching his heart, which now that Walter thought about it, maybe wasn’t the best choice. “Please take the time to sign your name,” Walter said. “And if you’d like, add a personal note.”

Later that day, when the card was delivered to him for his own signature, he glanced at the well-wishes. Most were the standard “Feel better!” but a few were a bit darker.

Fuck you, Lebensmal.

I wouldn’t have called an ambulance.

Die already.

He recognized the handwriting on the last one—one of Phil’s secretaries.

Even though he knew he couldn’t possibly be the only one who’d hated the boss, he’d had no idea what a large club he belonged to. It was validating, sure, but also gut-wrenching.
Because as a producer, he was part of Phil’s management team, and that meant he was responsible for pushing Phil’s agenda while ignoring those who ultimately paid the price for it. He reached for a pen and, for the fourth time that day, followed Elizabeth Zott’s simple advice: do what was right.

MAY YOU
NEVER
RECOVER,
he wrote in huge letters across the middle. Then he stuffed the card in an enormous envelope, put it in the out basket, and made a solemn promise. Things had to change. He would start with himself.