Get Real

28

DOUG WAS STUNNED. Shut it down? Cancel? But it was coming together so well. It was going to be wonderful, the most exciting innovative new reality show since Sitcom Reunion. So much more fun to work on than The Stand. Cancel it? Shut it down? What did Babe mean?

Doug voiced the question: “Babe? What do you mean?”

Babe, looking the angriest he’d been since he quit the news beat, said, “I talked with Quigg this morning.”

Doug nodded, not sure why. “About what?”

“About these phonies,” Babe said, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of the cast.

Now Doug was shocked. “Phonies? Babe, you mean these people aren’t crooks? They aren’t hardened criminals after all? They’re just people, like everybody else?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care what they are,” Babe said. “Every single piece of ID they gave Quigg on Friday is a phony.”

“Of course it is,” John said. “You gotta know we can’t give you our real names.”

“Names shmames,” Babe said. “What I need is legitimate rock-solid Social Security numbers. Not those soybean statistics you gave Quigg.”

“I don’t think we’re following this,” John said.

But Andy said, “John, maybe they got a legit problem.”

“And I,” John said, “got an il-legit problem.” Then he looked around and said, mostly to Babe, “We’re kind of a crowd here. Why don’t you and him and him and me”—pointing to Doug and Andy—“siddown at a booth there and talk this over. Everybody else takes a break somewhere.”

Roy Orbelem said, “There’s some nice sofas over there. Beyond the hallway set.”

“All right,” Babe said, though grumpily. To John he said, “If you think you got something to say.”

“Let’s find out.”

Everybody started to move, and Andy said, “Rodney?”

The actor/bartender looked alert. “Yes, sir?”

“You got any actual beer around here?”

It was Doug who answered. “We do, for the shoot. It’s in a cooler under the bar.”

“I’ll get it,” the new Rodney offered, and went away to do so.

So Doug and Babe and John and Andy, all of them looking grim in a variety of ways, settled into a booth to wait for their beer to be delivered. Doug took that hiatus to notice a change that had occurred in the dynamic of the gang. Before this, the impetus or spark plug had usually been Andy, sometimes the now-gone Stan, occasionally Tiny. But now, in the face of some unknown and unexpected apparent disaster befalling them, John had quietly taken over and everybody had tacitly agreed he had the right to do so. Interesting. See how that dynamic could be worked into the show. If there was a show.

Rodney soon brought four cans of Budweiser, solemnly said, “Call me, gentlemen, when you’re ready for more,” then grinned and winked to show he was merely getting into the part, and left.

Andy picked up his beer can, looked at it, and gave Doug a skeptical eye. “Product placement?”

“They will be providing the beer,” Doug agreed. “It’s a perfectly fine beer.”

“Uh-huh,” Andy said, popped open his can, and took a noncommittal slug.

Babe turned to John. “Just so you know what’s happened here,” he said, “the Social Security numbers are much more important than the names. You can call yourself Little Bo Peep for all I care. But a corporation like ours simply cannot employ anybody who cannot demonstrate, with a valid Social Security number, their right to work in this country. We absolutely cannot hire wetbacks.”

Andy said, “Wetbacks?” sounding incredulous.

Babe patted the air in his direction. “Listen, I know you guys are homegrown, I know you’re not illegal aliens.”

“We are,” John said, with dignity, “illegal citizens.”

“And we can’t hire you,” Babe said. “It’s as simple as that. The feds require that we vet every hire and make them prove they have the right to work in this country.”

Doug said, “John, when they took me on, I showed them my passport.”

Babe said, “All right, I apologize. When Quigg first gave me the news, I got really pissed off, I don’t know if you noticed—”

“Kinda,” Andy said.

“Well, now I see,” Babe said, “you just didn’t understand the situation. You thought all you had to do was spread a little fantasy and then get on with the job. But I’m sorry, guys, it’s more serious than that.”

“I can see it is,” John said, and started to brood.

Doug found that fascinating, the way the man’s eyes seemed to go out of focus, as though he were actually looking at something on a hillside in western Pennsylvania or somewhere, while his head from time to time nodded, and the other three at the table sipped their beers and watched. Until, some time later, his eyes refocused, and focused on Doug, and he said, “Passport.”

“That’s right,” Doug said. “I had to show them my—”

“We talked, one time,” John said, “you said wire transfers.”

“Wire transfers?”

“Money going to Europe, on account there’s nothing in cash any more.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that.”

Babe said, “You talked about wire transfers?”

“When they were looking for things that might be robbery targets,” Doug explained.

“Well, how about that, then?” John asked.

Doug didn’t get it. “How about what?”

“Wire transfers,” John said. “We don’t work for you any more, we work for some European part of that big company up above you. They hire us, they send us here to do this show, all the pay comes from Europe, we don’t have to be anybody’s citizens.”

Andy, sounding excited, said, “Why wouldn’t that work? Let’s say in England you own a show called, I dunno, You Better Believe It, and—”

“I think we do, in fact,” Doug said.

“So there you are.” Andy lifted his beer can in a toast. “We work for those people. You don’t have to tell the Americans about us at all.”

“This,” Babe said, “would not be as simple as you think.”

“But possible,” John said.

Babe shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. Do any of you have a passport?”

“I can always get a passport,” Andy said. “I wouldn’t wanna get on a plane with it. I might drive a car into Canada and back with it.”

“That’s been done,” John said.

Doug suddenly thought of a way that might be even better and simpler, though even less legal, but when he turned his wide eyes in Babe’s direction he saw that Babe had just thought of it, too.

Combined Tool.

Years of foreign correspondence had taught Babe how to keep his cool. “Let me work on this,” he said. “I don’t know if we can make anything happen or not, but we’ve come this far with it, we might as well go on, at least a few more days. Then, if we can make it work, we haven’t lost any time.”

“We’re thinking of a September launch,” Doug confided.

“If there’s a launch,” Babe said. He knocked back the rest of his beer and heaved out of his seat. “You all keep going here. Doug, when you come back uptown, come see me.”

“I will, Babe,” Doug said, and just managed not to give a conspiratorial wink.