“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.”