"Morning, Dr. Kipner."
"Morning, Julie. How was your weekend?"
"Pretty quiet. We just worked around the house is all. How was yours?"
"We drove down to the coast. It was nice."
"Yeah, me and Denny were just saying that we ought to go. It's been ages since we've been."
"Yeah, you should. Look, go ahead and send in Dr. Bradley as soon as he comes by. Anybody calls, tell them I'm not in yet."
"Will do."
Kipner closes his office door behind him and takes another sip from his cup. It was bad enough that he had to stop by a fucking Starbucks on the way in to get any decent coffee. With all the money this facility was raking in, you'd think they'd be able to afford something else besides the freeze-dried crap they had in the break room. The head office's idea of being "economical", probably.
Kipner sets his briefcase on the floor, his cup on his desk, and walks over to the giant bay window to open the vertical blinds. It's a nice morning, the last burst of summer before the end of September, and he watches the dew glitter on the back lawn of the main office building. Looking up from the lawn and further up the hill, he can see most of the farm itself: the dorms, the cafeteria, the main gymnasium, the track, the obstacle course. As far out in the sticks as this place turned out to be, mornings like this are nice reminder that all of that talk about accepting the transfer from L.A. to raise the kids in a small town wasn't totally naïve-yuppie horseshit…
There's a knock at the door.
"Julie?"
"No, it's me."
"Come in, Sam."
Bradley steps into the office and lets the door slam shut behind him. He's carrying this week's order in the customary manila file-folder. Good old Bradley: no family, no girlfriends, no hobbies as far as anyone knew. Nothing at all, outside of work. Sure, the guy's a nerd, but he gets a lot done, and it's nice to have an assistant who doesn't demand a lot of small talk about how the kids or the lawn or the 49ers are doing.
"Hello, Dr. Kipner."
"Hello, Sam. And for the hundredth time, call me Bill. 'Dr. Kipner' makes me sound like my father."
"Um, sorry, Bill. Here's what we have up for this week." He sits down in the chair facing Kipner's desk. Kipner remains on his feet, staring out the window.
Bradley clears his throat.
"So I'm afraid we'll have to start out on a bad note. Corporate called during the weekend. You know how they wanted three males for the new season of 'Big Brother'?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm afraid they'll want all six from us."
"From us?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Wasn't Kansas supposed to do half of that?"
"Yes, but there was some sort of deficiency with the steroid nutrient and a good chunk of the newest male stock turned out impotent. They'll all have to be put down."
"So what if they're impotent? It's not like they'll have to fuck on camera. What's the problem?"
Bradley flips through his file.
"Well, you see, Bill, due to this…deficiency, all the, um, genitalia, on that particular stock are, um, abnormally small."
"How small?"
"1.3 inches. And since CBS feels that the sexual tension of the show will be compromised…"
"Comprised?"
"I'm just repeating what CBS said. Since they feel that the sexual tension of the show will be compromised by this deficiency, the network is refusing to accept the portion from the Kansas facility. The head office says we'll have to make up the difference."
Kipner sits down at his desk and rubs the bridge of his brow with his fingertips. "So there's no way the head office can get CBS to change their minds? Maybe the Kansas stock can get penile implants. It's not like we've never done that sort of thing before."
"It's too late. CBS already knows. They'd never accept it."
"Well, fucking hell!" Kipner shouts. "Fucking CBS! Who are they to be so goddamned choosy? They were practically dying until 'Survivor' came along!" He takes a deep breath and reaches over to his coffee cup. "Well, what about the stock we had left over after 'Are You Hot?' got cancelled? Any of the males there still good, Sam?"
"I'd have to double check, but I think so. We may be cutting it close, though."
"It's too goddamn early on a Monday morning for this shit. Take three of the 'Hot' stock, reprogram them for 'Big Brother', and get them shipped to L.A. with the others. And I better not hear Corporate bitching about it. With this short notice, they're fucking lucky to get anything at all.'
Bradley sighs. "I'll do what I can. Want to hear what else we have up?"
"Yeah, let's get it over with."
"The rest of this stuff is pretty basic, Bill. Don't worry about…"
"Oh, wait! Before I forget, be sure to have Nutrition check the steroid stock. I don't want the same thing from Kansas happening here."
"Will do."
"What else do we have?"
"Well, ABC called. They're renewing 'Dancing with the Stars.'"
"'Dancing with the Stars'? That show about ballroom dancing?"
"Apparently, it was the hit of the summer. They want to bring it back by midseason."
Kipner shakes his head and smirks. "Ballroom dancing. I thought I'd seen everything. How does it break down?"
"Well, since the Kansas facility is obviously closed until they get the steroid mess cleared up, they're going to Ottawa and Vancouver for most of it. All they're asking from us are a couple of female dance instructors."
"Ottawa and Vancouver. We'll all be living in Canada at this rate. Two females, then? Blonde?"
"I'd assume so."
"How big do they want the tits?"
"It's ballroom dancing, so I assume they want them tall and thin. Small to medium breasts, I'd say."
"Not necessarily, Sam. They could be looking for some sort of voluptuous Spanish flamenco thing. Why don't we do this? Send them one that's tall, thin, blonde, small tits, and send the other one shorter, with dark, curly hair and a double D. I bet they'd get a kick out of that."
"Are you sure that's a good idea, Bill?"
"Don't worry, it'll be up to spec. As long as it's up to spec, the corporation is still honoring its' contract. Fox didn't specifically request Ruben Stoddard, and look how well he turned out."
Bradley shrugs. "If you say so."
"Anything else?"
Bradley flips through his file. "Well, it isn't official yet, but the head office has some rumblings from NBC that 'Average Joe' might be back for next spring."
"So they'll need?"
"Probably just some males. Five, at least. They say they'll give us plenty of notice if that changes."
"Yeah, just like they did today." Kipner yawns. "Jesus! Sorry about that. Late night. How does our organic stock look?"
"Oh, we'll have plenty. They're just sitting around doing nothing right now. That shouldn't be a problem."
"Figures. Remember all the talk last year? 'Reality TV is getting too fake and staged; networks are going to want more real-looking people from now on.' So the head office tries to anticipate the market, and we're stuck with a bunch of overstock. People say they want to shop organic, but at the end of the day, they end up going back to the supermarket, just like they always do."
"Weren't they talking about releasing them out into the community? I heard 'Extreme Makeover' was looking for some more recipients."
"Yeah, they were, but then we'd have to generate the fake Social Security numbers and birth certificates and find them all places to live. Not to mention how iffy the reprogramming can get with organic subjects. In the end, they decided it'd be easier to just manufacture the design teams."
"That makes sense."
"Yeah, no skin off our noses. As long as they don't pay for them out of our checks. Is that all you have?"
"Yeah. Besides the whole 'Big Brother' mess, a pretty quiet week."
Kipner finishes the last of his coffee and drops the cup in his wastebasket. "Just the slow stretch before all the 'American Idol' orders start coming in. Go ahead and get that CBS shipment ready. I'll call the head office and let them know what we'll be sending them."
"Okay, then." Bradley closes the folder, gets up and walks toward the door. "I'll call you if anything comes up."
"You do that, Sam."
Bradley opens the door and walks out without bothering to pull it closed. It slams shut. Again.
Kipner swivels around in his chair and takes another look at the facility. He should be calling the head office right now, but that can wait a minute. They aren't going be happy about stock from 'Are You Hot?' going to 'Big Brother', but that's their own damn fault. It's not like the steroid problem appeared overnight; they could have said something earlier. Let them listen to CBS complain; they can afford it.
He stretches out in his chair and puts his feet up on the windowsill.
Television. What a fucking business.
Kris Bluth lives in Eugene, Oregon with his wife and their fetus, who's scheduled to be born right about the time you read this. His literary fame peaked in 1992 when, at the age of 17, he wrote a letter that was published in TV Guide. In spite of this, his poems and record reviews have appeared in Denali, Irreantum, AntiMuse, and Eugene Weekly. He is currently working on a longer short story that he might try to pass off as a novella.