Angela Beckford was walking as if in a dream. She knew what she had to do: Organise a few biscuits and coffee and take them to The Wentworthville. No rush though, Mr Tank was content to wait just a mom-
“Commercial in 15 seconds. Is guest C prepped for return?”
Angela was snapped to life. “On it,” she said rapidly, trying not to convey the panic that she was severely behind schedule. She rushed to the green room and-
“Commercial. Report on Guest C.”
-hurried Guest C out. The man was a neo-modern psychotherapist (which meant he flunked his PHD and created his own qualification) and was quite upset and flustered at being treated in such a manner.
“Miss if you simply relaxed and took your time you would be able to communicate your intention with much more effect.” He stated with the condescension of a distinguished scholar.
“30 seconds til we’re back. We are introducing Guest C off the bat. Is he prepped?”
“I appreciate your advice,” Angela said rapidly through her exhale, inhaling under her breath Try working in Televsion, you faux hippy douche bag.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Huh?” she looked at him as she ushered (pushed) him to the stage left entrance. “I was just-”
“We’re back from commercial in 5...4- Nic, where the fuck is Guest C?!”
“Prepped and ready.”
“Nick, is it? Just try and emulate me. Innnn, one, two, three, four, five.” He illustrated the flow of breath with his hands, “Hold. And-”
“Shut up!” she hissed. “OK.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, shaking a little. “You look great. Remember not to look directly at the camera. Speak with a strong but not too loud voice, OK? You’ll be fine!”
“Send Guest C, Nic!”
“Please, Nic just re-” she spun him on his heel and pushed him forcefully out onto the stage with the soul of her boot.
“Nick, what the fuck was that about?”
“MY NAME’S NOT NICK!” she said in the loudest whisper possible. This made her remember Sam Tank and she took off her headset and walkie talkie and stuffed them into the hands of a floating intern. “Take this!”
“But.” He stared at her like a fish that just had the hook ripped out of its mouth by the fisherman. “Help me.”
“You’re Nick for ten minutes.” She stormed off towards the kitchen.
By the time she arrived she had regained some composure and prepared some coffee and snacks with the poise of a serial killer. She carried the well presented tray to The Wentworthville. She knocked on the door and the massive associate of Sam’s, Mr Talk, let her in. She smiled politely for fear of saying anything.
“I assure you he is harmless, Angela. Well this looks lovely doesn’t it, Ricky?” he looked to Ricky and nodded encouragingly.
“Well I hope you enjoy everything. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, you’ve done more than enough. I’m sure you have much more important matters to attend to.” He looked into her eyes with understanding. She smiled and turned to leave. “Oh, Angela, perhaps one more thing.” Her heart skipped a beat and she hardly knew why. She looked at him, not caring to disguise the emotion. Sam didn’t acknowledge it, simply maintaining his eye contact, “We are scheduled to meet Mr Walter Wallace once the show finishes up. Could you please ensure he is brought to this room when he is free?” Angela nodded. “Now you better head back out there and do your job before you get fired. Don’t worry though; I’ll put in a good word for you. Thank you, Angela.”
“Thank you,” she said back, returning to her dream state. She left The Wentworthville and headed back to the show where they would treat her like shit again and she would be forced to do ten times the work of her superiors. But as she suffered to fools of backstage television and watched on vaguely as the hippy doctor tried to hypnotise Walter Wallace all she could think of was how much she wanted to impress Mr Sam Tank.
Notes to the Text