Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-13 12:32 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-13 12:32 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 4
Title: Expecting, Chapter 4: The Hopes And Fears Of All The Years
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for this part
Warnings: Lots of alcohol.
Words: ~2000
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: As Stephen's pregnancy began in October, the story has now hit December. Put on some carols, break out the red-and-green napkins that gather dust in your cupboard eleven months of the year, and get into theholiday Christmas spirit. (Alternatively, you could pull out the RENT soundtrack; the musical takes place largely on Christmas Eve, and it's where I got Joanne, who makes a brief cameo here.)
Clips referenced: The all-star guitar-off; helium balloon drop.
Stephen's wife's name was given as Lorraine here. Her maiden name is taken from the actor's wife.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 4
The Hopes And Fears Of All The Years
Yesterday
How the hell the press had gotten ahold of his number, Jon had no idea; but he was getting call after call from people whose names he distinctly remembered intoning sarcastically into a camera.
He killed the latest of these with a growl of the frustration. Didn't they have anything better to cover? What about the Scooter Libby pardon, or Dick Cheney's secret classifications, or the attacks in the UK? At this point Jon would have welcomed another Paris Hilton DUI with open arms if it meant the networks would bother someone else for a while.
Not that he thought Stephen's story wasn't important. It was. It made sense that he was in all the papers, that the implications were debated back and forth on television, that Scientific American had done a cover story on him last March (though Stephen had insisted on referring to it as "Unscientific Unamerican" when he brought this up on the Report).
It was just that Jon didn't know anything, and it would do nobody any good to talk to a reporter if he didn't have anything to say. So he had no intention of answering them, not even if Ted Koppel himself tried to ring him up.
The first few chords of "It's Raining Men" rang out again, and Jon looked at the caller. If there's any irony in the world, he thought, it'll be Ted Koppel.
No such luck.
The name below the number was Lorraine McGee.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
December 20, 2006
10 Weeks
If Stephen had any doubts that his eviction would be temporary, he didn't show them. By all accounts he was, if anything, more cheerful than usual over the first few weeks of December.
Jon himself only found out about the separation through an inadvertent comment during a toss, after which his friend assured him that Lorraine was still coming to their counseling sessions. "This isn't the first time she's done something drastic," he said breezily. "I think it's a female thing. She'll come around soon."
As the last shows of the year drew closer, all attention turned towards getting it over with. They were holding out until Wednesday for Stephen's big showdown with the Decemberists, and the only thing keeping some of the staff going was the thought of the party waiting after it.
A few of the Daily Show writers took off before the broadcast had even started. Others left at the end, heading for the planes, trains, buses, cars, and subways that would take them to wherever they were spending their Christmas vacations. But the rest headed straight for the old studio, arriving during the Report's last commercial break.
The stage had been temporarily converted to accommodate all the musical star power that Stephen had gathered for the occasion. On the right was legendary rocker Peter Frampton; on his left, Apples in Stereo guitarist Robert Schneider; and to the far left, Chris Funk, representing the Decemberists.
Front and center, sleeves torn off and grin so wide that it threatened to split his face, stood the host himself.
The audience started applauding even before their cue; Stephen paused for a moment to soak it in before speaking, smiling around the crowd, at the guests, at the stagehands, at the Daily Show staff waiting in the wings with Jon in the forefront. Then he spoke.
"Well, you know there's only one way to end a show like this, or a year like this — with an all-star guitar jam. Here to lead us in the Colbert Report theme is the man who wrote it, from Cheap Trick: Rick Nielsen. And there's going to be one more person helping us; we're going to play off of his beat."
The cheering quieted as the audience tried to catch the new sound: something low and steady and hard to place but undoubtedly familiar. A few people caught on, and let out whoops of delight. The rest were mystified.
"Can you guys work off of that?" asked Stephen, looking at the talent assembled around him. All nodded, puzzled but obliging, and the host turned back to the audience — somehow grinning even more broadly than before.
"That," he announced, "is my baby's heartbeat."
The cheer that resulted was so thunderous that it threatened to drown out the opening chords of the song. But even as Jon worried about this, he realized that the loudest voice he could hear was his own.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
Once the audience was gone, the crews of both shows and their illustrious guests piled haphazardly into the first cars they reached, making a sloppy convoy towards the local bar that they had reserved for the night. In the crush of people, Jon was swept one way and Stephen another.
Jon did see the black woman with the leather briefcase; he saw her approach Stephen; on some level he registered that she wasn't anyone he knew. But the crowd pulled him forward, and a moment later they were out of sight, and Jon forgot all about it until an hour later.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
December 21, 2006
10 Weeks
The party ran very late.
Jon kept busy for a while having his back slapped and his hand shaken. He could have sworn someone felt him up at one point, but when he turned around there were half a dozen people within reach and none of them looked overly shifty, so he let it go.
He was on his way back to the bar for another pint when he realized that Stephen was sitting at the end, and looking less than triumphant. That couldn't be right. Stephen belonged in the center of one of the clusters of people, soaking up well-deserved praise for a night, if not a whole year, well handled.
Jon wished he were drunk enough not to care, then felt immediately guilty. No, it was a good thing he was sober, because Stephen looked positively morose.
When he got closer, he realized that sitting on a thick envelope on the bar in front of his friend was a half-empty glass.
"Stephen, you can't drink," said Jon as he took the stool next to his friend. "We've been over this."
"It's okay," replied Stephen without looking up. "It's a Bloody Mary. Those are the non-alcoholic ones, aren't they?"
"No!" Jon snatched the glass away. "How many have you had?"
"Just the one. And a couple of Shirley Temples before that. Are those alcoholic?"
Jon breathed a sigh of relief. "They're fine," he said, praying nobody had switched the cups or spiked the drinks or done anything stupid like that. Best to make sure. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
The pundit raised his head far enough to see the hand, if not to meet Jon's eyes. "Three," he said quietly.
"Right. You're okay."
"Do I look okay?" hissed Stephen suddenly, glaring at him.
All at once Jon realized that no, he really didn't. If anything, he looked like he could use a stiff drink.
"All right, you're not okay. Stephen, what's wrong?"
The pundit turned his glare on the bar without replying, but he shoved the envelope roughly towards Jon, who opened it and slid out the topmost piece of paper.
"That woman who was talking to you on the way out," he said at last. "Who was she?"
"Joanne Jefferson. Lorraine's lawyer."
"And she gave you these."
A nod.
Jon put a hand on the other man's shoulder — very carefully, because anything too touchy-feely would set off his internal homometer, and then he would close up entirely. "I'm so sorry...."
"I can't get divorced, Jon!" murmured Stephen, his carefully restrained voice slipping up half an octave. "I'm Catholic. We're not allowed!"
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
Bobby was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He was getting genuine praise from all corners, especially from his former supervisor, the Daily Show's stage manager. He was also absolutely plastered. And best of all, Tad was plastered too, with the delicious side effect that he had relaxed enough to stand next to Bobby, in the presence of people, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching.
This was the most contact they'd ever had in a public place, unless you counted the broom closet at the studio, which Bobby didn't.
But part of being a good stage manager at the Report was having a good sense of what Stephen needed. Sure, sometimes Bobby slipped up, like the time he'd missed that Stephen wanted a balloon drop involving helium balloons. But despite this sort of mistake, it was generally agreed that he had a finely tuned sense of Stephen's needs.
It was, he had explained to Tad one night, a little like Lassie. One of his nerves would start barking at him, and for some reason his brain understood it to mean "What's that, girl? You say Timmy fell down the old well?" (Or, more likely, "You say Stephen wants the mugs in the break room organized by handle width?")
Later, he would add this to the metaphor: Being hammered could muffle the sound for a bit, but it would eventually get through. He just wouldn't have the mental acuity to interpret the barking, leaving him with no information beyond a vague sense of "Stephen needs something."
At the moment, he was not nearly articulate enough to express all of this.
"I'm being barked at," he announced. "Excuse me."
And with that, he made for the bar.
(His companions at the time were baffled by this remark, but as they too were quite inebriated, they figured it was a joke, and didn't notice that it wasn't very funny.)
The boss was alone with Stewart at the end of the bar. After studying their body language, Bobby shrewdly decided to make his interruption a short one.
"'Scuse me," he said.
Stephen continued to stare into his drink (which looked sort of like iced tea) as if he hadn't heard; Stewart looked up. "Hey, Bobby. What is it?"
"I," explained Bobby, because it seemed important to establish this, "am very, very drunk."
Okay. He'd got that out of the way. What else had he come over for, again?
Oh yeah. "But," he continued, "if there is anything I can do for you, I am all over. It. All over it. The thing."
Stewart nodded. "All right. Do you know Tad's address?"
A different nerve of Bobby's started barking.
"Mmmmaybe," he said, though he could have rattled off the address in his sleep. "Why?"
"I'm going to check Stephen into a hotel," explained Stewart, "and then swing by Tad's place tomorrow and pick up his things. If you don't know, it's okay. I'll track him down later."
So there wasn't even a hint of suspicion. For some reason, this left Bobby faintly disappointed. "No, no, I got it," he said, and rattled off the address without slurring a single sibilant. Come on, he thought defiantly, ask me how I know that.
No such luck. Stewart just considered the address, said "Okay, I know where that is," and added a very final-sounding "Thank you for the help."
Bobby wandered off, and eventually found his way back to the group he had left.
"What was it?" asked a Daily Show stagehand.
Bobby tried to marshal his understanding of the previous conversation. "Stephen and Mr. Stewart are going to a hotel together," he said at last.
"'Bout time," said one of the writers.
"Anybody want another round?" suggested Rick Nielsen, and this was met with a general chorus of huzzahs, and none of them remembered a bit of it the next morning.
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for this part
Warnings: Lots of alcohol.
Words: ~2000
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: As Stephen's pregnancy began in October, the story has now hit December. Put on some carols, break out the red-and-green napkins that gather dust in your cupboard eleven months of the year, and get into the
Clips referenced: The all-star guitar-off; helium balloon drop.
Stephen's wife's name was given as Lorraine here. Her maiden name is taken from the actor's wife.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 4
The Hopes And Fears Of All The Years
Yesterday
How the hell the press had gotten ahold of his number, Jon had no idea; but he was getting call after call from people whose names he distinctly remembered intoning sarcastically into a camera.
He killed the latest of these with a growl of the frustration. Didn't they have anything better to cover? What about the Scooter Libby pardon, or Dick Cheney's secret classifications, or the attacks in the UK? At this point Jon would have welcomed another Paris Hilton DUI with open arms if it meant the networks would bother someone else for a while.
Not that he thought Stephen's story wasn't important. It was. It made sense that he was in all the papers, that the implications were debated back and forth on television, that Scientific American had done a cover story on him last March (though Stephen had insisted on referring to it as "Unscientific Unamerican" when he brought this up on the Report).
It was just that Jon didn't know anything, and it would do nobody any good to talk to a reporter if he didn't have anything to say. So he had no intention of answering them, not even if Ted Koppel himself tried to ring him up.
The first few chords of "It's Raining Men" rang out again, and Jon looked at the caller. If there's any irony in the world, he thought, it'll be Ted Koppel.
No such luck.
The name below the number was Lorraine McGee.
December 20, 2006
10 Weeks
If Stephen had any doubts that his eviction would be temporary, he didn't show them. By all accounts he was, if anything, more cheerful than usual over the first few weeks of December.
Jon himself only found out about the separation through an inadvertent comment during a toss, after which his friend assured him that Lorraine was still coming to their counseling sessions. "This isn't the first time she's done something drastic," he said breezily. "I think it's a female thing. She'll come around soon."
As the last shows of the year drew closer, all attention turned towards getting it over with. They were holding out until Wednesday for Stephen's big showdown with the Decemberists, and the only thing keeping some of the staff going was the thought of the party waiting after it.
A few of the Daily Show writers took off before the broadcast had even started. Others left at the end, heading for the planes, trains, buses, cars, and subways that would take them to wherever they were spending their Christmas vacations. But the rest headed straight for the old studio, arriving during the Report's last commercial break.
The stage had been temporarily converted to accommodate all the musical star power that Stephen had gathered for the occasion. On the right was legendary rocker Peter Frampton; on his left, Apples in Stereo guitarist Robert Schneider; and to the far left, Chris Funk, representing the Decemberists.
Front and center, sleeves torn off and grin so wide that it threatened to split his face, stood the host himself.
The audience started applauding even before their cue; Stephen paused for a moment to soak it in before speaking, smiling around the crowd, at the guests, at the stagehands, at the Daily Show staff waiting in the wings with Jon in the forefront. Then he spoke.
"Well, you know there's only one way to end a show like this, or a year like this — with an all-star guitar jam. Here to lead us in the Colbert Report theme is the man who wrote it, from Cheap Trick: Rick Nielsen. And there's going to be one more person helping us; we're going to play off of his beat."
The cheering quieted as the audience tried to catch the new sound: something low and steady and hard to place but undoubtedly familiar. A few people caught on, and let out whoops of delight. The rest were mystified.
"Can you guys work off of that?" asked Stephen, looking at the talent assembled around him. All nodded, puzzled but obliging, and the host turned back to the audience — somehow grinning even more broadly than before.
"That," he announced, "is my baby's heartbeat."
The cheer that resulted was so thunderous that it threatened to drown out the opening chords of the song. But even as Jon worried about this, he realized that the loudest voice he could hear was his own.
Once the audience was gone, the crews of both shows and their illustrious guests piled haphazardly into the first cars they reached, making a sloppy convoy towards the local bar that they had reserved for the night. In the crush of people, Jon was swept one way and Stephen another.
Jon did see the black woman with the leather briefcase; he saw her approach Stephen; on some level he registered that she wasn't anyone he knew. But the crowd pulled him forward, and a moment later they were out of sight, and Jon forgot all about it until an hour later.
December 21, 2006
10 Weeks
The party ran very late.
Jon kept busy for a while having his back slapped and his hand shaken. He could have sworn someone felt him up at one point, but when he turned around there were half a dozen people within reach and none of them looked overly shifty, so he let it go.
He was on his way back to the bar for another pint when he realized that Stephen was sitting at the end, and looking less than triumphant. That couldn't be right. Stephen belonged in the center of one of the clusters of people, soaking up well-deserved praise for a night, if not a whole year, well handled.
Jon wished he were drunk enough not to care, then felt immediately guilty. No, it was a good thing he was sober, because Stephen looked positively morose.
When he got closer, he realized that sitting on a thick envelope on the bar in front of his friend was a half-empty glass.
"Stephen, you can't drink," said Jon as he took the stool next to his friend. "We've been over this."
"It's okay," replied Stephen without looking up. "It's a Bloody Mary. Those are the non-alcoholic ones, aren't they?"
"No!" Jon snatched the glass away. "How many have you had?"
"Just the one. And a couple of Shirley Temples before that. Are those alcoholic?"
Jon breathed a sigh of relief. "They're fine," he said, praying nobody had switched the cups or spiked the drinks or done anything stupid like that. Best to make sure. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
The pundit raised his head far enough to see the hand, if not to meet Jon's eyes. "Three," he said quietly.
"Right. You're okay."
"Do I look okay?" hissed Stephen suddenly, glaring at him.
All at once Jon realized that no, he really didn't. If anything, he looked like he could use a stiff drink.
"All right, you're not okay. Stephen, what's wrong?"
The pundit turned his glare on the bar without replying, but he shoved the envelope roughly towards Jon, who opened it and slid out the topmost piece of paper.
"That woman who was talking to you on the way out," he said at last. "Who was she?"
"Joanne Jefferson. Lorraine's lawyer."
"And she gave you these."
A nod.
Jon put a hand on the other man's shoulder — very carefully, because anything too touchy-feely would set off his internal homometer, and then he would close up entirely. "I'm so sorry...."
"I can't get divorced, Jon!" murmured Stephen, his carefully restrained voice slipping up half an octave. "I'm Catholic. We're not allowed!"
Bobby was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He was getting genuine praise from all corners, especially from his former supervisor, the Daily Show's stage manager. He was also absolutely plastered. And best of all, Tad was plastered too, with the delicious side effect that he had relaxed enough to stand next to Bobby, in the presence of people, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching.
This was the most contact they'd ever had in a public place, unless you counted the broom closet at the studio, which Bobby didn't.
But part of being a good stage manager at the Report was having a good sense of what Stephen needed. Sure, sometimes Bobby slipped up, like the time he'd missed that Stephen wanted a balloon drop involving helium balloons. But despite this sort of mistake, it was generally agreed that he had a finely tuned sense of Stephen's needs.
It was, he had explained to Tad one night, a little like Lassie. One of his nerves would start barking at him, and for some reason his brain understood it to mean "What's that, girl? You say Timmy fell down the old well?" (Or, more likely, "You say Stephen wants the mugs in the break room organized by handle width?")
Later, he would add this to the metaphor: Being hammered could muffle the sound for a bit, but it would eventually get through. He just wouldn't have the mental acuity to interpret the barking, leaving him with no information beyond a vague sense of "Stephen needs something."
At the moment, he was not nearly articulate enough to express all of this.
"I'm being barked at," he announced. "Excuse me."
And with that, he made for the bar.
(His companions at the time were baffled by this remark, but as they too were quite inebriated, they figured it was a joke, and didn't notice that it wasn't very funny.)
The boss was alone with Stewart at the end of the bar. After studying their body language, Bobby shrewdly decided to make his interruption a short one.
"'Scuse me," he said.
Stephen continued to stare into his drink (which looked sort of like iced tea) as if he hadn't heard; Stewart looked up. "Hey, Bobby. What is it?"
"I," explained Bobby, because it seemed important to establish this, "am very, very drunk."
Okay. He'd got that out of the way. What else had he come over for, again?
Oh yeah. "But," he continued, "if there is anything I can do for you, I am all over. It. All over it. The thing."
Stewart nodded. "All right. Do you know Tad's address?"
A different nerve of Bobby's started barking.
"Mmmmaybe," he said, though he could have rattled off the address in his sleep. "Why?"
"I'm going to check Stephen into a hotel," explained Stewart, "and then swing by Tad's place tomorrow and pick up his things. If you don't know, it's okay. I'll track him down later."
So there wasn't even a hint of suspicion. For some reason, this left Bobby faintly disappointed. "No, no, I got it," he said, and rattled off the address without slurring a single sibilant. Come on, he thought defiantly, ask me how I know that.
No such luck. Stewart just considered the address, said "Okay, I know where that is," and added a very final-sounding "Thank you for the help."
Bobby wandered off, and eventually found his way back to the group he had left.
"What was it?" asked a Daily Show stagehand.
Bobby tried to marshal his understanding of the previous conversation. "Stephen and Mr. Stewart are going to a hotel together," he said at last.
"'Bout time," said one of the writers.
"Anybody want another round?" suggested Rick Nielsen, and this was met with a general chorus of huzzahs, and none of them remembered a bit of it the next morning.