Transition: Chapter 18 (WRSX)

At exactly five minutes to seven, Rudi delivers Jillian to a door marked with an oversized brass B. “Right through there, darling,” he says. “Don’t worry; you’ll do just fine.” He gives her a wink and a smile, then scurries off.

Don’t worry? Is she supposed to be nervous? Everything has been so hectic that she hasn’t had time to worry. It occurs to her that she doesn’t know anything about the show. She’s been assuming that it’s being taped for a local audience – could it be going out nationally? And maybe it’s not a taping session at all – maybe it’s live.

The door swings inward just as she reaches for the handle. “Jill, great.” Leida ushers her breathlessly into the studio. “I’m sorry to rush you like this, but we’re running late.” She grabs Jillian’s arm and nearly drags her across the room, Jillian has to do some fancy footwork to avoid tripping over a tangle of cables that criss-cross the floor like electronic tentacles. On the far wall of the studio, Jillian catches a glimpse of a wall-sized photograph of a city skyline studded with tall buildings. A small desk sits in front of the backdrop; there’s a single padded armchair behind the desk and smaller chairs to each side.

Sunshine sits primly in the chair to the left of the desk, her hands folded neatly, a picture of propriety – or, perhaps, discomfort. Dressed in a flowing, white, robe-like garment, she looks almost sickly in the hot, harsh glare of the powerful lights, her carrot-red hair adding the only dash of color to her otherwise washed-out appearance.

“Jill!” Sunshine’s expression brightens as Leida drags Jillian closer. She jumps to her feet and reaches for Jillian...

“Oh no, girls, please, not now.” Leida is frantic. “Sunshine, please, sit, we’re on in one minute.”

Sunshine sinks obediently back into her chair, clearly disappointed.

“You’ll have plenty of time to talk after the show.” Leida says. “Jill, over there.” She points to the remaining unoccupied chair and waves an arm frantically as she circles behind the desk. “Jimmy, mike her.”

“It’s so good to see you here,” Jillian enthuses, leaning toward Sunshine, trying to make herself heard over the hubbub. “You disappeared so fast, I never really had a chance to thank you.”

“Miss Kendal, lean back, please,” requests a voice from behind her. Jillian turns her head, and there’s Jimmy, holding a small lapel mike attached to a thin cable. “I need to wire you for sound,” he adds, grinning fatuously. She recognizes him from the transition area. She remembers thinking at the time that he was a fat, greasy blob. Up close, he looks much worse.

She leans back in the chair and Jimmy reaches around her to fasten the mike to her GoldenGirl warm-up jacket. His aroma is unpleasant, and she doesn’t like the way he’s fumbling at her chest. “I’ll do that,” she snaps, and snatches the microphone, brushing his hands out of the way.

Momentarily nonplused, Jimmy instinctively reaches to retrieve the microphone. “No,” he says, “I need to...”

Jillian knocks his hands away again. “I said, I’ll do it,” she hisses, as she fastens the microphone to her jacket. “Keep your hands off of me.” You fat slob, she nearly adds – and judging from Jimmy’s sharp intake of breath, you’d have thought she had actually said it. She’s aware of his hulking presence behind her for a few seconds. Then, she hears him moving heavily away, muttering.

“Thirty seconds, girls,” Leida says, with a thin smile.

“How long is the show?” Jillian asks. “Are we live?”

“Yes, we’re live,” Leida says, annoyed. “It’s a half-hour slot. Didn’t anyone even brief you?” She makes it sound like an accusation, as if somehow it’s Jillian’s fault that she doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Sorry, honey,” Jillian says, touching Leida’s arm lightly. “Nobody said a word to me.” She sees a flinch in Leida’s eyes, and she smiles sweetly. Jillian had discovered years ago that some Yankee women don’t like to be called “honey,” and that they don’t much care for physical contact during conversation. Too undignified, she guesses. And so, when she’s outside of Texas, she reserves the term and the gesture for those special occasions when she wants to get under somebody’s skin.

Leida turns away from Jillian and looks directly into the camera. To Jillian’s amusement, Leida plays with several expressions in rapid succession, as if she were trying on clothes in front of a mirror. First, a broad, beaming smile. Then, a serious, almost somber, flat gaze. Finally, she settles on a professionally cheerful half-smile.

“Five seconds.” The technician brings his arm down, points significantly at Leida, and nods.

“Good evening,” Leida says, in her best neutral talk-show-host voice, “and welcome to Sports Night. I’m Leida Andersen, sitting in for Max Maxwell who’s on vacation all week. We have a couple of special guests here in the studio tonight...”

Jillian sinks back in her chair and looks across the desk at Sunshine, who sits stiffly, looking straight ahead out into the studio. Why is she wearing that bizarre white outfit? Is she in some kind of religious cult? As far as Jillian can tell, Sunshine doesn’t appear to have enough enthusiasm to be a wild-eyed religious fanatic.

Jillian shifts her gaze back to Leida, only to find Leida staring at her, expectantly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Jillian says. “I must have been daydreaming.”

“I was just congratulating you on your thrilling victory today, Jill.” Leida’s half-smile is still painted on her face, but her eyes shoot daggers at Jillian. Pay attention, she seems to be saying. “You made it look so easy,” she says.

“Thank you, Leida.” Already, the familiar banality of the conversation is becoming oppressive. “And, yes,” she adds, matter-of-factly, “it was pretty easy.”

Leida has already started to turn to her other guest, but the unexpected response draws her up. “Do you mean,” she asks, turning back to Jillian, “that nobody really challenged you in the entire race?”

“I mean that nobody ever really challenges me in any race.” That must sound incredibly conceited, Jillian realizes as soon as she’s said it. But there it is. “I’ve won every triathlon I’ve ever entered,” she points out.

“But I understand that you did have a serious challenger for a while this afternoon,” Leida says, and turns to the far side of the desk. “Which brings me to my other guest, a native New-Englander who was born and raised not far from here, and who now lives nearby in Connecticut, a young woman who competed in her very first triathlon today – and gave an excellent account of herself, from what I hear. Miss Sunshine O’Malley. Thanks for joining us, Sunshine.”

Sunshine’s face fills a nearby monitor, and Jillian can see Sunshine’s eyes flicker anxiously as she thinks about her response. She opens and closes her mouth quickly a few times, like a feeding fish. “I’m a little nervous,” she finally confesses, in a half-whisper. “I’ve never been on TV before. Thanks for inviting me.”

Great, Jillian thinks, looks like we’ve set the tone for this interview: I’m the stuck-up overconfident snob and Sunshine’s the poor innocent little lamb.

And I don’t trust this Andersen lady, not one bit. She’s going to stir up some shit just to liven up the show, I can feel it. She’s going to try to get a rise out of somebody – and I have a hunch that it’s not going to be Sunshine.

This, Jillian thinks grimly, could turn into one hell of a long half hour.