Meeting Mr. Wright

MEETING MR.WRIGHT

"Jesus, look at this lot!"
Tony's eyes struggled to take in the heaving herd of people in one
sweep of his head. Through the double barrier of his ever-present
sunglasses and the tinted windscreen of this longboat limousine, Tony
Hunter saw countless swarming shadows, nodding and swaying in a
disorganised ballet of expectancy. Pnk&;#8230;Pnk&;#8230;Pnk, the
battalion of photographers fired a volley of neon artillery at the car,
petrifying their captive quarry in flashlight frames.
"I can seem them." said Jesus to the driver.
?
"Following a short commercial break, you will see the interview that
the world has waited two thousand years for. Mike Wright meets Jesus
Christ."
?
An overworked man sat back in the deep leather chair and studied his
reflection in the vast dressing-room mirror. Looking back was a
thoroughly groomed head with stainless steel hair and eyes the colour
of any Monday in January.
Mike Wright had worked on television for the greater part of thirty
years.
For the last eleven years he'd fronted the show 'Wright Tonight' to the
extensive mass of celebrity junkies popularly referred to as his
audience.
He had interviewed a large proportion of the most influential and
renowned people in the world (and a generous helping of publicity
desperate, book-pluggers, all struggling to pay gargantuan rehab clinic
bills or divorce settlements to avaricious ex-partners). From
ex-presidents to pop stars, Mike Wright had spoken with them all. Of
late his fame was filling him with an ever-growing sense of boredom and
he'd become disillusioned with the direction that popular media was
heading (downhill fast, if you asked him). These feelings inspired his
most recent and final career move. In three weeks he was to announce
his retirement. He would say a final farewell and never again sit
before the cameras that had once stimulated him so much.
That was until Alan phoned&;#8230;
"Yes Alan," was Mike's traditionally succinct greeting.
"Good evening Mr. Wright!" whinnied Alan.
Alan Dalnort was an obsequious little Chihuahua of a man who performed
manifold tasks for Mike under the ambiguous banner of 'Personal
Assistant'.
Among these duties (and his personal favourite) was to inform Mike of
the celebrities he'd be talking to on the following week's show. Though
never actually meeting, conversing, or actually walking quite close to
any of the personalities he listed for Mike, Alan sustained a queer
belief that merely reciting their names would leave a slick residue of
their fame on his lips and thereby associate him with these
luminaries.
He, of course, kept theories such as these to himself.
"I-I-I've got the guest list for next Friday Mr. Wright, and I'm afraid
it's a short one." Alan was doing all he could to contain the rising
excitement within him from exploding over the line into Mike's
ears.
"How short?" queried Mike.
"Very short Mr. Wright."
Every word of Alan's was punctuated with a nervous
titter. This only increased Mike's growing feeling of
impatience.
"Alan, would you cut the giddy teenager routine and tell
me who the hell I'm interviewing."
Mike's plan for the last few weeks of the show was to
have a succession of simple guests who answered his questions quickly
and smoothly, plugged their book/film/show and slid off the stage with
a polite bow. Judging by Alan's exaggerated mood, this wasn't going to
happen.
"Jesus, Mike. Your one and only guest next week is Jesus Christ." Alan
managed admirably to link the words in this sentence without
incident.
"You mean that latest-in-a-long-line of flakes who claims to be the Son
of God."
Mike had met the Son of God before.
During the fledgling years of his career Mike had worked for a small
local TV company in his hometown, where extremes of weather and trapped
animals were the staple news items digested by the station's small
audience.
He joined the company straight from college and after three years was
eager to hold a microphone instead of a broom. Following a siege of the
station director's office door and an admirable campaign of harassment
Mike secured himself his first on-camera report. With a man called Lol
Petersen who claimed he was Jesus. The man was obviously a nut, and
none of the regular reporters wanted their respectable on-screen
reputations sullied by such an interview, but Mike was exposure-hungry
and would have interviewed himself if he thought people would see
it.
Mike attempted to handle the meeting with a tact and sensitivity not
usually afforded to such people. Unfortunately, Lol Petersen did not
reciprocate and constantly interrupted Mike with an assortment of
inaccurate scripture quotations and wild prophecies.
Mike ended the interview as politely as he could and vowed to never
again sacrifice his credibility for the sake of exposure.

"No Mike, this guy seems like the real deal," squeaked Alan, "Obviously
he won't walk on water or heal anybody 'cause of all that 'proof denies
faith' bullshit, but he is really making Red Sea size waves. None of
the head religious honchos are standing up and denouncing him, so he's
obviously convincing them so far."
"Well that may be so Alan, but until I see him turn Evian into
Chardonnay he's no more the Son of God than you are."
?
For the first time since cigarettes were cheap, Mike felt nervous. He
had planned every question, accounted for all possible responses and
meticulously rehearsed the interview mentally a ridiculous number of
times. However, at this point his head felt hoovered. Empty.
Vacant.
"Shape up Michael, it's showtime," he told himself, "The entire world
is relying on you to show them what a wacko this guy is, and you're
sitting here sweating like a virgin on prom night."
"30 seconds to air Mike"
?
Leon Daly had warmed over some cold audiences and thoroughly frozen
some fairly hot, eager ones. Tonight, however, the people in front of
Leon wouldn't have noticed him if his hair were alight. He may as well
have had his back to them and told jokes to the scenery.
Realising the futility of his situation, Leon ran through his aged
repertoire, bowed graciously and walked off stage to the sound of his
own feet.
Leon arrived backstage and leaned against the water cooler. He dragged
an old blue towel across his glistening brow and drained the water from
the paper cone gripped a little too tightly in his hand.
He crumpled the cup into a soggy wad and tossed it to the floor.
Mike Wright's keen footsteps approached the stage curtain with forced
vigour. "I'm ready for ya." he thought.
He straightened his fifty-dollar tie, checked his reflection in the
lens of a redundant camera and prepared to meet the son of his
maker.
"Knock 'em dead Mike." offered Leon.
Mike answered him with a preoccupied nod and awaited his theme music
like a man awaits the drum roll when looking into a wicker
basket.
?
Ladies and Gentlemen tonight is a very special night. Mike Wright will
interview Jesus Christ, The Son Of God.
And here he his Mister-r-r-r Mike Wright
?
The curtains parted and Mike Wright saw the voracious audience seated
all around him. He stepped forward, took a shallow bow and with
practised enthusiasm shouted,
"Good Evening, I'm Mike Wright and this is Wright Tonight."
He hoped the applause would never end.

? 2001