Camelot

Hire that cook!

I realized I was standing slightly crouched with my arms out and my eyes wildly scanning the room for the TV remote (probably looking like an incredibly well-dressed cat burglar).

Turning in to Hickory Hill’s driveway the next morning, I noticed several men picking dead flowers off the boxwood.

“Interesting,” I thought. “I didn’t set that up. I wonder who did?”

After a solid night’s sleep, I was re-engergized and ready to tackle this gig. I had decided I could do this thing and I had decided to stick around. I mean, day two—and all the days to come—could not be nearly as crazy as day one. Absolutely not.

Upon walking into the house, I was met by a woman (whose name I forget). She described herself as “a friend of the family here to help out while I get established.” I didn’t like that one bit. It was a strong indicator that someone felt like I couldn’t handle things.

“Mrs. K said she saw a chef on one of the morning shows today,” said the woman. “Hire him. Meanwhile, I’m going to…blah…blah…blah…”

After I heard “hire him,” my mind tuned out the woman and I wondered:

  1. The cook actually quit?
  2. How the Hell am I supposed to find out who this chef is?!?
  3. What morning show does she watch?

Upstairs

Figuring out item three seemed to be the best first course of action. If I can narrow the show, then I’ll only have to figure out how to call one network.

Hoping that the TV in her room was probably still on the channel where she saw the chef, I mounted the staircase to head to her room. On the first stair I paused. I hadn’t been upstairs yet. This felt odd, like I was violating some unspoken agreement about private space.

“Screw it,” I thought. “I have to hire a cook.”

And up the stairs I went.

Even though she wasn’t at home, I cautiously walked in to her room. The windows were open, it was bright and sunny and her bed was still unmade. (“Wait. Do I have to make the bed?”)

I realized I was standing slightly crouched with my arms out and my eyes wildly scanning the room for the TV remote (probably looking like an incredibly well-dressed cat burglar). I couldn’t see the remote anywhere. Crap. More crouching. More wild-eyed scanning. Recognizing that the crouch-and-scan was getting me nowhere, I walked up to the TV and—how novel—pushed the power button actually attached to it. With the last-watched network identified (hopefully she wasn’t a flipper), I left her room and went down to my office to make the phone call.

Downstairs

Plopping myself into my ancient desk chair, I realized I had no idea how to call a TV network. I mean, is there some sort of famous person switchboard at NBC, ABC and CBS? “Hi! I’m so-and-so’s personal assistant and because of that, I should have incredible access to you and your talent.”

Swiveling my chair around in rapid circles (because, you know, that’s what pro-level personal assistants do), I pondered the situation. I thought and swiveled and thought and swiveled until I noticed a thick binder labeled “Address Book” on my desk.

The Address Book

I stopped swiveling, grabbed it, flipped it open to a random page and read “Annie Leibovitz.”

Whoa!” I thought. “I have Annie Leibovitz’s phone number!”

I flipped some more: Ted Danson. Bette Midler. Arnold Schwarzenegger (that made sense). Senator K.’s direct line.

I began swiveling and thinking again all while flipping through the book.

“I should make a copy of this,” I thought. “I want to talk to Annie Leibovitz. I hope I get to call her one day!”

Then I saw “Executive Producer for the Today Show” fly by. I stopped swiveling. And I flipped back to it.

“Well this is going to be easy,” I thought.

I leaned in towards the phone on my desk and dialed the number.

The Phone Call

“[garble…garble…] NBC [garble…silence],” answered the other end.

“Hmm,” I thought. “Was that a human or a really bad recording?”

Undecided, I went with the tired and true “hello?”

“Hi. How can I help you?” Said the voice on the other end.

“My boss saw a chef on your program this morning, liked what she saw and wanted me to extend him a job offer.”

Silence.

“Could you pass that message along to him with my contact information?” I continued.

More silence.

“Um, sir, how did you get this number?”

And then I got snotty.

Derisively, I identified my employer, emphasizing every word of her name. (In retrospect, I’m not proud of my demeanor, but man I hate to be dismissed.) At that disclosure, the voice on the other end became extremely helpful and promised to pass along the offer. I gave the voice my contact information and it promised to call me back.

The Callback

Hours later (don’t worry, you’ll learn of the things that happened in the intervening hours in upcoming posts), the voice called back. This time, the derision was all its.

“I conveyed your offer to the chef,” the voice scorned. “He emphatically declines.”

And the voice hung up.

“Great,” I thought. “I still have to hire a cook.”

This is the ninth installment in a multi-part series about my incredibly brief employment with one of the nation’s most revered political families. All entries are tagged as “Camelot.” The most recent will always appear at the top of that page.