S2, E2 | Auld LAng Syne

\ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 10:38 pm est. - 7:38 pm pst. /

Sat at an empty desk with a glass of champagne in hand, Taylor observes the newsroom and its increasingly-buzzed staff, undone ties and discarded blazers scattered throughout the room. The televisions that line the walls tuned to various new year’s programmes, the environment is chipper, her coworkers taking full advantage of the fun, casual evening.

“You waiting for the party to come to you?” a man wonders aloud, approaching Taylor with a glass of champagne in each hand. “I’m just laying low for a bit, Vince” Taylor replies, graciously accepting one of the glasses the man offers her, “Monday mornings are bad enough without a hangover.”

“So says the woman sat beside three empty glasses that used to contain champagne” Vince charmingly responds, his desk adjacent to the one Taylor occupies. Having raised Vince’s glass to her mouth, Taylor pauses, looking at the man with a subdued smirk. “I don’t have a problem, I swear” Taylor murmurs, offering light-hearted humour to the relaxed conversation.

“You say that now, but how long is it gonna be before you’re slinging dope on the corner?” Vince retorts, nearly prompting Taylor to spit her drink in laughter, “that’s how that sort of thing progresses, right?” Covering her mouth as she shakes her head, Taylor sets the glass down, its shapely rim joining the empty three beside her.

“”In all seriousness, why are you just sitting around?” Vince inquires, reclining in his chair as one leg is hoisted over the other, “you may get younger by the hour, but the night certainly doesn’t.” Though flattered, Taylor hides her appreciation behind an eye roll, her left arm pressing into the desk she sits at as she reclaims her beverage. “I’m not really sure” the woman responds, the chatter of her workmates making it impossible for the newsroom’s mood to be anything less than chipper.

Her colleague leaving her the air to speak, Taylor sets her sights on the small groups of people that huddle together, her eyes inevitably drawn to the office beside her own. “I’ve just had a crazy year. I guess it’s just difficult to see it end with everything that’s happened” Taylor continues, finally looking back to Vince, “maybe it’s nerves, or maybe I’m just too fond of this whole year in general, but I don’t think I’m ready for 2007 yet.”

The glass lowering to his lap, Vince nods with Taylor’s response, able to share the feeling. “You’re not as alone as you’d think” the man responds, scratching at an itch on his neck, “I’m in the same boat. I got hired here in May, bought a house in July, and got engaged in October. I’m not ready to say goodbye any more than you are.” Letting her face fall, Taylor smiles, another sip from her glass taken.

His phone buzzing atop the wooden desktop, Vince answers the call, his brief preoccupation leaving Taylor to survey the bureau a second time. “I’ll be up in a minute. It’s foosball, not the World-fucking-Cup” Vince replies to his friend on the other line, the top to his flip phone closing as he ends the call. “I take it France is looking for his Italy?” Taylor quips, earning a chuckle from Vince as he stands from his chair, returning the favour in a humorous way.

“I’m the champion in this scenario? Nice” Vince jokes, collecting Taylor’s empty glasses as he finishes his first, “I must bid you adieu for the moment- Shane seems real eager to win his ‘runner-up’ ribbon.” Another sip lifted from her glass, Taylor bows her head toward the man, silently gesturing her appreciation for his company.

“I should probably start writing my eulogy to 2006 anyway” Taylor remarks, doubling down on the joke by grabbing a piece of loose-leaf paper, “would ‘dear year, see you later, bitch’ be fit for an opening line?” The huff of air through his nose servicing as a laugh, Vince reclaims the jacket draped over his seat with his free hand. “If it doesn’t, you know where to find me” the man replies, beginning his way for the elevator, “I’ll save a spot for you- y’know, in case you get choked up.”

Just as she had been prior to Vince’s arrival, Taylor sits alone, eyes wandering through the bureau once more, again finding their way back to her co-anchor’s office. The frosted glass wall of Grant’s workspace dimly lit by an orange glow, all that Taylor can make out is the man’s seated figure, his arm leant over his desk with a handset pressed to his ear.

Another glimpse at the intermingling groups that surround her, Taylor lifts the glass to her lips once again, its frigid bowl fogged by her breath as the final drops it holds coat her tongue. With a deep sigh, Taylor removes herself from the seat, the glass carried between her fingers as she journeys across the newsroom. Carson Daly’s face plastered across the nearest set of televisions, Taylor taps her knuckle against Grant’s door and enters, the staff left to talk amongst themselves.

= Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

\ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 10:47 pm est. - 6:47 pm pst. /

“Wow! He takes all this time to show up and doesn’t even bring beer!?” Shane jokes from his lawn chair, Vince cracking a smile as the pair share a high five. “Shane, you live off sweating, sex, and running- sometimes all three at once” Aiden jokes, stood across the foosball table from Abby, his eyes following the small, dice-sized ball from one end of the table to the other, “I can’t picture you drinking a soda, let alone a beer.”

Moving over to make room for Vince to join him on the increasingly-deteriorated bench, Shane rubs his hands in anticipation, eager to occupy the table his roommate commands. Flipping the wooden figures on each individual rod, Aiden drives the painted sphere down the table’s length, his defence having barely stopped Abby from scoring.

His centre midfielder resting on the ball, Aiden presents himself with an opportunity, his figure tapping the ball toward the near wall, where his striker claims possession. Waiting for Abby to over-pursue, Aiden jumps at the first opening, his figure’s peg pushing the ball straight past his opponent’s defender, where it disappears beneath the table in Abby’s goal. “That’s game!” Keith remarks, hoisting his hands high in triumph, “Aiden’s victory, 7-5.”

As Vince applauds, Shane leaves the bench, prepared to duel his good friend just as they have many times before. “Here we go again!” Keith proclaims, earning a laugh out of the rooftop’s occupants as they jumble together, all eyes on the exhibition game for the personalities that take part in it. “Ready to crumble, health kick?” Aiden playfully jabs, “taste defeat, fuck-weasel” Shane responds, both men laughing off the intentionally-pathetic insults as the ball rolls into play.

Luck residing in his favour, Shane’s nearest right-fielder makes first contact, a lucky shot propelling the ball past Aiden’s defencemen for the game’s first score. “Series of seven, Shane commands the lead, one-nothing!” Keith proclaims, the split reaction from the crowd that follows implying a divide in support. “The king abdicates the throne to no one!” Shane exclaims, the fun he and the crew have with the game unable to change his genuine propensity to win.

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\ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 11:02 pm est. - 8:02 pm pst. /

“I don’t know whether to be glad or annoyed” Grant says, the uncertainty clear in the way he speaks, “we go through all of this to strike a deal with Kelsi, and Giuliani decides to announce his bid on Larry King?” The hem of her emerald green dress cut off just above the knee, Taylor sits upon the chair across from Grant’s desk, mostly quiet to allow the man his opportunity to vent.

“Honestly, my biggest worry is that we’ll be the reason he gets elected” Grant continues, his blazer draped over the back of his chair, arms crossed behind his head, “are we wasting our time?” Before answering, Taylor takes in a deep breath through her nose, eyes wide as she prepares to respond. “Yes, but that’s not really the point- is it?” Taylor replies, her suspended leg bouncing, “we’re cleaning out our closet. We’re going back to doing the news with a clean conscience.”

With a huff, Grant leaves his chair, drawn to the book shelf that occupies the wall behind him. “It’d be nice if that conscience didn’t need to be cleaned by an equally-gross stain masquerading as an American hero” Grant replies, letting Taylor respond, his fingers finally grazing the book he’d sought after. “He’ll be a front-runner with or without our coverage” Taylor retorts, watching Grant lay the book on her side of the table, “we’re not really doing much of a favour.”

Taking the hard-cover publication into her hands, Taylor sifts through the first few pages as Grant sits quietly, the woman unsure of the reason behind his gesture. “I’m not really in the market for reading material” Taylor remarks, returning the novel to Grant’s side of the desk. “How old were you when Perot ran? The first time, versus Clinton and Bush Sr?” Grant inquires, Taylor staring at the ceiling as she recalls the answer, “I was born in ‘78, so- fourteen?”

“Do you remember those ads he ran? The ones about the N.A.F.T.A deal and the federal budget?” Grant quickly responds, “those were what got him to the debate stage.” Hands folded in her lap, Taylor squints at Grant, trying to understand the point being made. “I’m interested in how you’re gonna tie this all together” Taylor replies, crossing her arms in anticipation.

“The ‘92 election wasn’t a fight because Perot was on your screen, it’s because every second of those ads was him flushing out his agenda” Grant remarks, “he told you what he thought was bad, told you what his plan was, and had the platform to do it on.” The cross in her arms loosening, Taylor lets herself settle as Grant continues, pacing from one side of the room to the other.

“We’re giving Giuliani the same platform Perot had for free, and that doesn’t sit well with me” Grant confesses, reclaiming his seat opposite Taylor, “we’re practically punching his ticket to the nomination.” Without warning, Grant’s door swings open, Vickers’ cheerful expression the first thing to greet them. “Happy new year’s!” Vickers remarks, his older age unable to keep him from dancing to the unoccupied seat beside Taylor, a pep in the spring chicken’s step.

“Happy new ye-” Grant begins to reply, Vickers’ words interrupting him. “Grant, if you spend one more minute talking about Rudy Giuliani or anything else I pay you for, I’ll punch you in the face and force you to take a pay cut” Vickers threatens, lowering himself into the chair as he adjusts his sport coat, “it’s a party damnit, go be part of it or go home.”

“We have a show tomorrow and an interview with a Giuliani staffer Friday” Grant counters, lifting his feet atop the desk, “and if you’d ask me, hosting a party at the workplace on a Sunday night sends mixed messages.” Sharing a chuckle, Vickers hunches forward, his hands coupled atop his lap. “Grant, you missed one thing with your Perot analogy” Vickers responds, “Perot’s a billionaire businessman, and Giuliani married his second cousin- one of these is not like the other.”

Bobbing his head, Grant lets the humour subside before making another attempt to speak, too tired of the topic to resume the persuasive vernacular. “All he needs to do is say the right things on the big stage” Grant reiterates, leaving his chair with a grunt, “I don’t like the fact that we’re that big stage- that’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, you’ve said it plenty for one lifetime” Vickers responds, patting the anchor on the shoulder as he rounds the desk, “now stop wasting breath and go live a little.” Relenting, Grant nods his head, “alright” the younger of the two men replies, patting his employer on the shoulder.

|

\ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 11:29 pm est. - 8:29 pm pst. /

“Hey stranger” Carly remarks, depriving herself of the building’s warmth to join Aiden on the terrace, not a peep able to be heard from the melting pot of culture and life stories below. Turning back to return the woman’s greeting, Aiden is silenced, the sleek red dress Carly wears catching his eyes, reflecting the moonlight in its curves. “Wow” the man mumbles, incapable of saying more as the woman approaches, a smile appearing through her dark red lips.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost” Carly jokes, occupying the space to Aiden’s left, her hair blown by the winds of New York’s winter. “Well, to be fair, you are pretty pale” Aiden blurts, earning a shocked expression from the woman as his subconscious takes over, the first joke that comes to his mind immediately noticed upon being spoken.

“Shit, I- I meant-” Aiden stutters, the worry brought on by Carly’s initial reaction settling as she laughs. “It’s fine, I get it more often than you’d think” Carly replies, still chuckling the statement off, “it usually comes from my parents instead of people that want to sleep with me, but I still get it plenty.”

“Sorry” Aiden quickly responds, looking back to the skyline as the conversation persists. “It’s fine. Seriously, it was funny” Carly reassures, leaning against the platform’s concrete lip, “we haven’t talked in a while. How’s work been?” Climbing down from his panic, Aiden partakes in the discourse, his eyes taking to the bulbous strobing light just a few blocks away, the magical number they patiently await their arrival to be basqued in grey.

“It’s not too bad I guess” Aiden rejoins, sharing Carly’s lean over the barrier between themselves and the building’s drop, “we’re transitioning to guests with this Giuliani project, so that’s a fun little aggravation.” Retrieving a pack of darts from her clutch, “what, you don’t like him?” Carly inquires, accepting the lighter Aiden offers.

“He’s pro-choice, pro-death penalty, he keeps cutting taxes and is in favour of the war- I’ll probably vote for him” Aiden answers, “it’s just another hoop to jump through. The show isn’t broken, I don’t get why we’re trying to fix it.” Striking the lighter, Carly sets the dart’s end aflame, dragging a puff as she responds. “You know it’s more than that, right?” Carly replies, the curious look she receives implying otherwise.

“Grant and Taylor struck a deal with that Kelsi chick” Carly replies, passing the butt to her colleague as a cloud of smoke escapes her lungs, “she canned the invasion piece and they gave her a Giuliani segment weekly.” His head pulled back, as if surprised, Aiden stares into the night, taking a drag as a strong inquisitiveness clouds his mind.

“Why wouldn’t they just tell me that?” Aiden replies, returning the dart to its owner, “why pass it off as an experiment, or whatever the hell they’re disguising it as?” No solid answer to offer, Carly just shrugs, another puff of her smoke pulled. “Maybe that’s what they’re hoping to get from it?” Carly ponders aloud, the silent speculation Aiden conjures affording her the freedom to form her own assumptions, “maybe they’re using it as a test run for incorporations into other shit?”

“Then why not just say that?” Aiden questions aloud, the inability to discover a plausible reason sitting poorly on his mind. “Does it really matter?” Carly replies, a second pull taken before she returns the cigarette to Aiden’s hand, “it doesn’t change the fact that it’s happening.” Able to see a few angles of Times Square from above, Aiden remains stoic in wonder, quietly taking another drag as his thoughts assume precedent.

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\ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 11:47 pm est. - 8:47 pm pst. /

“Hand to god, I’d never seen anything like it!” Vickers exclaims, stood before two men of similar age with a glass of scotch in his hand. “The nation stopped! It was like we’d entered an entirely new era!” Vickers details, stripped from the conversation by the hand of a young woman, her palm resting on the pad of his right shoulder. “Mr. Vickers-” the woman remarks, watching the man turn to her, a smile on his face.

“Yes, Nicole?” Vickers gleefully replies, forced to lean close in order to hear the woman over the grand piano and boisterous crowd of well-dressed folks. “-Mr. Vickers, there’s someone here to see you in your office” Nicole informs, already having expected her employer to brush off the visitor. “Remind them that I’m not entertaining meetings until tomorrow afternoon” Vickers responds, his attempt at patting the woman’s shoulder thwarted, her hand catching his mid-air.

“It’s Robin Lloyd, sir” Nicole replies, the surprised look on the older man’s face falling to distress at the woman’s name.

Walking at his own pace, Vickers descends the hall to his office, a bounty of New Year’s Eve broadcasts displayed on the televisions that line his route. “To what do I owe this surprise?” Vickers remarks, feigning pleasantries as best as his slightly-inebriated self can. “Oh, perhaps it’s the half-bottle of scotch I can smell on your breath from here” Robin answers, speaking as if such a scent were common.

“There’s no such thing as a New Year’s Eve without a little alcohol” Vickers replies, lowering himself into the seat by his desk. “There are places for people like you, Sam- notably, rehab” Robin quips, opting to remain stood, “do it on your own time, however- I’m gonna need you keeping charge of this place.”

“I always do, that’s why you pay me” Vickers responds, more than coherent enough to offer the woman her first drink of the night with a perfectly-steady hand. “Mhm, well you’re gonna have to do a little more to earn that check now” the woman replies, speaking over the sound of single malt pouring from Vickers’ rim. “How so?” the man answers, sliding the woman’s glass across the table.

“I’ve got the Lehman Brothers up my ass about your Giuliani promos” Robin replies, taking down all that Vickers had poured in her glass at once. “I would’ve thought they’d be all over this sort of stuff” Vickers replies, yet to raise the glass to his mouth before his employer finishes her own, “they are throwing money behind Rudy, correct?”

“Of course they’re throwing money behind Rudy” Robin replies, her point yet to resonate with Vickers. “I’m sorry, Robin- I don’t see what you’re getting at” Vickers remarks, returning his drink to the desk without a sip, “he’s getting free coverage and national exposure, what’s their problem?”

“They’re less concerned with the free coverage and more concerned over the kind of coverage” Robin reiterates, the look on Vickers’ face again implying a disconnect. “Ugh, do I have to spell it out for you?” Robin quips, returning the glass to Vickers’ desk, the ruffles on her purple shirt’s sleeves shaking as her arms extend, “I need you to kiss his ass!”

“Rudy?” Vickers repeats, his head jutting forward as his eyes squint, “they want us to kiss Rudy ‘cousin-fucker’ Giuliani’s ass? No.” Turning her head in the direction of the exit, Robin waits for her preferred time to interrupt. “The man’s only political position is ‘boo 9/11’, looks like a raisin left in a bottle of bleach, and do I need to remind you that he fucks his cousin!?” Vickers exclaims, unable to hold back laughter, “the man’s dumber than a paper boy in Atlantis!”

“Well, as long as you’re running these promos, you’re gonna make him look like a sexy Stephen Hawking!” Robin exclaims, her voice reverberating off the man’s office walls. “How do you anticipate I do that!?” Vickers shouts back, unafraid of the conflict his opposition stands a chance at bringing. “I pay those two anchors of yours over three million dollars each” Robin answers, her voice having calmed, “if they can’t figure out the ‘how’ part, what the fuck am I paying them for?”

“Oh, I don’t know- could it be the thirteen-point-three million viewers they bring in nightly?” Vickers ripostes in an equally-calm tone, the opposition he faces disappearing. “Sam, I’m not going back-and-forth with you on this any further” Robin explains, claiming the untouched glass of scotch Vickers had poured for himself. “Either do what I’m telling you, or call it a career” the woman strong-arms, downing the second glass without trouble, “this isn’t a request.”

Leaving as abruptly as she’d arrived, Robin walks herself out, the choices left clear. “Hey! Who says I’m ready to retire!?” Vickers jabs from afar, aware his words add nothing to the discussion, “seventy-six is the new forty-three!”

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\ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 11:57 pm est. - 8:57 pm pst. /

“Fancy meeting the two of you out here” Grant remarks, holding the door for Taylor as they brace the cold outdoor terrace. “I guess we can say the same” Carly responds, her eyes inspecting Taylor, the woman’s salon-curled hair intact, “I guess the two of you haven’t gotten busy yet.”

“Put emphasis on the ‘yet’ while you’re at it” Grant warns, sharing Taylor’s appreciation as Aiden extends a cigar to each of them. “You can kiss when the ball drops, or you can light an Ashton” Aiden quips, accompanying each cigar with a cheap, plastic lighter. Lifting the tobie to her nose, Taylor takes in the tobacco scent, the potent aroma practically singing to her.

Having done the same, Grant locks eyes with his co host, their silent agreement choosing to delay the kiss in favour of their high-quality smoke. “The two of you a thing now, what’s going on here?” Taylor jokes, repeating Carly’s speculative gesture from before. “Farthest thing from it” Aiden replies, Carly stood to his left whilst Grant occupies his right, “we haven’t talked much in a few weeks.”

“Yeah, and the two of you just so happen to find each other minutes before every couple in the country swallow tongues, right?” Grant replies, nudging Aiden’s arm with his elbow. “At least when we say we’re just ‘coworkers’, we’re not lying about it” Aiden blithely mocks, earning Grant’s nod of approval. The pairs beginning to run low on topics to discuss, the air grows quiet, few intentions set on disrupting the moment they’d waited all night for.

“Did you guys at least have a good night?” Grant inquires, the minute and a half that separate them from the new year appearing remarkably long. “I got swept in foosball” Aiden groans, his lips pressing against the cigar as the clock beneath the strobe-covered ball counts down from sixty. “How about the two of you?” Carly responds, the question prompting the hosts to turn toward each other, almost unsure of the answer.

“In a way, yes. In another way, no” Taylor answers, both women looking to each other from opposite sides of the group. “Fifty seconds” Aiden murmurs, refusing to remove the cigar from his lips before his declarations. “The Rudy stuff?” Carly inquires, the only answer she needs concealed behind Taylor’s nod. “Forty seconds” Aiden mumbles again, a few further seconds passing in silence, the year’s end somehow feeling less important the closer it comes.

“Thirty seconds” Aiden hums, his thumb pressed against his lighter’s tip, prepared to strike a flame the moment four small numbers glow in the deep, golden light. “Why does it feel like this countdown is pointless all of a sudden?” Grant wonders aloud, the quiet response he gets allowing him to elaborate, “like the work we had in 2006 isn’t done yet?”

“Twenty seconds” Aiden purrs, Taylor the only person with an answer somehow fitting. “It’s like we’re just getting started” the young blonde replies, her eyes trailing off to look into her partners’, “like the year’s only new in name only.”

“Ten seconds” Aiden whispers, watching the double digits fade into singles, Grant and Taylor soon joining their friends in silently counting down, the flashing graphics saying what they refuse to put in words. In a second, the dark ‘2007’ glows brilliant gold, their collective flames striking life into their cigars at once, the distant tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ filling the streets as their collective puffs of smoke fill the air.

To the muffled sounds of celebratory cheers in the offices just below them, the four friends stare blankly at the spouts of confetti ascending through the skies, ringing in a new calendar year. Silent, the four remain leant forward, Grant the first to lower the cigar from his lips. His face void of much celebratory cheer, Grant parts his lips, his breath a cloudy white when colliding with the frosty air, “happy new year” he says emptily, answered by his friends with only an incomplete nod.

\ Monday, January 1st, 2007 /
\ 12:00 am est. /

== Tonight at 9 ==