Chapter 47.5: Hell in a [C]Ellen

Chapter 47.5: Hell in a [C]Ellen

WB Lot Studio 1, Burbank California. July 2009.

“Where were you, Bas? How could you be so late?” Emma scolded me the moment I stepped in through the door. I halted my stride, leaned back, and reread the placard stuck on the adjoining wall just to make sure I was entering the green room and not the interrogation room. “What exactly were you doing when the show’s almost about to start?” Clearly, it was labelled wrong.

No point using my right to remain silent. Anything I said was gonna be used against me, anyway. “Takin’ a nap.” 

“Taking a nap-!?” I wasn’t a detective, but it seems the prosecution did not consider that a satisfactory excuse. “Didn’t Federica even attempt to wake you up on time?”

“Yeah, she tried. Dozed off with my noise cancelling headphones on and locked the door.” Your honour, my client, would like to plead guilty. “The dressing room was pretty swanky, couldn’t help it. But hey, I’m fresh and ready for anything now.”

“Wish I’d thought of that.” Rupert was far less energetic than Emma. Slouched on the sofa, lazily tossing - and usually failing - to catch blueberries in his mouth. “I feel like I’ve been sitting here for days.”

“Alright, kids, that’s enough!” Anita, the last member of the jury, jabbed two accusatory fingers at us. “You two, take a seat. We’ve got a lot to get through. And Rupert, sit up! Just because we’re backstage doesn’t mean there aren’t cameras watching. This ain’t that type of show.” 

“Fine!” At that, Emma stopped barring my way, and shifted aside so I could fully enter, while shutting the door behind me. “But I’m watching you!”

“I know.” Plonking myself next to my agent, I threw one arm over the back of the couch and crossed my legs. If you wanna be a scoundrel, you’ve gotta pose like one. “I feel your lustful gaze on my pert arse every time I walk in front of you.” 

Rupert started laughing; his last blueberry bounced off his forehead and fell to the floor.

 Emma’s retaliatory strike, “Prat!” was stymied by the coffee table I’d strategically placed between her heel and my shin. “I do not!”

Mmph-! Though that didn’t stop Anita from reaching over and clamping my lips shut between her fingers. 

“Simmer down. We’re all nervous, I get that. The three of you have done plenty of interviews and promo panels before, but I think this is the first time the three of y’all are featuring on a syndicated TV show together. All eyes - even the ones inside the walls - are going to be watching. Now, we’ve done our damndest to make sure production doesn’t succeed with any shenanigans like they did last time Bas was here. I can’t guarantee things will stay that way once the cameras roll.”

“Plus,” I added as the experienced one, “since WB now owns both the HP franchise and The Ellen DeGeneres show, we don’t really know whether we’ll get the VIP treatment, or if that’s gonna embolden production here to act out. So, keep on your toes - it’ll make it harder for them to step on them if you are.”

“Well said-” Anita almost paid me a rare compliment.

“Hold on a tick.” Before Rupert raised an objection. I’ll have my revenge! You hear me, Grint? “If we’re all on the same team under WB, why would they risk damaging our or their own rep?”

“Honestly, Rupert. Regardless of whether it makes either of us look terrible, as long as people tune in to watch, WB won’t complain. If you’d died choking on one of those blueberries, let’s not pretend the footage wouldn’t be making the rounds before the phone call informing your mum was over.” Emma had evidently grown horribly cynical about the industry - and I couldn’t be happier for it.

“Bloody grim, that.”

“Good work.” Substandard though my ventriloquism might be, I still had to compliment Anita on a job well done from the side of my mouth. She rolled her eyes, but her sharky grin told a more prideful story. 

Knock, knock. “Sorry to interrupt.” Why bother knocking if you’re not gonna wait for the invitation to enter? “We apologise for the delay, but the, uhm… technical difficulty we were experiencing has been fixed. So please get ready, the studio audience has been waiting. We need to get started ASAP.” One of Ellen’s many, many PAs made himself known to us, as well as anyone else listening in on the other side of his headset mic. 

“Alright, guys. This is it.” Anita urged us all to get up, picked off a piece of fluff from the lapel of my shirt, and waved us out the door. “Best behaviour, okay? But if at any point it becomes apparent that she’s straying off course; Bas, Emma, you both have full authority to give your absolute worst. Watch each other’s backs, you three, and good luck out there!”

“Where’s the loo, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to go earlier, and I’d rather not sog up your set.”

My business done, the PA ushered us down the new corridors. I wondered what was newer; him, or the studio? He was different from the bootlicker I’d met a few years back. Not surprising, though. There was probs more turnover here than a love hotel mattress. 

My theory was confirmed when I witnessed another recent casualty - one that my consigliere had brought on to our side, and made effective use of already. 

Apparently, the severance package that came with his two-week notice was nowhere near as lucrative as the bribe I paid via Fedex delivery. 

He was (and would for another week remain) a gaffer on the show - a handyman, basically. If something mechanical needed fixing, he’d be the first point of call. He’d been let go - straight into my scheming arms. Greasing up his WD-40 stained palms went buttery smooth. 

He spotted me, but restrained himself and just shot me a glance as he gingerly blew into his paper cup full of what smelled strongly of cheap coffee. I didn’t wanna give the gag away either. A quick conspiratorial wink when I saw no one was looking my way was the last I could afford. After this, we’d never see or speak again. 

Still, our covert operation had gone off without a hitch, and I felt like celebrating.

“It’s been a few years since, uh, our next guest made his debut appearance on my show. And this time, he brought back-up. Folks, please welcome to the stage Bas, and the Rhys-t of the Hogwarts trio: Rupert Grint and Emma Watson!” The end of Ellen’s introductory monologue was the perfect opportunity to cut loose. 

On cue, the tunes kicked up, and the PA nudged Emma and Rupert forward first. The DJ understood his assignment. Mainstream markets required the most milquetoast music choices. Under that edict, he chose something off the billboard hot 100 and blasted it through the speakers.

 Lady Gaga demanded I ‘Just Dance’. 

Grint paid it absolutely no mind, choosing instead to saunter on stage; one hand tucked casually in his pocket while the other greeted the screeching audience.

Emma, at least, made a concerted effort. Awkwardly shimmying her shoulders, then giving it up as a bad job halfway through, before devolving into off-beat claps, reflecting her lack of rhythm. 

I, on the other hand, or more accurately, foot, was in a realm entirely of my own. “Mr Rhys-! You need to get out there too - like, right now!” The PA frantically tugged on the wadded cuff of my rolled-up sleeve. I almost felt bad for him, especially considering the operator on the other end of his headset was yelling loud enough that even I could hear.

 “Don’t worry, I’m just letting my friends have the spotlight they so richly deserve. I’ll head out in a jiff.” My shoes this time weren’t half as slick as my moves were gonna be - I’d selected a pair that ensured ample traction on the wax polished hardwood. 

The second I saw my colleagues realise I hadn’t followed behind them, I deigned to make my entrance to raucous applause. Taekwondo was great for footwork as I slid, skipped, and swivelled my way down to the seating area. By the time I got to centre stage, everyone had parked themselves. “Great to-” Ellen tried to change gears as I shook her hand, but I was keen to keep burning time, patience, and rubber (specifically on the soles of my shoes) as I kept dancing. The DJ was all for it, since he kept the jams going. Wonder when he’d be replaced, too.

I can’t sing, but I sure can dance, babay.

The crowd was eating it up, and it just fueled me further. Their chanting voices and my hot stepping would have raised the roof had Emma and Rupert not locked their arms around each of my elbows and yanked me down on the sofa between them. My feet were no longer loose. 

Speakers cut off, and Ellen wrangled her audience ‘til they finally calmed down. “So my first question was gonna be how transitioning from being a young actor to an adult’s been going since we last met. But I guess that adage that child stars have substance abuse issues rings true. Are you on drugs, Bas?” What a way to start an interview.

My mates, however, didn’t take too kindly to the thinly veiled insult. No amount of fake Hollywood chortling was gonna hide the malicious accusation. 

Emma pinched my wenis - that’s not a euphemism. She squeezed the loose skin above my elbow, signalling me to give her a chance to fire back on my behalf. “Oh, Ellen, don’t be silly - that’s Bas’ job. It doesn’t suit you.” Vicious blow on Emma’s part. Clowning around was most of our host’s gimmick.

“S’far as narcotics go, he’s clearly off any meds, innit?” Rupert was equally helpful.

I stared straight into the lens of the nearest camera. “Wanna buy some magic, kids?” This section was definitely gonna end up on one of those uncomfortable interview compilations on youtube. 

“A-ah…hahaha. Well, then I see I don’t know Bas as well as I thought I did.” Ellen, like every successful comedian, had thick skin. The oblivious bystanders laughed as well; I imagine because of the flashing sign telling them to. “Through no fault of my own! As many of you at home know, I’m a jokester and I enjoy playing the occasional prank on my guests - especially the repeat ones. It’s all a part of the Ellen experience. I thought I’d do the same with Bas, this time around - unfortunately, to mixed results.” Ellen prompted us all to turn to the screen beside us. “We had a bit of a delay in our shoot today. Check out why.”

[The feed shifted to a high angle CCTV shot of the dressing room that had been assigned to me. Fully decked out after my stint with the styling department, I walked in, “ooaahh,” my gaping yawn the only thing the hidden mics could pick up, and just a tinge of the music blaring out from the headphones hanging off my neck.

They also inconspicuously placed the cameras in the room, but we knew about them ahead of time. We weren’t supposed to.

I locked the room, padded over the carpet, and stood at the threshold of the bathroom. I also knew that Ellen was hunched inside the armoire in the corner by the shower. 

Did I spring the trap? Nope, I thwarted them.

Triggering my own scheme, I shut the loo door. Fedex had assured me that the gaffer from earlier had fiddled with it like we’d suggested. Jiggling the knob and sensing no give, “well, that’s broken.” I shrugged, covered my ears with the soothing sounds of the Gorillaz at full volume, and planted myself on the settee for a nap.

The screen switched to two simultaneous feeds of Ellen banging on the bathroom door to let her out, and her team clattering at the dressing room entrance to let them in. All while I snoozed.]

“I was stuck in there for twenty minutes!”

“Ooh, so that’s why all those people rushed in when I headed for the green room.” The audience didn’t require the signage to encourage a round of titters in this instance.

On the surface, this may seem innocuous. A jump scare is about as limp-wristed and uninspired as a prank can be. When our handy little spy had informed us of the off the books exercise, Fedex, Anita, and I read underneath the underneath.

Their intent was to catch me in a private setting with my pants down, figuratively. Or failing that, with my shirt off, literally. Either would drive viewership up. 

Rather than the borrowed footage from WB like last time. Ellen and crew wanted a reel of their own. 

There was a lot else I could have done, sure. Dropped trou and flashed my jewels, visited the porcelain throne, feigned a heart attack - the possibilities were endless. But they all came at a certain expense of my image. Ellen wasn’t going to cost me that, so I refused it. I was much more a fan of seeing her hoist by her own petard. A little poetic justice she could only blame herself for. And one she had to include to fill in the segmented slot - she had little choice if she wanted to fill in the show’s airing time quota.

“I think from now on, I’m going to stick to breaking the ice using only games with you. So let’s play one of our favourites: never have I ever!” The rest of the interview continued without a snag. Ellen even managed to keep her worse nature tucked and stuck to the approved line of questioning. 

Em and Grint even looked like they had a down right pleasant time. Sometimes, when you need to win a game, you don’t have to flip the table, just turn them.

 This humiliation took place in front of a live studio audience.