The Day Cookie Monster Took a Stance on Abortion
“We’ve gotten out of worse before,” she said.
For her interview, they called Petra to a spacious office on the seventeenth floor, where the heights made her giddy with possibility. For her last day, she was fired in a broom closet. It was a pity, because what she loved most about the job were the sets’ friendly city streets, and the wholesome costumes, and the vibrant puppets, and the smiles that passed like electric current from child to child to crew to millions of people across the globe.
“This is very bad,” Mr. Eddie said.
Petra nodded.
“But every problem has a solution.”
Petra nodded vigorously.
“All that stuff about how cookie dough is just a future cookie—”
“Yeah.”
“—and whether it’s a cookie when its only half-baked—”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s over. We’re gone. He doesn’t memorize one script in the last five years, not one script, and then on the live broadcast he delivers this, this…” Mr. Eddie cradled his forehead like a cracked egg and leaned back against the shelves, knocking a pack of toilet paper to the floor. Petra returned the toilet paper to its precise spot.
After the incident, Mr. Eddie had abruptly fled into the janitorial closet. Petra had followed. The cluttered room smelled like early mornings on set, like the pride of being the first one in and the last one out. Petra knew well the sticky lemon scent of the night crew’s cleaning solution; it conceived in her an image of glistening floors under a new day’s sun.
Petra waited. She held her clipboard before her and hovered her pen above it, an oracle ready to transcribe divine inspiration when it lofted down on cherub wings.
“A whole career flushed away,” Mr. Eddie said.
“But every problem has a solution,” Petra said confidently.
Mr. Eddie groaned. His eyes were as glazed and puffy as the boutique donuts on the craft table. He was an unhealthy man—but Petra did not judge. To the extent he was unhealthy, it was a function of the job. Extra weight from craft donuts and no exercise. Shadowy black eye bags from late-night shoots. Stiff, clumsy feet from being all day on the move. He had the body of a true professional, a veteran of the TV world; Petra respected it; she was on the way to one herself, at least so she hoped.
“We’ve gotten out of worse before,” she said.
He shrugged, muttered.
“The bird’s Israel comments.”
Mr. Eddie remembered, and his thin lips crept to the edge of a smile. Petra also recalled the crisis fondly; her steady hand had earned her a promotion, from production assistant to assistant producer, a change mostly in title (and hardly in that) but one that meant the world to her. Proof of concept. Proof that her life of sacrifice, worshiping at the altar of television, was a good one.
“And the cast—” Petra made a cup with her hand a took a gulp.
Mr. Eddie’s smile broadened, broadened, and fell. He said, “Well, Petra, how did we solve those problems?”
“Damage control, get them on the talk shows, put out a statement, and usually somebody got fired.”
“Yes, someone will definitely need to be fired. But who?”
Petra tapped her pen against her clipboard, freckling her copious notes with tiny blue chicken pox. “It will have to be someone that has something to do with his handling.”
“Yes,” Mr. Eddie said. “But not someone too high up.”
“Hm, yeah, we don’t want to look like were panicking, or that the ship wasn’t being steered. But they’d have to be sort of high up, for it to look good.”
Petra thought about it and realized and said, without missing a beat, “Would it look better if I was fired, or if I resigned.”
Gobsmacked, wide-eyed and quivering, Mr. Eddie spoke before he knew what he wanted to say: “It would surely be better for you, if you resigned. But for the show,” he drifted off.
“Fired then,” Petra said. “I’ll draft a statement.” She began to write.
This was just one more sacrifice, like all the others she’d made for the show. But those other selfless acts—no matter how much they took from her—seemed somehow unobtrusive. It was one thing to sacrifice her time when she was young and the abundance of her future days obscured their worth. Getting up early cost Petra nothing; she had the energy to spare. This was different.
Mr. Eddie began rubbing his neck, pulling at wings of loose skin. “You’re taking this very well.”
Petra wrote.
“It’s not fair, I know. It’s not fair, but it’s for the good of the show. I can’t be— Just because I’m his go to, it doesn’t mean I should be— You understand?”
Petra looked up. “It’s for the good of the show. I was thinking that maybe you should have security escort me out, to really demonstrate that we’re rectifying the mistake. But that might make management look too harsh. We’ll let me slink away. That’s a more classy move.” She screwed up her smile and blinked eyes iced with tears. “I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to sell it, but—” She gestured to her face and her lashes glittered like frosted yuletide boughs.
Petra offered a stiff, professional hand. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Eddie.”
“Petra.” He shook her hand limply.
“I hope that when things die down, you can discreetly write me a letter of recommendation.”
“Petra, please.”
“But I understand if that’s not possible.”
Flushed and proud, Petra stood tall. She hugged her clipboard and readied herself for the humiliation. The tugging and tweaking had left Mr. Eddie’s neck the color of raw steak.
“I can’t let you do this for me,” Mr. Eddie said.
Petra opened the door. “It’s not for you.”
N. J. Webster is a father, lawyer, and writer attempting to channel his pop culture obsession into something useful. You can find him procrastinating on Twitter (@realnjwebster).
