Sorkinverse Challenge 20: fic with prompts - S60: Who Steals My Purse Steals Trash
Title: Who Steals My Purse Steals Trash
Fandom: Studio 60
Character: Harriet Hayes
Rating: G
Word count: 770
Notes: Written 24 July 2010 for Sorkinverse challenge #20, fic with prompts, prompt: assassination.
When you're a public figure, no matter how minor or insignificant, then you automatically become, almost literally, public property. No sooner have you put yourself out there than total strangers start to take a far-too-personal interest in your sex life, snark about your clothes and your hair, debate whether you're too fat or too thin and whether you might have an eating disorder, put the most intimate details of your life under scrutiny and drag them out for open debate.
So far, so bad, but all that goes with the territory. Harriet's used to it. But lately, something's changed. Something's different. Something mean.
The showbiz world is a cutthroat world, and it's hard to tell sometimes what's everyday bitchiness and what's targeted malice. So maybe it's just unfortunate that suddenly every agency in town is using a grossly unflattering picture as their stock shot of her. That blind item - which funny lady is taking 'love your neighbour' just a little too literally these days? - maybe it wasn't aimed at her; there's nothing to base it on, after all, as if that even matters. But three things - when it happens three times, it can't be ignored. When her words are twisted and mangled, making her sound ridiculous, turning her into the butt of a joke - then she knows that it's deliberate, and that someone's out to get her. Someone wants to bring her down, and she doesn't know who, and she doesn't know why.
Character assassination. She doesn't want to turn it into a thing, but … that's what it is.
Leno smirks into the camera. "So," he says, "I hear Harriet Hayes spent Thanksgiving in a homeless shelter."
I know I'm lucky, she'd said. Blessed, in fact. We didn't have much, when I was growing up. But in some ways, she'd added, speaking from the heart as she so often, sometimes unwisely, does, in some ways, things were better then. Not materially, but spiritually. It's so easy, out here in LA, to lose track of who you are, where you came from - to remember what you owe to God and others.
The audience ripples with anticipatory laughter. Leno grins his look-at-me-aren't-I-bad grin, and he delivers his punchline.
"She wasn't helping out," he says. "She just stays there some nights - when she wants to get in touch with her roots."
It's weak - well, it's Leno - but it's all the crowd needs. They shriek and whoop and holler, and, inside, Harriet dies a little.
Harriet Hayes: "I wish I were homeless!" That's what the headline had read. And, alongside it, that photo, the one where she looks like a crazy person, a crazy person who hasn't washed her hair in a month and had possibly been stung by many bees.
Her publicist swears he's on it. Matt's as supportive as dear, short-sighted, self-centred Matt knows how to be. Danny lets it be known that if he finds out who's responsible, then they'll have him to deal with. So does Simon and that, in fact, is an actual threat. But they're swatting at shadows; they all know it. If this goes on … well, she doesn't have to finish that sentence. They've all seen it happen too many times before, to too many good people. If the media turn against you, they can destroy you - and they will do, without a care, without a thought.
It's part of the price you pay, the bargain you drive. You give them what they want, and they'll be good to you. But piss them off, and - well: this. And this may be only the start. Where it'll end? That, she daren't consider. All she can do is smile and laugh, hold her head high, and play along, act as if she doesn't care, and maybe they'll lose interest. Isn't that what bullies do?
She straightens her skirt, checks her hair, takes a deep breath, and steps out onto the stage. Smiles for the cameras and the crowd, shakes hands, sits down, and passes Jay the tinfoil package she's brought on with her.
"What's this?" he wants to know, and pokes at it warily. She smiles again, bright as the sunniest of June mornings.
"I brought you some leftovers," she tells him, "From the night shelter. You know - " She tilts her head, pretty and appealing, "It's the holidays, and people are just so generous!"
There's a pause - just for a second - then Leno starts to laugh and, taking their cue, the audience remembers that they love her and join in.
That's one to her. Hey: it's a beginning.
This is one battle she'll have to fight - and win - herself. And she will.Harriet knows she will.
She has faith.
***
This entry was originally posted at http://phoebesmum.dreamwidth.org/856522.html. Please comment there using OpenID. Or not, as you please.
Fandom: Studio 60
Character: Harriet Hayes
Rating: G
Word count: 770
Notes: Written 24 July 2010 for Sorkinverse challenge #20, fic with prompts, prompt: assassination.
When you're a public figure, no matter how minor or insignificant, then you automatically become, almost literally, public property. No sooner have you put yourself out there than total strangers start to take a far-too-personal interest in your sex life, snark about your clothes and your hair, debate whether you're too fat or too thin and whether you might have an eating disorder, put the most intimate details of your life under scrutiny and drag them out for open debate.
So far, so bad, but all that goes with the territory. Harriet's used to it. But lately, something's changed. Something's different. Something mean.
The showbiz world is a cutthroat world, and it's hard to tell sometimes what's everyday bitchiness and what's targeted malice. So maybe it's just unfortunate that suddenly every agency in town is using a grossly unflattering picture as their stock shot of her. That blind item - which funny lady is taking 'love your neighbour' just a little too literally these days? - maybe it wasn't aimed at her; there's nothing to base it on, after all, as if that even matters. But three things - when it happens three times, it can't be ignored. When her words are twisted and mangled, making her sound ridiculous, turning her into the butt of a joke - then she knows that it's deliberate, and that someone's out to get her. Someone wants to bring her down, and she doesn't know who, and she doesn't know why.
Character assassination. She doesn't want to turn it into a thing, but … that's what it is.
Leno smirks into the camera. "So," he says, "I hear Harriet Hayes spent Thanksgiving in a homeless shelter."
I know I'm lucky, she'd said. Blessed, in fact. We didn't have much, when I was growing up. But in some ways, she'd added, speaking from the heart as she so often, sometimes unwisely, does, in some ways, things were better then. Not materially, but spiritually. It's so easy, out here in LA, to lose track of who you are, where you came from - to remember what you owe to God and others.
The audience ripples with anticipatory laughter. Leno grins his look-at-me-aren't-I-bad grin, and he delivers his punchline.
"She wasn't helping out," he says. "She just stays there some nights - when she wants to get in touch with her roots."
It's weak - well, it's Leno - but it's all the crowd needs. They shriek and whoop and holler, and, inside, Harriet dies a little.
Harriet Hayes: "I wish I were homeless!" That's what the headline had read. And, alongside it, that photo, the one where she looks like a crazy person, a crazy person who hasn't washed her hair in a month and had possibly been stung by many bees.
Her publicist swears he's on it. Matt's as supportive as dear, short-sighted, self-centred Matt knows how to be. Danny lets it be known that if he finds out who's responsible, then they'll have him to deal with. So does Simon and that, in fact, is an actual threat. But they're swatting at shadows; they all know it. If this goes on … well, she doesn't have to finish that sentence. They've all seen it happen too many times before, to too many good people. If the media turn against you, they can destroy you - and they will do, without a care, without a thought.
It's part of the price you pay, the bargain you drive. You give them what they want, and they'll be good to you. But piss them off, and - well: this. And this may be only the start. Where it'll end? That, she daren't consider. All she can do is smile and laugh, hold her head high, and play along, act as if she doesn't care, and maybe they'll lose interest. Isn't that what bullies do?
She straightens her skirt, checks her hair, takes a deep breath, and steps out onto the stage. Smiles for the cameras and the crowd, shakes hands, sits down, and passes Jay the tinfoil package she's brought on with her.
"What's this?" he wants to know, and pokes at it warily. She smiles again, bright as the sunniest of June mornings.
"I brought you some leftovers," she tells him, "From the night shelter. You know - " She tilts her head, pretty and appealing, "It's the holidays, and people are just so generous!"
There's a pause - just for a second - then Leno starts to laugh and, taking their cue, the audience remembers that they love her and join in.
That's one to her. Hey: it's a beginning.
This is one battle she'll have to fight - and win - herself. And she will.Harriet knows she will.
She has faith.
***
This entry was originally posted at http://phoebesmum.dreamwidth.org/856522.html. Please comment there using OpenID. Or not, as you please.