Chương 137: Book 4 - Chapter 16 B

Mattie loved Max, but at first it wasn't mutual. I entertained Mattie with the invisible laser pointer just as much as I entertained Max, as he attacked everything I pointed at. When Max was properly exercised was about the same time that Aunt Joan and her kids became too much. I disappeared to the Mid-Continent Tower. The Mid-Continent Tower is my favorite building in Tulsa. When I lived here I picked the room at the Mayo that could look out and see it everyday.

Having a company here was a wonderful excuse to spend time here. I walked through the lobby, my MicroTAC tucked into my bag and went up the elevator. When I reached the executive suite of Heartland Media, the atmosphere changed from the building's classic 1930s elegance to the high-frequency hum of a modern empire. Nick Elseworth was waiting for me in his office. He looked like a man who was winning.

"We're beating the networks in key demographics. People are obsessed with Graham Kerr's comeback, and Pat Morita is the secret weapon we didn't know we needed. He brings a dignity to the Chairman role that makes the whole thing feel like a sporting event. People are obsessed with the 'ballet and battlefield' vibe." I grinned at his vibratory excitement.

"It's about the theater, Nick. People want to see mastery under pressure," I said, taking a seat.

"And your experiment with the 'Two-for-One' blocks? It's genius. Using one crew in Paris to film the 'Cute Couple' for TLC's World Tour while simultaneously shooting that 'Anti-Tourist' guy for Food TV's Grumpy Traveler... our production costs per hour have plummeted. We're getting two hit shows for the price of one."

"That's the secret, Nick. Reality is cheap if you own the logistics," I said, taking a seat.

"But we've been doing 'process' television for two years. People have seen how the world looks. Now, I want to show them how people break." Nick leaned back, a flicker of professional skepticism crossing his face.

"Break? We're a lifestyle group, John. People watch us to relax."

"No, they watch us to be inspired. And nothing inspires like mastery under pressure." I leaned forward.

"I have three new concepts. First: MasterChef. We scour the country for home cooks—not pros, just neighbors, Moms and Dads—and put them through a gauntlet. We start with technical skills—chopping an onion, making a basic roux—and we eliminate them one by one." Nick started scribbling, but stopped.

"Amateurs? John, if they aren't pros, the food might be terrible. Where's the draw?"

"The draw is the American Dream, Nick. The key is the editing. Don't manufacture drama between the contestants. No snarky backbiting. Have them pull together, root for each other. The drama is the clock. It is the three-night-a-week investment where every member of the family has a favorite and you lose one contestant a week until the Grand Finale. We'll hold competitions all over the country to find the thirty contestants to fill the roster."

"A community-based competition," Nick mused.

"It's a huge project."

"It is, and it will take meticulous planning. Next: Top Chef. We take the best young professional line cooks in the country. We put them in a house and make them build a dining room from scratch in twenty-four hours—'Restaurant Wars.' This is where you let the personalities shine. They're fighting for the seed money to open their own place."

"That is high-stakes," Nick agreed.

"That's the career-maker."

"And finally," I said, a grin tugging at my mouth, "the Great Food Truck Race. We give seven teams a specialized mobile kitchen and a seed of cash. They start here in Tulsa and have to sell their way across the country to LA. We track their sales daily. The team that makes the least at each stop is out." Nick stopped writing and looked at me blankly.

"Food trucks? John, I'm from LA. You want to make a show about 'roach coaches'? The things parked behind construction sites that sell lukewarm burritos?"

"They won't be roach coaches when we're done with them, Nick. We're going to show that you can do five-star food out of a side window. It's the ultimate expression of the American hustle."

"But the logistics," Nick countered, shaking his head.

"How do you even get a camera crew into a kitchen the size of a closet? You can't fit a cameraman, a sound tech, and a producer in there without someone getting third-degree burns."

"We don't use a full crew," I explained, leaning in.

"We use the new industrial security cameras—small, fixed-mount units tucked into the corners. We wire the contestants with lavalier mics. The crew follows in a chase van. We let the 'reality' happen without a cameraman standing in the way of the stove. It makes the footage feel raw, like the audience is peering through a window." Nick let out a long whistle, his eyes widening.

"Fixed cameras. No union crew taking up space. It's even cheaper than the travel blocks. The footage of a gourmet chef trying to sell tacos in a Kansas dust storm? That's gold."

"It fits the Heartland brand perfectly," I said.

"Now, what about Marvel?" Nick tapped a folder.

"The preliminary boards for Clone Wars are in. Since you own the IP through Marvel, where do you want to place this? Is it for the kids on Cartoon Network, or do we put it on Syfy?"

"Syfy, definitely," I said. Since I'd launched Syfy in '86, it had become the home for the hardcore fans.

"It is still more than a year from a premiere, but it's going to bridge the 'Tales of the Republic' comic from Marvel and the film trilogy. It'll be too intense for the Cartoon Network afternoon block. Put it in the slot with the lowest ratings."

"Monster Mondays," Nick said immediately.

"The viewership there has dropped lately." Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Perfect. We'll turn it into Star Wars Mondays," I agreed.

"We use the high-production value of Marvel animation to lift the whole night." I stood and stretched, my voice doing that treacherous adolescent slide.

"One last thing, I need the shows about my Grandpa's hotels running in January as much as you can. TLC and Food TV. It'll help with his IPO. Also offer the footage to WBN to use as background footage for their reports."

"Sure, I can do that. Nothing new premiering in January," he said.

"Okay, I'm heading to the studio now. I need to practice a speech for January."

"I'm sure you'll do fine, John," Nick said, already reaching for the phone to call the TLC producers. I walked down the hall to the small, soundproofed room that would be my sanctuary. I adjusted the Panasonic VHS camcorder, put in the tape I was taking home with me each day and checked my reflection in the monitor, and waited for the red light to stop blinking.

"My name is John Cook," I whispered, the resonance of my changing voice filling the small space.

"It is the start of the last decade before a new millennium, and an exciting time to be alive." When I finished I stopped and rewound the tape. I watched it back, my face lit by the blue flickering light of the monitor. I winced every time my voice cracked. My eyes were too old for my face. I looked like I was carrying the weight of the remaining $13 billion debt in my jawline. I hit record again. This time, I didn't whisper. I spoke with the authority of the man I was becoming—the one my Dad was worried about.

I watched the playback again. My voice didn't crack once. But as I watched my own image, I saw what Dad meant. There was a hardness in my eyes that hadn't been there in July. I looked like a man who was ready to break the world to save it. I ejected the tape, tucked it into my bag next to my phone and headed for the elevator. It was time to go back to the 15th floor and try to remember how to be a kid. We had a big Thanksgiving party on the 23rd in the Crystal Ballroom at The Mayo.

My old lab space had been completely restored and renovated into a magnificent space. I looked at Grandpa, "Since when is country, swing and line dancing a family tradition?"

"Mattie picked it, she's been taking dance at a local studio." I watched it for a bit, then said, "I think I'll go join the line, it looks like fun."

"Just don't dance better than your sister, she thinks it's great that she can excel at something you don't do," Mom warned. The dancing was fun, and afterwards Grandpa thanked his guests for coming.

"I wish to personally thank you for coming to join us in our celebration of this holiday. All of you here are friends and family who worked to turn Grand Lux Hotel Group into the shining beacon of old world elegance and modern convenience." He choked up a bit but carried on.

"We've had an amazing run up to the IPO, the bankers tell me it will exceed all the predictions. I'm so happy that this company, which started with this very Hotel, has done so well over the past five years. We aren't done and I'm not retiring yet. More hotels are out there that need to be rescued from decay and brought back to life, the Grand Lux way!" There was a cheer and a toast. I was intensely proud of my Grandpa.

He'd created a new career after his first retirement and built a staggeringly profitable hotel business that extended from LA to New York, and from Dallas to Chicago. Everything was mobilized to give me all the funds I needed to charge into 1990 like a construction madman. My time with the family was drawing to a close. I could feel the tug pulling me back to San Diego and Satsop. On the last Monday of November, I met with Grandpa in his new offices.

The view of the Mayo across the street was a reminder of how far he'd come, but the calculator on his desk showed he was still thinking about the cliff I was standing on.

"I'm still nervous about the IPO, John," he admitted, tapping the plastic casing of his Casio.

"I want to know if these last five years of work is actually enough to keep your head above water. How much are you burning in 1990?"

"Three billion on the Arizona solar plant alone," I said, knowing I was severely underestimating the costs. I didn't wait for him to hit the buttons.

"It sounds like a lot, but I'm building factories, Grandpa. I'm building a guaranteed income stream that scales faster than the expense." He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he visualized the construction sites.

"And Satsop? That's your proof of concept. When does the 'proof' start paying the bills?"

"The demo plant will start trickling out a hundred thousand gallons a day. It's a rounding error, just enough to fuel the local stations at a discount and prove the fuel doesn't gum up the engines. But Phase One—the purpose-built plant—hits the grid in March, maybe April. That's when the faucet opens. Twenty million gallons a day, five million dollars in pure revenue every twenty-four hours." His calculator displayed the result as he punched in the numbers.

"That's over a billion by Christmas," he muttered.

"And Phase Two doubles it by November," I added.

"By the time we ring in 1991, the Washington plant isn't just a science project. It's a two-billion-dollar-a-year engine. That's the shield, Grandpa. It covers any remaining debt while Arizona comes online." I watched him process the scale. He understood the 'Grand Lux' way—renovating one hotel with the income from the previous. I was just doing it with the global energy supply.

"Still," he said, looking at a map of the US on the wall.

"Why spend more on the solar plants in Arizona if the nuclear-powered ISPBR in France is cheaper to build?"

"Because the Sun doesn't send a bill," I explained.

"The Arizona plants use stored thermal heat to run around the clock. They produce fifty-million gallons a day with almost zero operating cost. It's the ultimate margin. Once those plants up, we're replacing the West Coast fuel supply. Five plants will be making forty-five billion a year. I'll be auctioning the plants to the highest bidder just to keep the old oil giants from declaring a war of extermination, but I'll keep twenty-five cents on every gallon they sell as a royalty."

Grandpa stared at the calculator as if it were a crystal ball.

"Forty-five billion. You're going to make it then? You can afford to buy the future?"

"I have to," I said, my voice flat.

"I paid thirty-billion for ARCO. Other than residual income, I'm broke until the first Arizona plant sells at auction. Every penny will be going into Arizona and Satsop." He laughed.

"John, I know you're getting more than $500 million every year just from Corning. Euro Motors was over $300 million last year. You'll still be a very rich broke."

"Mom, I'll be back for Christmas, I promise," I said.

"It's barely two weeks you've been here. Can't Matt handle things for you? You call him every day. Why do you have to go?" I stepped closer and gave her a hug.

"Mom," I whispered into her ear.

"I'll need to manage the secret project from somewhere new once it starts rolling out. I might be able to move back to Tulsa next year."

"Really?" she whispered back.

"Yeah, but don't tell anyone."

"Okay. That's great. I'll see you for Christmas," she whispered back and hugged me as tight as she could.