"You've got to be kidding." Bob Rafelson stared across his desk in disbelief at his former colleague.
"A deal's a deal. It was part of the exit agreement."
"You mean it was part of the extortion you perpetrated against Raybert Productions for the pleasure of your absence."
"Tomato, tomahto. The fact is, there's one place left at that Emmy table, and I intend to be in it. For my contributions to the show."
"Jesus, I never really thought you'd do it!"
Kirshner shoved the "exit agreement", the details of his forced departure, across the desk at Bob. "Well you were wrong. You've been wrong a lot, where this show and band of weirdos has been concerned."
"Yeah," Bob snorted, "it takes a lot of 'wrong' to get nominated for two Emmys." One for writing, and one for best comedy/musical/or variety show. The Monkees, Bob had declared with delight when all of their nominations were in, covered all three. He should have known the smell of national attention would have drawn this egomaniac back to the fold. "Well I was right about one thing, anyway... you may have been a useful for a while, but then even an asshole is useful."
Kirshner smirked as he rose. "You can have that secretary, Bonnie Morris, send the official invitation to my office... so there's no mixup at the door."
"You'd love that, you bastard, but she's my A.P. now. Which is why I don't want the former music director crowding her out."
"Well she wasn't when it counted. When my music was putting the winners of your hippie cattle call on the charts, and the map."
"Goddammit Don, it's not a music award." But he was trapped, and he knew it. He probably should have known the self-congratulatory weasel would show up for the payoff, but Bob had figured (hoped) that he'd be too absorbed in marketing his cartoon "superstars" to care about horning in on the show whose real live stars hated his guts. Kirshner was shrugging, mildly smiling that reptilian smile of his.
"Fine," Bob snapped. "The invite will be in the mail. But don't expect scintillating dinner conversation. And do let the door hit you in the ass."
When Kirshner had gone, Bob fell back into his chair and dropped his head in his hands.
"Shit, shit, SHIT," he chanted. They had exactly eight table invitations to the Emmys. Four for the band (it surprised him how easily he'd come to think of them that way), one for him, two for the lead writers of their three-man team, and one for... SHIT! He'd purposely planted Bonnie's name on every piece of promo for the show since they got the first nomination letter during the Paris shoot, for a number of reasons. One, to spread production load that was driving him to an early grave as the show took off like a rocket. Two, to draw the press to someone who was already recognized as a liaison to the show and the band. And three... well, not that he'd be caught dead saying it out loud in public, but Bonnie had been doing at least half the job of an A.P. for almost a year before he promoted her. Sure they had some hard differences, and he was always waiting for the other shoe of her relationship with Mike "Give Me Artistic Purity or Give Me Death" Nesmith to drop on his head, but they worked pretty well together. She didn't waste time on manners when it got down and dirty, but he knew at this point he'd be dead without her, or someone like her. Shit. He knew better... it wasn't just Producer and Associate Producer chemistry, it was all of them. All of them, including Genie and Chip and the designers and people whose names he couldn't remember on any given day, had busted their asses and paid their dues to get here.
But what was churning in Bob's head at the moment was one particular member of the Crazy Train that was The Monkees, and how to tell her that she was being bumped in favor of the man that nobody wanted to share this particular circle of the spotlight with. That's what really got to him... he knew Kirshner probably wouldn't even show up. He'd seen his share of backstabbing and pick-pocketing in this business but never the pure mean spite of a playground bully wrecking the game just because he could. Until now.
SHITSHITSHIT
He buzzed his secretary.
"Monica, can you get hold of Bonnie on the soundstage, and tell her I need to see her when they're through with taping,thanks."
"Sure, can I tell her what it's about?"
Monica kept a tight ship and her lips sealed, but was fond of getting the inside scoop even if she kept it to herself.
"Nope, just tell her to come by my office when they're through."
Maybe by then he'd figure out what to say besides "shitshitSHIT!"