"The Carbones: Prologue"

by

WildDogJJ

Daria Morgendorffer sat alone in her apartment in Hells Kitchen. She just stared at the blank computer screen and wondered what the hell was wrong with her. She just couldn't seem to write worth a damn anymore. Maybe it was the stress caused by the pandemic, maybe it was the pressure that came with being the only female staff writer on The Evening Show. She didn't know. What she knew was that her creative muse had run dry. Every idea she had was rejected. Her legendary wit had run dry, something no one thought could possibly happen to her.

Why can't I get out of this funk? she silently asked herself as she tried, and failed, to come up with something good. It was like writing for a living had killed her creative muse. I should've just written a best selling novel, retire and live off the proceeds.

She thought of the people in her life. They all seemed to have it together. Jane was a successful artist with her own art dealing business. She was doing good enough to actually bring in a business partner. Quinn was a big YouTuber, happily married with kids. Daria, on the other hand, was in serious danger of losing her job if she didn't get out of this funk. With the damage Covid wrought on the economy she knew that if she lost her job there was no chance of finding another one. She finally gave up on trying to write something now when her cat, Godzilla, nudged her. Daria responded by shutting off her computer before picking up her cat.

"Yes, Godzilla" she said, "I'm failing at everything."

Godzilla purred as Daria stroked him in her lap.

"Well, maybe not everything. As long as you're fed and given some attention you consider me a winner. The problem is that my own species is much more demanding and unforgiving than that."

Daria carried Godzilla over to where she kept his food and got out a can of cat food. Placing Godzilla on the floor, Daria picked up a bag of dry cat food and poured it into a small dish. Next, she opened up a can of wet food and proceeded to mix the two as the black and white cat watched her intently. As she did, she reflected on the past two decades.

First, I become an honor student at Raft. After that, I go to grad school at Boston State and earn a PhD in literature. I think I'm set only to finish my education at the start of a sever recession. After a year of aimless job searching I have to move back into my old room in Lawndale. Fast forward three years and my freelance writing has caught the attention of a major TV network. I move to New York and become the only female staff writer on a late night talk show. Now, my well has run dry. Every idea I have sucks and gets rejected. More and more people are telling me I need to step up my game. Okay, I agree. Problem is this is happening during a recession that makes the previous one look like nothing. The stakes are higher than ever. I thought being able to work from home due to Covid would ease the stress, but it's killing my creativity instead. I need something to change, but I have no idea how to snap myself out of this one.


A few hours later...

Daria sat up in her bed watching TV. As she flicked through the channels something occurred to her.

The Evening Show's on. Maybe I should actually watch it and see what the other writers have that I don't.

Driven by desperation to break out of her creative funk, Daria switched over to SBC. Her boss, Frankie LePope, was doing his usual opening monologue.

On the screen, Frankie had his usual charismatic smile. He was better looking on TV than in person. In person one could easily see the bags under his bloodshot eyes, courtesy of his insatiable appetite for cocaine/whiskey coctails.

On TV, Frankie said "This is something different, a live broadcast. Tonight, it's happening as you watch."

Daria thought Uh oh!

Frankie said "Now, time for some improv. What do you call a black woman in a five star restaurant?" After a brief pause, he added "A prostitute."

Daria's jaw dropped. Her boss had just made a racist joke on live national television.

Dammit, there's a reason we normally pre-tape these! What the hell were the network execs thinking when they decided to do a live one!?

Frankie looked oblivious as he continued his monologue.

"You know, if Geroge Floyd didn't wanna die, maybe he shouldn't have been pissing off the cops."

Daria did an immediate face palm as her boss seemed hell bent on digging his own grave.

"You know" Frankie went on, "I recently heard the women crying about rape culture."

Please don't say what I think you're about to Daria thought.

"Here's a tip" said Frankie, "Don't dress slutty and act like you want it and you won't get raped."

Daria buried her face in her hands. She could already see the pink slip on her desk.

Frankie said "I mean, really, we gave minorities civil rights and women gender discrimination laws. What the hell more do you want from us."

Daria couldn't handle anymore and angrily turned off the TV.

Great she thought, Just freaking great! I don't have to worry about my creative funk because now I'm gonna be out of a job no matter what I do. Thanks a lot, Frankie, you dumbass!


Long Island, the next day...

In the middle/upper middle class suburb of Glenville was a two-story red brick colonial style house. Inside said house Quinn Carbone (nee Morgendorffer) was seated at the kitchen table drinking tea with her next door neighbor/best friend Nicole White (nee Yagami). Quinn had left Lawndale and moved to New York with her husband and kids the previous summer as Lawndale had spent the previous decade going downhill. All of her friends had already left. Nicole left Lawndale sooner than Quinn after her own husband, Jamie, took a job teaching history at Glenville high. The topic of discussion was the disaster otherwise known as The Evening Show Live.

Nicole said "Can you believe what Frankie said last night!? What the hell was he thinking!?"

Quinn replied "I don't think he was thinking. According to Daria, Frankie has a pretty bad drug problem. Truth is, I'm worried about Daria. Last night could put her in a bad spot, especially since this was the first time they actually named her in the credits."

Nicole's eyes went wide. "Oh, shit!"

"Yeah," said Quinn, "Even though her contributions have been rejected lately now everyone's gonna assume that she's a racist. Not only that, but she's probably gonna be out of a job now. Even if we weren't in a pandemic induced recession Daria's association with the Frankie LePope show means she'll probably be blacklisted for a while."

Nicole said "Unemployed because of someone else's incompetence. That's the story of our generation it seems."

Quinn nodded in agreement.


SBC Studios in Rockefeller Center...

Outside, the building was surrounded by a mob of angry protesters. Inside, Frankie and his entire staff were in a conference room being chewed out by the network head, a balding man in his early sixties.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU ASSHOLES THINKING!?" the network head screamed, "TELLING RACIST AND SEXIST JOKES IN THIS POLITICALLY CHARGED CLIMATE!?"

Nervous, Frankie immediately took a flask out of his jacket and started drinking. Daria sighed when she saw this.

Continuing his tirade, the network head said "You assholes now have the whole country screaming for your blood!"

Daria raised her hand.

"WHAT!?" screamed the network head.

Calm, Daria said "I just want to go on the record as saying I had nothing to do with last night. My contributions have been getting rejected for the last six months."

The network head said "Then why was your name in the credits?"

Daria gasped in horror. She'd been advocating for being mentioned in the credits like all the male writers for the previous eight years. Now, her campaigning had paid off at the worst possible moment. She began to shake like a leaf, especially since whoever was responsible for the racist and sexist jokes was unlikely to step up and admit what they did.

The network head took a deep breath.

"We have no choice. Last night's little stunt has already sparked nation wide protests and calls for a boycott. The latter has sponsors leaving left and right. I just spent a few hours getting calls from one sponsor after another all wanting to pull their ads. I hope you idiots are all proud of yourselves! YOU'RE ALL FIRED! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Daria and the other writers gasped in shock. Frankie hadn't even heard the tirade as he continued to snort coke lines. Finally, Frankie looked up.

"Um...What's going on?"

Through gritted teeth, the network head said "I just fired all of your asses, that's what's going on. Frankie, pack your shit and get your junkie ass out of here."

Frankie gasped in shock. Daria responded with an immediate face palm.


Eight months later...

As Daria walked through Times Square, her forlorn expression concealed by her glasses and surgical mask, she thought of how much her life absolutely sucked. She couldn't appreciate either the flashing lights or the falling February snow as she was too busy thinking.

Another damn rejection letter.

Since losing her staff writing job Daria had been trying in vain to land another job. Worse, beareaucratic holdups meant she'd yet to see either an unemployment or stimulus check. She'd been living off her savings, which were almost gone at this point.

If my luck doesn't change soon I'm done for.

As she continued up Broadway, leaving the lights of Times Square behind, Daria thought of how she couldn't seem to catch a break. Quinn always offered to help out financially, but every time Daria refused. It was a matter of personal pride and integrity. Daria already spent four years mooching off her parents during the previous recession, she had no desire to mooch off her sister now. Besides, Quinn had enough responsibilities. She had a husband who was also her business partner, a thriving business that was by it's very nature recession-proof and three kids to take care off. Taking care of Daria was an unnecessary burden, or so Daria always told herself.

She turned left on 49th street toward her apartment. She'd chosen her location for two reasons. One, the name of the neighborhood, Hells Kitchen, appealed to her sense of humor. Two, it was only a four block walk from her job. Daria walked on as she thought of the one thing keeping her sane at this point.

At least things can't get any worse.

Soon, she reached her building between Tenth and Eleventh Avenue. Daria entered and made her way up to the second floor. She saw a note taped to the door of her apartment. She'd missed a few months' rent due to the money simply not being there and thus had a sinking feeling what the note was.

Eviction notice!

Now, Daria was unemployed and homeless.

Frankie, you goddamn idiot!

To be continued...