Chapter Text
Your third alarm rings. You blink a few times and then look over at your clock. It's 6:30 AM. Shit. You promised yourself you'd be there early. You've got about twenty minutes to get on the train if you want to be there by 7:15. The last thing you want to do is be anywhere close to late. You need to make sure your new colleagues (and, you think with an insuppressible grin, your new boss) know how honored you are to be there.
You freshen up quickly and put on the outfit you laid out last night. You have tried to strike a balance between formality, comfort, and unconcernedness. You're a little nervous because there is no written dress code, so you have no idea what the norm is. Hopefully this outfit, solidly in the middle of the spectrum of acceptability, doesn't offend anyone. You reflect as you don your winter jacket that these people are probably much harder to offend than that.
You're on the subway by 6:45, scarfing down a hastily assembled peanut butter bagel for breakfast. You watch apprehensively you approach your stop. Your nerves increase exponentially with each station, and soon you regret eating any breakfast because you're sure you're about to throw up.
You reach the Ed Sullivan Theater a good 25 minutes before you've been told you're supposed to arrive. You think to yourself that this is probably too early, and no one is here yet. Why would they be? This a job, not their entire lives. Your fears are confirmed when you reach the front doors of the theater to find them locked. You try each one, despairing more with each tug. Your hands start to numb. This was stupid. Of course you wanted to be early, but to be the first one? You were overeager, and now the people you're going to be spending three quarters of every day with will think you're weird.
You're just trying the last door with little real hope for a different result when you hear a voice behind you: "Can I help you?"
You jump, whipping around. You gasp. Your heart is suddenly beating what feels like 50 times as fast as it should. Stephen Colbert is standing behind you with a polite grin on his face. He is wearing a long, grey trench coat, but you can see beneath it a thick blue sweater over a white collared shirt and black slacks. Contrary to what you have always been told about looking taller on camera, he seems to tower over you now. Larger than life.
He continues to smile kindly. He's probably used to this reaction, you think as you stumble over your words.
"Ummm... hi!" You manage to get out the simple greeting with enough awkwardness to earn a chuckle from him. "I'm your new writer." You stammer your name.
He seems to be glowing in the early morning January sunlight as he smiles wider in recognition. "Great! Well, I'm Stephen, though judging by your thirty second stroke, you already knew that." He laughs and takes your cold, numbed hand into his soft, warm one to shake it.
"Thank you so much for hiring me," you say breathlessly.
"No, thank YOU for applying. Your submission packet was truly impressive. In fact, we're doing another installment of Midnight Confessions tonight, and I was hoping that we could use the lampshade one to lead off the segment."
"Really?!" He nods. You feel much warmer at the thought of Stephen reading through the packet and laughing at your jokes.
You suddenly realize that you are still holding his hand. His grip has loosened, and you pull away quickly, muttering an embarrassed "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," he says with a somehow knowing air. Are you that obvious? "By the way, we usually go in through the back door." He motions for you to follow him, and you walk alongside him as he heads down the street, mentally kicking yourself. Of course there's a back door. Why didn't you think of that?
"Do you always arrive this early?" You ask apprehensively. You wonder if you might have misread the email and arrived late despite all of your precautions.
"Yup! I like to be here to greet as many of my staff as possible as they come in." He grins. "Can I get used to welcoming you first?"
You blush. "What can I say? I- I like an early start." It occurs to you that you might have subconsciously hoped for a situation just like this, but you don't follow that train of thought too far.
You take a surreptitious glance at him. Stephen's black hair, already neatly arranged, definitely has some streaks of grey, and you recall his fervently denial of dyeing it. You make a mental note to keep an eye on that to learn the truth. He swings his arms to an almost comical degree, but it somehow suits him. He doesn't look silly, but rather dignified.
You reach the back door, and he pulls it open for you. "What a gentleman," you hear yourself say, feeling your face get hotter. But he plays along, bowing deeply.
You enter into a hallway with white walls and little furnishing besides a coat rack opposite a small wooden bench. Stephen sits down here after hanging up his coat, pulling a book out of the pocket. You read the title: C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters. "Haven't you read that already?" You ask, thinking back to an interview in which he recommended it.
"I have," he admits, "but it's good to reaffirm the lessons it teaches. And, evidently, to see whether or not my writers are sufficiently aware of my reading habits." He smirks. You give a weak laugh, painfully aware of the excessive amount of knowledge you have of Stephen.
"Well, I think I'm going to go find the writers' room and see if anyone is there," you say quickly, starting down the hall. You recognize where you are now; you were given a brief tour when you were interviewed. The doors here lead into guest dressing rooms. The signs on these doors currently read "Rachel Bloom," "Lupita Nyong'o," and "Yellowcard." You're headed for the stairs, remembering that the writers' room is one floor below. You've almost reached them when you realize that you're still wearing your jacket. You turn around and walk back down the long hallway sheepishly.
Stephen looks up as you approach and shrug off your jacket. He clearly notices your red face, because he jokes, "Hey, not the worst walk of shame you could be doing this early in the morning." You giggle and agree. As you make your way briskly down the hall, you can't seem to stop smiling.
You finally make it to the writers' room to find two people already there. Jen Spyra, who interviewed you, meets your entrance with a warm smile. The other person is Brian Stack, who you recognize from his various appearances as characters on The Late Show. You introduce yourself and shake his hand. Both barely seem to notice your earliness, and both, you see with a wave of relief, are dressed only slightly more causally than you, Jen in a blouse and jeans and Brian wearing a flannel over a Star Wars T-shirt. You finally begin to relax. You settle into a seat in the middle of the oblong wooden table that dominates the room.
You pull your laptop out of your messenger bag and busy yourself by beginning research for the monologue. As the other writers begin to slowly file in, you introduce yourself to each one. You grow more and more comfortable as each gives a genuinely enthusiastic greeting. You tense up again when Paul Dinello enters the room. You know all of the work he has done with Stephen, and you admire his comedic genius. He is clearly much more soft-spoken than the host, but he does not mince his words to compliment your writing.
"My favorite joke was your confession about the lampshade," he says.
"That's funny, Stephen said the same thing!" You say excitedly.
"You've talked to him already?" Jen asks, surprised.
"Yeah, he showed me the back door," you say, suddenly self-conscious. Everybody seems to be listening to you.
This appears not to be new information to Paul. "Stephen mentioned that to me," he says, "and he said he's really looking forward to working with you."
Stephen enters soon after. "Before we start, I just wanted to make sure that everybody had a chance to meet our newest writer," he says. He has you stand and introduces you. He puts his hand on your back, and you gasp inaudibly. When he says your name, you feel as if you might melt of happiness. It's finally sinking in that you get to work here every day. You can't wait to be in the thick of things.
Stephen rolls out a whiteboard and begins taking suggestions for Midnight Confessions. First, he writes your joke at the top of the board. You watch with pride.
You try to let the other writers do most of the talking, not wanting to seem too full of yourself on the first day. They seem to have this segment well in hand anyway. Soon, however, Stephen exclaims in mock exasperation, "Come on, folks, when do I get to drink?"
You raise your hand tentatively. Stephen says your name with enthusiasm.
"Okay, umm... 'Forgive me audience; I like to name my first glass of wine after the Godzilla film: It's pretty good, but it inspires too many sequels.’”
Everybody laughs, but the only person you hear is Stephen, who snorts. "We can work with that," he pronounces, beaming at you. You smile back, ecstatic.
Next come pitches for the cold open. You have come armed with a few, but none that you feel very confident in. Stephen encourages you to try them anyway: “You have don’t know what could resonate.” You offer your idea of NASA trying to lure Donald Trump into a one-way space shuttle in response to his recent tweet blaming the organization for a lack of photos showing the true size of his inauguration crowd. There are snickers, but the response is not the uproarious laughter it was for your previous ideas. That’s okay, you think, not every idea is going to be a winner. Even though you know this, you cannot help but feel the sting of rejection. Ultimately, the writers vote for a cold open in which Sean Spicer goes further and further out of his away to avoid press briefings.
The meeting concludes, and the writers scatter to do some research before the monologue pitches later. As you try to leave the room to find a place to work, Stephen stops you. He asks softly, “Are you alright?”
You nod. “I know that not every joke is show-quality. That’s what we have these pitch meetings for.”
His deep brown eyes meet yours for a moment, and it feels as if he is cataloguing every thought you’ve ever had. “Good. I know the first few joke rejections can sting, but you’ll get used to it. It’s just part of the job, and it’s not personal at all.” He winks. “I know you’ll have plenty to say when we get to the monologue. Don’t let this stop you.”
You blush. “Thanks.”
“And don’t think I’m singling you out. I’ve done this for every writer on their first day. I know that this is intimidating. You’re doing great.”
You smile gratefully. A thought occurs to you. “Are we allowed to sit in the audience to do our research?”
“Go for it,” he says. “Sitting in that theater is where I’ve had some of my best ideas.”
You make your way to a seat in the farthest corner of the second floor seating, hoping to avoid as much human interaction as possible. You need some time to decompress. You scroll through articles halfheartedly, thinking all the while of Stephen talking to you, Stephen appreciating your writing, Stephen making sure you were okay. Eventually, your reverie is broken when you realize that if you don’t come up with some jokes soon, you’ll have nothing for the monologue pitch meeting. You go into research mode in earnest, and come up with some jokes that you are actually proud of. You look forward to testing them.
When the meeting comes around, you walk in with new confidence. You know that Stephen does not misplace his faith, and he really believes in you. You remember this each time your confidence wavers. Your newly found boldness earns you several jokes in the monologue and a pleased look from Stephen.
The writers break for lunch. You’re not sure why, but you never imagined Stephen eating with everybody else. You suppose you always imagined he had better things to do, more important people to talk to. But he eats lunch with all the writers, who have decided to order sandwiches today.
You strike up a conversation with Jen about her writing process and how it compares to yours. You have noticed that she has an aptitude for describing news stories in such a way that they set up perfectly for a joke, and you ask how she manages to do this.
“It’s really a matter of trying it every single way until you come up with something,” she replies humbly. “Just trial and error.”
“It helps a lot to say it out loud in different ways,” Stephen chimes in from a few seats away, almost making you choke on your food.
Suddenly, you are engaged in conversation with two comedy writing experts about their processes. You are amazed that they consider you even close to being a peer. Their seeming telepathy is evidence of how long they have worked together; they finish each other’s thoughts effortlessly, and sometimes they both trail off as they each reaches the same conclusion nonverbally. You are envious of their synchrony of thought. You long to be that connected to this group and to Stephen.
After lunch, you and the other writers head to the rewrite room while Stephen gets ready for the taping. This involves some polishing of the segments, but for the most part it means accounting in the monologue for the news that has taken place since the first meeting. Luckily, nothing enormous has changed in the intervening two hours, but you are told that it is not uncommon to have to rewrite nearly the entire monologue due to a developing story.
Stephen comes in briefly towards the end of the meeting to read the new monologue before rehearsal. He is wearing one of his newer suits, a bluish-grey, paired with a black tie. This is your first time seeing him dressed-up in real life, and you are not at all disappointed. He is inexpressibly handsome, with not a hair out of place and a positively ethereal smile on his face as he compliments the staff on amendments to the script. “Let’s get this thing onstage,” he says determinedly, and you follow your colleagues into the front row of the theater to watch Stephen finally give voice to your writing.
The rehearsal is far more entertaining than you imagined it would be. Stephen is bringing new material to the stage for the first time, and it shows as he breaks down in giggles every few minutes. He is clearly in his element. This is a master of his craft, fully present in the moment. You are nervous to hear your first joke spoken aloud, but Stephen clearly relishes the Jeff Sessions impression that you have given him. He adds a wiggle of the ears that punctuates the bit perfectly, and you feel as if you could float away with glee.
You love watching him work, trying something new and talking out a joke with the writers. It is obvious how much he values the voices of the people around him; he knows that creating a show is a team sport. The genuine passion he has for his performance is evident with every word he speaks. He also takes feedback exceedingly well. Stephen seems to have very little ego, or at least none that he lets get in the way of making the best show possible.
Soon (too soon, you think) it is time for the audience to come in for the taping. The writers rush to the rewrite room once more to ensure that no late-breaking news is left out of tonight’s episode. You seem to be in the clear for the most part, but the writers tweak the monologue somewhat anyway. Stephen sprints in after answering audience questions to get a quick look at the final draft of the show. You watch his eyes move impossibly fast across the pages. He gives a wordless nod of approval, and darts back out of the room to prepare to go onstage. One writer follows him to give the rewrites to the teleprompter operator, and the rest start talking amongst themselves.
“You can stay here to watch the show if you want,” says Jen, pointing to the monitor mounted on the wall at the other end of the room, “but a few of us always go upstairs to the office to get an early start on tomorrow’s show.”
You suddenly realize that you haven’t even laid eyes on your desk in the office yet. Whoops. You suppose that it would be good form to show your strong work ethic on the first day, but you cannot resist the temptation to watch Stephen deliver your jokes to a cheering crowd. Jen seems to understand, and she leaves you and about half of the writing staff to see the fruits of your labor.
Stephen’s Jeff Sessions impression is even better the second time around, and it is further sweetened by the audience’s raucous laughter and applause. The struggle not to break is evident on his face, and you love knowing that you are the reason for it. He looks into the camera, and you see his mouth twitch playfully again as the audience’s cheers die down. You feel yourself smiling idiotically. You could get used to this.
The lampshade joke during Midnight Confessions is delivered with precise timing, garnering a huge laugh. You swear you see Stephen glance at the camera for a moment with satisfaction glimmering in his eye. You are even more certain of this when he takes a sip of his wine after your Godzilla joke. God, you think, Stephen Colbert likes my writing. You savor this sweet thought, still not quite sure this is real life. This whole day has felt like a dream. Working to make this incredible man look good onstage is an honor, and you can’t believe your luck to be able to do it every day.
At the end of the show, Stephen comes backstage to congratulate the writers on a job well done. This seems to be a fairly commonplace occurrence, as most of them are already halfway out the door by the time he has finished the sentiment. You stand to go, but he is blocking your way out (intentionally? You’re not sure). The room empties.
“I want to thank you again for joining the staff,” Stephen says earnestly. “You’ve already made such great contributions on your first day, and I look forward to seeing what you bring tomorrow.”
“Thank you again for hiring me. I won’t let you down!” You grab your bag just as Stephen reaches for a handshake. You quickly set down your things and grab his hand, blushing hard. He grins.
You exit the room and begin speed walking towards the exit, asking yourself furiously how you could possibly be more awkward. You quickly retract that question, worrying that you might top yourself.
By the time you get on the train home, you are back to smiling foolishly. How can you not be? Your job is to go into work every day and write jokes that make Stephen Colbert laugh. You can’t imagine anything better. And he seems to have taken a real interest in you. You try to modulate your excitement about this, reminding yourself that he might well be like that for every new writer. You can’t help it, though; Stephen has a way of effortlessly making people feel special, and you are swept up by his kindness.
At home, you eat a slice of cold pizza for dinner. You sit down with your laptop and try to begin research for a desk piece, but you soon give up. You’re still abuzz with energy from your first day.
You set your alarm again and settle into bed. You drift off thinking of all the times Stephen smiled at you today.