Idea in Stone | Page 7

the
same time as Ron? Ugh." He smiled at her. "Okay, seriously, I do some
vocal exercises, I suck on a cough drop if I'm sick, and I goof around in
front of a microphone. We had a lot of mics around when I was
growing up, so I've always been comfortable around them."
Wendy gestured him past a thick door with a number four and an unlit
'Recording' sign over it. "You're in this booth today. Thanks very much
for the talk. I appreciate it. Sheesh, and they said you were difficult."
Stefan's smile disappeared as she closed the door. What? His
concentration left him completely.
The sound engineer held up a magic-marker sign to the window.

"Ready?" Stefan held up a 'one minute' finger. Difficult? He pulled his
sides -- the dialogue he was supposed to record -- from his satchel, then
reached back in and rummaged around for the little figurine of his
character. He found it in a corner of the bag, a blue plastic ox with a
ring through its nose, standing upright in a pair of running shoes. He
pulled it out, blew it clean, and sat it on the music stand in front of him.
Looking at it, he cocked his head, made an adjustment in his throat, and
said, "Reduce!" He shook his head, poked fingers at his throat, and
tried again. "Reduce, reuse--" He smiled, then turned to the sound
booth, giving a thumbs-up and nodding.
~
An hour later, the show's producer visited the booth. "How's it going,
Stefan?" she asked.
"I don't know, I'm a little off today," he said. "I had this weird
conversation with the new PA just bef--"
"Yeah, sorry about that, we've been having some problems with her."
"No, it's not her fault. She just said -- nevermind. Look, I have issues
with this week's script."
One of the producer's plucked red eyebrows rose. "Really?"
"I know you don't care what I think. I'm just a guy who's paid
ever-so-slightly above scale to do a voice-over. But, you know, I am
Bloob's voice, so I feel a certain responsibility for what this public
figure says to children."
The producer said nothing.
"I know, I know. It's just a stupid kiddie show."
The producer's other eyebrow raised.
"What I mean is, I realise that it's an important commercial property for
you and it's become a very popular show. But we are making

statements about the environment here, and I think it's important for
them to be accurate." He flipped through his script. "Like this part:
'Kids, you are the future of the earth. Only you can save it.'" He looked
at the producer. "C'mon."
"Stefan, don't you believe that children are the future?"
"Don't get all Whitney on me. The show's biggest sponsor is Porvental
Chemicals. Last year the company paid no Canadian taxes and
'accidentally' spilled enough solvents into Lake Ontario to petrify every
last zebra mussel."
"But the mussels were growing out of control. They were a hazard to
the lake's natural ecology."
"Yeah, so the company got an environmental grant for $11.2 million."
"Stefan, did you ever think that the company is trying to turn their
industry around by investing in projects like our show?"
"But--"
"Stefan, it's not your concern. Don't make trouble. Just do your day's
lines. Leave the issues to us." She started to leave, but paused at the
door. "Oh, did you happen to make a statement to Greenpeace?"
"Um, I might have."
"Please don't do things like that," she said, leaving the room.
Stefan went back to the music stand and picked up his figurine. "Hey
kids," he said in the character's voice, "do you know that your
mommy's makeup contains poisonous chemicals called phthalates?" He
turned the figurine's head back and forth. "Hey kids, did you know that
my ass is completely for sale?" Stefan tried to make the head nod, but it
wouldn't, so he picked up a pencil and poked it into the ox's chest
repeatedly. He looked up to see the sound technician laughing and
holding up a sign that said "Lunch".

Stefan left the booth, and Wendy ran up beside him. "Jean said that I
upset you this morning. I'm really sorry, I don't know how I--"
"It's okay," said Stefan, "it's not your fault. It's between me and her.
Well, me, her, a multinational chemical company, and some zebra
mussels."
"Oh, good. Here," she said, handing him a slip of paper, "you got a
phone message from someone while you were in the booth. It sounded
like he said his name was Ellen."
"Do you suppose it might have been 'Allen'?"
"No, I don't think so. Sounded like Ellen."
"Right, okay. Thanks." He left her, banking off down a hallway toward
the commissary where he