"How is production going?" Mason's voice rang through the phone, calm as always, but with a curious tone.
Harry reclined back in his office chair at JTV headquarters and glanced at the latest test footage from the Power Rangers set playing silently on his computer screen.
"We will premiere both shows next week. We have Mr. Bean, and Power Rangers Force, and fill the rest of our slots with reruns and licensed shows for now. To be honest, we are in a good spot to finish out the rest of the year."
Mason chuckled on the other end of the line, but his tone changed. "I've seen both shows now. They are good - sharp, at a good pace and honestly, pretty polished for what I expected from JTV."
Harry smiled. Mason was not known for his generosity in praise.
"But," Mason said, "Both are also made for kids - for children and teens. What about adults? Adults is where the real money is - advertising, brand loyalty, and long term value - you are sure this will be sustainable?"
Harry's face did not betray his feelings. He sensed that was coming.
"You don't realize the impact kids can have, Uncle," he said. "They don't just watch shows. They experience them. They convince their parents to go to stores, convince parents to buy toys, convince parents to take them to theme parks, convince parents to buy backpacks with logos on them. Their impact on household spending is tremendous."
Mason paused. Then chuckled softly. "That's my fault for trying to debate strategy with you. Your father always said you were the clearest thinker in the room."
Harry's smile faded ever so slightly. Hearing his father's name brought the feeling back. "Thanks. But if the debut flops then instincts don't matter."
"We'll see," Mason said, "But I'm supporting you all the way."
____
That night - Living Room in Suburban Jersey
Seventeen-year-old Shaun Miller lay on his old couch, the TV remote resting on his belly. His mom was in the background dusting out an old dresser and humming along to her own tune.
"All the shows on TV these days are trash," Shaun grumbled. "Just reboots, forced drama and reality trash. Don't the networks have anything new anymore?"
"You can switch over to JTV," his mom said. "I just heard an ad that something's on new tonight."
Shaun laughed. "What, JTV? Come on, Mom. That's where horrible pilots go to die."
But Shaun's boredom overcame his better judgement. He scrolled through the guide anyway and stopped.
"Mr. Bean? What the hell is that?" he said to himself and turned up the volume.
20 minutes later . . . .
Shaun was still watching.
And he was laughing.
Not the kind of polite laugh that you give in a crowd when something's only slightly funny. The helpless laugh that takes hold of your chest and moves your body uncontrollably. On the screen, a man in a brown jacket was fumbling with a picnic basket, sat on a sandwich and then tried to blow up a rubber duck, in a public park, with his mouth.
It was dumb. It was weird. And it was hilarious.
Shaun's mom had walked past the living room when she paused and turned back to look at the screen.
"Who's that?" she asked.
"Mr. Bean," Shaun replied smiling. "He's a total weirdo. Doesn't even talk, he just... messes things up."
She stood behind the couch for a minute. Then she sat.
The more the show went on, the more she got into it. Not just the gags or the timing—but him. There was something quirky and comforting about the character. He wasn't trying to be funny. He just was funny. He wasn't trying to fit in—he just existed in his quirky way; that he was oblivious to how ridiculous he looked to others didn't even matter.
In a world of judgement, perfection, and curation of the perfect self online, the idea of Mr. Bean was something altogether different. A kind of liberation.
"You know," she said softly, "there's something fresh about him. Like he just doesn't care what anyone thinks."
Shaun smiled. "I wish I could live like that."
She didn't say it, but she felt the same.