Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  Aud looked like a kid on Christmas morning—she was loving this. She had on her disguise, consisting of her oversized, black Jackie O sunglasses, and a white and gold 70s vintage tracksuit, with big gold hoop earrings, and a pair of vintage Converse sneakers. She’d make even the biggest stars jealous. I couldn’t help but smile and be grateful for everything she did.

  Aud laid everything she had out on my coffee table. She sat me down and began formulating my disguise. I could tell she was getting a kick out of this whole thing. She went to work—basically turning me into a preppy, conservative up-and-comer. She cut my hair and demanded I shave. She then dug through her bag some more and shoved a man’s white oxford shirt and a navy blue sports jacket into my chest and told me to change “pronto.” When I came out of my room, she finished my disguise off with a designer pair of aviator sunglasses and said, “Let the adventure begin!”

  We quietly snuck out my back door like a set of rebellious teens trying to break their curfew and slipped into her place. It was a mighty convenient hideaway. She graciously loaned me her car, and I escaped through her attached garage.

  I was relieved to finally be out of the house, even if it was only to go to the market. I was nervous the entire time. I couldn’t help but think someone was going to recognize me and blow my cover. I hated living like this. Sneaking around. Sweaty palms. It wasn’t for me.

  I didn’t want to, but I knew I’d have to lay low for a few more days. At least until the media got disinterested, which I prayed wouldn’t take too long. Thankfully, my prayer was answered. Lara Beckett, the star of TV’s top-rated soap opera, Manor House, was apparently found unconscious after too many tokes on the crack pipe. Lara’s frantic maid had called the medics after finding Lara sprawled out on the bedroom floor. Lines of cocaine were still on her vanity table. Lara’s stomach was pumped at the ER, and she was quickly released the next day. As I pulled into Aud’s driveway, I noticed my front yard was now almost vacant where all the paparazzi had been camping out. It also looked like the onlookers had closed up shop and moved on to their next prey. At last, things were a little normal again.

  12 In It Now

  I kept hoping that the media frenzy was over for good, but after the 100th message left on my new cell phone—the majority of them by one very persistent James Spitz—I knew I wasn’t out of the woods just yet. Anyone who worked in the TV industry knew Spitz—or rather, about him. What a colossal nut job. He was the producer and “brains” behind Being Stronge. As if I didn’t have enough nightmares about that show as it was, Spitz had been sending me voicemail after voicemail requesting to meet me. How the hell had he even gotten my new number? He wasn’t very specific about what he wanted, just that I had to call him back “ASAP” and it was “important.” Whatever the reason, I needed him to stop.

  I picked up my phone with more than a little trepidation and dialed the number he had left. Spitz had always treated those of us who worked behind the scenes like crap. If you said “hello” to him or tried to make small talk, he’d look right through you like you didn’t exist. The only time he’d spoken to us was when he was barking out orders or telling us that we’d done something wrong. A real sweetheart.

  So, I was surprised when his voice sounded polite, even friendly, on the phone. He wanted to meet and discuss a proposition he had for me. I thanked him but said I wasn’t interested and asked if he would please lose my number. But like all men with oversized egos, he said he wouldn’t stop until I heard what he had to say. Apparently, that was all he wanted. If I wasn’t interested after hearing it, he’d leave me alone. No doubt about it, the man was tenacious as hell. It was probably one of the main reasons he was so successful. I caved and said we could meet at La Gondola, a quaint but pricey restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. One of my friends, an actor who made ends meet by bartending at La Gondola between gigs, said the place was pretentious, as were the people who went there, but the tips he made from there were phenomenal.

  As I drove to the dreaded Spitz meeting, I couldn’t help but feel anxious. Stuck in the perpetual I-10 traffic, I had the feeling that I was playing with fire. Being Stronge had been Spitz’s first love, his baby. It’d be the end of Marc Henderson if Spitz ever found out that I was the one who’d killed his golden goose, Petra. He wouldn’t give a shit if it was in self-defense. My peripheral vision started to darken, and I felt myself spiraling into panic mode. Did Spitz know something about that night? Was this meeting just a ruse to confront me? Why else would he call me out of the blue like that? It’s not like he cared about anyone who couldn’t help make him richer than he already was.

  My mind was going a mile a minute, and my palms were sweaty, gripping the wheel. I had to calm down or I’d soon find myself wrecked in a ditch. I pulled over on the shoulder and did a few deep breathing exercises that Aud had showed me. She’d told me she’d learned the techniques in one of her Sassy Seniors yoga classes. It did the trick. I regained my composure and returned to the highway, eventually making it to the restaurant in one piece. As I pulled up to the valet parking stand, I felt immediately out of place. La Gondola was upscale; through the windows, I could see crystal chandeliers, buttery leather seats, and a grand piano in the corner. Whoa. Not only was I in a battered Ford Focus, but my attire was hardly GQ. I searched my back pocket to see if I had at least a five dollar bill to tip the valet. I found only one measly five, which I knew I needed for the way out. Damn.

  The valet gave me and the Focus an unimpressed look as I handed over the keys to the car. I buttoned my top collar and fussed with my hair as I entered through the foyer, which was decorated with expensive floral arrangements and oversized bottles of champagne. I scanned the crowd and spotted a guy who looked like Spitz in a corner booth, taking a small bite of a delicious and expensive-looking shrimp appetizer. Yep, it was him. He had finally changed hairstyles from a comb over to a sleek bald look. He was wearing a navy blue Armani suit, with his cellphone glued to his ear. He was talking a mile a minute, probably to someone important. He had gained a few pounds since the last time I’d seen him. His face was a little fuller, with jowls beginning to show. Not hard to guess how he had put the extra weight on, given he probably spent too many meal times gorging on rich food in places like this.

  I felt the anxiety rushing back to me, but before I could turn and run away, Spitz saw me and waved me over. As I approached his table, he hung up his cell phone, stood up, and gave me a hearty handshake. “Hey Marc. I’m so glad you could join me,” he said, greeting me with a pat on the back. “You know, I was beginning to get worried you wouldn’t show, being so famous and all.” He nudged his elbow in my side. “You’re getting more press than the Kardashians!”

  Spitz laughed at his own joke, as I cringed and made my way to my side of the table. He continued, “Because I didn’t know when, or if, you were actually going to show up, I decided to order already. I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “This place is famous for steak and seafood. So, I ordered their finest prime rib and blackened mahi-mahi. You’ve got to try it!”

  He signaled the closest waitress and ordered two extra-dry martinis. I wasn’t particularly a martini drinker, but when in Rome….

  Mistaking the look on my face for an aversion to drinking during the lunch hour, he went on, “I know, I know. It’s a little early in the day for a few drinks, but after this meal is over, you’re going to want to celebrate. Trust me,” he said with a mysterious smile.

  Spitz started off by expressing how shocked he was about Lync’s death and the craziness that had led up to it. He said he thought I was very courageous for doing what I did to save other people’s lives. He said he had a new-found admiration for me, because “you can never know who a person truly is until they face a hard life-or-death situation. Am I right?” he asked me rhetorically. Clearly, he was on a roll and didn’t need me to add anything to the conversation.

  He was really trying to butter me up, even adding that I “intrigued” him. He stopped to gauge my
expression. Honestly, I didn’t have a stinkin’ clue as to where he was going with this or how I was supposed to respond to all this lavish praise. So, I just sat there, taking large gulps of my martini, and waited.

  He laughed. I take it he was used to getting similar responses from other people. He sat back and took out a thin piece of paper from the inside of his jacket and slid it across the table. I peeked over my martini and saw that it was a check—written out to me. I set the martini down to make sure I was seeing correctly. Maybe the martini was hitting me hard on an empty stomach. But no. It was a big fat check signed by Spitz for what looked like six figures. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Then I looked at Spitz. He seemed very pleased with himself, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face. I took another swig of my drink, choked, and my eyes started to water. Spitz thought that was hilarious.

  “Pretty cool, right?” Spitz said chuckling. “Believe me when I tell you that you and I are about to create something very special.” He paused for effect. “HUGE! Let me explain—”

  But that was as far as he got. A beautiful young blonde woman, who could pass as a model for Victoria’s Secret, appeared at the table to ask if I could autograph her menu. I looked at Spitz with a “what the heck?” expression on my face. I was embarrassed beyond belief, and I didn’t know what else to do. I snapped out of it, took the pen from her, and signed her menu. She thanked me and sauntered away.

  I turned back to the table and saw that the check was still there. Whew. I picked it up to take a closer look. I hadn’t been hallucinating. It read: “Pay to the Order of: Mark Henderson.”

  But I was wrong about one thing: the amount wasn’t six figures. It was seven.

  13 How to Be a Millionaire

  I felt blood rush to my head as all of those zeros came into focus. The room began to spin, and I felt lightheaded. I glanced up at Spitz only to realize he’d been calling my name with concern. Did he think I was going into cardiac arrest? Before Spitz could do anything about it, I gathered myself and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “C, my first name is spelled with a C, not K.”

  Spitz stared at me, holding the check and looking perplexed. Then he roared with laughter, drawing other diners’ attention to our booth. “You’re priceless! You really had me going there for a minute. I thought for sure you were having a heart attack!”

  Spitz’s jowls jiggled from laughing. He snatched the check from my hands, took out a platinum Cross pen, and changed the K to a C, then scrawled his initials next to the change for added verification. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “You can cash it if you want but be sure not to spend it all in one place.” He winked and handed the check back to me.

  We were silent for a moment. “Now, don’t you want to know what the check is for?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah, sorry. Of course. Of course, I’m interested. But I’m in a little bit of an unsettled situation right now, and I don’t want to do anything that might make it worse.”

  “Unsettled. You’re funny, Marc. You’re going to love what I’m going to tell you…”

  Spitz paused, leaned in, and lowered his voice. He explained that he wanted me to be the star of a new reality show created and produced by Spitz Productions. I didn’t know what to say. I had so many thoughts rushing at once, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Spitz’s offer was a complete surprise. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be offered a deal like this. It would’ve been easier if he’d asked me to knock off every producer competing against him for airtime than to offer me a reality show. His offer was like asking a vegetarian to work in a slaughterhouse. I felt the color rise in my cheeks and looked at the check once more.

  “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Spitz, but why do you want to give me a show? I’m just a grip who’s, to be honest, fed up with the entire concept of reality TV.”

  Spitz ordered another round of drinks before he answered. It was time for business. “Hear me out.” He unbuttoned his jacket. “This is a freakin goldmine, my friend. It’s an opportunity that only comes once in a lifetime. Given recent events, you’re one of the most well-known names in the tabloids right now. And you could have thousands, if not tens of thousands, of Twitter followers by now. That practically makes you a rock star!”

  Spitz put his hands to his head as if to grab hair that wasn’t there. “You’re like…damn! What’s that character’s name all the kids love nowadays ? Aha!” He snapped his fingers. “Dead Pool! That’s it. What I’m trying to say here is that there has never been a regular guy who’s become a community hero overnight by taking out some doped-up, crazed celebrity. Can you think of a single person who’s done what you’ve done and become a hero? It wasn’t OJ. That’s for damn sure.”

  I had to take a quick reality check before I got carried away with everything Spitz was saying. This couldn’t be right. There had to be some catch. What if this was a setup, and I was being Punk’d? For all I knew, Spitz could be pulling my leg for more TV ratings. But he did look pretty serious—you could almost see the dollar signs in his eyes.

  “It’d be called Get a Grip. Catchy, right? It’s fucking brilliant! Here’s what I’m thinking in a nutshell.” He was on a roll now. “We film you doing your job in a behind-the-scenes of a behind-the-scenes type show. Get it? We both know what crazy shit goes down behind the scenes of filming a reality show. Let me put together a production crew that follows you, and a few other crew members, as you all work together to make top-rated television shows happen. The reality of working on a reality show.”

  His hands mimed a headline in the air. “You know firsthand how uppity, and flat-out crazy these sons of bitches can be. I can’t think of a better person to capture the craziness. It’s obvious you know how to handle yourself when it comes to these whack jobs. Let the viewers see what really goes on. Let them into your world. It will give the audience a completely different side of reality television than that scripted crap they’re used to seeing.”

  Spitz took a deep breath. “Come on, Marc. You know you love it, right? The audience will love it too. What do you say?”

  I waited to see if he was finally finished talking. I looked down at the check, back at Spitz, and back at the check. “It sounds interesting, but I don’t think I’d be the right guy.”

  “Marc, you are the right guy. In fact, you are the only guy! I am never wrong when it comes to making television stars. Trust me, I don’t give my money to just anyone. We can iron out the details once you’ve had a chance to meet with the writers and project development team. We want to bring you on board as soon as possible to help us put this whole thing together.”

  Spitz waved for the check and looked at his gleaming Phillipe Patek watch that probably cost more than a year’s worth of my rent. I considered reminding him that my only “qualification” was that I was in the very wrong place at the very wrong time. Truth was, I was no reality star. But I decided to let him think what he wanted. I stole a glance back down at the check—all those zeros did have a hypnotic effect.

  “So, what do you think? Just say the word and I’ll have the paperwork started. Then we can lay out the foundation for the show. This could very well be the first reality show to get an Emmy! Well, maybe I’m thinking too fast, but it won’t be too far off. Get A Grip will be a monster hit—but only with you in it.”

  He tossed his black American Express card at the bill and buttoned his jacket. I had to admit it; the idea was sounding more and more interesting the more Spitz ran his mouth off about it. There was a peculiar appeal to all of this. I had always wanted to “make it” in LA, and this could be the stepping stone to a better career. And I’d make my mom proud in the process.

  I took a deep breath and looked up at Spitz. “Okay, Mr. Spitz. You convinced me—let’s do this.”

  I smiled and Spitz looked shocked but in a good way. “Marc, you just made me a happy man! Oh boy, you won’t be sorry. We’re going to make history with a capital H, my friend. And that check is
only the beginning. Call it a signing bonus. We’ll work out your paycheck for each episode. I’m thinking $150k per?”

  He smiled at my obvious shock. “Okay Marc, I’ve got business to take care of. More meetings, you know? I’ll have my assistant Mary call you, and we can talk legalities and paperwork by Friday. Any questions, concerns, whatever—you just let me know. Everyone’s dying to meet you. Get yourself some new threads. You’re a TV star now—you gotta look the part, am I right?” Spitz winked and gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder. “And one more thing, kiddo—get yourself a fucking Twitter account!” And just like that, he was gone. I sat there dumbfounded, with a check for a million dollars.

  14 Money Talks

  I handed the valet the wrinkled five dollar bill after he pulled my car off to the side of the front door. I drove away, replaying the day’s events to the loud sputter of my dying muffler. Everything in my life had become way too surreal, and it was all coming at me way too fast.

  I held my newly gifted check in front of me while I stayed steady on the road. I wanted to feel it. Smell it. I needed to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wouldn’t put it past myself. And, if you think texting and driving is bad, try staring at a check for a million dollars.

  The palm trees aligned perfectly as I made my way down Wilshire to the California Bank and Trust to deposit that bad boy. I was slowly adjusting to the fact that I indeed held a million-dollar check in my hand. I was beyond ecstatic—so much so that I found myself smiling, looking into my rearview mirror. I couldn’t help it. So many thoughts. So many decisions. I now had the freedom to do whatever I wanted. And hopefully, today was the last day I’d ever have to drive this piece of crap car anywhere.