Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  I could tell by the way the boys were looking over the new crew that they were trying to figure out who was going to be their next victim. They couldn’t help but assert their dominance. One of the biggest lessons I’d learned from these sadists was that if you can’t figure out who their next victim is, then it’s probably you.

  “The fucking hero is here! Welcome to our humble abode, Mr. Reality Killer,” Army said with a smirk, invading my personal space. He backed up, scanned the crew, and zeroed in on Rich.

  “Hey man, what’s up with this shit?” he said, throwing his arms up in the air. “This is our show, remember that! You fuckers are just temporary.”

  Proud of their dramatic entrance, the boys decided they’d had enough and headed for the kitchen.

  “Hi, all!” Ranger said, then followed his brothers.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Rich looked at Peter, who was holding his mini-camera.

  Peter nodded and whispered, “Got it.”

  “This is going to be great!” Spitz said with a sigh of relief.

  Greg, who had sidled up to me, leaned in and whispered, “Yeah, it’ll be real great from where he’s standing.”

  17 A Slight Change

  Greg and I spent the rest of the day fine-tuning all of the stationary cameras so we could get acquainted with the new location, which was a nightmare considering the size of the place. Walking around the place made me really nervous, knowing that I was personally responsible for the entire show. I was happy to be working with Greg again; it made me feel better knowing someone had my back. We were discussing how much a house like this must’ve cost. He looked it up online and found an old listing, and the price almost blew us away. “Man, reality TV is definitely where it’s at,” Greg said, poking me in my side. I winched.

  As the day began to wrap up, I heard some buzz that the crew were going out for a few beers after work to discuss the new adventure. Happy that I finally had the opportunity to hang out with them again, I asked if I could come along, but their reply really threw me off. They said, “Sorry, crew only.”

  It felt like a slap in the face. Greg, being the good friend he was, jumped in and reminded them that I was a part of the crew. That was always my favorite part about being a grip—we’d all go out once or twice a week and talk trash about the cast. I told everyone I was looking forward to catching up, and that seemed to do the trick, because they relaxed and agreed that I could come along.

  On the way over to the bar, I got stuck in a bit of traffic. Usually it would bother me, but I was still basking in the glory of my new car. As I dropped the top down, I saw a faint glimpse of something very disturbing on the corner of West Sunset Blvd and Vine. I pulled my sunglasses down, and squinted harder, but no luck. I had to be sure of what I was seeing, so I made a U-turn, causing a few disgruntled honkers to flip me off as I pulled over to the side as they sped past. I eagerly got out of the car, looking up in awe and confusion.

  What. The. Hell? I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was an advertisement for Get a Grip. Apparently, Spitz’s team had cropped a photo from one of the most recent tabloids and had put me smack dab on this giant billboard. And get this, Sandy Stronge and her stupid sons were on it with me. They were making immature, weird faces at me. Behind Sandy and her sons were some big, menacing, old school gangsters who were pointing a gun at a Danny DeVito look alike. And behind them, were four women, in so much makeup they looked like cartoon characters.

  I couldn’t believe it, but I had to give Spitz and his team props. They worked fast. The entire thing was bizarre. Don’t get me wrong, it was thrilling to see myself on a giant billboard for the world to see, but I couldn’t help but feel unsettled. It was just strange.

  I got back in the car and met up with the crew at The Young Turks, a hipster pub that served all kinds of designer coffees and craft beers. I prayed no one had seen the billboard on their way over, but had no such luck. The second I walked into the bar, they all started in with the jabs. To ease the tension, I bought everyone their first round. I asked the bartender where was a good place for us to gather and he pointed to a table in the back that fit our party of eight.

  My generosity didn’t have the effect I was looking for, because it didn’t take long for some of the newer crew members to start dogging me on how I was just trying to show off my new salary. It made me nervous that they felt that way. Apparently, they looked at me as nothing more than a pathetic cast member who was tagging along, which in turn, made me some kind of an enemy. They didn’t have much confidence in me, and they had no problem telling me that it was only a matter of time before the Reality Bug would bite me in the ass, just like it did every other reality show “star.”

  Ouch. I tried my best to reassure them that besides the hideously massive billboard on Sunset Boulevard, which I’d had absolutely no clue about, none of this was going to change me. “In fact,” I said, “I totally understand where you’re coming from. We’ve all seen firsthand what happens to these people, if you can call them that.” That elicited some laughs, so I relaxed a bit. “I mean, look at Andrea Milk, or that steroid-happy Army Stronge. Jeez, is that guy a walking nightmare or—?”

  I stopped mid-sentence; the group had shifted their focus to something at my immediate left. I turned to see what or who it was. This gorgeous girl in a crop top had approached our table and was standing there, looking at me. She politely asked if she and her girlfriends could take a quick selfie with me. The whole table immediately burst out laughing. My face sank.

  “Fuck ‘em,” Greg said reassuringly to me, then turned to the girl. “Let’s go take some selfies with these lovely ladies.”

  We both stood and Greg, blessed with an easy-going charm, put his arm around the girl. As he sauntered away, he glanced back at our table and winked, which effectively shut them right up.

  We walked over to the girl’s table, where three of her equally gorgeous friends sat. They all appeared enthusiastic and a bit buzzed. “Hello girls! Are we ready for some tequila?” Greg asked. He was met with giggly approval. He sat down, putting his arm around two of the other girls, while he gave the middle finger to the crew behind the girls’ backs.

  We ordered a couple rounds of Cabo Wabo tequila shots from the bartender who looked bored with our little party. It was fun, I guess. We all talked and flirted shamelessly back and forth. It had been a while since I’d had a good time, plain and simple. In a way, It felt good and it definitely stroked my ego. I was happy to have Greg by my side. After a while, I decided to look over to see how the crew was doing, but the table was empty. They’d made their point by not saying goodbye.

  An hour later I felt pretty buzzed and told Greg I wanted to leave. I snuck out the back and called for an Uber to take me home. I stumbled into the car and gave the driver my new address. As I let my head fall back onto the head rest, I reflected on the day’s events. The street lights were turning into blurred lines as the driver coasted through downtown. I was excited about my new gig. It was the first job I actually felt happy about. I had a sudden urge to call Aud and invite myself over for a night cap. I really wanted to share with her all that was going on. And, if I were to be totally honest with myself, I could use her reassurance and the straight-from-the-bottle advice.

  I fumbled as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and scrolled until I found “Audrey.” She answered on the second ring. “Talk dirty to me,” she said.

  “I bet you say that to all the boys,” I replied, playing along. I asked if I could come over and tell her about my first crazy day on the job.

  “Would love it, toots! But Daisy and I have company right now,” she chimed.

  “Oh, okay” I said, taken aback. “No worries. Another time.”

  “Okay, bye now!” she said quickly, hanging up.

  Huh, that had been pretty vague, even for Aud. Normally, she’d suggest meeting up later that same day or the next day, but she didn’t follow up with anything. How weird was that? She’d always had time for
me before.

  18 Too Late to Turn Back

  The next day, I arrived early to our next filming location, feeling pretty certain today was going to be just as crazy as yesterday. I immediately knew something was off. I mean, this place was nowhere near as nice as the Stronge mansion. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see any luxury at all. The roof was—let’s just say this place could use a new roof. And the yard looked like a war zone.

  I walked up to what looked like a new set of concrete stairs, which the insurance company must have made them install just to be able to use this place. As I opened the front door and stepped through the threshold, I was happy to see a tableful of assorted goodies. The spread looked to be from the same caterer as yesterday’s. While I was busy stuffing myself with tiny lemon cream pastries, I looked through the window and saw the group of guys Greg and I had gone out with the night before congregating outside, sipping their coffees.

  I waved to say hi, but they looked through me as if I wasn’t there. I could practically feel the cold coming off them in waves. “Screw ‘em,” Greg said over my shoulder, seeing me standing at the window hurt and confused, like a kid who wasn’t asked to play in the neighborhood football game. I immediately felt better and shrugged off their diss. God knew I didn’t deserve a best bud like Greg, but I was grateful as hell for him. My reverie was broken, however, after a whiff of his morning-after breath that could knock over King Kong. I could smell traces of several different liquors, which made for a very unpleasant experience. My eyes watered and I backed away, keeping my donut away from the boozy stench.

  “Whoa, dude, your breath smells like shit! Did you even brush your teeth at all?” Yikes. Greg laughed, and we both proceeded to get a cup of coffee.

  A few moments later, the door swung open, and Spitz appeared with a manic energy about him. “Let’s go, people!” he said, shoving his way to the coffee table.

  Taking that as his cue, Rich decided to get things started. “TO THE POOL!” he yelled. Everyone looked confused. “Oh wait! Never mind. There is no pool in this Godforsaken place. Ha! Let’s go to the conference room,” he deviously snickered.

  The “conference room” was really a dining room located off the kitchen. There was nothing impressive about it. We opened up the folding chairs that were propped up against the wall and sat down. By the look on everyone’s faces, it was clear we were all bracing ourselves for who knew what.

  “Yesterday was fun,” Rich said, slapping his hands on the table. “But today is a new day, and we’re onto bigger and better, right? Today’s show takes us behind the scenes of a new reality show James Spitz and I have created called…wait for it….Proven Killers!”

  He flashed a smile that seemed even brighter against his deeply tanned face than it did yesterday—maybe he had hit the tanning booth last night. We all looked like deer caught in the headlights again. “So, here’s what’s happening with this freak show. This place is a halfway house for criminals on parole.” Rich paused for the effect, apparently liking what he saw on our stunned faces. “Now, if I didn’t have your attention before, I’m sure I have it now. Don’t worry, we’ve carefully cherry-picked a few inmates who’ve recently become eligible for parole thanks to their good behavior records, which we thought would make for good television.” He paused for effect again. “Of course, we did all this with the blessings from the state and the approval of the CDCR. These inmates have been approved to appear on our new show while still satisfying their parole requirements.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the room. I looked over at Greg and shook my head in disapproval. “Reality television will stop at nothing,” Greg whispered just a little too loudly, because a few chuckles sprinkled throughout the room.

  “Excuse me, what is the CDCR?” Jenny interjected.

  Rich answered, “The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.”

  Rich looked quite pleased with himself. He went on, “Everyone at this table was also cherry-picked as the crew who will be following these people around as they try to adjust to the outside world. We will hear their stories in their own words as we find out how they’ve changed since being incarcerated.” Rich waited for nods of agreement. “So, I’m sure you can all see why getting their unique perspectives, experiences, and struggles will make for ‘must-see TV,’”

  Rich waited for more nods of agreement. Seeing none, he continued, “Oh, one little note. Every parolee chosen for this groundbreaking series has spent extensive time in prison for one or more homicides, hence, we titled the show, Proven Killers,” he said with a big smile.

  We all groaned in unison. “Lighten up, people!” he laughed, clearly enjoying our unease. He turned to look at Spitz who just shrugged.

  “Anyway. It’s the crew’s task to get the real stories from each cast member. Now, listen carefully! There has never been anything done like this before in television. Sure, there have been some documentaries, and that First 48 Hours series. But trust me, nothing like this has ever been tried. And with ratings for true crime dramas on the rise, this show is going to be off the charts!”

  My stomach churned at the thought of their concept. Maybe my guilty conscious was starting to get the best of me, just thinking about working with these people. But I had to get it together and distance myself from my personal harrowing experiences with death and this job, before I found myself on the wrong side of the Proven Killers show. Spitz caught my uneasiness and came to pat me on my shoulder. He leaned down and whispered, “I know what you might be thinking, but don’t worry about it. You’re new to this side of the biz, you’re just nervous, right?”

  He stood up and said louder, addressing the group, “People, we’ve all been in the biz awhile. We know what it takes. But being on the opposite side of the camera lens can be intimidating. Marc here may be feeling a bit nervous, which is totally understandable, right?”

  He looked among the sea of faces around the table. He turned to me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. My cheeks were burning in embarrassment. “You’re a natural, Marc. Just know that we have complete faith in you, and we’re totally behind you! Right, people?” Not waiting for a response, he powered on, “We all need to remember how unique this opportunity is. Is everybody with me?”

  His audience decided to play along and clapped half-heartedly. He addressed me again. “I mean, Marc, you’ve experienced exactly what these people have…well, without the jail time, of course!” he joked, to some laughter around the table. “Seriously, what I’m trying to say is... you have credibility. You can relate to these people, certainly more than anyone else in this room,” he said dramatically, pretending he was firing a gun at someone. “Who else can say that? Nobody gets to kill someone and then gets to star in a television show relating to others who have killed someone, or two,” he added for more comedic relief. “You’ll be the one guy who’ll be able to gain their trust and get them to open up on what goes on inside of their heads. That’ll be your job, and nobody else’s,” he confirmed triumphantly.

  He was really trying to convince me—and the entire room—that this was a good idea. “Now, the only downside I see is,” he began to crescendo his voice, “well, you’re not exactly Zac Efron, but we can’t have everything!”

  He laughed along with the rest of the conference room. Greg reached over and started mussing up my hair. “So,” Rich nonchalantly eased in, “while you two are busy in wardrobe, I’ll be taking care of getting all the liability release forms that the CDRC requires signed.”

  “Liability releases?” I asked, to anyone willing to answer. Spitz unfolded his arms seeing my look of alarm and winked at me. “It’s all standard. All we’re doing is making sure you’re not going to sue us if someone tries to take you hostage,” he said casually.

  The entire table roared. “Now, now,” Spitz lowered his hands. “Brad, here, is our liaison between everything and everybody for this show.”

  He motioned to a nerdy-looking guy who had snuck into the room d
uring the speech. Brad was tall, lanky with blonde hair and black thick-rimmed glasses. Think of a 7th grade science teacher and you’ve nailed it. All Brad needed was a pocket protector and he was set.

  Spitz went on, “Basically, he’s the one responsible for smoothing the path for our new residents to get them used to being in front of our cameras, and most importantly, making sure we’ve got all the required permits.”

  “Sarah,” he said, pointing at a pleasant-looking woman about my age who was wearing glasses and a green, ribbed turtleneck, “she’s the absolute best at research and will be prepping everyone with the background and history on each of the criminals—I mean, residents,” he said, quickly correcting himself. “Sarah, love, stand up so everyone knows who you are.”

  Sarah didn’t stand but instead waved shyly to our group. I tried to smile, but I could feel my uneasiness starting to rise. I felt like I was drowning. When did I ever think this show was a good idea? Oh yeah. I rolled my eyes. That’s right. When I saw all those damn zeros on that check.

  The meeting carried on for what seemed like forever, but I was already checking out. I could feel the lump of regret in my throat, and my mouth was parched. I didn’t want to accept it, but I was screwed. I mentally kicked myself and told myself to man up, because—like it or hate it—I was now reality TV’s new poster boy. Yup, royally screwed.

  Looking back, I couldn’t believe I’d ended up spending a lot my signing bonus on a new car and a luxury apartment overlooking the city of Hollywood. But those decisions seemed to make sense at the time and hindsight was 20/20, right? I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. Can I get my money back for the car? Or my new place? I’d screwed up, and I didn’t know if there was a way to undo any or all of it. I closed my eyes and prayed hard. Harder than I’d done in a while.

  If I didn’t before, I really hated reality TV now.