by Jeff Oliver
“He found Noah’s Ark,” said Etienne. “Do you realize how world altering that shit is? He’s giving hope to Bible freaks everywhere.”
A field producer stepped in to remind the group that, per their earlier conversation, it was Tanya who had found Noah’s Ark, not Cowboy. And it wasn’t Noah’s Ark anyway. It was a lost boat for European Jewish refugees.
“Sorry, forgot,” said Etienne.
“Joaquim should go,” said Cowboy. “He’s always complaining, and that negativity really affects the team during cooking.”
“Bullshit,” said Joaquim. “And you know what? This is stupid! Why do we have to sit around a fireplace, anyway? So fucking Survivor.”
“What’d I tell ya?” said Cowboy.
“Why shouldn’t you cook in the elimination, Joaquim?” Chef Ghana asked.
“Because fuck you,” said Joaquim.
“Watch your mouth,” said Nisha, and Ghana appreciated that.
“I agree with Cowboy,” said Tanya.
“The problem is Joaquim knows all the Spanish dishes,” said Clora. “What if they spring like a Sephardic Molé on us? He’s all we’ve got.”
Cowboy didn’t like Clora defending Joaquim, and he hated how happy Joaquim seemed that she did.
“I trained in Spain,” Chef Nisha said. “I can handle it.”
“You externed for like a week at a tapas joint on Las Ramblas,” Clora said.
“It was intense. I learned a lot.”
“You know what?” Cowboy said, seeing an opportunity to impress Clora. “I’ll do it. If Joaquim’s too chicken-shit, then a real man has to step in.”
“No, Cowboy,” Clora protested. “You’re one of the team’s most important chefs. No one does barbeque like you.”
Cowboy smiled. “Well, thank you, baby. But I’m confident in who I am as a chef. I can beat whoever they put in front of me, so keep the bed warm for me, doll. It’s settled.”
“All in favor?”
“Thank you,” Clora whispered to Cowboy. She touched his hand. But seconds later, Clora stole a glance at Chef Joaquim, who grinned and winked at her conspiratorially. Unfortunately, Cowboy saw. “I’ve changed my mind,” Cowboy said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you just said it’s settled,” said Joaquim. “That’s some Indian giving.”
“Let’s not get racist,” said Cowboy. “Besides, cowboys can’t be Indians. That’s just foolishness.”
In the control room, Al-Asari scoffed. “How can television be made of this?”
“This is the gold,” said Sara. “Blatant self-preservation under the veil of dignity. Relatable, wouldn’t you say?”
Ruti flipped audio channels to hear the terrorists’ deliberations on the upper veranda. Per Genevieve Jennings’ request, Sara had prepped the terrorists to display “the culture of martyrdom so popular with Islamic fundamentalists.” So, unlike Team Mise En Bouche, the men of Mal-Malaika fought over who would have the honor of competing in the elimination round.
“I was by far the strongest digger, so I must go to the elimination round,” Sheik said.
“But I found the cooler with the filo dough. So it must be me that goes,” said Mohammed.
“You slacked after that. I saw you napping. So you must be safe from elimination,” said Tarik.
“I should go,” said Farkha. “I can feel that it is my turn… I have spoken to Allah*” (*additional audio added in post).
“I have such a feeling as well” (*additional audio added in post).
“Me too” (*additional audio added in post).
“Well, one thing’s for sure, Azeem should not go. He was terrible at digging, and what’s more, he pissed himself in bed last night.”
“You promised not to tell!” said Azeem.
“I only said I would not tell right away,” said Tarik.
“Son of a goat!” (*additional audio added in post).
In the control room, Jennings licked her chops at all the organic drama. Since last night’s date with Al-Asari, she’d felt shy when around him, hoping to impress him with her authority on set, but careful not to be too bitchy. When the 2nd AD read out the production schedule, explaining that sit-down interviews were scheduled to occur right after deliberations ended, Al-Asari glanced at Jennings with an expectant look on his face, and she went for the bait.
“Who’s doing sit-downs?” she asked, casually.
“I am,” an experienced producer named Amanda Winter said.
“You’ll make them cry, right?” asked Jennings.
“Absolutely,” said Amanda.
“How?” Jennings asked.
“Excuse me?”
“How will you make them cry? What’s your closer? You do have a closer, right?”
The Producer thought about it. “I’ll ask them how it made them feel when the others tried to vote them into the elimination,” she said.
Jennings scoffed. “No, no, no! God, don’t they teach producers this stuff anymore?” she said. “Okay, I’m going to share with you the fail-safe rule for making a cast member cry. If they have kids, ask them if they miss their kids. If they don’t have kids, ask them if they think their parents are proud of them. That’s the simple rule for making people cry in interview.”
Jennings winked at Al-Asari, who looked impressed. Amanda Winter scribbled in her notepad. “Okay got it… ‘Do you think that your parents are proud of…’”
“You know what? I’ll do the interviews,” Jennings said. “I may be a bit rusty, but I still have some gas in the tank. I produced two seasons of Celebrity Pre-nup Challenge.” Jennings stared intently at Amanda, expecting her to be awestruck.
Instead, Amanda shot Sara a look that asked, “Is this shit really happening?”
“That’s a great idea,” Sara said to Jennings, “But we really need you in the control room for story support.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Sara,” Jennings cut in. “I can have you replaced in a snap.”
Sara looked at Amanda and shrugged. What can I do?
Jennings beamed at Al-Asari. She hadn’t felt this in control in a while.
Lighting took their time with green screen tweaks while Jennings, cigarette in hand, paced the hall outside the interview room.
“Ah, to smoke indoors again. I love Israel,” she said.
Sara had placed Tanya at the top of the interview list because she’d surely give Jennings the required waterworks. Tanya never left an interview dry-eyed, however crocodile the tears might be, and Jennings sure wouldn’t know the difference. The room was small and intimate, perfect for an emotional one-on-one.
The Cast Wrangler led Tanya down the hall, placed her in the interview chair, and had her given a touch-up of powder. She looked like a wreck, primed for a major emotional breakdown.
Jennings entered the room like a champion boxer into the ring—cocksure and strutting. She took a seat left of camera, across from Tanya, and smiled unctuously.
“Hello, Tanya,” Jennings said. “I’ll be doing your interview today.”
“Loving that,” Tanya smiled.
“Great, because I want to go deep, okay?” said Jennings. “Really get into your feelings. Let’s you and me agree to skip the bullshit and get right to the authentic stuff. Deal?”
“I like that,” said Tanya. “Let’s get raw.”
Jennings grinned. This is going to be a cinch. “Wonderful, because you’ve been through a hell of a lot lately: Brandon’s fall and kidnapping, the terrorist infiltration, your discovery of an ancient Jewish artifact. Let’s start with Brandon. I know you two had a deep connection.”
Tanya’s eyes were already wet. “We did.”
“And so it must have been hard for you to see him hurt. Describe for me, Tanya, what’s it like to see someone you care for so deeply now in such great pain?”
Tanya thought back to Brandon’s fall, but the image that kept pushing its way into the front of her brain was Ramin, that pencil-necked terrorist poet
kid, sweetly caressing her pink bandana at the beach dig. She couldn’t go there, so she blurted: “Brandon’s a tough cookie. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Tanya looked at Jennings to confirm she’d nailed it, but Jennings frowned.
“Need another take?” asked Tanya, experienced in reading the reactions of producers.
“No, that was cool,” Jennings said, forcing a smile. She scribbled a note on her clipboard. “Just looking for a bit more emotion. I mean, don’t you feel the slightest bit guilty?”
“Why?”
“Well, you were the one distracting him with the megaphone. You don’t think maybe it contributed to his injuries?”
“There’s a famous rugby saying in South Africa,” Tanya said. “’Don’t hate ze playa, hate ze game.’ So, yeah.”
“Interesting,” said Jennings, knowing an opportunity to switch gears when she saw it. “You grew up in South Africa, right, hence your knowledge of the local vernacular. I’m curious as to what that was that like, I mean given the political and racial tensions in that region.”
“I was born after Apartheid,” said Tanya. “Mandela was President when I was like three. I remember him meeting with the Spice Girls. So that was pretty cool.”
“Cool. Huh,” said Jennings. “But your parents are still there? Part of the white minority?”
“They moved to Rhode Island ages ago.”
“Tanya,” Jennings said, her eyes flashing. “Tanya, do you think that your parents are proud of you?”
When Tanya’s face went pale, Jennings almost chuckled. Works every time. Turn on the faucet, baby. Rookies can’t handle this shit.
“My parents?” Tanya said, lower lip quivering. “I guess I don’t really care what my parents think.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, because they kind of stole all my money from Season One. You know that I can’t really talk about that, legally, right? That was a big Network thing.”
“Yes, I know,” said Jennings. “It’s just that it must be hard for you, having your parents betray you like that. How did that make you feel?”
“It sucked,” Tanya said, face tightening. She turned to the audio guy. “Didn’t I already cover this in pre-interview? I mean, I discovered Noah’s Ark, and I’m being asked how I feel about my parents?”
“I just want to understand how you feel,” Jennings said.
“You wanna know how I feel?” Tanya reached for her lav mic and yanked it out. “I feel like I just got my period.” Tanya stood up, turning to Audio. “Can you de-mic me? Thanks, Dougie.”
Jennings sat there stunned as the audio guy removed Tanya’s mic. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Women issues are an automatic pass,” said Dougie. “Network policy.”
“I know that!” Jennings snapped.
“That was lots of fun. Bye, Felica,” Tanya said, bounding out of the room.
Jennings snarled when she noticed that Tanya was wearing white pants. No way that chick’s on the rag.
“She must be in shock from everything that happened,” Sara said, stepping in to assure Jennings. “Let’s bring in the next guy. Here’s his story one-sheet. Checkmarks next to the topics we’ve already covered.”
“I don’t need that!” Jennings sneered at the paper as if it was coated in feces. “This is about emotion, not checkmarks. See, that’s the problem with producers today.”
Jennings took a long hit of Diet Coke as Chef Dex, aka Cowboy, sat down in the interview chair. Jennings waved Sara off, then smiled coolly at Cowboy as he was mic’d up.
“Dex,” Jennings said once camera was speeding, “you volunteered to go into the elimination round, but your team didn’t exactly fall over themselves to stop you. How did that make you feel?”
“Bad,” Cowboy said.
“Good,” Jennings grinned. “Can you elaborate a bit?”
“Real bad?” said Cowboy. “As in, pissed off.”
“Fantastic,” said Jennings. “And it must have been doubly painful when you saw Clora look over to Joaquim and smile when you volunteered to go in.”
“It was,” said Cowboy, his cheeks getting red.
“Pretty obnoxious, actually,” Jennings scoffed. “I mean to be so brazen in front of you. You clearly have feelings for Clora, and there she is, practically flaunting the fact that she’s been secretly hooking up with Joaquim.”
“She what?!” Cowboy’s face contorted in confusion and rage. “Son of a bitch! I’ll kill him. I’ll string him up!” Cowboy ripped off his mic and stomped out of the room, irate. Jennings cringed. She had broken reality TV’s only rule: Never reveal story to your subjects. And now, in the middle of interview, Cowboy was off to chase down Joaquim and beat his ass. To follow that action, Sara repo’d a camera crew then on meal break. They were sizzling pissed to have to get up.
The next interview went just as badly. When Jennings asked Chef Ghana if she missed her kids, a long convoluted story came out about how the producers secretly let her Facetime with them, so she didn’t really miss them much at all. When a PA peeked in to take coffee orders, Jennings yelled at him for breaking her flow, then added: “Yes, a triple caramel latté.” She mumbled to herself, “Little shit implying I don’t have the juice to handle some interviews?”
She turned to Sara. “This cast is full of duds. Like getting blood from a stone. Bring in one of the terrorists,” she said.
Sara hesitated. “Not sure if that’s such a good idea.”
“Now!” Jennings said.
One of the masked terrorists, Farkha, was herded into the interview room and mic’d up.
He sat across from Genevieve Jennings in his black ski mask and red kafyiah, his AK-47 machine gun leaning at his side so the tip could be seen in frame.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” Jennings said to the terrorist. “And I don’t want you to answer right away. I want you to explore your feelings on the matter. Don’t be afraid to really get in touch with your feelings. Understand?”
The terrorist nodded.
“Good. So, how does it feel to be face to face with a woman with power right now? A woman with her face uncovered, educated, free from man’s oppression?”
“It feels neither good nor bad,” Farkha said.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” said Jennings. “And what if I told you that I’ve had three abortions? Would that upset you?”
“I would feel bad that you went through that, I suppose,” he said, sheepishly. His body took on a defensive posture.
“Oh, okay, right,” said Jennings. “And then tell me—and take your time answering this—how does it feel to be a fucking murderer of innocent women and children?!”
“Let’s take a short break,” Sara said, stepping in. “Audio issue.”
Jennings paced the hall, waving a cigarette. “I know what you’re going to say, Sara, but I want him angry. I want that real emotion. If this is going to work, all I can be to him is a piece of American meat—an infidel. Let’s explore his real feelings on the matter.”
“Absolutely,” Sara said. “And we will. But we usually wait until we get the basic story info out of them first. So we don’t have to do pick-ups, which might get costly.”
Jennings understood the subtext about overages. “Good plan,” she said.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Jennings walked back in. The terrorist repositioned himself in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with her presence.
“Sorry about that,” Jennings smiled. “I’m guilty of getting a bit too into story sometimes. We all get too into our jobs at some point, right?”
“I am sure that your position is stressful,” the terrorist said.
“And what stresses you out?” Jennings asked, coolly. A good solid question.
“Well, I suppose that I…”
Suddenly, Jennings lunged out of her chair and grabbed the terrorist’s machine gun. She planted her feet wide apart and pointed the barrel directly in his face. “Not one move or
everyone gets wet!” Jennings yelled. The terrorist reeled back, shielding his face between his fingers. Sara put her hands up along with everyone else in the room.
“Pplleeaassee don’t shoot!” the terrorist said. He shook in his flimsy chair.
“Feeling pretty powerless, huh?” asked Jennings. “Now that I’ve got the gun?”
“Y-yes, that’s exactly how I feel,” the terrorist stuttered.
“Does this mean you’re ready to drop the attitude? To give me the emotion I need?”
“Anything!” the terrorist cried.
“Tell me, do you have any kids?” asked Jennings.
“Nephews,” he replied.
“Oh yeah? You miss ’em?”
“Excuse me?” the terrorist asked.
“Do. You. Miss. Them?” Jennings said.
“Well… yes, of course.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Jennings. Her voice was like that of a drill sergeant. “How much do you miss them? Make me understand.”
“I miss them a lot,” he said.
“Cry for them.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cry. For. Them.”
The terrorist’s eyes widened. He scrunched up his face. “Booooo-hooo!” he said. “Oh boo-hoo!”
“I don’t buy it,” said Jennings, rolling her eyes. “I need to believe you!”
“Booo-hoooo-hoooo!”
“Now!” a PA yelled.
Audio jumped onto Jennings’ back, the PA went for her feet, and the camera op grabbed the gun. Jennings bit down hard on the camera op’s hand and got loose long enough to point the gun in the general direction of the terrorist and drag her finger back onto the trigger. The gun sprayed in every direction. The terrorist flew back in his chair and hit the ground. Round after round shot out until only clicks of an empty barrel could be heard.
“She’s secure!” said Audio.
Jennings flailed but the crew wrestled her onto her back. “You sons of bitches! I’ll have you all fired for this!” she screamed. “I’m Vice President of Current Programming at The Network. Do you have any idea what I can do to your careers? You’ll never work again!”
That’s when the audio guy went too far. He pulled back and clocked Jennings in the nose. Her eyes went cross, a small trickle of blood came out of one nostril, and everything went black. AUDIO GUY (INT.): “I live by two simple rules: I show up for work on time, and I don’t respond well to threats. Apparently, Miss Fancy Pants Vice President didn’t get the memo.”