Mr. 365

by Clampett, Ruth

  “Rachel, we’re just going to screw Will and make him a laughing stock? He’s such a good guy. Can’t we be better than that? I’m begging you to help me fix this wrong before it ruins him.”

  “Sorry, no can do. He may be mad now, but he’ll get over it. If he’s really into you, both of you will laugh about it one day.”

  I seriously doubt that, I think silently. It’s hard to laugh with someone when they’ve shut you out of their life.

  I end the call and I hang my head while tears fill my eyes. Even if Rachel agreed with me, there would be no way to fix the show at this late date. Not only does the possibility of losing Will make me heart sick, but the harsh reality of the lack of ethics in my line of work is glaring in my mind like a neon sign.

  When I went to film school, I had the most noble of intentions to make documentaries and right the wrongs of the world. I think back on my conversation with Will about documentaries and my path. He was right all along about reality TV. Instead of making a positive difference, I’m doing work that creates problems, rather than solving them. The resulting gloom makes me feel lower than pond scum.

  I’m moments away from crawling under a rock when I have a wave of inspiration. What if they just cancel the show completely? As much as I know that would never happen, I’m desperate enough to try. I pick up my phone and call George, the big boss.

  “George Starrett’s office,” his assistant Janice answers.

  “Hi Janice, it’s Sophia, one of the producers on Rachel’s team. I was hoping I could speak with George.”

  “Oh, hi hon. You’re part of the team doing the new holiday show, right?” says Janice, her voice softening.

  “Yes, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to George about.”

  “Let me tell you. I saw the ad for the show a few days ago when it came in for approvals. It looks like a riot! Congratulations! I’m hearing great stuff about it.”

  “Uh, thanks. So, is George available?” I ask hesitantly.

  “He’s on his way to New York for a big meeting with our sponsors. I doubt he’ll be back in the office before Thanksgiving. Can I leave him a message?”

  “No, that will be too late,” I say, feeling ill. “Does he read e-mails?”

  “I read them and only forward what’s important. Is something wrong, dear?”

  “Well, I have a serious concern about the Christmas show I was hoping to discuss with him.”

  “That’s really something you should work out with Rachel,” she says in a maternal tone.

  Why is it executive assistants sometimes think they’re running the company?

  I scrunch up my face and grip the phone harder. “I didn’t really get anywhere with Rachel.”

  “I see… And you hope you might with George.”

  “Yes,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “George will most likely defer to Rachel. He has a lot of respect for her. I’ll let him know you want to talk to him, but you should be prepared that it may be futile. He doesn’t like to get involved with these types of issues.”

  My heart sinks. “Yes, I understand… I just hope he gives me a chance to make my case. It’s really important to me and, I believe, to the company.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him. Is this the number he should reach you at?”

  “Yes, thank you so much, Janice.”

  As I set my phone down, the truth hits me hard; I can’t change anything. I bend over and the tears fall fast. I know I’m going to lose Will over this. How could I have been so cavalier about the studio’s intentions? I acted like a novice, never taking control of the show like an experienced producer should have. Will gave me his trust and I’ve destroyed it.

  I curl into a tight ball on my hotel bed and let the tears fall until I feel raw all over. I cry as I remember what we were, and torture myself imagining what we could’ve been. My extreme self-flagellation provides a proper beginning to what I imagine to be the season of darkness looming ahead of me.

  Just the idea of spending Thanksgiving in some anonymous Massachusetts hotel room while Will is at home tossing his memories of me into a roaring bonfire is enough to make me crack like an abandoned Easter egg.

  When Will answers his phone, he sounds angry and any courage I had mustered up before the call, disappears.

  “Sophia?” he asks when I don’t say anything.

  “We’re over, aren’t we?” I ask, surprising even myself that I went there.

  This time he’s silent for the longest moment of my life.

  “You can’t fix it, can you,” he says, his tone starting to ice over.

  “I don’t think I can,” I say softly.

  “Wow. There you go. You’re easy on the promises and short on the fixing.”

  “I tried, Will.”

  “Evidently not hard enough.”

  “I don’t blame you for hating me. I’d probably hate me too if I were in your shoes,” I say, defeated.

  “I would’ve never given you the chance to.”

  “Noted,” I say right before a sob escapes, and I can’t hold back the tears.

  “Look, I’ve got to go. I can’t talk to you right now. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do.”

  I almost don’t recognize his voice. It sounds empty, as if he’s talking to a stranger.

  “All right. I’m so sorry, Will. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

  “I’m sorry too… about a lot.”

  “I hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “Me too,” he says before hanging up.

  I don’t get a call from George, and I stumble through the next few days in a thick haze. I feel like Jane Eyre on the English moor after leaving Rochester. At least Jane Eyre didn’t screw Rochester the way I’ve screwed Will. I flail along internally from sunup to sundown, finally passing out at night, half delirious when exhaustion finally takes me. I almost miss my flight to Boston I’m in such a fog of depression.

  Luckily the huge Thanksgiving reenactment shoot is a complete nightmare. Everything goes wrong from the weather to a good chunk of the group coming down with stomach flu. The resulting complications create a powerful distraction from my pain. I work myself hard until I fall asleep late each night while going over notes on my laptop in my room.

  Every time I think of Will, my heart shatters again, so I do my best to push him out of my mind. The moments when I slip, like when I see them setting up the Christmas tree in the lobby of my hotel, take my breath away. I even mourn the loss of Romeo, crying when someone walks past me with a dog that looks like him.

  I count the hours to when I can leave the hell of this shoot and get home to the hell of my very empty apartment.

  As each hour passes during the shoot on Thanksgiving day, my urge to call Will gets stronger and stronger until I finally pick up my phone during a break. When the call goes to voice mail, I end the call without leaving a message.

  I kick myself for even trying because now I feel even worse than before, and I didn’t think that was possible. I head back to the set.

  “You okay?” Aaron asks after he sets up his camera for the next shot.

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  “It’s Will and the show, isn’t it?”

  I nod, not hiding my disappointment.

  “He’ll come around. Guys are bull-headed, but once we cool off we realize the truth and come around,” Aaron says.

  “Yeah, and what’s the truth?”

  “That we can’t stand to live without the girl we love.” Aaron nods. He looks like he’s lived through the war zone of love.

  “Not to be rude, Aaron, but you’re divorced. Should you really be giving me advice on relationships and how the guy will come around?”

  “I’m exactly the right person, because I know what it’s like to have the right woman and then lose her.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound bitchy with my comment.”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay. It is what
it is. Live and learn.”

  “So I shouldn’t give up yet?” I ask hopeful, despite my doubt.

  “Just give him some time. Maybe he’ll come around and maybe he won’t, but isn’t it worth waiting some to see?”

  I close my eyes and nod. “It is worth it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next morning I wake up with a sick stomach, knowing today is the day of the show. I try to imagine Will watching it, and I only feel worse.

  Miraculously, the copy of the show I requested never arrives. I roll my eyes after hanging up with the hotel’s front desk manager. Thanks to my sarcastic and angry state, I’m sure this isn’t a technical or delivery issue. The studio is making sure that I have to see it in real time with the rest of our viewers.

  Just after lunch another wave of anxiety hits, and it gives me an idea. An old friend of mine, Erika, lives in Baltimore with her husband. We’ve remained friends and touch base once in a while. She and her husband always have the day after Thanksgiving off, and there are two broadcasts of the show today, one earlier while I’m still at work. Maybe she can watch the early broadcast and let me know if it’s better than I fear, or if it really sucks. Luckily she picks up the phone on the second ring.

  She gets a kick hearing that I’ve switched from cooking shows, and she’s delighted that I worked on a Christmas show since she knows how much I love that holiday.

  Unfortunately I have to share that the situation isn’t as rosy as I’d hoped. I explain that I’m worried the studio took over the project and made the subject look like a fool, that we’ve become close and I’m worried what this will do to him.

  She promises that she and her husband, Liam, will call with an honest assessment after they watch the show.

  At five-twenty my phone rings.

  “Hey, Erika,” I say nervously.

  “Hi, Sophia.” I can’t tell what to make of her tone.

  There’s a long pause.

  “Well, we saw the show.”

  I hear laughter in the background and then a muffled “Stop it!” through the phone.

  “So how was it?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “Well, it was very clever, and I must say I was amazed to see it all. That guy, Will is it? His house is stunning—so creative. It’s over the top. It’s really… just wow! I can’t imagine how much time it takes to set up.”

  “Yeah, it’s a lot, I know, but he likes doing it.” I feel strange, as if I’m justifying what Will does.

  “He must.”

  “So?”

  “Well… I’m not going to lie. It’s really unflattering to your friend. He comes off as a bit unstable,” she says.

  “Like a lunatic!” Liam yells in the background.

  My stomach plummets. “That bad?”

  “If I were this guy, I’d be furious. You’re going to hate it. If I were you, I’d discourage him from watching it. It will just enrage him and he can’t do anything about it. It’ll just be a bad memory in a few weeks.”

  “Until they run it over and over in reruns,” her husband adds with a snicker.

  “Would you shut up!” she yells back. “I’m sorry about him, Sophia. He’s kind of punchy tonight.”

  I grit my teeth. Erika’s expressive husband is the last of my worries.

  “Hey, thanks for letting me know. I’m grateful to be forewarned from a friend rather than watching it cold.”

  “No problem. I just wish I had better news.”

  “I do too, Erika. Believe me, I do too.”

  After the shoot, a group of us stop for burgers and beer before heading back to the hotel. I’m not driving so I cut loose a bit with the booze in an attempt to numb my mind.

  Later in my room I intend to just crash early, but the television calls to me in the most taunting way. I check my watch repeatedly as I flip through the channels, knowing that Will’s show will be on again in a matter of minutes.

  No way, I say to myself, trying to shake off the masochistic impulse.

  Do it! my internal crazy woman screams.

  I get under the covers and pull the blanket up under my chin, my eyes wide as I wait for the torture to begin.

  Once the show starts my feeling of dread grows as each moment passes. I imagine that despite the time difference, Will would’ve watched the early broadcast and experienced the horror already.

  In my tipsy state, the whole thing seems like a fuzzy, ridiculously bad dream—more like a nightmare. It’s almost clever how just about everything Will says is followed by footage that makes him look like a bozo. Either Helene the so-called writer, who is now identified as a prominent psychologist, explains whatever affliction Will has makes him do such obsessive things, or there’s a contrast shot that dispels the logic of whatever Will’s just explained. If I wasn’t so horrified about my involvement in this and what it will do to Will, I’d be impressed with the crafty editing.

  My mouth gapes open after the front yard interview where Will proudly presents the different outdoor displays and talks about the people that come from near and far to see the house. The upbeat shots then cut to interviews with angry neighbors that I wasn’t even aware had issues. They go on and on about what a nightmare Will’s house has created for the neighborhood. I’m acutely reminded as I watch how during my first conversation with Will I assured him the show would help his cause getting neighborhood support. Instead it’s blown it to hell and back.

  The worst moment in the episode is where Will talks about the kids visiting the house and how much it means to them. The scene cuts to some snotty nose boy saying that he went to the house last year and the owner was a big show off and not even nice to them—that he was always telling everyone what to do. He insists that he didn’t get his gift ornament when the house visit was over.

  “My Dad said he’s just a big goofy jerk that needs attention and should grow up.”

  Dr. Helene follows the expressive brat with comments that paint Will as an unfulfilled egomaniac. I want to reach through the television and punch her in the face.

  I’m stunned and can only imagine how devastated Will was to see this. He must have been heartbroken to be trashed by one of the kids he thought he was helping.

  When it’s finished, I play the entire episode again in my head. My brain rewinds certain scenes over until I’m almost reciting the dialogue by heart. When I finally pass out, the moonlight is creeping in the window, casting silver shadows across the dark room. In the quiet darkness I face the fact that Will didn’t call after the show aired, and I doubt he’ll ever call again.

  I wake only a few hours later, and despite the hangover and horrible sleep I feel as lucid as I ever have. I’ve made a decision. Now I just have to figure out the quickest, most efficient way to follow it through.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I’m still making plans as I pack for my flight home. Positively flattened by my emotional and physical exhaustion, all I want is a world where non-bedazzled Easter eggs are sloppily dyed by little kids, a place where leprechauns don’t leer at your breasts just because they’re at eye level, and where Will is still in love with me.

  On the plane ride, I stare out the window, trying to imagine my future. How will I feel about my career now? How will True Blue feel about me? I put all of my talent and effort into my work, and I feel completely duped by it. How will I drum up the same kind of motivation I’ll need for future projects? Everything feels tainted, ruined like a special party dress with something unspeakable splashed across the front—an ugly stain that will linger even after the dress is cleaned.

  When the plane lands at LAX, I send Rachel an e-mail asking for a meeting with her on Monday morning. In the terminal, I connect with the ride the studio arranged. While they collect my luggage, a sore throat hits me like a freight train. By the time the driver gets me home, my nose is running and my head’s throbbing.

  Awesome. On top of everything, now I’m sick.

  Leaving my suitcase unopened in my living room
, I pump myself full of Airborne and zinc lozenges, a bottle of water, and hot tea. With the tissue box on my bedside table, I put on my most comfortable jammies and get into bed. I don’t get out of it again for anything but the most basic necessities until Sunday night.

  On Monday my cold is under control enough for me to take care of what I need to at work. I’m not on the steadiest ground, but by the time I head into Rachel’s office, I’ve played out the conversation I want to have in my mind so much I feel like an actress in a play, reciting her lines.

  When I’m done presenting my resignation Rachel looks at me, dumbstruck. “You’re seriously quitting your job over a Christmas special? Do you know how many people would kill for your position? Are you really going to throw it all away?”

  “I know it seems crazy, but this whole experience has made me take a hard look at my career path and how far I’ve veered from my original plans.”

  Rachel looks at me skeptically. “You’re a producer. Don’t you realize how hard won that job is?”

  “I do, but at what price, Rachel? This type of work is never what I had intended to do. I went to film school wanting to produce documentaries. I wanted to show people a side of the world, or other cultures, or even themselves that they may not have seen otherwise. I had big dreams.”

  “Didn’t we all.” Rachel arches her brow.

  “Once out of school I got scared about paying the bills and not being able to get a job.”

  “Which is no small issue.” Rachel points out.

  “True. So I compromised in a small way on the first opportunity that came along. Then with each new opportunity I compromised a bit more and more. Somewhere along the line I convinced myself this genre of TV was sort of like documentaries and maybe, in the beginning, a few of them were.”

  I can tell from Rachel’s expression that she’s scanning her brain, trying to think of examples, but she remains silent.

  “Then over time, the shows became more and more entertaining and began to manipulate the concepts and the subjects for the biggest shock value or sensationalism.”