by Liz Astrof
No. As a creative group, we put our heads together and came up with the only logical reason for the trip: he was going to hunt and kill us for sport.
It made perfect sense given what we did know, starting with Tim having been rumored to be a survivalist. As in stockpiling supplies—guns, rubber tubing, duct tape, plastic bags, rope—for end times. I felt like there would be sandpaper, too; I don’t know why.
We also knew we were flying to Colorado commercial but supposedly coming home by private jet. That clinched it for me personally—there was no way I was making it home alive because not one psychic had ever told me I was going to fly on a private jet, and I’d asked at least a dozen. So.
Plus, one thing we all knew for certain: Tim wasn’t happy with the work we’d done so far on the show, from the stories we were planning to the scripts we were drafting to the general direction the show was taking. We based this fact on his grumbling, “I don’t want to do this shit” during one of his rare visits to the writers’ room.
Tim was grumpy and rich—a lethal combination. He could easily cover up a murder or four. No one would ever believe that Buzz Lightyear killed four people.
Hence, we were going to die.
Our work sessions started to devolve into spitballing sessions about how we would meet our respective ends.
“First, he’s going to subject us to severe vituperation . . .” Mitch started, and by the time I had looked up the word (it means “scolding”), I’d missed the rest of what he said.
“Liz will end up running through the forest in a wedding dress at some point,” Keith cracked, a grim, unnecessary reminder that my wedding dress wouldn’t have fit me anymore.
A week before the trip, word got to us via Tim’s assistant that he was planning the menu and needed to know if we’d all be able to eat spaghetti and meatballs on our first night there. He needed to know a week in advance.
“Poison” immediately moved to the top of our “Method of Choice” list. I’d be safe, I announced, because I didn’t eat fish sticks for Kevin James, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to take on carbs for Tim Allen. Mitch was disappointed in the cyanide-laced meatball method. He was now holding out for being garroted. Another word I had to look up (“strangulation”; he really could have just said that, prissy jerk).
Jake predicted that the food would drug us, not poison us, and that Tim would sit us all up at computers and make us put his jokes in all the scripts. Jake was our head writer for good reason.
Keith reminded us that Tim liked guns.
“He told me when I brought him back to doing TV that he loved shooting,” he said. “I think he’ll take us out execution style—Liz first because of her laugh,” which ended my honeymoon with Keith. I hoped he was the first to go.
Jake suggested we didn’t turn on each other until we were hanging from four separate trees, which again was why he was the boss.
The scenarios escalated in violence. You may think it ludicrous that facing a weekend where a metaphorical axe could certainly fall on our jobs had simply led to morbid hyperbole on our part. We wanted to believe we were just kidding, too. But there were way too many unknowns, and we were left to fill in the blanks. As writers, we were creative people with wild imaginations, and we’d all lived in LA way too damned long to not know that anything really and truly could happen. In a world ruled by fantasy, sleep deprivation, and drugs of every stripe, the possibility of our imminent demise grew more and more plausible as the weekend approached.
The day we left, we had to be at the airport at 5:00 a.m. I kissed my kids good-bye and whispered in their ears that I loved them and that no matter who their new mommy was, she could never replace me. I told Todd I loved him and, as I always do when I travel alone or go under light anesthesia or leave for an angry survivalist’s home somewhere in Colorado, we still didn’t know, left him with a list of friends who thought he was great and a list of friends who didn’t really care for him. Why waste his time? And we were off.
In Denver, we were met at the airport by a guy named Mike who was there to take us to Tim’s undisclosed-location lake house. I suspected Tim didn’t want to be seen with the victims, though Mike seemed sweet enough. “Let’s see how sweet he is when he’s hog-tying us,” Mitch whispered and chuckled alone. At least that time he used a term I understood.
We drove several hours over something called “the treacherous pass” in the Colorado Rockies that Tim had instructed Mike to show us. Obviously, this was where our body parts would end up. Keith regaled Mike with the story of how he’d brought Tim back to TV. I mouthed along and I wished for death sooner rather than later.
We finally got to Tim’s house. Where it was, I still don’t know. Mike drove down a narrow road that turned into gravel and, just beyond a really fucking creepy totem pole with a yellow and purple devil-like face painted on the top (a clue?), there sat a beautiful, red country home. Beyond it was the most exquisite view of blue sky, green mountains, and a lake with boats surrounded by idyllic-looking houses. It was beautiful, and I hoped I got killed last.
“It’s about time ya assholes got here!” Tim was standing on the porch, smirking. He looked different outside of work—was he relaxed . . . or was he kill-y? I didn’t know him well enough to tell the difference.
He’d worked out where we would stay, with Mitch and Keith sleeping in the main house with him. “Liz, Jake—you’re sleeping in the guesthouse,” he said, and pointed to a window above the garage. A window I’d no doubt be dangling from, at some point.
Jake and I went to check out our quarters and were surprised to see that the décor was more Town and Country than Helter Skelter. His very-obviously-absent-from-this-gathering wife had done a great job decorating, bless her probably-dead heart. I wondered what drawer or closet her body was stuffed in and if it was her wedding dress I’d have to fit into, because I hadn’t even been able to zip mine up halfway when I tried it on the night before—just to see. Maybe his wife would appear when we least expected it, wielding a hatchet at some point? I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little bit exciting knowing that I was going to die though not knowing how.
The property was surrounded on three sides by woods—perfect for running away. And so I had to give Jake the disturbing news that I had a bad knee and couldn’t run. Not even for my life. Jake told me that if we were being chased by Tim, he’d gladly hit me over the head with a shovel and end it there for me. Again, that was why he was the boss. He was also getting handsomer by the minute. His dark hair that had gotten shockingly grayer since leaving LA (which happens in horror movies), his deep brown eyes, the five o’clock shadow and stained T-shirt . . . it was all doing it for me. Probably one of those things where you fell in love with your fellow hostages. That kind of drama was the last thing we needed, though, so I reminded myself that he drove a PT Cruiser—my deal-breaker car—and moved on.
Soon it was time for dinner. Yes, that dinner. We went back to the main house and met Carol, a compact, blond, and insanely muscular woman who Tim referred to as his “cook.” Or was she his poison/martial arts expert? She looked like she could hold me down with one finger.
Before dinner, Tim wanted to give us a tour of the house. We followed him up a staircase to a bright and airy hallway lined with large framed photos of Tim’s (late?) wife and his daughters. Tim barked out which rooms were which, and which rooms were off limits. But I was too consumed by the photos to pay much attention. They were beautifully done, and I needed to get the name of the photographer. Were I to survive, I definitely wanted her to do our holiday cards. The year before, I’d skimped and used a photo from my phone and an online stationer. For some reason, the poor resolution gave Phoebe a slight Hitler mustache. Had I been paying attention and seen it, I might not have sent those cards out like that. Especially not to our Holocaust-survivor relatives. I needed to up my game this year. Again—if I lived.
Before I knew it, Tim and everyone were heading back downstairs. I followed them to the dini
ng room. Tim told us to sit. One by one, Carol delivered bowls of the famous poisoned spaghetti and meatballs we’d all signed off on the week before (even though I vowed not to eat it). It certainly looked and smelled amazing, all saucy and delicious. And my nerves, the lake air, the drive—it all made me very hungry.
I moved the food around my bowl, a craft I learned during my one-year stint as a budding anorexic. But just like my anorexia, my willpower was also short lived. Besides, if this turned out to be a “last supper” kind of deal, I’d be really upset with myself for not enjoying that meal. I considered the fact that I might be trying to fit into a wedding dress later that night. But the guys were scarfing it all down with reckless abandon, and I didn’t want to be the only one conscious for the slayings.
So I finished my bowl and two more bowls. And licked the pot when Carol wasn’t looking.
Later, sleepy but post-carb sleepy not drugged sleepy, back at the guesthouse, I went to my room and got ready for bed. I changed into the pajamas I’d bought just for the trip, ones the salesgirl agreed would be “totally cute” for either lounging or being found dead in.
I was helping myself to some of the luxurious lotion I’d discovered in the bathroom when I heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching on gravel. Coming closer and closer and closer, getting louder and louder and louder. I stood at the sink, frozen.
The footsteps stopped, followed by a silence even louder than the crunching. I could hear the front door downstairs, and I screamed, “I’m up here . . .!” I don’t know why, I just did. Maybe I wanted to get it over with.
Heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs, and I heard Jake calling my name. Tim had requested our presence back in the house.
I gave myself one more squirt of the lotion (it was so luxurious) and followed Jake, actually bothered that I had to walk to the house to be killed and that Tim couldn’t come to me. I wasn’t sure if it was weird for my coworkers to see me in my pajamas, but then again, they were going to see me with my brain outside my head, so who gave a shit.
In the den, now dimly lit for some reason, though there were two large white couches and plenty of space, Mitch, Keith, and our driver, Mike, were all three sitting on one small love seat. All three in pajamas. I don’t even think Mike was staying on the property. Tim stood behind them, the chef conspicuously absent. Jake boldly took a seat on one of the larger couches, and I waited for my seating assignment.
“Sit anywhere,” Tim said.
Fuck. What did he mean by that? Why didn’t he care? Why was he so . . . normal on potentially the last night of our lives?
I sat next to Jake. I was starting to get feelings again.
Tim picked up a TV remote and pointed it at the TV. He settled into a giant chaise and told us we’d be watching the Elton John concert on HBO with him. So basically, “Candle in the Wind” was going to drown out our screams for help. Made sense.
While Tim Allen watched Elton John, we watched Tim Allen and the doors and Mike. It was the longest and most tense two hours of Elton John in history. When it was over, Tim did the expected. He said good night and went up to bed.
He was fucking with us, for sure.
I mean, why else were we there but to be murdered? He didn’t like any of us—as far as we could tell. And we hadn’t even talked about work. There was not one bit of vituperatics, or whatever the fuck Mitch had predicted.
I had planned on staying awake all night, but once I lay down on those 6,000-thread-count sheets, I must’ve passed out. I woke up, still alive, in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. But my door wouldn’t open. The knob wouldn’t move. I was locked in.
It. Was. Happening.
I was terrified. I went to text Todd, but there was no cell reception. Of course.
I frantically pounded on the wall that separated me and Jake.
“Jake—I can’t get out!” I shouted.
No answer. I wondered if Tim had already gotten to him, if I was screaming to a corpse. I quickly brought a chair over to the window, but it was too high for me to jump or even to dangle from. And now, I had to pee really, really badly. I cursed the decision to have a vaginal delivery with Phoebe, which had left me unable to cough without peeing a little ever since, and now my situation was dire. I didn’t want to ruin my new pajamas, with pee or with blood.
With one hand, I held myself and with the other tried the door one last time. It opened easily. I was flush with relief. It turned out the lotion I’d become obsessed with had made my hands soft and slippery, and the knob just hadn’t turned. I wondered if that was part of the plan: it rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose . . .
Once back in bed, still terrified, I decided to stay up the rest of the night. And then fell asleep.
I woke up, alive again, at a post-children all-time-late hour of ten o’clock. Rested and relaxed, I was examining my refreshed eyes in the mirror when Jake came in.
“He can see us,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I was down at the house,” Jake explained, “and Tim said to me, ‘Shame you and Liz haven’t used the coffee pot in your room . . .’ ” His eyes scanned the room as he whispered, “He has cameras on us.”
At once, Jake and I looked out into the little kitchen and saw the coffee pot on the counter, still in its box. Holy shit.
It. Was. Happening. Again.
“We need to get out of here,” I said to Jake. “But first he has to see us make coffee.” Also, I wanted the coffee. (Kona beans.)
But Jake had more bad news: Tim was taking us out on his boat to show us Lake Wherever-We-Were.
I didn’t want to die in the lake for the same reason I didn’t want to swim in the lake—I don’t like fish touching me. Fish grossed me out. And I wouldn’t be able to get away from them because I’d be dead.
But next thing I knew, the five of us were getting on this very sleek cigarette of a boat, Mitch somehow with that day’s New York Times under his arm, Keith with a shit-eating grin on his face because he’d gotten to tell someone at the dock how he’d brought Tim Allen back to TV, and Jake tweeting about how much he missed his old job on 30 Rock—which was only going to anger Tim even more, for chrissakes, didn’t he know that? We were given life vests and, as I checked mine for tiny pinpricks, we took off.
Tim was very proud of his boat. As he should have been; it was really nice. He gave us all the statistics on it—where he got it, how long he’d had it, what he did to maintain it, but all I heard was “I’m going to kill you, I’m going to kill you, just wait ’til I kill you, I’m rich and have nothing better to do than kill you, hope you like fish touching you because I’m going to kill you.”
Jake whispered to me that I should pay attention, that we’d be tested on Tim’s facts later, and whoever got the answers wrong would be the first to go. I shouted into the wind that I didn’t test well as we sped through the water, the tip of the boat in the air as Tim turned back from the helm and called, “This is where I throw the bodies!”
We looked at each other and back at him. Tim cackled. I laughed with him, matching his cackle, my laugh echoing off the lake and the houses and the nearby town and the lake again and the houses. God, I hoped Keith was wrong about Tim hating my laugh, because moments later, it was still bouncing around us. And, God, I also hoped Keith went first.
It. Was. Happening. For real this time. We might not know how we were going yet, but at least we knew where we should have our loved ones tell the cops to look for our bodies.
• • •
EVENTUALLY WE DOCKED, being not dead, and headed back to the house (he was definitely still fucking with us). Tromping back up the gravel drive—and I swear to fucking God this is true—that totem pole devil-face that had greeted us the day before looked right at me.
In an instant, my mind shifted gears from Silence of the Lambs and Cabin in the Woods and kicked clean through the Poltergeist goalposts. Maybe we were on an Indian burial ground and the man we kne
w as “Tim” was in fact possessed. That was it. I had to get in touch with Todd and the kids. I had to. What if, while I was here rubbing great lotion all over, Phoebe was being sucked into our TV back home? Shit!
Problem was there was no cell phone reception anywhere in the guesthouse. Tim was off changing his clothes, or getting his rubber tubing in order, or putting on his ski mask, so I walked my phone around the main house looking for any possible signal.
I finally found a room—a pretty guest room of sorts, with more of those great pictures of his children and (dead) wife—where I got two cellphone bars if I stood a certain way and didn’t move.
“I’m still alive,” I said breathlessly into the phone when Todd answered. “Are you? Are the kids?”
“Ingrid Millman doesn’t like me?” Todd asked.
I realized he was referring to the list I’d left of the friends who didn’t like him/find him attractive.
“Ingrid just thinks you’re grumpy from that time she was over and you were in a bad mood,” I said.
“I was picking up dog shit off the floor,” he said defensively.
My frustration mounted with my panic. “Maybe she’ll give you another chance,” I said, then, “Listen—can you trace this call?”
“What about Dale? I’m always nice to her.”
“I know, Todd,” I told him, “but she said she could never kiss you, which honestly, was more insulting to me because I do kiss you.”
“You don’t kiss me that much.”
Jesus.
“Look,” I blurted, “if I make it out of here, I’ll kiss you, okay? Now can you call the police? He told us he’s going to throw us in the lake!”
“Is the house nice?”
“It’s stunning, and they have this great photographer, and we had this awesome dinner, and the bed is so comfortable, and I’ve never slept so well, and there’s coffee in the room, and you’ll see it all on the news—now, listen . . .”