Craig holds up one finger, glances back down at his screen and begins to type again. Should I just leave? I’m not one for big dramatic exits, but this is some bullshit. How can Grant be friends with this tool?
Oh holy shite. The mother of all cramps hits me. I clear my throat so I don’t have to groan.
Craig stops typing and meets my eyes. “So, you know Grant?” he asks.
“Yep, worked with him,” I reply, barely able to finish a complete sentence.
“Cool. So, the show…we’d like to think of it as a ‘feel-ality’ show. We’re staying far away from the Fox formula. We want to turn the tide on the exploitive shows that are out there.”
Huh, that’s funny. There’s a poster hanging behind him for a reality show called Seven Sins at Sea. It’s the one where seven couples spent two months cheating around on a cruise ship. Not exploitative at all, Craig.
“It really has a feel-good factor that we think viewers will love,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’re going to take a bunch of people with obsessive compulsive disorders and put them in a house together. The hitch is, they aren’t allowed to perform any of their rituals. Like washing their hands a million times a day, turning lights on and off, you know, shit like that.”
Come on! Tell me he’s kidding.
“Basically, the house will be a sty but they’re not allowed to clean it. There’ll be a farm out back and every day they’ll have to clean out the stalls, feed the animals, all that good stuff. And once a week, they all have to participate in a competition that really puts their neuroses to the test. In the end, the winner walks away with $100,000.” Craig looks at me as if he is waiting for some kind of congratulatory response. Another cramp hits. All I can do is fake-smile at him and nod my head. I try for my best “wow, what you’re saying is really fascinating” look.
“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. They’ll get some therapy and shit too, so really, we’re trying to help them,” Craig says. “Now, since this is a heavy-hitting show, we need heavy hitters working on it. So, we’ve got a mandatory six-day week schedule, for five months.”
Between the ridiculous schedule and the stabbing stomach pain, I must have flinched because Craig’s eyes widen just a fraction.
“We really want people who are dedicated. It’s all worth it when you work on something you love, on something that gives back, you know?”
If it weren’t for the shower scene from Psycho playing out in my stomach, I’d be laughing in his face.
“Grant says you’re good in the edit bay as well as the field and that’s what we need. We’ve got $1,200 a week in the budget for a segment producer.”
What? Cheap bastards. So this prick wants me to work an extra day, for $300 less a week? All for the good of mankind? Right. All for the good of Craig and Doug’s pockets, more like. The cheaper they can produce a show, the more money left over to bank for themselves.
As I open my mouth to tell do-gooder Craig to go to hell (politely of course, never a good idea to burn a bridge in this business), he raises his finger once again, and looks back down at his computer.
Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrggrgrgr
Oh no, please, it can’t be. Was that noise actually coming from me? Another convulsion erupts down below and this time there is no mistake. My stomach is now performing an Olympic-style gymnastics routine and I need to leave RIGHT NOW.
Grgrgrgrgrgrggrgrgrgrgr
Craig looks up from his computer. “Everything okay over there?”
I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead. I don’t care that he can hear my stomach rumbling like Mount Vesuvius. I don’t care that I’m blowing this interview. I don’t even care that Grant is going to tease me mercilessly about this. All I know is that in T-minus three minutes, this baby’s gonna blow.
“Actually, I need to go. But thanks so much for meeting with me.” I hastily get up from my chair, shove my hand in Craig’s shocked face for a handshake and make a wild dash for the exit.
As I’m running to my car, my butt cheeks are clamped together so tight that I’m sure everyone in the office notices. But I couldn’t care less. I’m shivering from the chills and my skin is prickling. There is no time to waste with embarrassment. I shudder at the sight of the gas station down the road (was there an apocalypse and no one told me?) but my fear of dirty restrooms is overruled by my fear of crapping my pants.
An hour later, I’m home, showered, and filling Zoë in on my fantastic interview. Tears stream down her face as I’m reliving in detail the day that was my nightmare. Between her wheezing cackles and unrestrained laughter, Zoë nicknames this chapter in my life Abby’s Excremental Assault Story. It’s nice to know that the depths of my humiliation can be turned into a source of amusement. Oh, all right, who am I kidding? If it had happened to Zoë, I would have forced her to take re-creation photos and then emailed them to everyone in my address book.
Since my stomach is still a bit off, I drain the remnants of my hot tea and drag my weary self to my bedroom for a little nap. Before melting under the covers, I decide to brave my email and see if Grant has heard anything about my hellish meeting with Craig. As I scroll through and delete twelve new spams (damn you, spam filter) I’m relieved to see that there is no word from Grant. There is, however, an email from my friend Nancy telling me she’s given my resume to her friend Peter who’s producing a new clip show. Years ago I worked on a few and they weren’t that hard once you got the hang of them. I wouldn’t have to deal with any high-maintenance wannabe reality stars, that’s for sure.
Even though it’s a little aggressive, I decide to call up Nancy’s friend (well, she included his number) and ask him about the show.
Five minutes later I’m getting the entire scoop from Peter, who seems nice, says they need a segment producer and tells me to come in tomorrow for an interview.
“Great,” I say, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “I’m flexible so let me know what works for you.”
“Okay, cool. Why don’t you make it around 2:00 p.m.?” suggests Peter. “Hopefully, our supervising producer will be around so you can meet him, too.”
“What’s his name, maybe I’ve worked with him before?”
“Will Harper. Ring a bell?”
Mother of God! Nooooo. Not Will Harper.
“Hmm, sounds vaguely familiar,” I respond nonchalantly, though I’m beginning to pull at my eyebrows, a nervous habit I’m trying to break. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer, I’ll see you Wednesday.” I hang up the phone and take a deep breath.
Will Harper? Ughhhh. I can kiss this job goodbye.
Chapter Four
I met Will Harper eight years ago, long before reality TV really exploded. It was my first job in television and I was more than green. A friend got me in the door at a large production company that was producing a Behind the Music knock-off called Musicians. Rather than start out as a production assistant, I lucked out and was offered the next step up: a researching job.
I worked on a team of three that included a producer, an associate producer and me. Besides researching and fact-checking, it was my job to find the photos, headlines and rare footage needed to fill an hour show. Admittedly, I was in over my head, so I worked twelve-hour days and weekends to catch up. But it was my first real job in TV, so I didn’t mind too much.
The first episode I worked on was about Johnny Cash. One day, my producer (for reasons I still don’t understand) decided that he needed a photocopy of a 350-page biography on Johnny Cash. I had dozens of calls to make and didn’t have time to stand in front of a copy machine for hours on end. My face must have been full of dread because my producer finally gave in and told me we could bring on a production assistant: the lowest man on the totem pole. So, I called up the executive producer’s assistant (who handled such matters) and she said she’d send someone over shortly.
About an hour later, I was on the phone when a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties walked over to my desk. He was handsome in that slacker way, with curl
y dark hair and a sprinkling of light stubble. I took one look at his ratty, faded jeans, vintage T-shirt and trendy Converse and knew that he had to be my PA.
“Hey, I’m Will—” he began.
I held up my finger, mouthed “one minute” and continued with my phone call. He shuffled back and forth looking impatient as I haggled with a photographer over rates. I remember thinking to myself that it had taken me two days to get this guy on the phone, so the slacker pacing in front of me was just going to have to wait.
After about five minutes, I hung up and turned my attention to Will. I immediately realized he was a bit older than I had assumed, but just figured he was most likely a late-starter in this business.
“So, thanks for coming. Unfortunately, I have a really annoying task for you,” I said as I shoved the book into his unwilling hands. “We need a photocopy of this thing. All of it.”
PA Will looked puzzled.
“It’ll take you at least a couple of hours. We don’t need it until 6:00, so don’t feel like you have to be chained to the copier all day.” I smiled benevolently at him. He didn’t smile back; he just stared at me with that same quizzical expression. I wondered if he was a little—well, okay, this is awful—a little slow.
“Do you know where the copier is?” I asked, determined to move this along.
“No, not on this floor, but…”
“I’ll show you.” I started walking briskly down the hall, half expecting him to stay rooted in his spot, but he followed.
“If you could make double-sided pages that would be best. Although, can you even do double-sided copies with a book? I don’t actually know how to do that myself, so you may have to get someone to show you. Just bring it back by 6:00.” I repeated the time again in case the information had already disappeared from his presumably pot-addled brain.
“If I’m not here you can leave it on my chair,” I said as I turned the corner and entered the facilities room. “Well, here we are.” I gestured toward the gigantic copier like one of the models from The Price is Right. PA Will placed the book back into my hands. It was my turn to look confused.
“Um, I think there are some wires crossed here. I’m the coordinating producer. I came over to see how long you would need a PA for.”
I felt a hot flash of lightning shoot through my body, followed immediately by a paralyzing cold chill. Well, it paralyzed everything except my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! When I saw you, I thought you were the PA.”
“No problem,” he said with a smirk.
I might as well have said, “You dress like shit, so I thought you were the PA.” I’d only been there for one week and had already managed to piss off the coordinating producer. Granted, I had no idea what the hell that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good.
I took a deep breath and decided to play it cool and make a casual joke of it all. So of course, I completely spazzed out.
“Ha ha. Well, now that you’re here, you wanna copy it anyway?” I slapped his arm and snorted. Non-PA Will took an involuntary step back and glanced in surprise at the spot on his arm I had just assaulted.
Not even the look of shock and burgeoning terror on his face could stop me. My mind was screaming, shut up! But my stupid mouth wouldn’t listen. “I should have known you were too old to be a PA. Oh shit, I don’t mean that you…ha, um. Well…I’ve got a feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
Why I turned to the Wizard of Oz in my time of need is beyond me. I always cringe when strangers quote it to break the ice. Plus, he had no freaking idea I was from Kansas. What an incredible dork.
“Um, right. So. Let’s start again. How long are you going to need a PA for?” Will asked as he glanced at his watch.
“Er, I’m not sure. How long do you think it will take to copy this whole book?”
He looked like he wanted to kill me.
“I have no idea. Let’s just make up a number. Three hours? Done. Have a nice day…what was your name again?”
“Abby Edwards,” I said dejectedly. I was certain my name was going to end up on a blacklist somewhere.
Over the next few months I did everything I could to avoid Will Harper. On the rare occasions that we ran into each other I willed myself to be normal, but I could not control myself. I always made some lame copying joke. He’d shoot me a tight smile and give a weak courtesy laugh, but he never broke his stride. He would just keep walking, desperate to get away from the crazy person. Soon after though, he left the company, and I could finally take the elevator again.
I know I’m being ridiculous. It was eight years ago. He’ll never remember me and I really need this job. I probably just need to crawl under the covers, close my eyes and hope that blissful sleep will take away my humiliating memories of Will Harper.
I walk out of my room, feeling much better after my nap, and find Zoë and Jeff working away in the kitchen. Jeff is carefully retrieving a baking pan out of the oven. I see that he’s baked his famous corn bread tonight, or as I like to call it, corn brick. It’s not so much food as it is a weapon.
“Mmm, smells good, you guys. What’s the occasion?”
Jeff gingerly places the pan on top of the stove. “Ummm—” he pauses, “—well, we’re sick of eating out all of the time.” Jeff turns to look at Zoë as if searching for a better answer, which is kind of weird. I don’t see any remnants of a fight, so I’m guessing Zoë hasn’t blasted him with the shit-or-get-off-the-pot speech yet.
I hope tonight isn’t ultimatum night. Zoë occasionally likes to use me as a buffer, and I usually end up playing along against my better judgment, but I’m really not in the mood to get in the middle of their problems this evening. Plus, I’m not sure my stomach can take Jeff’s cooking, which is at best hit or miss.
“We also thought it would be nice for all of us to sit down and hang out together,” Zoë adds.
While Jeff turns back toward the stove, I shoot Zoë a quizzical look, throwing my hands in the air, sign language for well, did you or didn’t you? Zoë shakes her head and waves me away. Fine, she doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Not the first time.
“So what’s on the menu?” I ask.
“Well, I cheated a bit,” Jeff says. “I bought the salad and roasted chicken from Gelson’s, but I’m steaming some asparagus, making mashed potatoes and your favorite, corn bread.” Jeff grins proudly. “Don’t worry, nothing too flashy or spicy for Miss Poor Constitution.”
“Don’t mock the sick,” I say, smacking him on the back of his head. God, I’m never going to live that one down.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Zoë looks at me accusingly.
I look down at my typical nighttime attire, flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized hooded sweatshirt. “What, are we dressing for dinner now? Because if so, my Valentino footies are at the cleaners.” I wait for a laugh and instead get two guilty faces.
“Well, Andrew may stop by.” Zoë pops a carrot in her mouth.
“Who’s Andrew?”
“Remember, we went to college together, he just moved here from New York…” Zoë trails off like this should mean something to me.
“I’ve never heard of him.” This had better not be what I think it is. Suddenly, I wonder where my car keys are. “He may stop by or he is stopping by?”
“He is stopping by. There’s still time if you want to freshen up.” Zoë smiles innocently at me.
I am going to kill her.
Just then, with sitcom timing, there’s a knock on the door.
“Ooh he’s early! Go put on that cute red cardigan I gave you. And please, for me, just fix your hair.”
Truthfully, part of me wants to run to the bedroom and try to make myself presentable. Or at the very least, make it look like I didn’t just crawl out of bed. A little voice inside me whispers, He could be the one. You should at least put on pants. But then another, larger pissed-off voice comes and beats the shit out of the first one. I try to give Jeff the stink eye but he ignore
s me and opens the door.
“Hey, baby!” Zoë hugs Andrew. “How are you, sweetie?” She gives him a Euro kiss.
“Hey, gorgeous, what’s up?”
“Not much. I haven’t seen you in ages,” she says as she takes his leather jacket. “You remember Jeff.”
Jeff and Andrew perform that male-bonding half handshake, half hug that guys always do.
“And this,” she says meaningfully, “is Abby. She’s been under the weather today, so she isn’t quite herself.”
Nice.
“Sorry to hear that. Good to meet you.”
I say hello and shake his hand. I can’t believe they pulled this on me. Especially on Excremental Assault Day.
“Hey, man, we’re just finishing up in here. Take a seat, and I’ll open a bottle of wine,” Jeff says. He doesn’t even meet my eyes as he walks back into the kitchen. He looks like a dog that has just peed on the carpet, knows he’s done something bad and is running back to his crate with his tail between his legs.
Run, you coward!
“You two get acquainted while Jeff and I sort out dinner.” Zoë also avoids direct eye contact with me as she skulks away.
Great. Small talk. In my hoodie, and pink flannel pajama bottoms.
Okay, Abby, don’t be a bitch. It’s not his fault he’s been thrown into the lion’s den. And I suppose, now that I actually look at him, he’s cute-ish in that very tall, very blond, very scruffy, bearded, Seven-Jeans-and-blazer-wearing kind of way.
“So you and Zoë met in college?” I ask.
“Yeah, she was my roommate’s girlfriend.”
There is a small beat where I think he is going to say more, but it seems that little gem is the scope of his story. All right, I guess it’s up to me to keep the conversational ball rolling here.
“I met Zoë through a friend, I’d say about…what was it, seven years ago.” He just nods and looks bored, so I continue. “Are you from L.A. originally?”
“No, I’m a New Yorker. L.A.’s nice, but I’ll tell you, I’ve literally traveled all over the world and there’s nothing more beautiful than the Manhattan skyline.”
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