Unscripted

by Natalie Aaron

  “What does it even matter? Why is it anyone’s business?”

  “Please! These women are the biggest yentas. Any sniff of controversy and it’ll keep them gossiping for weeks.” Zoë starts playing with her hair unconsciously. “Plus, I don’t even know half of them. A bunch of them are from my mom’s mahjong group.”

  “Stop fussing with your hair, Zoë,” calls a voice from behind us. I turn around to see Zoë’s mom. As usual, her style is impeccable. Wearing a tailored black pants suit and a gold silk camisole, she looks like she’s just stepped off the page of a Neiman Marcus catalogue. Her glossy auburn hair falls in perfect waves down to her shoulders, and she’s sparkling from the vast amount of diamonds that adorn her ears, neck and hands.

  “Hello, Abby, sweetie. How are you?” Zoë’s mom puts an arm around me and gives me an air kiss. “I’m glad you could come.”

  “Thanks, Lynn.”

  “I’m so excited for my girl. Aren’t you? And it’s about time. I kept telling her that Jeff just needed to shit or get off the pot.”

  I can’t help but flinch slightly at the word shit tumbling seamlessly out of Zoë’s mom’s mouth. I always find it unnerving when I hear other people’s parents swear.

  “Roberta, come and meet Zoë’s best friend, Abby,” Lynn says to one of the top-heavy women next to me. “Abby is Zoë’s maid-of-honor.”

  “Nice to meet you, dear,” replies Roberta through painted red lips the size of sausages.

  “I was just saying to the girls that it was about time Jeff proposed.”

  “Oh, absolutely. You’re not getting any younger, Zoë.” Roberta smiles.

  I know I need to stop staring at her lips but it’s impossible. What the hell did her doctor do to get them to look like that? It’s as if she’s had some sort of horrific anaphylactic reaction to shellfish and it’s totally freaking me out.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Abby?” Sausage Lips asks, as she turns her attention to me.

  “Ahh, no.”

  “How old are you?”

  I blink a couple of times from shock. Who asks a woman how old they are after twenty seconds? I don’t want to appear rude, so I answer her. “I’m thirty-two.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. You need to get on the market. You can’t wait too long if you want children.” She turns to Zoë’s mom. “The girls these days put their careers first and that’s why there’s so much infertility. Did you know Diane Gold’s daughter Rachelle has done in vitro nine times?”

  “Well, that’s nothing. Laura Stein’s daughter Stacey is getting an egg donor.” Zoë’s mom makes a tut-tut sound and looks at Zoë and I pointedly. “Poor girl. Only thirty-eight years old.”

  I glance at Zoë, who’s listening intently to both women. No wonder she’s terrified about not being married. If I had to listen to this diatribe from birth, I would have been popping those kids out at twenty-five.

  “So, are you going to give up work after your first baby?” Sausage Lips asks. “You can’t exactly be a mommy and a stunt woman at the same time.”

  Zoë looks at her feet, searching for the right words. “Well, we haven’t really thought that far ahead. I mean, well, I might have to still work. It just depends on what Jeff is doing, you know? I mean, in terms of work and everything.”

  Lynn’s eyes widen. “What are you talking about?” She turns to Roberta. “Of course she’ll stop working. Jeff makes good money. Plus, I’m not having my daughter jump out of any moving cars after she’s a mother!”

  Zoë sort of shrugs and gives a slight, ashamed nod.

  Thankfully, the tinkling sound of a fork hitting a wineglass interrupts our conversation.

  “Ladies. Hello? Ladies. Can I get everyone’s attention?” shouts a short blond elderly bombshell decked out in a tight Michael Stars tank, studded True Religion jeans, and spike-heeled patent leather boots. Her overprocessed hair has been sprayed with so much hairspray that I could swear she has a pile of cotton candy balancing precariously on top of her head. “First off, I wanted to say congratulations to Miss Zoë on her engagement.”

  The women put down their plates of food and glasses of wine and clap. Zoë smiles brightly and waves her hand to all the women.

  “Secondly, we have some fun games planned for tonight.”

  Great. Fun games.

  “I also want to point you in the direction of the kitchen, where you’ll find scrapbook material, glue, tape, sparkles and stickers. Whenever you get a chance, please take the picture you brought from home of you and Lynn, and put it in the Mother-of-the-Bride photo album, and decorate that page however you like. If you want to write a poem, or a note, we have silver and gold metallic pens next to all of the material.”

  “What a great idea. I love it,” whispers Lynn to Zoë.

  Zoë shoots me a deadpan look.

  “And lastly, I hope everyone brought their wedding albums.”

  “What is she talking about?” I ask Zoë.

  “Oh, it’s an idea my mom had. She thought it would be fun if everyone brought their wedding albums so we could all see what everyone looked like back in the day.”

  I nod my head approvingly. “That’s actually cute.”

  We move to the couches and chairs that are set up in the middle of the room and take our seats. I place myself next to Zoë and her mom so that I can be in a prime viewing position. This should be good.

  The first album that’s passed to us belongs to Blond Bombshell herself. Zoë begins to flip through the pages as we all crowd around the white leather album. The photos are in black-and-white, and appear to have been taken during the sixties.

  “Oh my God, Ellen, look at your hair!” laughs Zoë’s mom. “Your bee-hive was bigger than mine!”

  Blond Bombshell walks behind the couch and glances over my shoulder. “I was so fat back then,” she sighs. “Jesus, and look at Gary’s tux. How ridiculous do we look?”

  Zoë turns around to face Ellen. “I thought your husband’s name was Rick?”

  Ellen shakes her head. “Oh, sweetie, Rick’s my third husband. Gary was my first.”

  Zoë turns back to the album in her lap. “Oh, I didn’t realize…” Her voice fades out.

  The next album to land in our laps looks pristine, as if no one has ever looked at it before.

  “Okay, whose is this?” calls Lynn.

  Sausage Lips raises her hand. “That one’s mine,” she says, pouring herself a hefty glass of booze. “That’s mine and Alan’s wedding.”

  I look at Zoë without turning my head.

  “First husband,” she mouths.

  I nod and look back down at the album. The woman in the photos looks nothing like the woman I see today. Waifish and thin-lipped, Roberta was actually really cute at one time. Now she’s just, well, she’s just scary.

  The next album has got to be from the seventies. The bride has Farrah Fawcett hair, and the groom is wearing a ruffled tuxedo shirt.

  “That’s me and Ron,” squeaks a woman sitting in the chair next to me.

  I turn to look at her. “Are you guys still married?” I ask somewhat wistfully.

  “Oh no. We were divorced a year after we got married. We were young, and Ron was sort of directionless.”

  I turn back to Zoë. “This is encouraging,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. She nods her head and rolls her eyes.

  As soon as the conversation gets a little louder in the room, Zoë turns to her mom. “Why did you ask everyone to bring their wedding albums when you know they’re all divorced?” she asks under her breath.

  “I just thought it would be fun to see what everyone looked like at their first wedding. Isn’t this fun, Abby?” Lynn turns to me and raises her eyebrows.

  “Uh, yeah. It’s, uh, fun.” And utterly depressing.

  Another album lands in my lap. This one is definitely from the early eighties. The bride is wearing the most ostentatious lace-covered dress, with shoulder pads as big as a linebacker’s.

  “Taylor, this
is hysterical,” cries out Lynn to a woman across the room. “Your dress!”

  The tall, younger-looking brunette walks over and takes a seat next to Zoë. “I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  I lean over Zoë to look at Taylor. “Are you still married to him?” I ask, feeling absolutely desperate for just one success story, if not for Zoë then at least for me.

  “No, he died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “Don’t be. If he were alive today, we’d be divorced.”

  I take a deep breath as my back slumps into the couch. “Oh,” I sigh. I’m at a loss for words.

  Zoë and I are tucked behind the pool house in Zoë’s backyard and I’m watching her take a long drag off a cigarette. Zoë gave up smoking a couple of years ago, but still keeps a pack in her purse for emergencies.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. How depressing was that?” Zoë closes her eyes as she slowly inhales the smoke.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly go to any of those women for marital advice.” I cough from the cigarette and wave my hand in front of my face. “Just blow that shit away from me, okay?”

  “Sorry,” she says as she turns her head and exhales. “Seriously though, what was she thinking?”

  This is going to be a longer talk than I expected. I stop crouching and take a seat on the cold, hard pavement. “Why even listen to those women? Your parents are still together. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Zoë snorts. “Oh please! All those two do is fight. They should have split up years ago.”

  I pause for a minute to think. I’m not really sure what to say. My parents have been married for thirty-five years, and for the most part, have been fairly happy with each other. This divorce thing is completely out of my advice-giving arena.

  “But things are okay with you and Jeff though.”

  “No, they’re not okay,” she says a little too harshly. “You know they’re not okay. What the hell was he thinking accepting that job?”

  I stare at her for a second. It’s time to let it all out. “Zoë, this is something Jeff has wanted for a long time. It’s an amazing break for him. So what if he’s taking a pay cut? You guys still make more money together than most of the people in America. He’s such a great guy and he’s really excited about this. I know it’s hard, but he needs your support.” I say this last sentence practically choking on the words. She can either see some sense and agree with me, or kill me.

  “Me support him? Well, that’s exactly how it’s going to be! I’m going to be fucking supporting the both of us with my salary. So tell me this, how can I be a stay-at-home mom? And don’t give me that crap about being wealthier than most of the people in America. This is Los Angeles. Everyone is loaded. My dad always supported my mom so that she could raise me. I’m not having my own kid in daycare!” She takes a big breath and stamps out her cigarette on the pavement next to me. “Fuck that.”

  I don’t want to remind her that she was actually raised by a nanny from El Salvador—whom she still calls Mama—while her own mother was out playing tennis, or lunching or doing whatever. I just have to appease her. “He’s not going to be making that salary forever. I think you’re sort of overreacting.”

  “I’m not overreacting,” she says more calmly. “It’s not just about the money. He made this decision on his own. Without consulting with me. Aren’t couples supposed to make these decisions together?”

  Hmm, she has a point. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not taking sides. It’s just that he seemed so excited. You know?”

  Zoë stands up and brushes the dirt off her pants. “Well, either way, you need to be on my side. You’re my friend, remember?”

  I stand up next to her and give her a hug. “I know. I’m sorry. He should have said something to you before making his decision.”

  “He really should have,” she says softly. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. I want to see the presents.”

  As we walk back toward the house, I feel a growing sense of dread about this engagement, not to mention the shaky ground our friendship has been on lately. Zoë has always been a little spoiled and sometimes a bit unreasonable, but these days she’s breaking new records. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll just leave it at that.

  Back inside the house the party is still in full swing. I’m relieved, because all I really want to do is forget this little argument. I can definitely handle the games and the gossiping, but I’m praying they haven’t hired any male strippers. These suburban cougars would tear a guy to pieces.

  Chapter Nine

  I’m reading through transcripts of all the interviews we shot for the show, looking for bites for the cold open. Will hired a freelance writer to pump out the scripts while I did the interviews, so that leaves me to polish the scripts and work with the editors.

  Working in the edit bays has always been my favorite part of production, even if it is like taking a trip to the coldest reaches of the planet. Sure, some editors can be a bit temperamental (or sometimes downright crazy) but I can usually deal with it. What do you expect from someone who works in a cave for ten hours a day? But I have never encountered an editor like Tom, whom I have dubbed Knit Cap.

  Knit Cap is a thirty-three-year-old man/boy editor, still hanging on to the skater punk days from his youth. He has an extensive collection of concert T-shirts and an even larger collection of knit caps to cover his slightly balding, stage-one comb-over. He has two tattoos that I can see. Shiver. One is a giant skull and crossbones on his right leg, and a colorful dragon around his left arm. Oh, and he’s a newlywed, although you’d never know it by the way he flirts with me.

  While all of that makes him highly mockable, which I typically enjoy, I find him so distasteful that it’s difficult to sit in the bay with him. He has some disgusting form of frat-boy Tourette’s that causes him to yell out “Titty!” every time he finishes a scene or makes a good edit. It wouldn’t be as bad if he were an equal opportunity offender, but I’ve never heard that little fucker say it in front of Will.

  I grimace as my phone rings for the fifth time in a row. For the fifth time in a row, I don’t answer.

  “Who the hell keeps calling?” Christine slams down her pen.

  I look at the number on my phone’s display and groan. “It’s Knit Cap. He can leave a message.”

  “We have the craziest editors, ever.”

  “I know, well except for Neil,” I say. Neil (sometimes known as Big Baby) is the lead editor. He’s sweet and funny and a hard worker, but a bit of a sensitive flower.

  I look at my phone. No red light. Of course he didn’t leave a message. Oh well, I invite him to send me an email.

  I look at my watch. Will should be finished with the John Taye interview by now. As he predicted, the network pressured him into doing it. Sasha, of course, pushed the interview date until the last possible minute just to screw with us.

  “I have to go bring these interview bites to Neil,” I say as I pick up the document from the printer. “Will you please track me down when Will gets here? I’m dying to hear how it went.”

  “Will do,” says Christine.

  I walk down the hall to the edit bays and find Will heading the same way. “Hi, you’re back,” I say lamely. Clearly he’s back. “What was John Taye like?”

  “He was difficult. He wouldn’t take off his baseball cap, so we’re going to have to blur out the Red Sox logo.”

  “That sucks. How long did he sit for?” Okay. All I really want to know about is Sasha, but that seems too petty.

  “Ten whole minutes. We’ll get one bite out of it.”

  “And, uh how was Sasha?”

  “As expected,” he says with a laugh.

  Oh come on! I want the dirt on Lucifer, but I’m pretty sure Will is too professional to talk shit.

  Before I can squeeze out any more information on Sasha, I see the object of my aversion skulking about in the hallway. Ugh.

  “Well, no one told me there was a party,�
�� Knit Cap says as he leans in the doorframe.

  “Hey, Tom,” Will says as he hands me the tape.

  “Hey, I was just going to kidnap Abby here. I’ve been feeling left out.”

  He’s so gross. “Yeah, I’ll be by in a second.”

  “I’ll wait to escort you, these halls can be dangerous, you know.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I wish he would just go back to his dungeon. I can feel Will watching me so I struggle to maintain my light façade. I don’t want him to know that being around Knit Cap makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

  “Actually I need to stop in and see Neil first, so I’ll come to your bay when I’m done.”

  “Damn, I’m starting to get a complex,” he says with a pathetic pout.

  Oh, my God. Your boss is right there in front of you. Please, just slither back to your edit bay.

  “Since Abby is tied up, why don’t you just screen with me,” suggests Will.

  “No big deal, I was just playin’. It’s not quite ready for your eyes yet. Abby, if you could just stop by for a sec when you’re done, that’d be cool.”

  “Sure,” I say without looking at him. Will and I walk toward Neil’s bay.

  “So you’ll add in a bite?”

  “A bite?” Dumbly, I look down at the tape of John Taye’s interview in my hand. Duh. “Yes, absolutely. Just one.”

  “Just one. I’ll talk to you later,” Will says as I head into Neil’s bay.

  “Well, helllooo,” Neil drawls. “I have had the worst day. These machines are too outdated for this show. My Avid has crashed twice today. We need—”

  “Yes, yes we need them to upgrade and clean out the Unity and blah blah blah. Just work, monkey, and stop complaining,” I mock shout. Well, it’s a real shout, but I’m only about ten percent serious. Okay, twenty percent.

  “I’m telling ya, in the end, we will have wasted a whole day just rendering these effects.”

  “Why are editors such freaks?” I flop myself down on the chair beside him.

  “Don’t lump me in with Knit Cap.”

  “Freaks. All of you,” I mutter. “Okay, how’s the cold open? I brought you some more interview bites,” I say as I hand him the updated script.