Reality Jane

When I first heard the sound of crying, it was pitch black out. The LCD said 2:15.

“Toni?”

The door handle creaked. My bedroom door pushed forward and I suddenly sat up. “I have a knife!” I shouted.

“Jane, it’s me. Jane?”

“Christ! Toni, you scared the hell out of me,” I said.

She burst into tears, sniffling and sobbing. Clumsily, she plopped down on the edge of my bed, blowing her nose.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“No.”

“What happened?” I said, feeling protective. “Did somebody hurt you?”

“No. Sort of. I. . . I. . . was out on a date with Mike, that guy I’ve been seeing. I thought he really liked me. I made him dinner, and when we got to the bar, I don’t know what happened. He just started talking to some chick. Like I didn’t exist. She had gigantic fake boobs. He pointed at me and they started laughing.”

“That’s horrible,” I said, shifting so I could hug her. “But are you sure you’re not reading something into this? How much did you drink?”

“Shut up! I had two glasses of wine,” she said. Her breath told me otherwise. “Anyway, I had to get him back. So I grabbed this guy. Super hot. I started kissing him, total stranger. Next thing you know, we’re making out. It was crazy.”

“Jeez. Then what?” I asked, thinking only Toni could arrive with one guy and leave with another. Most of us would have tossed a drink on Mike, or simply left, thinking him not worth the breath, but not my little Toni. She needed serious revenge, such as another boy-trophy, immediately, no matter how humiliating her actions.

“He asked me to come to his place.”

“And?”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“He got really aggressive,” Toni said.

“Does he know where we live?”

“He just left. It was horrible.”

“What did he do?”

“He jumped me!”

“I’ll kick his ass!”

“I said no. At first I didn’t. . . I didn’t want to embarrass him, but he kept pushing. So I kicked him. He called me a slut—white trash. ‘Not worth the gas to get you here!’ He looked psycho.” Tears rolled down Toni’s cheeks as she gasped rhythmically.

Part of me felt bad, and part of me wanted to shake her. It didn’t take a genius to see she’d made her bed. And normally she was quite comfortable sleeping in it. Little Miss Tough Girl, miles-ahead-of-her-years, handled her shame as if it was an Olympic medal: “Yup, did him summer of ‘06. Oops, don’t remember his name or his face.” Or “back of a truck with my shoes on—s’all good.” Anything for a laugh, even at the expense of her self-respect.

I didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m so sorry.”

“And Amanda, my friend from the show, was there at the bar,” Toni continued.

“Uh-huh.” I cuddled her.

“She totally bailed on me! Like she’s better than me.” Toni’s sobs became louder. “I have no one. I’m alone. The guys here—they’re all a*sholes. I just want to meet a nice guy. A nice guy!” she yelled, tilting her chin to the ceiling. “Like Grant.” She turned her head toward me and sobbed. “You’re so lucky, Jane. You don’t even know. Your life’s practically perfect. . . I want to go home. Now.”

“Perfect?” I shook my head. “Anyway, don’t say that. You don’t want to go back to Chicago—it’s cold there.”

“It’s cold here!” she spat. “I’m all alone.”

“Toni, no one said it would be easy. They say this city makes you soft, but I never believed it. It’s hard. It’s tough. It’s an island—it’s like Lost, the TV show, only bigger and crazier! And the men here? Aliens. All of them.”

I wanted to make it all better for her, the way a mom promises her child. But I couldn’t guarantee her she would meet a good man, especially in LA. And it wasn’t about finding a good man, anyway. It was about finding the right man, as I’d learned today.

“Come here.” I pulled her hair from her wet cheek. “Why don’t you sleep here tonight, with me? It’ll be okay. You’ll find the right guy. He’s right around the corner.”

Toni fell asleep beside me, clothes still on, on top of the covers. She didn’t move a hair when I staggered out of bed three hours later for work.





Brenda Wambetti was a single mother. She was also a mess.

She worked long days, often six days a week, as a secretary for an investment firm in the midst of lay-offs. She had a 9-year-old son, Oliver, and a 14-year-old daughter, Susan, each with different fathers, both long since gone. She and the kids shared a small apartment in a rent-controlled neighborhood. Brenda and Susan slept in the big bedroom, Oliver in the second one.

Recently, Barbara, Brenda’s sister, had come to live with them. She was broke, with nowhere else to go, so she set up shop in their 8’ x 6’ dining room, a twin bed shoved into the corner, a night table with a faux Tiffany lamp overlooking the living room, and a chest of drawers full of clothes and all her worldly possessions facing out to the kitchen.

They fought, all of them, like cats and dogs. They loved to yell and they loved to hit, especially Brenda, a smack on the wrist here, a smack on the rump there, even a smack upside the head, but never too hard. It was mayhem. But who could blame her? She and her little family were crowded into 550 square feet, unhappy, and unsure of what had happened to their slice of the American dream.

In a nutshell, my marching orders from Corinne were:



Get Brenda smacking the kids, inside and outside the house, and in the car

Get Brenda and her sister arguing, yelling, and hitting

Brenda’s got to hit for real—make sure it’s real

Show Oliver in bed, sick. If he’s not sick, he needs to pretend he is



Note: Call us if she doesn’t play ball!

Note 2: Be careful not to reveal the real story-line to Brenda.

From a story perspective, Brenda was the perfect basket case for our show, as well as the perfect audience provoker. Mothers throughout TV Land would be appalled. And she played along like a pro. I had her recreate a morning in her household, getting the kids, and herself, off to school and work. Oliver got a hit for dilly-dallying over breakfast—just a little smack, but it made me jump because of how readily she administered it. She struck Susan on the leg for leaving towels on the floor. Then she yelled at them both for not getting out the door quick enough, and hit the wall. She also yelled at Oliver for forgetting his backpack. After yelling at Susan for not locking the door, she threw her the keys. The woman should have gotten an Oscar. It was the performance of a lifetime. And we got it all on tape.

Then, during the interview, which was all we could have wanted, she ran the full spectrum: starting as self-effacing and depressed, beating up on herself, hating herself, begging to be someone else; morphing into an angry, vilified woman with nowhere to turn, unable to help herself, and looking to see who she could blame; and finishing off at pathetic and helpless, like a child herself, crying out for understanding and guidance. “Help me, please, Ricky Dean. Help me!”

Beneath it all was a woman in pain, an ultimately kind woman and, as far as I could tell, a good mother. She loved her kids. She paid the bills, made the lunches, took the kids to movies, bought them what she could. She cared. But she liked to smack and yell. Her mother used to smack her, and her mother’s mother smacked her mother, and so on, back to the old country and the beginning of the smacking clan.

Despite the fact she had some anger issues, I didn’t think she was evil or a “horrible mother,” as Meg’s notes suggested. I struggled with the idea that she might be presented as a mother who was making her children sick. Mostly because it wasn’t true. Also because the theme of the show—as presented to her—was “Overworked Moms Who Need Help.” There had to be a more honest approach. Why couldn’t we just help her?

I left Brenda ten hours after our introduction. She was nothing more nor less than a fundamentally decent person enduring a really tough life, reaching out for help, hoping for a little guidance from the man who promised to “fix your life.” She was about to become a pawn: her story, her life, and her troubles, exploited for entertainment purposes. I felt numb.



“Gib, go home. You’re not looking good. I’m worried about you,” I said. I really meant it.

It was nine o’clock at night and we were two of a handful of staff members still toiling away in the Ricky Dean production office.

“Can’t. Got to get this story done.” He looked at me with wilted eyes. As my supervising producer, he’d aged ten years in the few months since I’d met him. “Besides, I have to go to Vegas tomorrow to direct the Fat Forum shoot. I think I might just sleep here.”

“Oh yeah, that. Well, at least let me finish the story, then. I’m the one who shot it,” I pushed. “Just go get some rest!”

Our production area was looking less like an office and more like Hotel Wayward. On any given day, anytime from sunset to sunrise, frazzled producers dressed in designer jackets and funky heels, crashed on couches and cots or fell asleep on the rug, desperately grabbing a few minutes to recharge. Gib had become a permanent fixture. His hair was greasy and matted and his complexion was gray. He’d worked eighteen-hour days for ten straight days, with one day off prior to that, and before this last run, nearly a month of all-nighters. Half of those nights he hadn’t gone home at all. He slept on the community cot that one of the AP’s had brought into the office and put near the edit bays for any of us to snatch a nap. An editor brought in old pillows and blankets from home. I couldn’t stand the thought of either of us spending another night on the cot.

“Yeah,” he said, “but you’ve been on a plane for almost three months. You’ve had less sleep than me. And we’ve got you off to Massachusetts late tomorrow.”

“Massachusetts? As in east-coast-time-change/seven-hour-flight Massachusetts?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Should have told you earlier.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just pitch a tent at the airport.”

Gib laughed.

“Seriously,” I said, “I can handle it. I don’t have a family like you do. Besides, Gib, you really do look worse for wear. These people are killing you. What’s going on, anyway?”

“Ah, it’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He shook his head, reluctant to speak out.

“Really, you can trust me.”

“Just endless meetings,” Gib began. “Things are getting messed up. Some of the tapes weren’t ready this morning when they went to do the run-through. I don’t know what happened.”

“Well, that’s not your fault.”

“Apparently it is. They gave us a 9:30 deadline. What they say goes. But what they don’t realize is that when they come in at 7:30 in the morning after a good night’s sleep and make a bunch of last minute changes in the edit bay, that screws things up. Even if we could make Ricky Dean’s changes that quickly, we could never get it up-res’d and dubbed in time to be sent to VTR to air at ten. It’s bullshit.”

“Hey, Gib,” we heard from outside the door, “if you don’t like it here, there are other places to work.”

Meg walked in with long fingers spread firmly across bony hips, her porcelain skin and thin pink lips expressionless. She was terrifying. Gib’s face contorted as if he’d seen a ghost. Neither of us could have imagined she would still be in the office at this hour.

“Jane, Mr. Dean would like to see you,” Meg said, now ignoring Gib.

I got up quickly and followed her out the door, replaying the conversation with Gib in my head. THE Ricky Dean wants to see me? Now? Crap! Did I dish on the show too? Was I “un-excellent”?

“Hello, Jane.” Mr. Dean shook my hand. He was sitting at the head of the table in the conference room. “Heard you’re a bit of a star in the field.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dean,” I said, wholly intimidated.

“We need you to head up our Fat Forum shoot,” Meg said in her commando voice. “It’s going to be in Vegas. We’ve got couples in their 20’s and 30’s going to fat camp to see who can reach their weight goal first. Ashley Allan will host the forum and Mr. Dean will oversee.”

“Think you can handle it?” Mr. Dean asked with a serious face.

Ashley Allan, I’d recently learned, was Ricky Dean’s new girlfriend. She was 31, and without a stitch of TV experience, unless you counted posing for a Lancome ad in France. Her college major was Latin, and she’d been working and traveling in Europe for years doing modeling assignments. She moved to LA to study acting a year ago—this I’d gathered from my favorite supermarket tabloid while scarfing down dinner at the studio cafeteria a few hours earlier.

“Ashley’s on Hollywood’s ‘It List’ thanks to her years as a supermodel. She’s becoming a real on-screen talent,” said Meg, looking for Mr. Dean’s approval.

Guess the ass-kissing never ends.

“We’re lucky to have her,” Meg continued, “and you’ll be directing.”

Jackpot! I marched back to my office with a skip in my step. Gib was checking over scripts.

“Guess what, Gib? Turns out I’m going to Vegas with you tomorrow,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “Better book my Massachusetts replacement.”

For the past few weeks, Gib had been in planning meetings for Mr. Dean’s Vegas forum. He was to oversee the field production.

“No, that’s not correct, Jane.” Gib looked at me sadly. “You’re going in place of me.” He sounded more dejected than ever. “I just got the text.”

“Oh shit! Are you serious?” I heard myself say, still too excited to quash it all with pity or regret. “That’s not right! And they told you by text?”

I looked at Gib with genuine sympathy. If Gib doesn’t go, then I’ve just taken his place. Which means I’m doing his job, which means technically—I quickly did the calculation—I’m a supervising producer! Wow! The little voice in my head cooed, sounding a little too Meg-ish. I hated that sound, but it was a big break and I couldn’t help the facts.

“Jane!” It was Meg standing in the doorway, looking very scary—again. “We need you to get Mr. Dean a helicopter to Vegas arriving at three o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be joining. Oh, and cancel his noon flight.” She turned toward Gib painfully, as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him. “You’ll be doing Jane’s field shoot tomorrow in Massachusetts.”

Meg clomped away. My jaw gaped wide enough for a bus to drive through.

“Can’t believe this,” Gib said with a sorry look. “Here’s the file.”

I nodded and watched him for a while, to see if he needed consoling. Gib began shuffling through papers. Unsure what else to say and not wanting to draw more attention to what was ultimately embarrassing for him, I decided to drop it.

Immediately, I tried to wrap my head around the helicopter assignment. Who knew how to find a last minute chopper to Vegas? And since when was a forty-five minute flight in business class not good enough or convenient enough for a talk show host?

There was always Pal Porter’s private chopper that got him from Malibu to the studio lot every other day. Not an option. And I didn’t dare ask Meg. That would have been un-excellent. So I did what any other seasoned producer would have done—I began surfing the web, leaving messages with every helicopter tour company I could find. With no budget limitations, chartering a chopper was the way to go, I figured.

Corinne poked her head in the doorway. “Why don’t you borrow Pal Porter’s helicopter? It’s got a mini-bar,” she snorted. “I heard the news. Good job. Oh, I want to remind you, I still need ‘The Hitter’ finished for tomorrow morning.”

“ ‘The Hitter?’ ” I said, not bothering to make eye contact, smug in the fact that I’d just been given an unofficial promotion.

“The Brenda Wambetti story. We’re calling her ‘The Hitter’! Isn’t she awful?” Corinne laughed as she strutted back to the edit suite with her Diet Coke in one hand and, in the other, an unlit cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.

“Working on it,” I said, robotically.

I quickly muddled through the logistics of my Fat Forum shoot, left countless messages at helicopter companies, then began my draft of the Wambetti script. Corinne and the other show producers had been making fun of the woman all night. “She’s a horrible mother! She should be prohibited from having any more children!” I didn’t have the energy to stick up for Brenda. They’d already pegged her, and anything less or different would have ruined their angle. Sadly, “emotionally abusive mothers” was the new tagline for the show. The Ricky Dean team was waiting for the devil incarnate, and I was about to deliver her. It was 12:30 a.m. when I gave Corinne the final script with time-code.

“Perfect. She’s downright wicked. I love that you got so many shots of Oliver sick in bed, especially the one with the hot water bottle and the thermometer. Oliver is sick because of that evil woman.”

“Yes, I know, Corinne,” I said, not amused and just wanting her approval so I could deliver the goods to the editor.

Corinne hugged me. “It could be my best show! This is awesome!”

I handed off the approved script to my editor. It was 1:00 a.m.

“I won’t need you for a few hours. Go have a cat-nap on the cot,” my editor said sympathetically. “Come back at three.”

It would take him at least two hours to string together the interview and basic pictures. Then I would join him for final touches and an executive sign-off. Between that and a ten o’clock call time for my Vegas flight, I was supposed to get some sleep.

My phone beeped from the bottom of my bag. Grant popped into my head. It had been more than two weeks since I’d seen or heard from him. I’d hoped he might call to apologize after our argument on the boat. Part of me wanted to call him—he had been, after all, an important part of my life. But as I sat twisting my hair, thinking of the career heights in store for me, beginning with one very exciting multi-camera shoot in Vegas, I wondered if there was any room in my burgeoning career for Surfer Boy.

The face of my Blackberry read:

1 new message.

Call me! Doesn’t matter how late. Alex

We’d been trying to get together ever since his return from Florida. As I called him back on the office landline, I realized it was no longer about confessing or telling him goodbye.

“Hey, it’s Jane,” I said when he picked up. “Got your message. Sorry it’s so late.”

“You know me. I’m a night owl. What are you doing?”

“A little slave labor in the office. I was about to take a nap.”

“Why not nap here? I’m ten minutes from the studio.”

“No, I can’t. I need to be here in case something comes up.”

“Nothing’s going to come up. Take a breather and get your rest here. I’ll give you a back rub.”

“You’re talking my language.”

“Good. Get your ass over here.”

Scrambling to the bathroom, I hoped I could make myself look human. But unlike my pending promotion, this was not something I could accomplish at this late hour: any color from my skin seemed to have bled into my eyes, which were totally bloodshot, and then there were the circles! On the bright side, I was skinny. The “Ricky Dean Airplane Diet” was paying off in spades. I thought of suggesting it to tomorrow’s Fat Forum contestants: “Forget dieting. Get a job on the Fix Your Life show and melt away the pounds with 90-hour work weeks!”

As I tossed my handbag onto my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror—it stopped me in my tracks. Meg? I turned for a better look and took it all in: It was a new me, a different me, a nearly unrecognizable me. Thin. Powerful. Enviable.



“You’re looking good.”

“Thanks. I feel tired.”

“This skinny look is working for you.” Alex eyeballed me up and down. “I like it.”

“You’re not supposed to talk about a girl’s weight,” I said.

“Don’t get me wrong. You looked good before, but now, mm-mm. I might just have to get me a piece of—” Alex grabbed me from behind.

“Stop it!” I bounced playfully on the couch in a futile effort to hide behind the pillows.

He pinned me and stared into my eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you.” I was breathing heavily from the brief chase.

“I’m really proud of you, too.” Most of the time, Alex kept his conversations light, but he had an unusual expression in his eyes, as if he wanted a serious moment.

“That’s very nice of you,” I giggled. “What spurred that on?”

“I know you’re amazing at your job and you’re working really hard.”

“Aw,” I said, cuddling into his shoulder.

“I had coffee with Meg the other day. She told me you’re kicking ass. She also told me something in confidence.”

“What? Tell me!”

“What do I get in return?” Alex gave me a sultry once-over.

“How ‘bout I don’t smack you?” I tackled him onto his back. “Now tell me.”

“Oh, I like this,” he said all flirty. “Okay, she said that you’re due for a promotion.”

“Really?” I said, unable to believe my ears. “She said that?”

“Sounds like you deserve it. It’s a career launcher. Get supervising producer on Fix Your Life and you can write your own ticket in Hollywood.”

“Well, it’s not that easy.” I thought of the look on Gib’s face when Meg had torn into him earlier in the evening. “Gib might have to be fired for me to—”

“Screw Gib.” Alex sat up abruptly. “You’ve got to do what’s right for you. You think Spielberg worried about the Gib’s of the world when he Rambo-ed to the top? You think Martha was saving kittens while she built her empire? Babe, in the game of money and power, the ends justify the means. Once you get there, and are safe at the top, you can do whatever you want. Give half your salary to Green Peace, start your own relief fund, whatever gets you off, but you’ll never be in a position to give squat if you don’t get there first.” He grabbed my cheeks. “Now kiss me and let’s have sex.”

“Alex!” I play-slapped him. “Slow down.”

Alex’s roommate was away again. The house was quiet. He had a few candles lit and there was script material strewn across the coffee table that Alex probably had been looking through before I arrived. We kissed on the couch until he broke into a sweat, then he led me to the bedroom.

“Come on. Let’s get you horizontal.”

His bed felt heavenly, like cuddling a cloud. I wanted to sleep for a decade. My bones felt heavy. Every muscle ached. I hadn’t noticed the pain until now. He pulled my shirt off and turned me front-side down for a massage. He began kneading my spine and dug his thumbs between my shoulder blades. Then he stripped himself down.

My mind spun with the details of my day. I wondered if “The Hitter,” sharing her bedroom with her teenage daughter, ever got a sensual massage. She didn’t even have the option of getting laid, at least not in her own house—with little sister sleeping in the dining room, daughter in her bedroom, and her 9-year-old son one wall over. I thought of her sacrifices, how hard she was trying to do the right thing, and the reality that she was about to be twisted into an evil mother on national television. It made me wince, but I quickly managed to stop that ugly train of thought. Box it away! This is your time to enjoy.

“This isn’t how they do it at the Shiatsu School,” I whispered in a sultry voice, my head buried in a pillow.

“No?”

“No. Keep that up and there’ll be no tip.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be the one tipping tonight.” He rolled me over and started kissing my neck, moved up my chin, around to my lips, then down to my breasts. This time, and for the first time since I’d met him, I felt no guilt. No Grant guilt, no bad-girl guilt. His body compressed into my pelvis with a natural rhythm, almost earthy. It was like being rocked, and rocked, and rocked—to sleep!

“Hey, you still with me?” Alex pulled my chin up to his.

“Yeah, you’re great. I’m just so exhausted.” My eyelids were like brick curtains.

He reached his arms around my jeans to unbutton them. My hand grabbed his. “No, better not.”

“Why?”

“I have my period.”

“We’ve been through this. You know I don’t care. It’s sexy.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing sexy about it.”

He continued to pull my pants off until he had me down to my underwear, which he tugged at with his teeth. I pressed my palm into his forehead, pushing him away. I wanted him desperately, but I was embarrassed.

“Stop it! Really. I mean it.”

“What’s the deal? I said I don’t care. You know you want to.”

“I do. You’re right. But I can’t. My period is heavy right now.”

“That’s nasty.”

“You made me say it. Heav. . . y!”

“Nice.” He looked grossed out.

“Alex, seriously, there might be something wrong with me.”

I sat up to put my jeans back on. I’d used the period excuse back in France, but this time I wasn’t lying. I’d gotten my period the day before. There was definitely something wrong.

Undeterred, Alex pointed to his pants. “So, how about a little something else?” He poked his finger in and out of his mouth.

“Alex,” I whined, “I’m tired and that’s just lame.”

“Come on,” he begged

“What time is it anyway? How long have I been here?”

He dove for the clock, attempting to cover it up.

“Alex!” I pushed him out of the way.

I grabbed my watch and squinted to read it, my eyes blurry with fatigue. “It’s four. I told my editor I’d be back at three, and I have a plane to catch in the morning! Sorry. Call me.”



The sun was just starting to crest when I finally pulled out of the studio parking lot. I’d finished the “Hitter” piece with my editor only minutes earlier. The clock in my car read 6:30. It was unimaginable that I would have to be at LAX in less than four hours, headed for the biggest, most important shoot of my life.





“Naomi’s unavailable,” the assistant said brusquely.

“But she just called me,” I responded. “Her number came up on my caller ID.”

Since starting at Fix Your Life, I’d left Naomi numerous phone messages, and forwarded her only the very best joke-emails, but never heard back. But today I needed her advice and I needed her mentorship. This job was getting to be too big for me, and I was scared.

During the three hours spent in transit from LAX to Vegas, I’d had a good hard look at the call sheet. That was my wake-up call. This shoot was huge! It was more than just a test-drive promotion. It was a test of my talent—my first big-time multi-cam studio shoot. Up until that point, I’d done only two- or three-camera shoots. Today, I had a staff of 25, and five full camera crews, with execs watching, Meg watching, and most importantly, Ricky Dean watching. I needed help.

I grabbed my assistant’s phone so Naomi wouldn’t recognize the number, and dialed her cell.

“Naomi here,” she said.

“Hi, Naomi, it’s Jane. It’s so nice to hear your voice. It’s been so long,” I said, speaking as quickly as I could before she cut me off. “Sorry to bother you. I saw you called me back and I tried your office first, but they said you were busy.”

“Jane, I’m in the middle of something.”

“But you called me back and I’m really glad to hear from you. I need to talk to—”

“I didn’t call you intentionally. It was an accident.”

“There are no accidents. You always said that,” I continued with enthusiasm. “You won’t believe it. Today I’m acting supervising producer for Fix Your Life! We’re doing a huge forum in Vegas and I’m in charge. It’s crazy. I could use one of your pep talks.”

“Jane, you don’t seem to need my advice, or anyone else’s.”

“Hey, that’s not true. I’m really grateful to you and—”

“Oh, so grateful that you walked out on a job that I pulled a lot of strings to get you. We needed you to direct that wedding show, and you left us high and dry.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. Working for Danny was humiliating, and I was so surprised that you would—”

“That I would what? Hand you opportunities on a silver platter? Karl gave Danny that job because he didn’t want you. I stood up for you! You know, Jane, you seem to be turning into that opportunistic Hollywood bitch you once despised.”

Click.

“Bitch?” Did she just call me a bitch? She doesn’t own me! Wait! I really like Naomi. How can this be? I felt weak, empty, confused. I hit redial, ready to burst into my sorry-dance, insisting she had me all wrong, when—

“Everything ready to go?” Meg said, strolling up to me in yet another skinny designer pantsuit and four-inch heels, looking flawless next to me in my now boaty Earnest Sewn jeans—no time to shop for smaller replacements—and white button-down shirt with sweat circles the size of flapjacks.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon on a scorchingly hot day in Vegas. As usual, Meg had seemed to appear out of nowhere. She and Ricky Dean had just arrived via their personal helicopter. At ten grand, they could have flown the entire crew plus all of the guests in a private jet.

“Yes,” I said, “I finished up the pre-interviews and the b-roll. The cameras are all set up for the forum. We’ve rehearsed what we can, considering Ashley hasn’t arrived yet. I’ve called her hotel twice. I’m not sure where she is and I don’t have a cell number for her.”

“What? You’ve got to get her over here. Now! We need to roll at four and she needs to be on. Has she been coached?”

“No, uh, not. . . not by me. I’ve never even met her,” I stammered, overwhelmed at the barrage of responsibilities thrust at me.

Meg knew I hadn’t gotten my marching orders until the eleventh hour last night—she gave them to me! Yet, I was magically supposed to have a complete handle on every tiny detail. It felt like my brain might explode.

“Well, you need to. And you need to do it now!” Meg said stiffly. “What about our main guest, Laura? Did she cry in her interview? Did you get her to cry?”

Cry? Say what? My ambitions, including my dream of becoming television producer royalty, suddenly took a back seat to this ridiculous request. Since 9:15 this morning, after a mere two hours’ sleep, I’d managed a five-minute shower, a bowl of corn flakes, a brush through my hair, and a thirty-minute cab ride to the airport, where I simultaneously booked a chopper, did my make-up, memorized the call sheet, confirmed my five camera crews, got myself checked in at United, and picked up a little of my own jet fuel, a triple shot espresso with six sugars and Half and Half. Then, I landed in Vegas at 10:45 and somehow—between the hours of 11:00 a.m. and 3:30 p.m.—pulled three interviews completely out of my ass, which included three different locations/set-ups and extensive b-roll of our main/star guest, Laura. And, all this I managed to do with a semblance of professionalism and skill.

Never before had I shot people eating with such flair: 220- pound Laura eating alone; Laura eating with her husband; Laura eating in the park; close-ups of Laura’s mouth, her fingers, then her fingers digging into a bag of Cheetos, then licking her fingers, then licking an ice cream cone. It was nonstop lapping-up of calories, shot at multiple low angles (heavy people look fatter that way), with extreme close-ups of chubby little pores sweating gray toxins as she consumed obscene amounts of food-garbage. Then we got her drinking an extra large soda, then drinking another soda, then smoking a cigarette. It was the epitome of Eataholics! I even saw an Emmy flash before my eyes.

“No,” I said, my blood starting to boil but containing my emotions—I knew where Meg was going with this. “Laura did not cry during her interview.”

“She needs to cry. You need to do the interview again!” Meg commanded.

“Meg, with all due respect, if we’re to roll tape in less than an hour, and I’m to find and coach Ashley, as well as direct our five cameras, I’m just wondering where I will find the time,” I said gently, sweat pouring off my brow.

Ta-da! I’d completely mastered the art of the kiss-ass! It might not have sounded very ass-kiss’ish, but given what I wanted to say—“Go pull that giant pitch fork out of your boney little ass before I scratch your eyes out”—it was pretty darn slick.

“That’s for you to figure out!” she snapped and started to walk away.

“Really, Meg,” I continued, though perhaps I shouldn’t have. “Does Laura actually need to cry? Her interview was excellent. It was very touching. She explained how she—”

“All truly excellent producers know that crying makes for quintessential TV. Surely, even you know that,” she said condescendingly. “And make her take off that necklace! It looks tribal.”

This time she did walk away. Mr. Dean beckoned.

“Necklace? Tribal?” I said under my breath.

Meg had an uncanny ability to make people feel as if they’d done something wrong (the necklace, the non-crying), when they hadn’t. What a great line for her resumé: “As executive producer, I shamelessly inflict unjustifiable guilt on the people I direct and manage!”

Poor Laura. By the time we were done with her, she wouldn’t know what hit her. I wouldn’t know what hit her. This woman needed a full-time coach, or a sponsor, not some magic pill in the form of a 15-minute turbo-therapy session from Miss Ashley Starlet, with her runway legs and non-existent psych background.

I didn’t get Laura’s second interview until well after the cameras rolled for Ashley’s TV debut, or should I say Ashley’s TV debacle, which was nearly five hours late! Our biggest setback was having to light the set when we realized we were running out of daylight, adding another two hours to our mounting overtime bill. And apparently all this was my fault. Nobody stopped to consider that the extra $3,000 that we now owed the crews could have been saved had we skipped the Airforce 1 helicopter ride for Ricky Dean and her majesty, Meg.

“One more time, Ashley. You’re doing great,” I said as if I was talking to a three-year-old. Crouched just slightly off-stage, I fed her her lines while massaging my throbbing temples.

“Join me—cut! Join us—cut! Join Ricky Dean—argh! Join us for our next program next week when we’ll be—cut!” She looked beaten. “This is hard!” Ashley whined.

“I know, sweetie,” said Meg as she handed Ashley a bottle of Evian. “You’ve been working like a dog, and I just want you to know that you have Celine Dion’s favorite Vegas masseuse at your disposal just as soon as this is over.”

It was ten o’clock at night, and Ashley’s tenth attempt at a proper close for the show was failing miserably. It didn’t help that she kept yelling “cut,” for herself, which was just wrong. For the first time in my journalistic career, I wished I were dead.

“I know you guys are against this, but let’s just please give these cue cards a try,” I said carefully.

Meg and Mr. Dean were adamantly against cue cards because, they said, Ashley would appear robotic. But desperate times called for desperate measures, even if it was for less than thirty words.

Ashley straightened herself center-stage, pushed her shoulders back, gave a firm smile, and began her read: “Join us next week when we catch up with Laura, Christopher, Mindy, and their spouses to see who’s winning our From Fat to Fit challenge. Thanks for coming out!” Ashley spoke awkwardly and, yes, robotically. But so thrilled was she to complete her close that she looked as if she might explode in joy. No one was more surprised at her accomplishment than her.

“Good work, darling!” her larger-than-life boyfriend exclaimed as he bounced out to mug as the credits ran over the show. My Ricky Dean schoolgirl crush had totally evaporated in the Vegas sun, along with my patience.

For the duration of the recording, Mr. Dean had been on and off the stage at his whim. Expecting us to read his mind and capture these “dazzling” moments of “friendship” between him and his trophy girlfriend, he would add such poignant quips as: “Ashley, you told me you were an ugly duckling, weighing in at 160 pounds, when you were age twelve. Now, folks,” he’d turn to camera, “Ashley’s a living success story. From fat and frazzled to supermodel!” Big guffaw.

Meanwhile, Ashley hadn’t bothered to memorize her lines, or maybe wasn’t capable of doing it, having shown up three hours late because she “wasn’t feeling good.” But, as Meg reminded us every ten minutes or so, “She looks great!” Apparently, the ass-kissing never stops, no matter how high your rung on the Hollywood ladder.

The only saving grace was that this pre-taped show would be shipped back to our editors to chop together and to create something airable for TV. It would also give me a chance to save face with Meg, which was surprisingly still important to me, by redoing Laura’s interview, by getting her to cry, and by cutting the new interview into the mix.

When I finally said “that’s a wrap” at the end of my nightmare day, I nonetheless felt a major sense of accomplishment. I knew now that I was capable of creating heroes, or subjects of shame. Today, and (it seemed) most days of late, the emphasis was on subjects of shame. But I had to be okay with that. Part of getting where I needed to go was turning Laura into our model pig: a big, fat, slovenly oaf of a human being, a desperate woman too weak to help herself. My goal? To have people watch this and stop in their tracks to say: “What a wretched excuse for a life. Mr. Dean has got to help her.”

I had to beat down the small voice in my head that asked: What did she do to deserve this? Write in for a little guidance. . . a little hope? It occurred to me that none of our guests knew the price they would pay for a little of HIS advice. I felt a little nauseated knowing that Laura, in particular, was a very nice person who didn’t even look all that bad. But any lingering scruples, once a central part of my moral fiber, were gone, buried in the heap of responsibilities cast my way. I still had work to do.

The crew was busy packing the trucks. I grabbed one of the cameramen. “Hey, do you have a few minutes for one final interview?”

“Are you crazy? I’ve been on the clock fourteen hours!” he said, totally unimpressed while wiping the sweat from his neck.

“I’m desperate. Just one quick interview. Help me out. Please!” I begged.

“All right, but you guys are into double-time,” he said, trying to be nice.

“Fine. Thank you. I appreciate it.” I bowed gratefully.

I now had to convince Laura that we needed her for one more hour. She wouldn’t be happy. She hadn’t eaten since two. Cripes, I hadn’t eaten since my bowl of cereal this morning, nearly 16 long hours ago.

I was starting to crack. But rather than acknowledge it, I grabbed Laura, kindly asked her to remove her necklace, faked a smile, pretended to be professional, and let the series of questions fly:

“So, Laura, tell me what you eat on a daily basis. What do you think when you see yourself in the mirror? Do strangers look at you funny because you’re fat? What do they say? How do you feel about yourself when people stare at you? Why are you fat? What does being fat say about who you are? Are you still gaining weight? How does your husband feel about your being fat? Why can’t you lose weight?”

Two and one-half hours of shameless badgering later, it happened. She cried.

As she blubbered in self-pity, I signaled to my cameraman to roll, zoom in, catch it all. I sat motionless, watching the tears roll down her tired cheeks, feeling her chair creak with each tearful gasp, her sobs drenched in helplessness.

It was too much for me. I couldn’t take it. I too began to cry, dropping my head into my hands as if doing so might make me disappear. Before I could catch myself, and preserve what pebble of professionalism I might still have, Laura rose from her chair and wrapped her arms around me.

“It’s okay,” she told me, feeling like a mother bear, warm, soft, and real. “I’ll be fine. Ricky Dean is going to help me—I just know it.”



Early the next morning, things quickly began deteriorating:



Wake up call 5:30 a.m., five lousy hours of sleep after dinner of M&M’s and cheese pretzels from mini-bar

Get in taxi at 6:15 a.m.—running late—buckling over from strange new pain in lower gut. Cramps?

15 minutes later, taxi breaks down 3 miles from airport, won’t start

Begins pouring rain—it NEVER rains in Vegas!

Abdul stands on roadside attempting to wave down car. No one stops

He’s soaked. I freak out—plane departs in 38 minutes

Airport bus pulls over

Bus driver motions me onto the bus, asks which terminal—I can’t remember

He smiles—I’m drenched, caught off guard, try to smile back, forgot how

Enter terminal, trip over piece of tape stock, break sandal

Scrounge, do E-ticket check-in, and forgo 45-person line-up

Barely make flight