Reality Jane

Alex picked me up at the airport. He insisted. We went back to his place and had sex in the middle of the afternoon. I couldn’t say “no” anymore. There was no reason to. It was time to let our relationship go where it needed to go. My period had mysteriously disappeared—sometime between my day from hell and being starved for 32 hours. Alex was pleased to finally have his way. The morning’s cramps, unfortunately, remained. I didn’t bother to tell him.

It was a tremendous release to finally give him what he wanted and just be together, as a couple. Nevertheless, and in spite of my gallant effort to perform physically, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t stop thinking about work, and that’s a sexual-barbiturate if ever there was one.

But Alex somehow was satiated. That was reward enough for me. In my head, we were the new power team: ultra-successful TV host/model-boy meets ultra-successful producer and soon-to-be supervisor/executive producer. Alex liked to push me. He wanted me to be better. I liked that about him. He cared.

Around three-ish, he drove me home. I’d planned on spending the weekend with him. It was Saturday, after all, and for the first time since my day off long ago with Grant, I had no shoot scheduled for the weekend. In fact, I had nothing at all scheduled until the office on Monday. It was as if I had a weekend pass from prison.

I was thrilled at the possibilities: lie in bed, snuggle, watch movies, get a massage, eat take-out, have dinner with Alex. Instead, Alex had to meet his agent for dinner. Ah, Hollywood.

When I returned home, I found a note on my bed:

The check you wrote me for your share of rent bounced. That sucks! Sorry. Just wondering when you can pay me. I really need the money!!

Love, Toni.

PS – The Single Guy aired on Thursday night with Craig. Yuck! It’s Tivo’d. Let’s watch it later and rip on him—L-O-S-E-R. :-)

I couldn’t believe my money problems, and checked the account online. I now felt as if I was on the receiving end of a powerful one-two punch combination: first, my bank account was mysteriously empty when it should have had over $6,000 in it—the studio obviously hadn’t paid my expenses, and my student loans were sucking me dry; second, The Craig was suddenly world famous for being a complete tool!

I tossed the note in the garbage, unable to handle the mounting pile of loose ends that had become my personal life. I nearly erased The Single Guy that Toni had Tivo’d—not at all ready to see Craig procure the easy ride to fame, or have the time of his life with 10 way-too-hot chicks handpicked for his own TV show.

Water spat from behind the shower curtain as I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. The sun powered through the window, making the dust particles glimmer. My breasts had shrunk to the size of raisins, from a solid B to barely an A. I longed for clouds and rain. Not the angry rain from this morning in Vegas, but a tranquil, gentle, soothing rain. I used the tips of my fingers to feel around the edge of my breasts for lumps, but gave up after a thorough squishing. They felt like miniature sacks of pebbles.

My organs began twisting and turning, and I was reminded of my nasty cramps. They had been there all along. I was just too distracted to notice.

Oh my God! Did I? Could I? Had a miscarriage occurred two nights ago?

The thought was nearly too painful to bear. I attempted the math. I’d thought I was regular. I was regular. Or was I? Was this one of those mega-early miscarriages? And how the hell did I get pregnant in the first place? I’ve got the patch. Or was it just some freaky-deaky period. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll stick with that— just a super freaky, I’ve-been-worked-to-the-bone stress reaction. My body’s personal alarm bell shouting: “Slow the hell down!”

As I rifled through the medicine cabinet for painkillers, nothing made sense. My pseudo-promotion felt more like defeat than accomplishment. The new boyfriend, the supposed “right” boyfriend, left me feeling more empty than complete. And worse was the scary, sad, confusing reality that, albeit very briefly, I might have been pregnant with Grant’s baby. What is happening to me?

Finally, behind the Band-aids, I spotted the Vicodin container left over from an abscessed root canal. Five pills left. I wondered if they would help—now would have been a helluva time to start a Vicodin habit. Perhaps a good time. I grabbed one pill, downed it with a sip of tap water, and settled into bed. Perfectly harmless. Everything’s going to be just fine. I’ve got a great life—and precisely the life I wanted.

It was 4:30 in the afternoon when I slipped under the covers for the night. The pain of my cramps had subsided a bit, but my throat felt sore and dry. The sun, forever happy in southern California, continued to penetrate the cracks in the blinds. My room felt like a sauna. I hated it.





Awaking in a cold sweat a shocking eighteen hours later, I was jolted back to reality. I’d had a nightmare, and it had rattled me. It felt too real. It took place on the sweltering African grasslands. One voracious lion was chasing down gazelles, lunging at their delicate necks and then ripping out their innards. This particular lion wasn’t ordinary; he was sadistic and cruel. None of the other lions got to eat. He ate, and ate, and ate, and became stronger and hungrier with every meal.

The gazelles weren’t ordinary, either. They were spooky shape-shifters. They transformed from people to hoofed animals, and back to people. At one point, they were just ordinary people with beer bellies and bad perms and a desperate look in their eyes. Then I saw Laura and Brenda and Oliver and some of the other show guests huddling together, looking frightened, along with the other gazelles. It was haunting and weird. I felt myself running and running. The more I ran, the closer I came to the lion’s grasp. He was the ultimate predator. The rest of us were his prey.

Then something strange happened—I was able to leave my body and, from the outside, I saw myself running. Only I wasn’t a human being or even one of the gazelles. I, too, was a lion, and blood was dripping from my teeth.



It was the first weekday I hadn’t been on a plane in months. I rolled in early for a production meeting called for 9:30 a.m. Before I could get to my desk, I was stopped by one of the PAs.

“Hey, Jane, long time no see. Where you been?”

“On an airplane.” I smiled and patted him on the back. He was one of the younger, greener PAs, but as keen as they came. He told me he was hoping to make AP by next month.

“Good job on ‘The Hitter’ story. I don’t know how you got her to smack her kids on camera, but she was unbelievable! She scared the crap out of me!”

“Oh shit! Has that aired already?”

I so rarely got to see my work on television. Too busy. Thank God for Toni’s Tivo. At least now I had some record of my accomplishments, even if I rarely had a chance to see them along with the rest of the world. I think I saw The Purrfect Life once—that was pre-Toni’s Tivo machine.

“Yup. And, of course, you missed her at the studio shoot. She was asking for you.”

My stomach flipped. During the field shoot, I’d promised Brenda I would meet her back-stage and help her with her nerves. She’d begged for my help in an e-mail this weekend. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten.

“Damn, that’s not good,” I said regretfully.

“Her show aired yesterday. They flew her in pronto because her story was so riveting. It was nuts. We’ve already received tons of e-mail. People are saying we should get Social Services involved!”

“Social Services?”

“Yup, take her kids away. You should have seen her, Jane. She was bawling after she saw the video piece. You showed her who she really is.”

“She cried?” My stomach dropped another notch.

“Oh, yeah. Then Mr. Dean gave it to her. He told her what an awful mother she was. I swear, she couldn’t speak for all the tears. It was embarrassing. Then he had her son, Oliver, on stage, and asked him what he thought of his mom smacking him. The kid just bawled. Then Mr. Dean brought Brenda back on stage so she could see what she was doing to her son. It was bru. . . tal!”

My face tensed, cringing from the torment we’d unleashed on this poor woman.

“And now she’s really pissed. She had to take two days off work to come here to be on the show. They kept changing the show date on her, so she was stuck sitting in the hotel. Apparently she missed three days of work, which really upset her boss, who thought she’d miss only two. And she thought she’d be compensated. By us! Ha!” He smirked.

I was enraged. “That woman is broke! She gets one dollar over minimum wage and she’s supporting a family! How could we do that to her?”

“That’s not the worst of it.”

“What?” I said, not sure I could take it, as I racked my brain thinking how I could possibly make things up to her.

“She filed a complaint with the studio. Not that it’ll do her any good.”

“Really?”

“She said the show ruined her life: bullied in front of millions, humiliated, in front of her friends, family, work colleagues, the nation, and got nothing for it. No guidance, no help, nothing to set her on track. Oh, she also claims her son Oliver is stomping around the house like he’s king. He mouths off, saying, ‘Mr. Dean says you’re a bad mom,’ and Mr. Dean says this and Mr. Dean says that, and ‘I don’t have to listen to you.’ Can you believe her nerve?”

“This is outrageous!” I said, my veins pulsing. “That son of a bitch needs to help her, not slaughter her!”

“Whoa! You could get fired for saying that,” Jones whispered, his eyes darting around fearfully, as if spies lurked everywhere.

“I’ll take my chances,” I said and walked away in disgust.

It was ironic. The entire staff had not only been scared into submission, but it was totally dysfunctional, while working on a show about making people emotionally healthy. And not just any show—a show that had come to be adored. Ratings were through the roof. Mr. Dean was on the cover of countless magazines. There was Emmy buzz.

But in the flurry of our producing lives, we. . . the show. . . had become a lie. Was it possible I was the only one who saw it? No matter what our initial intentions had been, we weren’t healing our guests. In fact, what we did was the same as what the rest of the shows in TV Land did: entertain. And that was all. Ricky Dean’s words didn’t mend, they amused. He didn’t manufacture healthy lives—he manufactured stories. And the audience bought it, like a McDonald’s Happy Meal. We were the McNugget meal of self-help—empty calories, satisfying only when consumed. An hour later, you have a tummy ache, like Brenda, sick, horrified, and regretting every minute of it.

I suddenly felt dirty. The kind of dirty no shower could cure. This scrubbing needed to start on the inside.

Producers began crowding into the boardroom for the 9:30 meeting. We were packed in like cattle, lining the walls and doubling up on chairs. Meg entered and looked around the room with a sneer.

“Guess the gang’s all here. I’m going to have to order a bigger board room,” she said haughtily, “or lay off a few of you.”

Corinne jumped from her seat, handing Meg her chair, then leaned against the wall behind her, utterly proud of herself.

“Listen, I know you’ve all been working long hours. And I thank you for that.” Meg spoke with a crisp edge. There was no warmth or sincere appreciation in her voice. “This is a tough start-up. But I want you to know it’s paying off. We’re up in the ratings again!”

Everyone clapped.

“That’s the good news.” Her face changed to a scowl. “The bad news is there’s been lots of complaining going on and some leaks.”

She was referring to the tabloids. The Star had just run a story on the show’s behind-the-scenes activities. It was entirely accurate, from Mr. Dean’s tirade in the studio to the suggestion that the staff was being grossly overworked, mistreated, and bullied.

I shut myself off for the rest of Meg’s rant. I needed that miracle shower. It was time. Time to clean up my act and take a stand. Justice for Brenda! Make things right. I just had to figure out what that was going to look like.



The phone rang. It was 7:30 p.m. I’d just arrived home from work—my first night home at a decent hour in nearly three months. I thought I might actually watch fluff TV for the first time in ages. I’d been missing all my shows; in fact, I no longer had any favorite shows. Then Nancy called. She was in charge of scheduling. I could hear her kids yelling in the background.

“Where are you?” I said.

“At my uncle’s funeral in Kansas,” Nancy replied.

“They’re making you work while at a funeral?”

“No sense fighting it.” She cut to the chase, too tired to get into it. “Listen, I’ve booked you on a flight tomorrow at 6:30 a.m.”

“What?! Production is on a two-week hiatus. We’re not taping new shows right now. I just busted ass for three months. Let them find someone else!”

“There is no one else.”

“Come on, there’s got to be,” I moaned.

“Look, don’t say a word to anyone,” she said quietly into the phone, another employee suffering from Mr. Dean paranoia, “but it’s only you left. Gib has been relegated to pushing papers. They’re not putting him in the field anymore. I think he might get fired. That’s all I know. You have to pick up the slack.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I said, unfazed by her Gib comment, and completely wrapped up in the fact that I now had a 4:30 a.m. call-time for a flight at LAX.

“You’ve been working harder than anyone,” Nancy said. “But I have no choice.”

“All right,” I said, reluctantly. “But I won’t last with these hours. One day, I’ll just collapse in some airport and that’ll be it. They’ll wheel me away in a gurney, and then bury me!”

“I know,” she said.

“And please don’t put me on Southwest again. I end up in the middle seats between pimply kids with Game Boys.”

“Okay.”

“And no more connections. Mr. Dean can come up with some coin for a direct flight. I’m putting my foot down. If he can afford a chopper, he can afford to fly me direct!”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“That reminds me: What about my expenses? I’ve received one check for two hundred bucks. They owe me close to six thousand dollars. And they better cover meals for the crew.”

“They don’t. Only your meals are covered, and only when you’re on the road.”

“I’m always on the road! And I always buy the crew and the guests lunch!”

“Uh-oh. Not good. You’ve been doing that all this time?”

“Yeah. Do you mean to tell me they actually expect me to order a meal for myself and not get anything for the crew and the people sacrificing days of their lives for us?” It suddenly dawned on me that a few thousand dollars’ worth of meals had been on me.

“Seriously, watch your money. I don’t want you to get screwed.”

“Mommy!” I heard Nancy’s son call in the background. “I need you.”

“I gotta go. Jake needs me.”

She forced an apology, but it wasn’t her fault. We were all in the same boat. I fell backwards onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling, regretting any prickliness I’d shown Nancy. Ticking off demands to someone at a funeral was beyond tacky. Must have been all the radiation that had soaked into my body during countless plane rides.

The house was dark. As I stared at my hipbones, which were jutting out like two shark fins in a pool of jean fabric, I didn’t bother turning on the lamps. My mind wandered back to my bus ride in France, meeting Grant, traveling the vineyard, surfing Malibu, eating his fabulous culinary creations, his smile, the way he held my hand, as if he never wanted to let go. . . Why did I let him go?

Too wired to sleep and too confused to continue my train of thought, I flipped on the television. Glancing at the Tivo box, I was reminded that it contained an hour of Craig and a bunch of bikini-clad space cadets begging for my attention.

Why not? I figured. I’m already depressed.

“He’s daring. He’s hot. He’s over the top,” the announcer’s voice boomed over pictures of Craig looking extreme, snow-boarding down a steep mountain shoot. “But this season’s Single Guy isn’t some Wall Street chump. He’s a one of a kind, modern-day explorer. And this adventure isn’t in the remote ice fields of the Arctic—it’s here, with 10 women, about to have the adventure of a lifetime.”

I couldn’t take it. Not alone. Not without Toni or someone to help me through it. I missed her. I missed our friendship. I missed friendship, period. I didn’t really have any friends anymore, just me and my job and Alex, when he was available.

The TV droned on in the background. I’d clicked off the recorded material and was now mindlessly watching Celebrity Watch TV, which had just come on CWT. It was Dagmar, Celebrity Reporter. Blech. She started blabbing in her new, slick anchor voice, looking as if she’d just tramped out of Sky Bar in a mini-skirt, stilettos, and a skin-tight purple frock. I couldn’t believe she was still reporting. I couldn’t believe she actually had a job other than heiress.

“And today we catch up with the hottest Single Guy to hit the reality TV airwaves since—ever! Craig Anders.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelped, leaning forward on the couch, knowing full well I should have expected this. But did it have to happen on the one night I got to watch TV?

It was Craig on the set of The Single Guy walking around in a pair of jean shorts (jean shorts?) with his bare, bronzed Herculean chest fully exposed. The girls were oozing over how dreamy he was. They cut to Craig on a date kite-surfing on the beach in Malibu.

“Well, Dags, finding the woman of your dreams is quite a task, but I’m up to it.” He mugged to the camera. All the while, Dagmar gawked at Craig in amazement, as if he’d just discovered how to turn ocean water into wine.

“And I hope to parlay my Single Guy experience into my own show.”

“Parlay? Does he even know what parlay means?” I screamed at the TV.

Of course he wanted his own show. Everyone who goes on a reality show wants their own show, or their own movie, or their own clothing line. But announcing it before the Single Guy season even ended was beyond nervy.

There was one bright side to watching Craig on CWT: If there was ever any doubt, I was totally over him. . . for real.



Another 4:30 a.m. wake-up. I checked myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. I couldn’t believe it. In a month, I would be 30 years old.

What was that quote? If you’re not beautiful by the time you’re 20, successful by the time you’re 30, and rich by the time you’re 40, you’ll never be.

Scurrying around the house, searching madly for my phone and a power bar, I had no time for further reflection. I’d miss my flight.

After my daily ritual of getting felt up and herded by strangers in security uniforms, I nestled into a window perch en route to central California and flipped through my marching orders. Only one thought floated through my mind: Am I going to die?

Being overworked and over-tired brought with it an acute sense of my own mortality. Really, I could die on this airplane, and I’m not at all ready! I could depart this Earth forever, with nothing to show for my measly existence. Just gone, crashed into the ocean while working on a show that was trying to kill me, while hoping, praying, for that promotion I wholly deserved, thinking about a gorgeous boyfriend who loves me, I think, or maybe doesn’t and is cheating on me (no problem, I’m also willing to sacrifice inner peace for a Hollywood hottie), plagued by an ex who has surfaced as a TV icon and doesn’t deserve it, an estranged roommate who used to love me, and an apartment full of dead plants. And then there’s this other guy who really seemed to care for me. F*ck it.

The production notes read:

Jane, we may try to use today’s subject, Madeline, for our children’s Fat Forum next month. She’s a perfect candidate for the camp. Try to convince her to join. Call me when you get there.

PS – Heard you nailed the couples’ Fat Forum. Nail this and they’ll be calling you Supervisor! ;) Corinne.

Nice Sybil, I thought. Seemed the whole office was talking about me replacing Gib, except the people who needed to be talking directly to me: Meg and Mr. Dean. Reading it on paper felt a little weird. So I chose to stare mindlessly out the window instead.



“Yup, got me a gold in the steer wrestling event. . . Yup, first time in a ro-day-oh. . . Yup, showed them cow-pokes who’s boss. . . Dem’s were the days.”

This cabbie was so annoying I pictured myself making a run for it at the next red light. Then I realized, he was probably the only cab driver in this two-horse town. So I settled back into my corner, fastened the seatbelt, and found myself mildly intrigued by my driver’s vignettes.

We had a few extra minutes, so he drove me by the Steinbeck Museum—who, my cabbie trivia-master said, used to live there—and talked about his favorite novels. By the end of our ride, I was entranced. I would have much rather spent the day driving around, hearing dusty stories about the good ole days, than do what I had to do. I made him promise to pick me up at 5:30 p.m.—the end of his shift and the end of mine—for another tall-tale pow-wow before my evening plane back to LA.

“I’d be glad to, Missy. I’ll be here. Now buh-bye.”

I arrived at the location exactly on time. However, it took twenty-five minutes to find the right gate and call button so Denise, Madeline’s mom, could let me in. The condo complex was surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence that came to sharp points at the top of its 15-foot exterior. It looked glum, and foreboding like a prison.

Prancing delicately on platform heels, Denise rounded the corner towards me. She appeared curvy, bubbly, and pretty. I was expecting someone a little more damaged, and not quite so intelligent looking.

What does she want with us? I wondered. I even considered warning her: Turn back! Don’t do it!

Instead, I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Jane. I’m the producer. Is the cameraman here?. . . Great, we’ll be starting with interviews. Is your daughter home too?. . . Great, can’t wait to meet her. So, Denise, ever been on TV?”

The camera crew had already rearranged the furniture in the living room and set up the lights for our first interview. The apartment was so small they’d had to fold up the kitchen table and put it on the porch to make room for the camera and the tripod. I made a few minor changes to the background, hid a couple of tacky knick-knacks from the camera frame, then made my way to the back room to introduce myself to Madeline, Denise’s daughter. She was watching TV.

I’d seen a photograph of her, which suggested she wasn’t too fat for a seven-year-old—plump, maybe, but not fat. However, when I saw her in person, I could see what her mother was worried about. She was twice the size she should have been, and already scowling. Carefree young kids shouldn’t scowl—only overworked, underfed field producers should.

I double-checked my notes. Corinne and her AP, Heidi, were calling this their “Obsessive Mothers” story. The mothers weren’t “horrible” this time, but “obsessive.” They said Denise was “a real witch”—a recurring theme, I’d noticed:

The Story: Denise says her daughter’s obese. She tells us she can’t love her daughter like she wants to because she’s fat. If Madeline were skinny, she says she could love her more. This woman is sick.



I’m embarrassed when I’m with Madeline in the supermarket.

If she were skinny, I could love her more. She’s always eating.

Her friends call her “Fatso.” I don’t blame them. I don’t let her know I feel sorry for her because then she’ll think it’s okay to be fat.

She used to be so cute. Not anymore. I love her, but she needs help.

Please help my daughter lose weight so she won’t be teased at school. I just want her to be happy.



Note: Get shots of Madeline in the mirror putting on tight clothing and bathing suits.

My phone rang from my pocket. It was the office. I almost didn’t answer.

“Jane? It’s Corinne,” she said, not waiting for a reply. “Listen, it’s all there in my notes. Do you have it? Good. Make sure Denise and Madeline say everything on the script. Don’t leave out a thing, especially the stuff about Denise not being able to love Maddy because she’s fat. Okay? Call me directly if she doesn’t. Meg needs to know.” Corinne was now talking like a computer, slowly enunciating each syllable as if I was brainless. “We don’t have a show if they don’t. Am I clear?!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, annoyed. I’d heard it a million times.

“Oh, and by the way,” she said with a hint of niceness to her voice, “Meg said she plans to talk to you tomorrow when you’re back in the office. I smell promotion! Good luck!”

Click. I switched my phone to vibrate.

“Listen,” I told Denise, “whatever you said to us on the phone, you need to tell me during the interview. That’s what Mr. Dean goes by. So don’t hold back. Otherwise, we can’t help you.”

I nearly gagged on that last sentence.

During our interview, which went like clockwork, Denise repeated all the lines appearing on my one-sheet production notes. She told me her daughter was the most important thing in her life, and that she wanted desperately to help her. She admitted to being embarrassed about her daughter’s size when all the other seven-year-old girls were bone-thin. But she came across more honest than nasty. She said “our world” looks down on fat people, and with Madeline so young and already ballooning, she saw trouble ahead for her, and with it the risk of being ostracized. Her daughter was already being teased. She’d have trouble getting a job, making friends, finding a boyfriend, falling in love. “Life is tough enough,” she told me. “I don’t want my only child to be unhealthy and hating herself because she’s fat.” As she said all this, she cried.

Great, I thought, another underdog about to be turned into a monster. Sure, Denise thinks her daughter’s fat, but it’s not a vanity thing. She loves her. She cares! That’s why she’s doing this. Yet, by the time we’re done with her, you’d think she was a gas tank away from driving Madeline into a river.

“Denise, that was excellent. Thank you for being so candid. I really hope we can help you. I mean, I know we will. Can you get Madeline now?”

Madeline, reluctant to enter the room, hugged the doorframe just off the hallway. In the living room, we’d stacked pillows and teddy bears and created a comfortable place for her to sit for the interview. I plunged into a cross-legged sitting position on the rug and started playing with her stuffed dinosaur, trying to make it look like fun.

“Come play with me, Madeline,” I said, trying to sound excited.

She waddled into the room, pouting but curious.

Madeline’s mom had pulled her hair tight into a perfectly round donut at the peak of her head. Curls framed her face like tiny mattress springs. She wore snug blue-jean overalls and a frilly orange shirt. Her eyes were bright and innocent, but they made her look sad. This was going to be hard.

“Now Madeline,” I said, “this won’t be hard.”



My soul sank into flames as I struggled to convince this girl to say just one more thing. To her, I was officially one of the evil clown soldiers of the Ricky Dean Gestapo.

“Listen, sweetie, and you are a sweetie, I just need you to say, ‘My mommy would love me more if I were skinny like my cousin.’ Okay? Repeat after me. It’s easy.”

Silence, blubbering, and tears followed, as tissues stuck to her eyebrows. Why am I doing this? Help! What’s wrong with me?

“Makeup!” Oh, that’s my job. I leaned forward again on my knees to wipe her, bouncing from cold-producer-lady to compassionate human. “It’s okay. You’re doing great. Just please say that sentence for me. Please, please, say it. Just say it—the thing about your cousin, the sentence. Come on—”

“What sentence?” She looked at me, sobbing through yet another tissue.

All she knew was that being fat, and having to admit it publicly, really hurt, and that she really, really hated me. So did I.

“Oh, hell, forget it,” I said out loud, rather than thinking it, as I usually did. “Everyone forget it. Stop tape!” I turned my head toward the bedroom, where Denise was waiting behind a closed door. “Denise, this interview is over!”

I grabbed my phone to make the call as Denise scrambled out of the room to hug her daughter. Denise looked confused but put on a brave face for Madeline, firmly convinced that from this torture only good would come.

“Corinne?. . . Yeah, hi, it’s Jane. Listen, the kid’s seven. Hear me?” I stepped outside onto the porch, out of earshot. “She’s seven years old! I can’t do this. She can’t do this. She’s a baby, for Chrissakes. She’s bawling. She can’t articulate a big sentence like that, and this stupid script’s insane!” I was completely frazzled, all airs of professionalism gone.

“Jane, calm down.”

“I am calm,” I said. “Now listen, it’s not a total loss, okay? No need to worry. You got your story. Great stuff from Denise. Just like it says on the script. But the girl—she’s too young. We can’t do this to her.” We had to be breaking some kind of law! “She’s just a kid.”

“What did Madeline say?” Corinne asked, unaffected by my consternation.

“It was good. I promise! Like ‘kids at school call me fat’ and ‘I sneak food.’ But she was a little hard to understand because she was crying. She won’t stop crying. And I know how much you all like crying. So maybe it’s a good thing. Anyway, she did well, considering she’s seven years old! It took an hour, but we’ve got enough. Trust me, I have enough. Just don’t make me torture the poor kid anymore, okay?”

Corinne hesitated for a second. She was thinking. She was coming around. I had her on my side. But then they entered the room.

“Meg’s here. She’s going to toss the story if we don’t get the script verbatim,” Corinne said coldly. “And if that happens, I’m out my A segment for Thursday’s show. Frankly, I don’t need the black mark on my record. Sorry. You’re not the only one on a career path here.”

“But you still have your story,” I said, “and just what you wanted—monster mom!”

“Yeah, but we need the kid, too. She talked before on the phone. She’ll talk again. Now, here’s what we’ll do: My AP Heidi is the one who did the initial interview. She has a way with Madeline. I’m sure she’ll get it out of her.”

“What—Heidi? Heidi’s doing the interview? You mean Heidi, the associate producer who’s never done a field shoot in her entire life? You’re kidding, right?”

They were actually forcing me to persist. As I hit the speaker function on my phone, I felt a stabbing sensation in my heart. A little girl was about to suffer so I could rocket to the top. Had I really chosen a promotion over Madeline’s fate?

Heidi’s voice filled the room with a cold electronic vibration, Denise having gone behind closed doors again. I sat in front of Madeline on the carpet, holding the phone in my palm in front of me.

“Remember,” Heidi began in her baby voice, “what we talked about, Madeline? I’m your buddy, right? Now remember what we said on the phone and what you told me? Okay, say that. You told me your mommy thinks you’re fat and fat people are disgusting. Can you say that?”

Madeline was again bawling. This was agony.

Between sniffles and gulps, she whispered, “My mom calls me ffff—” Sniff, sniff. “She says I’m. . . ” It was totally unusable stuff.

“That’s it. I can’t take this!” I said, abruptly hanging up and powering off the phone.

The crew looked at me as if I was crazy. I jumped up off the floor and began a soliloquy to no one in particular: “Did I mention I’m quitting? Yup, jumping ship! Nuts, huh? Just decided. I’m done. That’s it! No more. Can’t do it. I’ve already lost my soul. Now I’m just trying to salvage my earthly life. Yup. The few short years I’ve got left here on Earth.”

Many tears and a single hug later, I walked out the door with my three tapes in hand: one of Denise’s interview, one of Madeline’s interview, and one of some rather b-grade B-roll. In all, we had enough of a story for the editors to cut around. It wasn’t exactly what they’d asked for, but at this point, I didn’t care.

“Ya look a lot worse for wear,” the cab driver said on picking me up. He’d been waiting for 15 minutes.

“Yup,” I said, in no mood for conversation.

As I contemplated my future, we rattled down the road en route to the airport.

“Pardon me for saying,” he started in his artful twang, “but in all my rides, I ain’t never seen a soul torn up like yours.”

As he politely scoped me out through the rear-view mirror, I felt as if I’d undergone a complete reversal of roles. Suddenly, I was the damaged girl, like all the people I’d ever interviewed, and he was the expert, with his years of practical wisdom, driving strangers to their destinies. What will she do? Fix her life or madly continue on her career fast-track?

“Can’t live like that,” he said. “Some people do, ignore the voice, wake up a different person. Empty. That’s why they call them LA folk shallow. Ain’t nobody born shallow. It happens. Life, money, success, greed. . .”

I nodded as he continued to lay out his small-town philosophy for me. It sounded anything but small.

Over and over, I repeated his phrase to myself—“soul torn up.”

He was right.





The LAX taxicab dropped me off outside the gate to my apartment. The air was moist and heavy. Streetlamps lit the beach walk with a mellow orange glow. The lights were new, added to reduce crime and to keep the vagrants from sleeping on the benches. Instead, the homeless slept on the beach, wrapped in blankets pilfered from various garbage heaps. On any given day at sunrise, I could look out at the beach and see large gray cocoons of the homeless spread across the sand. One morning, I counted 30. Santa Monica was a homeless person’s haven—free pizza crusts and a soft sandy bed in the world’s friendliest climate.

It made me think of a news story I did in Canada on a homeless man named Harry. After one of the harshest winters in Alberta’s history, he lost all but one or two of his fingers and toes. For more than three weeks, it had been 40 below—the kind of weather where your nostrils ice together with each breath, and your flesh freezes in ten seconds flat. It was a miracle he’d survived the brutal prairie winter at all. Harry had once been an engineer at an oil firm, but became an alcoholic. He lost his wife, his family, his job, and his life as he knew it. All he had left was a love affair with the bottle, and an old winter parka.

A month ago, while en route to one of my shoots, Mom told me that Harry had died during our latest winter. I thought: Good. It’s the best place for him—whether he goes to heaven or hell, or just sleeps forever. I didn’t like the flippant, cynical girl who’d reacted that way. She was a girl who cared only for herself, a girl who was kind only as a means to an end, sugary sweet when convenient, and pleasant and courteous with an agenda, but otherwise single-mindedly ambitious.

Voices carried over the bougainvillea. I heard Toni’s laugh. I heard a man’s voice, too—perhaps some new guy she was dating. I figured I would say hello, then hole myself up in my room to draft a letter to Hank Griffin, YBC Studio’s Vice President in charge of TV programming, and Naomi’s boyfriend.

Primed to request some major changes, I felt my batteries recharging already. Maybe I can be the one who fixes the system!

I turned the doorknob to enter.

“Honey!” Alex, always playful, held out his arms as he stood up from the couch to hug me.

“What a nice surprise,” I said, not really wanting one.

On the coffee table sat a half-empty bottle of wine and two nearly touching glasses. Toni stood up with a huge grin and winked as if to say, “This one’s a catch.”

“Toni said you’d be home around now and I wanted to see you,” Alex said.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Toni said.

Their gleefulness contrasted sharply with the darkness of my mood.

“I totally recognized Alex from TV!” Toni exclaimed.

“Oh, stop,” he said, shooing her away as if they were old friends. “Jane, I love this pad.” Alex reached for my butt. “And your roommate!” He looked at Toni the way he’d often looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell me? Me and the two hot Swedish sisters.” He shot his eyes up and down Toni. “Let’s see, one of me, two of you. What’s right with this picture?” He laughed as if he was joking, but I wasn’t entirely sure.

“Yeah, okay, Alex,” I said. “Can you guys give me a sec?” I walked toward the bathroom. “I’ve had to go since I got on the plane.”

I was sitting, crouched over, peeing and blowing my nose, when Toni rattled open the bathroom door.

“Everything okay?” she whispered sweetly, poking her head through the side of the door. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I said, surprised by her compassionate tone. Aside from Toni’s night of humiliation, we hadn’t connected in ages. Lousy-friend guilt began to surface in me.

“Jane, I just want you to know, I’m here for you, no matter what. And I’d never hurt you again like I did at the party,” said Toni. “I’ve never apologized for hitting on Grant that night. I’m so sorry. I’ve been meaning to tell you, and I know I should have told you sooner. I’m such a loser.” I tried to interrupt her, but she kept on going. “Alex and I were talking,” she said, “and he was raving about you. I realized, all this time, I’ve been jealous of you. Yeah, jealous.” She shook her head. “How lame is that? But tonight I wasn’t. I just felt—well, I felt love. I miss you.”

I stared up at her, my butt now cold from the toilet seat where I’d long since finished my pee.

“Are we still best LA buds?” she chuckled. “BFF’s?”

“Of course,” I said, shocked by her confession. “I feel like I should hug you, but may I wipe first?”

We laughed as she dove in for a hug. I suddenly wanted to be good to her, to help her and the people around me.

“Jane, I saw the look on your face when you walked in tonight. I want you to know you can trust me.” Toni smiled wistfully. “With your boyfriends. And it’s so sad that I have to even say that, but I feel like I need to prove myself to you.”

“I do. I do trust you.” Our eyes locked. “And Toni, I’m sorry too. I haven’t been here—not for you, not for myself, not for anyone.”

“BFF’s?” Toni asked.

“BFF’s,” I replied.

Only Toni and I could have a touching moment of true friendship while I sat, pants around my ankles, sitting on the john, the door half cracked and my hotty boyfriend guzzling wine on the couch. We burst into girlish giggles.

“Sorry about Alex. He can be such a cheese-ball, and you handled it well.” I hesitated, slightly embarrassed that the guy I’d slept with—my boyfriend—was flirting with my best friend. “He’s just kinda like that,” I said, unable at the moment to offer a better explanation.

“It’s all in fun. Besides, he really cares about you,” she said.

“Hey, I need you to do me a little favor. I need to talk to Alex about what happened at work today. It’s really important—”

“Don’t worry about me,” she interrupted. “You guys need to be alone. And, hey, I want only the best for you.”

“Sometimes I think you should be my boyfriend,” I said before she could close the door. “I’ll give you full deets in the morning.”

“Copy that.” Toni beamed.

I debated primping for Alex, but I was too anxious about my career epiphany to give coiffing the ten, twenty—okay, forty-five—minutes the task required. Instead, I slapped on some lip gloss and started for the living room.

“Hi, babe. You’re getting so skinny.” Alex pulled my arms to sit beside him and began tickling my stomach. “Actually, babe, you look tired. Do you want to take a minute, maybe have a shower?”

“No, I feel fine,” I said, trying not to lose momentum.

“I mean, next to Toni, you’re looking like the dumpy step-sister.”

“Whatever!” Toni said loudly as she headed for the kitchen. “Jane’s exhausted. She hasn’t had a decent sleep in three months.”

“I know. I know,” he responded defensively. “We talk.”

I looked at Alex with my most serious expression. “Alex, I need to talk to you.”

“Sure,” he said flippantly. “But first, promise me we can have a sleep-over.”

Toni uncorked a fresh bottle of wine and poured me a glass as she stood beside the coffee table. “Sorry, guys. Love to stay and entertain you, but it’s beddy-bye for me. I’ve got a big day tomorrow, and a hot date tomorrow night.”

She winked at me as she filled her glass and strutted off down the hallway.

“Nice meeting you,” Alex said, watching her butt as it swayed like a fleshy metronome. “She’s a very good-looking girl.” He turned to me with an earnest look on his face, as if his latest observation nullified his earlier threesome crack.

“I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he laughed.

I wasn’t convinced. “I need you to listen, okay? I have something important to tell you.”

“All right, but first, I don’t know about that color on you.” He dabbed his finger across my lips.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your lip gloss—not a good color.” He crinkled his brow as he sized up my look.

“You’re driving me crazy. This is about my future, not a stupid tube of lip gloss!”

“All right, all right,” he said sarcastically, “but I liked it better when you at least tried to impress me.”

“Alex!” I yelped.

Finally, he realized how serious I was. I took a deep breath.

“Okay, so today, after the shoot, I was ready to quit. And I was going to give it to them. Go straight to Mr. Dean. Tell him how awful it all is. How he’s running a psycho-babble whorehouse. I mean, I was going to walk—”

“Quit? You were going to quit?” His jovial demeanor evaporated.

“No, it’s okay. I’m not quitting. But I am going to raise a little hell with a serious proposal to reform the show. Listen, what we do on the show—it’s not good. Like this little girl today—she’ll be traumatized for life. It was awful. I want to make sure that never happens again. So I’m proposing we turn Fix Your Life into a true self-help experience. Like a service: We help people, or at least try. And I know just how to do it!”

Alex looked at me as if I had flown the mental coop. “I might be a little drunk. But are you f*cking high?”

I laughed. “Listen, this is good. My plan is to go to Hank Griffin, who I have a connection with, and tell him how we manipulate people and make them cry—which is completely at odds with what they vowed at the beginning we’d never do. Then I’ll present my plan to get real trained psychologists on staff as advisors. Today, I kept pushing that little girl, and any good psychologist would have begged me to stop!” I was practically shaking. “We’ll have Mr. Dean give a fifteen-minute one-on-one session for each guest prior to the show—that way, they’re not thrown into the spotlight and caught off-guard.

“Then, I’ll tell Hank our guests should get two free follow-up therapy sessions after our show by a licensed therapist, to make sure they’re on the right track. And of course, we need to compensate the guests for days lost from work, plus lunch when we’re with them and dinner after the show. Anyway, that’s a start. I’m going to write up a proposal tonight. What do you think?”

His eyes roamed up and around my head as if unable to find my eyes. It made me nervous.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he said quietly.

Stunned, I suddenly found it difficult to breathe. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s juvenile! That’s what I’m saying.”

He had a scowl that even his picture-perfect man-features couldn’t cover. I felt a sweat break from my forehead as I shifted my hand off his leg. He placed his wine on the table and turned to me angrily, his eyes reduced to squinty half-slits. “Tell me you’re joking. Really, Jane, this is the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He waited for me to speak. I leaned over my knees, holding my stomach.

“I’m serious,” I said, trying to get a breath.

“Then you need to get your head checked,” he said angrily. “I hooked you up with the job of a lifetime, now you’re due for a promotion, and this is how you repay me? By embarrassing me? Making me look like a complete ass to Meg, Hank, the network? This is business. Not just TV! Business! Making money! Ratings and numbers and profits—that’s what matters. Welcome to the real world! And what about your master plan? Making supervising producer? You’ll never get anywhere until you get the system!”

“Well,” I said, still gasping, “maybe I don’t want to be a supervising producer, or any kind of producer, in this environment. It’s dishonest. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“Proud? Are you an idiot?” said Alex. “What you’re doing on the show is what needs to be done to get to the top. You work in the entertainment business. Not charity! People get crushed. It’s every man for him-f*cking-self! That’s reality!”

“You can be successful and have integrity!” I yelled, with all the passion I had left. “Besides, it is our job to make sure those people are helped. That’s a small price to pay for a show that makes millions and millions of dollars! And frankly, if you don’t get that, you’re the idiot!”

“Well, I guess we’re both a couple of f*cking idiots. Only I’ll be a rich f*cking idiot, and you’ll be a naïve, hopeless idiot with barely two pennies to scrape together,” he said. “I can’t take this Pollyanna bullshit. I’m out of here.”

Alex flung his coat onto his shoulder and reached for the door. “And you, my dear, better not embarrass me,” he said, as he sneered through his nostrils and slammed the door.

“Or what?” I grabbed the nearest object and, with all the strength I could muster, threw it at his silhouette. Paint chipped near the doorknob as I heard the sound of glass and metal cracking into pieces. I stared at the door long after he had gone, my breath slowing to a rhythmic pant. Finally, my glance fell to the floor.

There was my lifeline—my iPhone—shattered into a pile of discombobulated electronic pieces.



Toni woke me up at 8:00 am. My body, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, was curled into the cushions of the couch. I’d barely moved since the night before.

“Hey, you better get up. You’re going to be late,” she said in a motherly tone, on her way to work on a new reality show.

My eyes were glued together. Where am I? It was one of those awakenings that left me wondering if it was all a bad dream.

“Thanks,” I said, clearing my throat. “But I’m not going in today.”

“You calling in sick?” She sounded concerned.

“No, I’m not calling in anything. I’m just not going,” I said defiantly.

“Well, um,” she hesitated, unsure how to handle me. “Good for you, then. I wouldn’t go either. Are you planning some changes for that hellhole?”

“No. Nothing so lofty.”

“What about last night?” she asked uncertainly. “Never mind. Let’s talk about it later. I want to hear everything. I’ll be home around seven.” She reached for the door. “Jane, are you going to be okay? Can I get you something?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Let’s talk later.”

My head fell back onto the cushions. The wine glasses on the table were spotted with fingerprints and streaks of red wine, highlighted by a sun slowly inching its ghostly white fingers onto our balcony. A pair of play handcuffs sat on the floor beside the chair in an unopened package. Alex must have brought them over.

Last night’s conversation replayed in my head, like the reel on a player piano, the word “idiot” echoing over and over. I hated Alex for a moment. Then I felt sorry for him. He clung tightly to his superficial world, and he was lost.

I pried myself off the couch to run a bath and shuffled to my closet in search of the coziest article of clothing I could find. My blue flannel pajamas with the fluffy cloud pattern called out to me. I hadn’t worn them since France. As I pulled them from the shelf, high above my head, a photograph fell to the floor.

It was a slightly crumpled, four-by-six of me in front of the castle in France, smiling with my walkie-talkie in hand and headset on my head. The moment seemed light years away. I propped some pillows against the headboard and sat down for a closer look. There was a note on the back. It read:

Here she is with that smile, the way she stands, the way she rests her hands in her pockets and leans from one leg to the next. Can’t wait to hang with HER in LA.

—Your “Surfer Boy” Grant

Hazy memories of the last few days in France surfaced like the morning mist: Grant and I on a moonlit walk through a medieval village, cuddling in our hotel room next to a blazing fire, reading aloud from a cheesy book of love poetry. . .

Whatever happened to us? I thought, unconsciously clenching the photo. I thought of his sincerity, his kindness, his passion— his love.

His love! Only now was it obvious. He gave himself to me, consistently and honestly. And I was indeed an idiot—a blind idiot! The one thing every human being desperately seeks and needs—true love—had once been sitting in my living room.

In return, I’d flung aside that love for something less real, less human, less gratifying. In the process of becoming Miss Hollywood Producer, I’d lost myself, and I’d lost him too.

Thoughts of all the lives I’d recently come across sprinted through my mind. They all meant well. The problem was me. I’d become what I’d feared and, ironically, longed to be.

I wanted to throw up.





“Looks like the Monster Mom piece was a winner after all,” Corinne said, stopping from her 40-mile-an-hour office sprint. “Mr. Dean thinks I’m a rock star—and you, too.”

I took my first long, hard look at Corinne in some time. Her clean, smooth brow looked plastic. She’d pulled her straight, copper-colored hair into a bun—a corporate looking power style—which drew added attention to her snubby little nose. I couldn’t decide if she was pretty or just tough and skeletal. Then, for the first time, I noticed three forehead wrinkles, apparently desperate to surface somewhere, despite her poisonous cosmetic attempts to quash them. It made me think, HA! You can’t escape your age!

“I swear to God,” she continued, “we’ll just keep taking these pathetic women down one by one. We should create a show where women have to get a license to have babies. We’ll put them through the ‘Ricky Dean Good Mother Test’! Great idea, huh?”

“Sure. Because you, of all people, know what it takes to be a good mother,” I said, shaking my head.

“What did you say?” She looked more than a little surprised.

“How the hell do you know what these women have been through? My best friend in Canada raised two kids by herself while putting herself through college and law school. Mother is the hardest job any human being can do, and it’s so easy to screw up. You don’t have a clue.”

Corinne glared at me. “Talk about ungrateful!” she said with a snarl, dashing toward the edit bays in her self-important way.

It was my first day back after what had seemed like an eternity—three days of not returning calls, of loafing around the beach house in my pajamas, of polishing off large quantities of mac and cheese, and whole boxes of chocolate Teddy Grahams. I also watched sophisticated nostalgia like Pink Panther movies, and listened to Sublime, which I played as loud as I liked.

It mattered not to me that the office “needed me.” They told me I had stories to edit and that I was supposed to be on a plane to Ohio on Wednesday, to which I countered, “I’m sick. Send someone else.” The thought of coercing another woman into divulging her deepest secrets for the sake of our show made me want to wretch.

By yesterday, I had garnered the strength to begin the resignation process, all hopes of bringing reform to Fix Your Life washed down the drain—not because of what Alex had said, but because I realized I didn’t want to work there anymore. I simply wanted me back: healthy, honest, and complete.

Resigning was not going to be easy, though. My signature on their iron-clad contract meant they could probably force me to stay. The only person I could initially turn to for insight was Gib, hoping that, given his recent fallen status, he might understand and offer me some sage advice. I sent him a private e-mail. Despite my anger at the system, I wanted him to hear it from me first. Plus, he was still technically my boss—at least no one had told me otherwise.

Dear Gib,

Please have a look at my issues below, for which I want to leave the show. Your thoughts would be appreciated before I talk to Meg.



Airplanes every day for 3 mos, 90-hour weeks, all-nighters. Is that legal?

No meal breaks! Say what? Humans must EAT—and sleep would be nice.

5 or 6G’s in hotel/cab/food expenses racking up interest. Not The Donald here!

No creative latitude. Drone girl, forced to execute orders, don’t defy script, don’t think! Say what? I’m a professionally trained and highly experienced journalist!

Being forced to make someone cry (interview or not) is journalistically unethical. And in my book immoral!

On a separate note: our guests. Who’s getting fixed? This isn’t help. It’s torture TV! Mr. Dean needs to spend time with these people—help them! I have some ideas on this if anyone cares. . .