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Authors: David James

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BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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“Okay, Jeremy, I will go look over the contract and get back to you,” I said, picking up the 100-page document.
Ian ushered me out of the room while Jeremy called from the background, “You're gonna be a star, Amanda! This opportunity is going to open doors for you everywhere. Doors you never dreamed existed.”
Doors that I might get my fingers slammed in, I thought.
C
HAPTER 3
Sign Now, Pay Later
“Y
ou ought to see this contract, Alex,” I said, waving the thick document in the air. “It's worse than the amount of forms we have to fill out to sell a home. Sheesh. Listen to this, Alex, on page forty-five: ‘Said participant, Amanda Thorne, shall not, at any time, hold liable . . . blah, blah, blah . . . for physical injury or trauma, miscarriage, nor for mental distress caused directly or indirectly by an appearance on
Things Are a Bit Iffy
.' ”
“Wait a minute. The name of the show is
Things Are a Bit Iffy
?”
“Yeah,” I replied, looking at Alex as if he had attacked me.
“Oh, I get it. The play off of Ian's initials: I.F. Clever.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing. This contract is really making me think twice about being on the show.”
“All contracts are like that, Amanda. Look at the ones we get from the banks once you have an accepted offer on a foreclosure house. The house you bought from us is built right on top of the San Andreas Fault line? Too bad. You should have talked to geologists first. The former owners poured cement down the drainpipes? You should have sent cameras down the sewage lines.”
“So you don't think I should do this TV show?”
“On the contrary. I think it would build character. You'll build up a presence. You'll learn to speak on camera. You'll meet people. You'll make some money.”
Make some money. Despite all the other reasons for being on the show, I think this is the one that stayed with me. We were still in the throes of the New Great Depression and I had exposure to several rental properties, none of which was fully rented. I needed cash, and the show was one way to bring in some money.
This Depression was like a speech being delivered by a presidential candidate—endless. It was all around us, but the real-estate agents were doing their best to hide it—even the ones with dozens of listings and a seemingly thriving business. You could see it in the clothes and the cars. You noticed that people were wearing the same outfits over and over—instead of tossing them into the trash after a few wearings when times were good. The cars said it all too. They were no longer sparkling clean every day of the week. Or, you noticed that they kept on being traded down, from top-of-the-line BMWs and Mercedes to the lower-end versions of the same models. Or worse, to Hyundais and Kias. When the mask falls off, it really makes a thud.
I went back into my office and signed the ominous paperwork, deciding once and for all to commit personal suicide and to stop worrying about it.
Then I had to get back to the business of selling homes in a market where no one was buying. I hunted Alex down and found him at the copier.
“I got another call from Angry Woman again. She wants to know why her house hasn't sold yet.”
“Which Angry Woman? Be more specific.”
“Mrs. Begley?”
Alex raised his splayed hands on either side of his head to express mock surprise.
“Did you tell her that her house is uglier than the south end of a northbound pig, it needs tens of thousands of dollars in repairs because she's either too lazy, cheap, or stupid to fix things when they start rotting, and it's overpriced by $200,000?”
I shook my head.
“I told her that you and I
work
in the market. We don't
control
it,” I said.
“To which she responded . . .”
“She said she wants to see her house on television. She thinks this whole Internet thing is a fad and TV is the way to go.”
“Amanda, we explained that to Mrs. Begley. Close to ninety percent of all people look for homes on the Internet. Local media is only for those agents to trumpet their listing and get more of them. Those ads don't sell homes.”
“She said she wants to see her home on
The Tonight Show
. She likes Leno.”
“Let me tell you what, Amanda. Let's just get rid of all the overpriced listings and all the fucked-up sellers.”
“Then we wouldn't have any homes for sale, Alex.”
“That's not true, Amanda. What about James Murray? His home is mid-century, it's priced right, it looks great.”
“The last agent who showed it said there were one hundred twenty rifles stacked in the closet and that there was a six-month supply of food, water, and ammunition in the garage.”
“So the guy likes to hunt, Amanda. . . . And hydrate often. What about Janis Frommer?”
“She shot her husband in the face with buckshot on the front lawn of her home after she found him in bed with her sister.”
“She has anger-management issues. So what?”
“Alex, I know you are fed up with all the shit in this business. Me too. This used to be a pleasant business to be in. You took people around, they found a nice home, they went to get a loan and got it without threatening anyone, and the house sold and we got paid. Now, it's like a hatchet fight with the two opponents handcuffed to each other.”
“I think it's more like
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Week after week.”
“I have had just about as much as I can take. The sellers think they're sitting on a pile of gold and that they're in the driver's seat, and when someone is stupid enough to put a full-price offer on a home, then we can't make the appraisal and the whole deal falls apart and the seller yanks the listing from you after you've spent all this time and money, only to give it to another agent who's desperate to have a listing under his or her belt.”
“That's it in a nutshell, Amanda. The sellers are unrealistic and haven't come to the reality that their house is worth a lot less than they paid for it. Then along comes an agent who's terrified that he or she has another car and mortgage payment due, and that they don't want to be known as the agent with no listings, so they take the overpriced listing and the abuse that follows while the agent tries to ratchet them down into reality adjacent. It's a vicious cycle.”
“Like buying panty hose.”
“Exactly.”
I looked into Alex's eyes.
“I think we should become door-to-door dildo salespeople. We would probably make more money.”
“And we'd have a lot more fun.”
“How's about it, Alex? I said, offering my hand to shake and close the deal.
“I'm in.”
C
HAPTER 4
Let the Games Begin
A
week later, the initial cast meeting for
Things Are a Bit Iffy
was called at Ian's house at 9
A.M
. When I arrived at Ian's estate, I was surprised to see no camera crews or large semi-trucks filled with cameras and lighting equipment.
The parking area to Ian's house is very large and usually filled with unimaginably expensive cars—all Ian's. But today was different. The cast was here to snag an enormously, fabulously wealthy boyfriend, so the parking lot was full of gleaming, top-of-the-line Mercedes, BMWs, a Rolls Royce, and one Lamborghini—all probably rented. I assumed that one or two of the cars belonged to the show's producers and directors, but the rest were all for show. And what a show it was. I almost felt ashamed to park my Toyota Land Cruiser next to such ultimate driving machines.
I climbed the stairs to the living room to find it full of gay men who were as gleaming and polished as the cars they supposedly owned. Gucci and Prada shoes, $400 jeans, tailored long-sleeve shirts with cuff links—these guys all had the looks down pat. Except one. A short, steroidal muscleman with tattoos visible even on his neck stood there in the crowd of peacocks looking as out of place as myself. Me, I was dressed in casual chic, but that's not why I stood out. I was the only woman in a sea of gay men.
There were plates of deftly arranged breakfast foods that made me drool, but I quickly noticed that none of the men were eating. They all had very European, emaciated figures, and they intended to keep them, especially now that flat-fronted pants were all the rage. Of course, this didn't stop Mr. Musclehead. He shoveled in the protein while steering clear of the carbs.
The thought struck me. Unless this was some kind of colossal joke on Ian's part, there was a phenomenal amount of money at stake. Millions! These guys were dressed to kill, and to get their hands on that much, it occurred to me that someone just might.
Jeremy Collins, the producer, clapped his hands several times in rapid succession to call us to order.
“Welcome, everyone, thanks for agreeing to be on
Things Are a Bit Iffy,
one of the biggest reality-show hits of the '12 and '13 season!”
Again with the exclamation points. I pictured Jeremy—if he was lucky to have landed a boyfriend who could stand his never-ending hype—at home over morning coffee, gushing over a strawberry Pop-Tart. This would be followed by a breathless description of his morning bowel movement and a recounting of the amazing dreams he had last night that no one, mind you, no one could top in their vividness. Of course, as improbable as it would seem, Jeremy would have no trouble locating a partner who could stand him. There's always a man willing to put up with endless bullshit in order to have a cushy life. And a cushy life is something that Jeremy's endless string of Aaron Spelling–inspired television bilge probably provided.
“Let's go into the dining room and we'll talk about the show and what we can all do to make it the hit of the season!”
The guys filed in with a veneer of civility, but you could see the tiny, imperceptible sprint that shot into their steps in order to secure a chair near where they figured Ian would sit—at the head of the table, naturally. Then, within seconds after entering the room, you could see the faces fall like so many shoddy apartment buildings in a Chinese earthquake. There were place cards on the table indicating where everyone should sit. Based on the slight mouth movements, you could tell there was a chorus of “shits” being uttered at frequencies only dogs could hear. Once everyone was seated, the show began. Once, that is, Ian took his seat. Everyone managed to flash a smile at Ian and score a point or two, depending on the whiteness of their teeth. The sets of choppers on some of the guys were so white they could have starred on episodes of
Baywatch
. My porcelain toilet should shine so brilliantly.
Jeremy began, “I'd again like to welcome you all to the show. Let me tell you a little about the concept of the show and the arc we hope to follow.” This comment fell on a sea of blank stares. Jeremy, ever in a world of his own making, continued unabated, “But before we begin, Ian would like to have his spiritual advisor bless our undertaking. Ian?” he said, giving way to Ian with the wave of his hand.
“Thank you. As some of you know, I am a very, very spiritual man,” he said, holding up the string of black wooden beads he was wearing around his neck this morning as proof. “So I have asked my spiritual guru, the Sai Baba Shu Baba, to bless us as we begin this remarkable journey today. Several of the guys rolled their eyes, no doubt familiar with Ian's whirlybird spiritual explorations that were pounced on as soon as they became fashionable, then discarded just as quickly as last season's Dolce & Gabbana. Buddhism, Cabala, Scientology, Mayan. In one day, out the next.
From behind a curtain emerged a man dressed in an orange Nehru-collared silky shirt with an enormous Afro. He looked like an Indian Phil Spector—without the guns. His face was henna-decorated with supposedly mystical symbols, one of which looked awfully close to a dollar symbol. He stood and raised his hands as if to welcome his gathered faithful. Ian actually got up from his chair where he held court in order to prostrate himself and kiss the guru's Gucci loafers. (I noticed, since my ex had a pair just like them.) This was probably the first time that the people present had ever seen Ian humble himself.
The guru or swami or whatever he was began talking in a foreign language, chuckled to himself several times, raised his arms up toward the ceiling a lot, then departed.
The man who was sitting next to me whispered in my ear, “That little charade will cost Ian $5,000, plus travel expenses.”
“I'm in the wrong business,” I whispered back.
“I'm David.”
“Amanda here,” I said, offering my hand to shake.
Ian was trying hard to appear that he was at peace, closing his eyes and holding the palms of his hands skyward. “You may continue, Jeremy.”
“The show, the show . . .” Jeremy mused. “Think of a cross between
The Real Housewives of Orange County
and
Top Chef
! It's a slice-of-life reality show and a competitive show at the same time—a powerful hybrid. The show is what we in the industry call soft scripted. That means it's not written by costly and temperamental members of the Writers Guild of America. Instead, we have a loose plan of where we want the arc of the show to go, and on each episode, we have a loose plan where we might suggest certain actions we would like each cast member to take based on what happened on the previous episode or earlier in a day of shooting!”
I thought to myself,
They're going to make it up as they go along and convince everyone within earshot that what they're doing is brilliant and spontaneous.
Jeremy continued, “Each day, we'll be shooting with handheld cameras at some sort of event, such as a pool party for the first episode, or a dinner, for example, and based on what happens during each two- or three-hour shoot, we'll pull you contestants aside to do an interview to give viewers some insight into your more private thoughts and reactions!”
A hand went up.
“Yes, Gilles?”
“I do not understand.”
“Okay, let's say that during a pool party, Keith calls you a snotty piece of self-absorbed Eurotrash. Maybe he says it to your face, or he says it on camera during the shooting, but you're not in attendance at the time he says it. Well, after we shoot a few hours, we'll recap what we got and tell you that Keith called you a gold-digging piece of Eurotrash. Then you'll be shot alone, sitting, I don't know, in a pool chair, in which you can respond, saying you are hurt by his comment, and then you might make a comment about his appalling lack of personal hygiene.”
“So ve have ze everyday, reality part, zen the interview?”
“In a nutshell, that's pretty much it. Then the shoots all go to the editors and they put it together, and voilà, we have an episode. Before the next episode, we all sit down and watch the previous episode of rough cuts again so it's clear where we want the trajectory of the next program to go. All the while, Aurora and Ian react to what's going on. And in the final show, we announce the winner, and that man becomes Ian's boyfriend and heir to a substantial portion of Ian's personal money. Now, as you've seen in the legal papers we asked you gentlemen to sign, the winner immediately receives $15 million to be held in a trust account until Ian's demise, which will be monitored by Lance Greenly, Ian's CEO. You're free to spend the $15 million. Upon Ian's demise, another $57 million will pass to the winner.”
“Who's Aurora?” someone asked.
“Ian's psychiatrist, therapist, whatever,” Jeremy replied. “And mine. She's the one who selected you from a list of previous boyfriends that Ian drew up.”
“So, ze winner marries Ian and gets a lot of money?” Gilles asked.
“What we're looking for is a suitable partner for Ian, since he is dying.”
You would have expected a round of gasps, but there were none. I swear to God, I thought I saw faint smiles on several of the faces gathered around the table. This was followed by a sudden burst of faked concern for Ian, which he accepted with a wave of his hand like a Pope accepting well wishes from the faithful in St. Peter's Square.
“Yes, Ian is dying of pancreatic cancer, but let's not get off track here or get mired in all the little details! What we have to remember is that this will be a first in television history!
The Bachelorette
has the promise of love.
Dancing with the Stars
can give the winners big-time recognition and fame. This show has DEATH! And MONEY. Fuck
Survivor
! This is going to make
American Idol
look like
Mr. Rogers
! This is big, Big, BIG!”
Gilles spoke up. “I dun't knew why ve have to go on viss dis charade? Ian was in love with me until chose zeese, how do you say, skanky ho zitting next to me,” he said, pointing to Keith (his name card said).
I had to give credit to Gilles. He pronounced one somewhat-current American phrase completely right and without an accent.
The fur was beginning to fly already and we'd just barely started.
The skanky ho seated next to Gilles spoke. “I think that we should try and keep this civil, no matter how much of a piece of Eurotrash we are.”
Gilles reacted in a typically French manner. I half expected sabers to be drawn. Gloves to be struck across startled faces. Hair being pulled and eyes being scratched.
“Is he inzulting me?”
This time it was Jeremy who was licking his lips. Already, the mix of men here was explosive. Helen Keller could see it.
Jeremy said, “Fellows, let's save this for the show, although you are getting the hang of it. Drama! But let me get back to the meat of the matter. So, we will film this series mainly here in this house, and occasionally around town. Basically, the show is a contest. Aurora Cleft will be here starting at the first episode. She and Ian will see how you handle different situations, answer questions, and how you live your everyday life. But never forget, this show will fail or succeed on the kind of drama you give me and your best friend, the camera. Just remember, at the end of the show, the winner could be a titanically rich man!”
Ian coughed ever so slightly.
“Oh, and the winner will also have the love and companionship of Ian!” Jeremy finished, then added, “Ian wants to spend his last days with a loving partner.”
You could feel the disappointment in the room from this realization. It was like being awed by a stunt plane doing figure eights in the sky, which then suddenly plunged into an open field. This offer had a big and paunchy string attached to it.
“Oh, one last thing,” Jeremy added. “We are promoting the hell out of this show both on Q Channel and the Internet. YouTube, Twitter, Yahoo trending, celebrity Web sites! You won't be able to turn on a computer and not see something that has to do with
Things Are a Bit Iffy
.”
All the contestants flashed toothy grins, while some tossed smoochy air kisses Ian's way. It was clear that the men sitting around the table would have no problem with the money part, but having Ian thrown in with the deal was a problem that would have to be tolerated until a quick death solved everything. I sat there stunned, thinking that a reality show was going to decide how a certain man at this table was going to inherit more money than any of us could probably ever spend.
“Now, since we don't all know each other, I think we should go around the table and introduce ourselves, tell us a little about you . . . starting with you, Drake.”
“Hi, I'm Drake Whittemore. I'm Ian's property manager. I was born and raised in Darien, Connecticut. I'm thirty-five. I graduated from Yale. I'm a world-class technical mountain climber, up to 5.10c. I've climbed Mount McKinley in Alaska; I placed in the Olympics rowing trials; I've placed in the top final heat scores at the ASP World Surfing Tour, the Billabong Pipeline Masters in Oahu and Tahiti, the Quiksilver Big Wave Competition, and the O'Neill Surfing World Cup; I work out five days a week at the gym; and volunteer time helping autistic children. I guess that's all.”
BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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