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Authors: David James

BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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C
HAPTER 12
Would Someone Please Shoot Me?
I
had a tiny breakfast that wouldn't make my stomach stick out since we were filming again today. And the next day, and the next. With only weekends off. Today would be another pool episode, with those scenes that matched the previous day's shooting edited to make it look like they happened yesterday, and those that moved the story noticeably forward would either be super-titled as another day or be saved for the following episode. Jeremy had told us we would take between three and five days of shooting for each episode—light speed for a reality show. We would follow the same schedule each week, pumping out material for the “post” people to craft into a half-hour program. The first episode would be ready in four weeks. Again, unbelievable speed for TV show production.
It was pretty much the same as yesterday, except that no one got slapped. There were a lot of posturing, tiny bathing suits, catty retorts, rumor spreading, and Aurora and Ian sitting there watching it all like spectators in a Roman coliseum. The question was, who was going to emerge the victor? A few more days and by Thursday, we would be done shooting for this week. This would go on and on for thirteen weeks, starting Mondays and finishing each Thursday—unless we were canceled.
Some of the rumors I overheard during the filmings were somewhat surprising, but not shocking. Aleksei had penile implants, Drake owned several pairs of leather chaps, and Ian routinely had boyfriends followed by private investigators. Other revelations later sent me to urbandictionary.com to look them up since I had no idea what snowballing, an Alaskan fire dragon, or a rusty trombone were. Trust me, you don't want to know.
A month went by, filled with a little more drama each time. There was a drunken brawl between Aleksei and Gilles, Ian stormed off the set several times, and Drake destroyed a fair amount of household items those four weeks. Manufactured drama for the most part . . . just what I had predicted.
And before you knew it, the first episode was ready to air on Sunday night. In a really good time slot. The program schedulers at the network obviously had a lot of faith riding on their decision. They felt our little show was going to be a big hit. Alex and Regina came over to my house to celebrate episode one with a nice bottle of champagne and my new fifty-five–inch flat-screen TV.
“I'm so glad you got rid of that last goddamn TV, Amanda,” Regina said as I poured her another glass of bubbly. “This one is so much nicer.” Today's T-shirt she wore read: F
UCK
M
E
, I'
M
F
AMOUS
.
“I wouldn't talk, Regina. Yours is still housed in a Mediterranean cabinet. How old is it?”
“Twenty, twenty-five years old.”
“I didn't think TVs lasted that long,” Alex remarked.
“Well, it's not like this fancy one you got, but you can still make out colors and shapes on it.”
“Shhh,” Alex warned as the show came on.
The opening started with ominous music that slowly built over footage of Ian Forbes and his hair empire while a narrator laid down the premise of the show. This was followed, like any reality show, with blaring rock music to get people excited. After the titles, each of the show's cast members got their five seconds of fame as they were highlighted. Some cast members turned slowly toward the camera like they were on a human-sized turntable. Some leered naughtily at the camera. Aleksei was shot toasting the audience with a glass of champagne.
Alex and Regina watched the entire show with rapt attention, amazed at how much of the “artwork” in Ian's home had to be pixilated because it was too obscene for television. But the time you watched a few minutes of the show, you would've sworn you had cataracts. When it came to the end of the episode and my peep show, the two of them sat with mouths wide open even though they had seen it dozens of times on the Internet.
“Your bazongas are huge on a wide-screen TV!” Regina said, downing the contents of her champagne flute. “Good thing you don't have a 3-D TV. Those things could've poked my eyes out!”
Up came the reaction shots, followed by Aurora, who wrapped up the show by giving a brutally honest assessment of the guys:
They're rude, crass, untrustworthy, and self-centered. When they're not trying to outslime each other, then they're texting and not connecting with another human being in a meaningful way. I don't see how some of them are going to make it with their toxic personalities. Now, I know that Ian is not easy to get along with. He's tough, egotistical, ruthless, paranoid, and could stand to lose a few pounds, so I need to find someone who could put up with his antics and his paunchy abdomen. But this is going to be a struggle to find a guy with some sort of integrity. I refuse to lower the bar here, and it's pretty low as it is. Drake and David are the standouts so far. David can be a little sarcastic and high-and-mighty, but he has honesty. And Drake, he's loyal, hardworking, doesn't get involved in the petty interactions of the others, and like David, he seems to be honest. He's a bit dark, but I think that characteristic appeals to Ian as well.
The show cut to scenes of upcoming episodes (even though they weren't even filmed), most of which were assumptions of where Jeremy and the editors were sure the show would head in the future. The editors cleverly used dramatic reaction shots with verbiage that could have been used no matter what ensued. It was like a fortune-teller or astrologer, giving predictions so vague and adaptable, the listener would read more into them than they actually deserved. The next-episode scenes were followed by credits that surprised me. The number of people who put on the show was far greater than I had seen at the filmings, so I wondered what cost savings Jeremy gained by using an unscripted format. The credits revealed, like with any TV program or movie made in Hollywood, that everyone within a 100-mile radius got a credit on the show, whether they styled our hair or walked Jeremy's dog.
I waited a moment to ask what Alex and Regina thought.
“Fuckin' great, Amanda. That bitch slap is going to make you famous. Fuckin' great,” Regina said, finishing her champagne.
“And you?” I asked, looking at Alex and realizing that his reply was the only one that mattered.
“You did great, kid. I'm proud of you,” he replied.
I studied the tone and inflection of his comment, and searched his face again. Alex had a terrific poker face, but I could see behind the mask. He thought I did a great job. Mostly. I could see the ten percent that wasn't on board. I felt like a failure. Then, like me reading Alex, he read my thoughts.
“Hey, hey, what's that face for?”
“What?” I said, lying to him.
“I can see what's going through that head of yours. Amanda, you're on a reality show. It's not
Masterpiece Theatre
. That's okay.” He grabbed my chin delicately and turned my face to look directly into his eyes. “Y-o-u a-r-e o-n t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n, Amanda. That's a billion-to-one shot. And you stole the first show. Stole it! And you kept your dignity. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You aced it.”
I believed him. Mostly.
Alex continued, sensing that he was on a roll with his ego boosting. “On the first show, you've established your character and it's a hit. It resonates with viewers. You're the voice of reason on this morally topsy-turvy program of conniving gold diggers. There's almost no one on the show who's likable, but you are. You stand up to the bullshit. You fight back. People like you.”
“That's right, Amanda. I really liked you . . . rooted for you,” Regina slipped in.
“Oh, that's just the two of you saying that to make me feel better.”
Just then my iPhone, which was on
silent,
started jumping and buzzing on the tabletop like a cicada on a hot July afternoon. And it didn't stop. I went over, wondering which client was now having a drama-queen episode. I looked at the mass of text messages, and there was a list as long as your arm. Friends, cousins, clients, coworkers were all sending messages of congratulations. They loved me! I showed the messages to Alex and Regina, who quickly scanned them and nodded their heads in approval.
“Amanda?” Alex sang slowly. “I think the people have spoken.”
C
HAPTER 13
And What Are Your Plans for That Cucumber?
T
he next night, I found myself driving to our local bowling alley. Monday night was the gay bowling league. I was on the only straight team. Us four girls: Jerri, Samantha, Regina Belle, and me. What brought us together is that all our husbands turned out to be gay. Well, in Regina's case, one of several, making her batting average better than the rest of us simply because she had been married more times. So, since we loved the company of gay men, we figured it wouldn't hurt to be surrounded by them holding sixteen-pound balls. We even had our team name embroidered on our bowling shirts: T
HE
F
AG
H
AGS
, in very fancy script. In sequins. Strangely enough, we stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of gay men, transvestites, one transsexual, and the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. They rarely wore their official transvestite nun habits, owing to the fateful day when Sister Way Too Much's habit got caught in the ball return and she was almost dragged into the bowels of the machine. From that day on, only facial makeup and short headpieces were worn by the Sisters.
Very
short, I might add.
When I walked in, I kept my head low. I wanted to slip in quietly with as few people noticing me as was possible. That plan went into the shitter when several of the bowlers recognized me immediately and began a standing ovation. Those who didn't join in craned their necks to see what all the commotion was about. You would have thought I rolled a 300 game.
Right then, I did the most uncharacteristic thing I'd ever done in my life. I waved my hand with an Elizabeth II royal wave and followed it with a bow. This was so not me. All my life, I'd avoided being seen, being recognized, being photographed. And here I was, sweeping in the praise and adoration as the waves washed over me. So this is what it felt like to be a celebrity. I liked it.
Several of the guys clustered around me, gushing about my performance in the premiere episode of
Things Are a Bit Iffy
. As I changed into my bowling shoes, fans lobbed questions at me about my first episode.
“Was the slap real or was it staged?”
“Did you wish you hit Gilles harder?”
“Who are you going to punch next?”
“Did you have a boob job?” (I didn't take offense at this last question since it was asked by Carla de Rossi, the league's only transsexual.) The initial adoration and congratulations eventually died down, but throughout the night, men would drift by or shout “great slap” to me while I was waiting my turn to bowl. It must have had an effect on my bowling, because I rolled a 220, 231, and 267. It would all be forgotten in the morning, I told myself.
It wasn't.
 
I didn't realize how much my celebrity had spread. Videos posted on YouTube containing parts of the show were nearing 1,200,000 views by the time I got up. When I walked into my local supermarket and entered the vegetable and fruit section around 10
A.M.
, it really hit me how my life was changing—whether I liked it or not. Granted, I was wearing mini-stilettos, skintight cigarette capri pants, and a low-cut white linen blouse—just the kind of outfit you would wear to pick over zucchinis. As I made my way around the onion and potato table, I could feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring holes in my back.
I moved onto the lettuce and cabbage section, and I was keenly aware that not only was I being watched, but whispered about. I went about my business, thumping a cantaloupe, squeezing a vine-ripened tomato, when a man provocatively holding two casaba melons approached me slyly, puckering up enough to send off a seductive air kiss that said, “I want to get my hands on your tomatoes.” I ignored him—the price of celebrity.
But my adoring fans weren't done with me yet. A man standing near me, who was sneaking quick sideways glances, whispered discreetly, “Slap me.”
I looked at him briefly, not sure I had heard what I heard. I went back to my Roma tomatoes.
“Slap me, Amanda.”
This I couldn't let go. “Excuse me?” I said.
“Slap me. Step on my nuts with the heel of those stilettos.”
“Do I know you?” I asked, and turned away.
“I want you to violate me with this yam,” he said, brandishing a rather oversized tuberous root vegetable.
“That's a sweet potato.”
“Well, it's a yam, too,” he replied defensively.
“Yams are from Africa, Asia, and Latin America. This is a sweet potato. They're from completely different botanical families.”
“Potato potah-to. I want you to ram it into me, Amanda. Make me your bitch.”
At first I was put off by this man's appalling lack of knowledge of the origins of basic foods. But my encounter with him had taken a more ominous turn. It wasn't the sexual component that disturbed me. From the time I was old enough to know what was going on and had breasts big enough to cause male heads to turn, I knew I was being hit on by men from time to time. Creepy fact, but those were the times. There were no sexual harassment laws, no predator laws, or women to stand up for themselves when I was growing up. Of course, it was a great improvement over my grandmother's time, when she claimed that they left the female babies to the wolves in her Lithuanian village because they weren't worth as much as a man. So I accepted the evolution that had occurred in human thought, however small that it was.
No, what really bothered me was the fact that from the instant this man used my name, he was acting as if he actually knew me—that he felt comfortable enough to be intimate with me. I knew a line had been crossed. It was unfortunate. I wanted adoring fans, the operative word here being adoring. Adoring meant people standing at a respectful and reverential distance, whispering how much they wanted to be like me—no, to be me—and perhaps snapping a picture to show the folks back home while throwing large bags of gold, frankincense, and myrrh in my general direction. But it concerned me that fans wouldn't always follow the rules I had laid down in my mind. I discovered that I should be nice to all of my fans, but I shouldn't be too nice to any of them.
“Get down on your knees,” I said, surprising myself.
“What?” the startled yam . . . I mean, sweet-potato–wielding man replied.
“Didn't you hear me? I said get down on your knees while I finish shopping,” I stated firmly, extending my index finger with the blood-red nail toward the floor, where I expected this man to grovel. “I have more shopping to do. I expect to find you here when I come back!” I said, raising my voice a bit at the end for emphasis. He never got fully down on his knees, and as soon as I was far enough away, he dropped the sweet potato and ran out of the store.
A woman who was watching all this transpire from a distance drifted toward me. She decided to comment on what she had just seen.
“Men!”
“You said it, sister.”
“I recognized you as Amanda Thorne on
Things Are a Bit Iffy
.”
“That's me,” I said, thrusting out my hand to shake. She grabbed my hand and pumped it like an enthusiastic candidate for governor.
“So glad to meet you. When I saw you slap that little French bitch on the TV show, I felt a stab of sisterhood. We don't need to take that from the male patriarchy.”
“Er, yeah.”
“I mean, men have been oppressing us since we walked out of caves and realized we could do more than breed and cook.”
Now, I'm a feminist to a very large extent. I still have my E
VE
W
AS
F
RAMED
bumper sticker on the back of my Toyota Land Cruiser. I still admire Gloria Steinem, mostly. But when I hear a woman making remarks that involve words like
oppression, patriarchy,
or
forced castration,
it's too much for me. I mean, I like men. I like being fucked by them. I was married to one, for gosh sakes. Of course, he turned out to be gay. But he is still a man, no matter where his penis has been.
“I'm not sure he was oppressing me per se. I think he's just a bitchy French queen. An equal opportunity offender, if you will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a kumquat that's calling me. A pleasure to meet you.”
I left her standing there, unsure whether I was a bitch, really had fruit to buy, or was too much of a celebrity to bother with the unwashed masses. And to tell you the truth, I wasn't sure what I was just then either.

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