Fade In (6 page)

In college, I once failed a test I’d studied so hard for. I swear on Matt Lauer—whom I will forever have a crush on—that that motherfucking professor had it out for me. I just knew he did, but Cooper maintained that at least we knew what I didn't know.

So he gathered all of my returned assignments and papers and helped me study for that Pap smear of a final. He suggested only working on the stuff I didn't do well on and not the stuff that I did.

He helped.

He pointed out the necessary things I needed to focus on. Yet he has never once offered to fix something for me. Cooper never hesitates to help me do it on my own.

I hug him again really hard, knocking the wind from him, saying, “I love you, Coopie pants.”

He lovingly pushes me off him.

“Back up. I know.” He smiles. “Now, let’s get your shit together. I'm gonna need a piece of paper, a pen, and a spoon. I never understood why you eat your ice cream with a God dammed fork. You are such a weirdo.”

Cooper and I sit there at the bar in my kitchen until we've eaten all of that tub and finish off the partial tub I already had in the freezer. My assignments for the next week are to start working on finding people to hire for a personal assistant, a cleaning company, and a car service.

He told me that he would help with the driver since he knows of a good one who he uses when showing properties to people who didn't really know New York that well yet, offering to forward his contact information in the morning. “Ask for Ray Dabney. He's good.”

I'm still a little rattled by the weekend, but I fell asleep last night feeling like it was going to be all right—comfortably with the lights on.

This morning, I gather all of my weekend's work out of my home office. I put on my favorite blue wrap dress, pairing it with my peep toes, and feel ready to kick this week's ass.

In the cab on the way to the studio, I answer a few emails I received about the never-ending bounty of drama that Hollywood's biggest train wreck, Chelsea Royce, supplies us with. The typical childhood sweetheart actress, she put out a terrible record, dated an awesome young man, broke up with him for a bad boy, and does an amazing job in a movie only to follow it up with a leaked homemade porno and a stint in rehab. All too common in twenty-something Hollywood, but people can't help but beg for more for it.

This will be an easy week.

Entering the downtown building among all the energy of the city, I wave my badge, which hangs on my briefcase, at the security guard and take the elevator to the thirtieth floor that houses the offices for the show.

“Good morning, Tatum. Here are your messages. Did you have a nice birthday?” says Cynthia, our receptionist.

Cynthia is a sweet, almost naïve girl. Her stick-straight brown hair is most often pulled into a half-up, half-down ‘do that is very neat in the morning and slightly askew by late afternoon. I like to think she's from the country or some similarly Podunk place, but she most likely just comes from upstate.

Always quick to be polite and helpful, she usually wears a smile that is very genuine and only shakes her head at me when I say something off-color in her presence, which is usually about three times a day. Nevertheless, she comes in early each morning—I guess before everyone else—and stops at my office each evening before heading out to inquire if there is anything else she can do for me.

I like her a lot. And the devil in me can't wait for the night when we decide to go get a drink and she gets piss drunk and lets me into that seemingly innocent little mind.

Lying to her about my birthday, I tell her, “I did, thank you.” Then I ask, “Is Winnie in yet?”

“She is. She, Tilly, and Wes are in the writers’ room, and I think Neil just left to get your coffees.”

“Great. Thanks.” I walk around the pit, which is really a round pool of desks and cubicles where most of the show's staff resides, and into my office at the end.

Some of the perks of being a producer are the liberties that the network give in to. My office is sleek, but not cold. Shit, I guess it's a lot like my condo—decorated in dark browns, creams, and silver. I know I'm boring in the decorating department, but clean and simple always make me feel calm. And clutter, again, is my enemy. So call me a minimalist. I don't care. You break a knee cap once a week on a piece of furniture and have tabletop shit flying everywhere and then you can judge my strategies.

Settling into my morning and lining out the day, I set into some of the tasks I chose for myself. I received the driving company's contact information from Coop, so I forward it to Neil, my work assistant, so he can call and inquire about their services.

Then, grabbing my things to head into the writers' room, I run smack into Neil coming through my door.

“Shit, Tate. Are you okay? Geez, I'm glad I already put the coffee down. You would have been soaked.” Neil is what I like to call “metro-gay.” He's flamboyant in a posh way and more ladylike than most women I've met. He's classically queer.

“Dammit, Neil. Can you get me a few possible contacts for a new personal assistant?” I blurt while checking to make sure I have all of my weekend's notes still in my hands.

He freezes. I take in his perfectly pressed gray trousers that he's coupled with suspenders. This morning, Neil is sporting lime green glasses. He looks adorable.

“I like the glasses,” I tell him.

“Tatum, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rush in here like that. Are you firing me?”

Now I can see the worry that my request gave him. I didn't even think about how that sounded. You can make another tick mark under the heading ‘Tatum Is An Asshat.’

“Fuck no! You're mine forever, Neil. I need a personal assistant for outside of work. I need to...” Waving my hand around my head, I sing, “Simplify.”

His cheeks puff out like a blowfish as he exhales his relief. “Oh, thank God. I almost shit my pants. Sure, of course. When do you want to interview them? Should I set up a time for them to come here, or I could help you do it at your place?”

“I'm not sure what the week looks like yet. Just get some information about PAs who might, I don't know, live around my area, have experience with, uh, all of this.” Waving again like a crazed lunatic, I'm forever talking with my hands. “Someone who is young, even though you can't say that. Just say energetic. And available to start next week.” I stand there while he absorbs my plight.

“Got it. You need me in there?”

“Nah. It's going to be a simple week. You can set up in my office if you want. Oh, and do you want to grab lunch after the morning meeting? We can talk about what you find out and I'll tell you about breaking up with Kurt.” If my last unintentional bomb didn't nut check him, then that will.

His eyes almost fall out of his head. “You can't do that! Ahh, this is going to be the longest morning! Damn you, Tatum Elliot. You're a wicked bitch.”

I nod in agreement. “Yeah, I learned that too this weekend,” I tell him as I start around the pool of desks floating in the pit. “Do some work.”

The writers' room, which is fundamentally just a conference room that has everyone's shit in it—everything from laptops to the most current tabloid covers taped to the back wall to the three televisions we have hanging on the wall above the windows—is the nucleus of our show.

When I walk in and see everyone already hard at it, I'm pleased. Wes and Winnie are the main attractions, but this show is my baby. Yeah, I'm the momma.

“Okay, guys, this should be an easy week. Chel-Ro went batshit-crazy at a strip mall in Santa Monica. Then she wrecked her lawyer's car.” I point to the screen that is conveniently reporting about the whole situation as I speak. When the segment is over, I say, “See? So I'm thinking we play up the mall thing and the car committing suicide from not wanting to be seen with her driving it. What have you guys got?”

They laugh a little and agree that she's a total hot mess that we can't pass up.

Wes leans over the table to say, “Wow, someone is on a mission.” He sits in the lead chair at the head of the long, smoke-tinted glass top table wearing his signature lame graphic t-shirt, sports jacket, and jeans. Then he adds, “Winnie said you dumped pencil dick? You doing okay?”

I somehow maintain my cool. “His dick resembles nothing even close to a pencil. That could be slander. He has a great dick,” I retort, pointing my pen at the quizzing expression on his face. “Actually, I'm doing great, and so is he. We had breakfast yesterday like adults and it's fine. So mind your own fucking business and let's get this week lined out. I have shit to do.”

“Ha! Look out!” bellows Tilly, Winnie's assistant. “That girl is on fire!” She’s singing and laughing at my obvious take-charge attitude about my breakup.

“Well, if you're all ready, then let’s do this. Over the weekend, I took home some of the segs that the junior writers have been working on and there are some really great ones. There is one about a mock award show for retired models—so funny and kind of sad.” I laugh from thinking about it. “There was a good one with a fictional metal band called Death Face but needs a little working on. There was bit about the bearded duck hunter show. A parody thing that the Devons are working on and it's killer. I think we probably have a good show with those.”

“The duck guys skit is hilarious! We should open with it. I love everything about it,” adds Winnie. “I heard them talking about it Friday from my office before I left. That one will be huge.”

“Good. And the leftovers from last week are still current and we can fill in with the digitals that the Devons did over spring break,” I say.

Winnie has a soft spot in her heart for the pair of Devons that work with us. I think they remind her of us from just a few years ago. She states very matter-of-factly to the whole room, “Those Devons are rocking it right now. We should think about giving them their own office though. They really get into their stuff.” Making a case for her favorite duo, she continues. “They work great together, and they are coming up with stellar scenes. What do you guys think about that?” She looks to both Wes and me like a child asking her parents for money for the carnival.

“I don't want to stifle them by saying, 'Dudes, shut the fuck up. Everyone else is working, too', but they are a distraction for the others in the pit. That office by reception would work great and they deserve it.” Winnie sounds like she is pleading with a jury.

She adores those guys, but she was right. When they are playing with ideas, it turns into office improve, and I am even guilty of hurrying through calls to go out and watch.

Last week, big Devon was holding little Devon upside down trying to shake out his pocket change for the vending machine. I almost pissed myself.

The rest of the morning meeting goes well. The week is already shaping up to run smoothly, and I figure that I can probably do the interviews from home any day I want to.

That's the beauty of working with some of the most talented people in the business. Everyone wants on the air. Everyone wants to do their work, and if you don't watch it, they'll do yours too. And if you're really unlucky, they'll do it better.

I'm graced with the good fortune of telling the Devons that they can move into the office across from reception. I can have some fun with this opportunity.

Back in my office, I think now is as good a time as any. “Neil, please go get the Devons for me.”

Neil's face screams injustice. He looks so guilty all of a sudden. Everyone one loves the two Devons, but they can be a handful. Let's just say that Wes, Winnie, and I have all had our little chats with them.

He tells me, “It wasn't really piss, you know. They just put food coloring in the water thing. They feel really bad about it.”

“It isn't about that. Besides, if anyone actually drank that, then it's their own fault. Who the fuck would drink piss then bitch about it?” He hesitates and cocks his head to the side. “You are paranoid today. Are you getting a man period or something? Just go get them.”

I'm well aware of just how unprofessional and misogynistic I can be. You can kiss my ass though. Neil loves me and would be crushed if I didn't give him the attention that I do. Plus, he adorably blushes when I insinuate is femininity. I have to give my people what they want. I'm a giver.