Mr. 365 (31 page)

At five-twenty my phone rings.

“Hey, Erika,” I say nervously.

“Hi, Sophia.” I can’t tell what to make of her tone.

There’s a long pause.

“Well, we saw the show.”

I hear laughter in the background and then a muffled “Stop it!” through the phone.

“So how was it?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Well, it was very clever, and I must say I was amazed to see it all. That guy, Will is it? His house is stunning—so creative. It’s over the top. It’s really… just wow! I can’t imagine how much time it takes to set up.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot, I know, but he likes doing it.” I feel strange, as if I’m justifying what Will does.

“He must.”

“So?”

“Well… I’m not going to lie. It’s really unflattering to your friend. He comes off as a bit unstable,” she says.

“Like a lunatic!” Liam yells in the background.

My stomach plummets. “That bad?”

“If I were this guy, I’d be furious. You’re going to hate it. If I were you, I’d discourage him from watching it. It will just enrage him and he can’t do anything about it. It’ll just be a bad memory in a few weeks.”

“Until they run it over and over in reruns,” her husband adds with a snicker.

“Would you shut up!” she yells back. “I’m sorry about him, Sophia. He’s kind of punchy tonight.”

I grit my teeth. Erika’s expressive husband is the last of my worries.

“Hey, thanks for letting me know. I’m grateful to be forewarned from a friend rather than watching it cold.”

“No problem. I just wish I had better news.”

“I do too, Erika. Believe me, I do too.”

After the shoot, a group of us stop for burgers and beer before heading back to the hotel. I’m not driving so I cut loose a bit with the booze in an attempt to numb my mind.

Later in my room I intend to just crash early, but the television calls to me in the most taunting way. I check my watch repeatedly as I flip through the channels, knowing that Will’s show will be on again in a matter of minutes.

No way,
I say to myself, trying to shake off the masochistic impulse.

Do it!
my internal crazy woman screams.

I get under the covers and pull the blanket up under my chin, my eyes wide as I wait for the torture to begin.

Once the show starts my feeling of dread grows as each moment passes. I imagine that despite the time difference, Will would’ve watched the early broadcast and experienced the horror already.

In my tipsy state, the whole thing seems like a fuzzy, ridiculously bad dream—more like a nightmare. It’s almost clever how just about everything Will says is followed by footage that makes him look like a bozo. Either Helene the so-called writer, who is now identified as a prominent psychologist, explains whatever affliction Will has makes him do such obsessive things, or there’s a contrast shot that dispels the logic of whatever Will’s just explained. If I wasn’t so horrified about my involvement in this and what it will do to Will, I’d be impressed with the crafty editing.

My mouth gapes open after the front yard interview where Will proudly presents the different outdoor displays and talks about the people that come from near and far to see the house. The upbeat shots then cut to interviews with angry neighbors that I wasn’t even aware had issues. They go on and on about what a nightmare Will’s house has created for the neighborhood. I’m acutely reminded as I watch how during my first conversation with Will I assured him the show would help his cause getting neighborhood support. Instead it’s blown it to hell and back.

The worst moment in the episode is where Will talks about the kids visiting the house and how much it means to them. The scene cuts to some snotty nose boy saying that he went to the house last year and the owner was a big show off and not even nice to them—that he was always telling everyone what to do. He insists that he didn’t get his gift ornament when the house visit was over.

“My Dad said he’s just a big goofy jerk that needs attention and should grow up.”

Dr. Helene follows the expressive brat with comments that paint Will as an unfulfilled egomaniac. I want to reach through the television and punch her in the face.

I’m stunned and can only imagine how devastated Will was to see this. He must have been heartbroken to be trashed by one of the kids he thought he was helping.

When it’s finished, I play the entire episode again in my head. My brain rewinds certain scenes over until I’m almost reciting the dialogue by heart. When I finally pass out, the moonlight is creeping in the window, casting silver shadows across the dark room. In the quiet darkness I face the fact that Will didn’t call after the show aired, and I doubt he’ll ever call again.

I wake only a few hours later, and despite the hangover and horrible sleep I feel as lucid as I ever have. I’ve made a decision. Now I just have to figure out the quickest, most efficient way to follow it through.

I
’m still making plans as I pack for my flight home. Positively flattened by my emotional and physical exhaustion, all I want is a world where non-bedazzled Easter eggs are sloppily dyed by little kids, a place where leprechauns don’t leer at your breasts just because they’re at eye level, and where Will is still in love with me.

On the plane ride, I stare out the window, trying to imagine my future. How will I feel about my career now? How will True Blue feel about me? I put all of my talent and effort into my work, and I feel completely duped by it. How will I drum up the same kind of motivation I’ll need for future projects? Everything feels tainted, ruined like a special party dress with something unspeakable splashed across the front—an ugly stain that will linger even after the dress is cleaned.

When the plane lands at LAX, I send Rachel an e-mail asking for a meeting with her on Monday morning. In the terminal, I connect with the ride the studio arranged. While they collect my luggage, a sore throat hits me like a freight train. By the time the driver gets me home, my nose is running and my head’s throbbing.

Awesome
.
On top of everything, now I’m sick.

Leaving my suitcase unopened in my living room, I pump myself full of Airborne and zinc lozenges, a bottle of water, and hot tea. With the tissue box on my bedside table, I put on my most comfortable jammies and get into bed. I don’t get out of it again for anything but the most basic necessities until Sunday night.

On Monday my cold is under control enough for me to take care of what I need to at work. I’m not on the steadiest ground, but by the time I head into Rachel’s office, I’ve played out the conversation I want to have in my mind so much I feel like an actress in a play, reciting her lines.

When I’m done presenting my resignation Rachel looks at me, dumbstruck. “You’re seriously quitting your job over a Christmas special? Do you know how many people would kill for your position? Are you really going to throw it all away?”

“I know it seems crazy, but this whole experience has made me take a hard look at my career path and how far I’ve veered from my original plans.”

Rachel looks at me skeptically. “You’re a producer. Don’t you realize how hard won that job is?”

“I do, but at what price, Rachel? This type of work is never what I had intended to do. I went to film school wanting to produce documentaries. I wanted to show people a side of the world, or other cultures, or even themselves that they may not have seen otherwise. I had big dreams.”

“Didn’t we all.” Rachel arches her brow.

“Once out of school I got scared about paying the bills and not being able to get a job.”

“Which is no small issue.” Rachel points out.

“True. So I compromised in a small way on the first opportunity that came along. Then with each new opportunity I compromised a bit more and more. Somewhere along the line I convinced myself this genre of TV was sort of like documentaries and maybe, in the beginning, a few of them were.”

I can tell from Rachel’s expression that she’s scanning her brain, trying to think of examples, but she remains silent.

“Then over time, the shows became more and more entertaining and began to manipulate the concepts and the subjects for the biggest shock value or sensationalism.”

“So,” Rachel says.

“So, now there’s nothing real about them anymore,” I say.

“Who cares as long as people like watching them?”

“I do.” As soon as those two little words fall out of my mouth I realize that they’re the fundamental truth to both the person that’s been buried under the layers of a worker bee trying to hold onto a career, and the inspired person I aspire to be.

It’s finally my time to turn off the GPS that was programmed into me and take a sharp right turn.

Rachel shakes her head. “Well, I’m sorry to lose you. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do. Frankly, I want to be proud of what I do, not embarrassed by it.”

A hard look falls over Rachel’s face as she squints and her mouth purses. “Well, I guess that’s it then.”

I get up, walk to the door, and pause before I turn around.

“I know now that you guys knew from the start what you were going to do with this show, didn’t you. You used me to lure Will in. I overhead a conversation in Massachusetts about how you purposely kept me in the dark so I’d get Will fully on board for the shoot. The plan all along was to make him look like a freak. Wasn’t it?” The fury fires in me as I wait for her answer.

“Is that the real reason you’re quitting?” Rachel asks, folding her arms over her chest. She doesn’t even dispute it.

I consider the question and then nod. “It’s part of it. Why would I stay? I’m mad at myself for being so gullible. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”

I square my shoulders, and for the first time I feel taller than her. Rachel looks uneasy, and it makes me wonder how she lives with herself.

“What you guys did was unethical and despicable. You have no regard for the results of your actions or how it affected Will personally or professionally. You think I only care because of my feelings for him, but you’re wrong. I care because it’s the right thing, and you should care too.”

As I walk down the hallway, out the front door of True Blue Entertainment and to my car, the layers of disappointment in myself peel off and drop away until I am light as air. One strong gust would surely toss me into the sky where I could finally test my wings and fly.

Maybe I’ll soar
, I say to myself, smiling. All I have to do now is figure out how.

When I get home, I flip open my laptop and book of contacts. I scoot in my chair and get right to work, starting from the very beginning all over again.

As I update my resume, and send out e-mails, I’m finally able to think of Will with a thought other than loss
.

I bet he’d be proud of me.
That very idea gives me hope and inspires me. Later that night I curl up on my couch with pen and paper and imagine what I would say if Will were sitting here next to me. A wave of emotion washes over me. As soon as I press the tip of the pen onto the paper, it takes off as my heart pours out across the pages.