Reality Jane (2 page)

This isn’t how things had started out for me.

In the beginning, there was no production Gestapo—just me, a solitary new arrival on “the island.” I fancied myself the next great documentary producer, covering meaningful topics like “colony collapse disorder” or the “plastic vortex in the middle of the Pacific.” Hollywood was my ticket to greatness. First stop? Reality shows—to cut my chops. Next stop? The Oscars—ringside with Morgan Spurlock and Michael Moore.
Hello, beautiful golden statue!

I was the cliché Hollywood hopeful: ambitious, cute (but possibly forgettable), with a few extra pounds of baby flab that, at 28, could no longer be considered “baby” anything, transplanted from the great plains of Canada, armed with friendly pleases and thank-yous. It was a big ball of excitement back then. As far as I was concerned, I had won the lottery—my first real producer job in the big-time.

“H
ey, don’t I know you from TV? Aren’t you someone famous?”

I was completely in the clouds, strolling the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Little Miss Fancy Pants bouncing through the crowd like Sofia Coppola, or some other big-league Hollywood creative type, effervescent in Italian designer garb. I half-felt people might stop me for my autograph, as if they could read my mind or know what I’d accomplished in little under a week.

“Yo! Yo, pretty lady!”

“Huh?” I searched for the voice.

“Show a little love,” the bearded man said, shaking an empty tin partly hidden beneath a pile of grimy clothes.

So the picture on the ground was a little different than the one in my head. Instead of adoring fans with gushing accolades, I had Hobo Harry mooching change. Just as well. Ballet flats and an Abercrombie hoodie didn’t exactly scream television tycoon, even if that was precisely how I felt.

In a matter of a weekend, as in last weekend, I had gone from part-time TV reporter in drizzly Vancouver to full-time Hollywood producer in the land of perpetually beaming sun. They had hired me on Friday, after a month of occupational purgatory, when I’d constantly wondered whether I’d be relegated to mid-sized-market mediocrity, or sent to play with the gods of big-time television. Fate, God, Zeus, Oprah—whoever is in charge—picked the latter. It went like this: “It’s a go. You’re hired. We need you, like yesterday.”

Hyperventilating, I packed my car that afternoon, bee-lined it south on Saturday, drove through the night, and arrived late
Sunday. I began work on Monday, and met the team on Tuesday. By Wednesday, we had bonded. By Thursday, we had outlined the season. And today—Friday—my heart rate still in the stratosphere, we’d do our first real shoot, in Beverly Hills no less.

The homeless man shook his cup. “Yo, lady, I charge rent. If you’re moving in,” he said with a wink, “we better talk.”

“Whoops, sorry.” I jumped to the side. Monsieur Hobo was a flirt and, by the looks of it, a real estate tycoon too. At more than a million bucks a quarter-acre, his was the choicest real estate in the country—beachfront Santa Monica.

I fished around in my bag and found some loonies at the bottom. “Here you go,” I said. “I think the dollar is on par right now.”

“Canadian, eh?” he said.

“Can you tell?”

He jingled his cup. “The big coin with the duck gave it away. You an actress?”

“Ha, that’s funny. An actress. No, I’m a TV producer.” I liked the sound of that so much, I had to say it again. “I produce reality TV.”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s like a serialized documentary, only, you know, a little fluffier. It’s pretty cool.”

He nodded, which was my cue to continue. “Ultimately, I want to produce long-form documentaries on more meaningful subjects, or be the next Diane Sawyer. But for now, I’m just happy to be here. I mean, it’s LA, after all. And, and,” I said with great drama, finally having an audience besides my mother, “I’m working with Lucy Lane. Heard of her? I’m her new producer!”

A black convertible BMW, sliding into the curb, interrupted our conversation.

“Hey, Canada, hop in or we’ll be late for your first big shoot,” Rose shouted from the driver’s seat, taking a pull from an extra large Big Gulp.

“That’s my AP,” I said to my homeless buddy as I trotted off toward the car, triple shot Americano in my grip. “Got to run!”

“Stop by anytime.” He waved me away with a weathered paw.

The tires practically squealed as Rose drove north for San Vicente.

“Slumming it?” she said sideways. “You might be a
snowback
, but you can do better than that,” she laughed.

I smiled cautiously. “
Snowback
?”

“Yeah, like wetback, only colder.” Her ring-tone began pounding out an electronic Lady Gaga as she slapped my knee. “Kidding, Blondie. Don’t be so sensitive. Whazzup, Corinne?” she said animatedly into the phone, driving and talking and gulping and laughing.

Rose was a card—gruff and sarcastic but also fun and homey. Her body was apple shaped and she wore a short 1920’s hairdo, with pin-curls that looped around her square face, and she loved to cook, talking ad nauseam about soufflés and persimmon pies. For some reason, she had taken to calling me my home country’s namesake, and when performing for others, butchered it into “Janada.” That would be Canada with a “J” for Jane. When that didn’t work for her, I was simply “Blondie.” None of which bothered me. In fact, it was refreshing—skip the niceness and, like family, go straight to sarcasm. Rose was just one of the women who in five short days had become my new world.

I felt as if I had been warped to the moon. Beyond landing the job of a lifetime— “show producer” on
The Purrfect Life
with Lucy Lane, thank you very much—I had nabbed this star-studded collection of true-blue tinsel-town girlfriends who, as far as I could tell, pretty much walked on water. Cue golden sunbeam. These girls were velvet cool—hybrids of Hollywood hip and New York street smart.

The host of the show, Lucy, was gorgeous, a curvy blonde with chutzpah galore. Famous for posing in
Purr Magazine
at the age of 19, and marrying and divorcing Purr magnate Brock Barrington in the span of a month, Lucy had built an online empire—$25 per month to watch her on sexy dates with B-list actors and bad-boy rockers. She was now on her second reality show. The first was titled,
Who Loves Lucy Lane?
, a
Bachelorette
derivative where fifteen hunky, monosyllabic dudes vied for her affection. It bombed. But the networks still loved her.

Then there was my co-producer, Corinne, a sassy redhead with an angled bob whose machinations could make Machiavelli look like an amateur. She had the goods on everyone from Bobby De Niro to Tyra Banks. I saw her chew some poor sap a new a-hole at the W Hotel on Tuesday and thanked sweet Jesus she was on my team.

Finally, besides Rose, who was my associate producer, there was Toni, the production assistant. Together, their job was to support me. They handled everything from research and craft service to locations, all with a helpful glint. Day two, Toni lined me up with my first ever lunchtime laser pedicure/facial at America’s only human car wash: “We’ll buff you out from head to toe in 20 minutes or less. Satisfaction guaranteed or your next buff is free!”

Rose and I pulled up to Lucy’s abode in Beverly Hills, where we were scheduled to shoot pool-side portraits of Lucy looking
Sex Kitten
sultry in a bikini. This included Lucy wet, under the waterfall, climbing out of the water, slinking over rocks, and myriad other sexy poses to be wallpapered over the opening credits. A nice man in a black suit shuttled Rose’s car under-ground.

“Okay, Janada, follow me.” Rose held the elevator door open as I wandered semi-awestruck by the yellow-swirl marble columns and roof-free hallways, with palm trees thriving amongst the concrete. This was beyond exotic next to the bricks, blocks, snow, and evergreens that framed my childhood memories.

“This place is posh,” I said, entering Lucy’s home.

Her living space had a warm vibe with neutral colors, gold trim, crystal chandeliers, and impressive twenty-foot ceilings. The bedroom, no surprise, was pink, with a life-sized picture of Lucy above the headboard, naked but for a g-string hiked high on her hips, and elbows touching across the navel to emphasize cleavage and to hide those pesky triple X-rated nipples.

Rose and I could hear Lucy’s voice from the closet as we ventured closer.

“Tell me the truth,” Lucy glared at Corinne. “Don’t bull-shit me.”

“You look
skinny
. Trust me,” Corinne said, turning toward us as we entered Lucy’s garage-sized walk-in. “Morning, ladies.”

“Morning,” Rose and I said in unison.

“Is this, like, what people call a muffin top?” Lucy pinched a piece of skin that sat nearly invisible above her bikini bottom. “Look at this. It’s disgusting! I hate fat! How do people do it? Like fat people. I would shoot myself! I swear.”

“Relax. Women would kill for your body,” Corinne said indifferently, as if she had told her a thousand times.

“Seriously, I’m not as tight as I used to be,” Lucy whined. “Somebody call Dr. 9-0-2-1-0!”

“Ladies,” Rose interrupted, “now
this
is what you call badonkadonk!” She stepped into the mirror and shook her over-sized booty for the girls.

Lucy’s eyes bulged in momentary disgust before all the girls burst into gales of laughter. I chuckled awkwardly, thinking Rose remarkable for rising above some serious big-girl bigotry.

No doubt it bothered her. En route to Lucy’s, Rose had me open her online shopping purchase: two pairs of Addition Elle black skinny jeans, size 16, which she intended to pass off to “the girls” as tailor-made originals, so “mum’s the word, Canada.” Apparently, Corinne would have killed her if she knew she shopped at a plus-size fashion depot. I decided then and there to keep any Old Navy tags tucked far, far away.

After slinking in and out of no less than fifteen bikinis, Lucy finally made it to the pool, where the crew sat patiently, knocking off the occasional scenic shot while sipping coffee supplied by our ever efficient production assistant, Toni. She bounced up and down effortlessly with tape stock and munchies for everyone. I was shocked and pleased to see a fully stocked craft service table with fresh fruit, gummy bears, turkey jerky, string cheese, and chocolate yummies, all with the same mysterious label, Trader Joe’s.

“My new mission,” I whispered to Toni, “is to find this trader named Joe, and thank him for such amazingly creative snacks. Fortune cookies all flat and round like little coins? Brilliant!”

Toni laughed. “There’s one ‘round every corner.”

“Let’s roll, people!” Corinne shouted.

Corinne had Lucy start by stretching out over the rocks on her back, turning her head slowly to camera to blow a kiss. She then placed her in the pool and had Lucy do the famous Bo Derek climb to land, filmed six ways to Sunday. Following that, we did waterfall shots where Lucy, mouth open and sensuous, showered in the cold wet spray, cheating toward camera, basically naked except for the purple string around her privates.

Everyone amazed me with their infinite professionalism. Our camera crew didn’t bat an eyelash, as if they were used to seeing females with perfectly sculpted bodies that didn’t sag without underwire, and faces that looked equally gorgeous, soaking or dry. I imagined myself in a waterfall, choking and spitting, with water blasting out of my nose, eyeliner dripping to my kneecaps. Lucy had serious skill to make a water assault look Zen-sexy. But I was most impressed with Corinne. She handled Lucy expertly, knowing what to say, when to say it, and how to shoot just the right amount of sunshine where the sun don’t shine (rather, “don’t shine” for the majority of non-nude model folk). All this was to keep Lucy from tantrumming to Venus, which in my five short days I had come to learn was a fairly common occurrence and had me progressively more nerve-wracked.

Hence, my chosen spot was beside Corinne, shadowing her every move, hoping that whatever magic she had might somehow rub off on me. She was due to depart Sunday for a totally different show in New York and I would be taking over for her, directing and managing Lucy the rest of the season.

“I’m freezing,” Lucy squealed, climbing out of the pool.

“Coming!” In a nanosecond, Lucy’s hair and wardrobe entourage scuttled over, wrapping her in plush towels, then shuttling her inside for a hair/make-up do-over.

“Break for lunch!” Corinne called.

Toni stepped up for her part in the day’s duties, beginning with drinks. “Lemon water?”

“Here,” said Corinne.

“Diet Coke?”

“Here,” said Rose.

“Another lemon water?”

“Lucy’s,” said her assistant, snatching it up.

“Triple shot Americano, inch of cream, and three sugars?” Toni said unfazed.

“Right here,” I said. “Thank you. Sorry to be a pain in the ass.”

Corinne looked at me funny. “Whoa, girl, isn’t that your third coffee today?”

“I’ve lost count,” I said quietly, not wanting to draw attention to what clearly had turned into an addiction. “Haven’t slept in a week.”

“How come?” Corinne asked, delicately squeezing her lemon so its juice trickled through the ice cubes.