Reality Jane (29 page)

Despite his long hours and apparent diligence, Gib had
become the scapegoat for many of the mistakes made in editing. I was too busy to know if they were truly his fault. The little man was ultra-committed. He never missed a minute in the office for fear something might go wrong. Meanwhile, one show producer, two APs, and five PAs—dubbed “Team Less- Than-Excellent
”
—had been fired. We shuddered at the thought of joining their ranks.

In the few spare moments I had while flying from city to city, I would reflect on what was slowly becoming a less than dreamy dream-job. Each day introduced a number of chinks that chipped away at what was once a flawless front, beginning with the big man himself. Ricky Dean never talked to any of the staff. He seemed more shrewd than sympathetic, more Hollywood than grassroots. I expected a heroic figure, shouting, “Go team! Meet at my house for drinks” or at least a “Thank you, good job.”
Nothing.

Then there was Meg, who sent trifling office e-mails that chastised those of us who let face jewelry slip by in interviews. And there was my partner, Corinne, the quintessential middle-management TV captive with her uncomfortable shoes and now mostly prickly personality. I sat in on a few of her pitch meetings to Mr. Dean and watched her puff at his praise when she succeeded and bawl like a baby when she flopped. One minute she was pouring syrupy anecdotes your way, the next she was slicing out your innards with glass shards. The young office researchers/APs would hang on her every command, nodding in ass-kissing unison. Meanwhile, they would blow a donkey if it meant getting a shot at her job.

But was I any better? Manufacturing stories through the mystery of digital video and sound, lobbing pointed questions at unsuspecting subjects, often just pretending to care while admiring my shoes or thinking about a nice soft bed. I’d begun to hate the sound of my own voice—or maybe I was just tired.

Somehow I’d survived two months of the hardest work I’d ever done. Despite the unavoidable slivers of acrimony, and a small but growing distaste for certain colleagues, I still thought I was part of a noble cause leading me toward something even nobler. I still believed.

On my first day off in more than 38 days, Grant rented a 30-foot sloop for an afternoon sail. He said it was
my
day to read, relax, drink wine, meditate—anything I desired. I started by sleeping in until noon and showing up late at the marina.

“How are you?” he whispered between kisses. “How are you feeling?”

“I thought I’d be dead to the world, but I feel surprisingly good.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re with me.”

“Must be.” We giggled.

There was a gentle wind, enough to inflate the main sail and send us out the harbor entrance into the Pacific. We passed my apartment and the Santa Monica Pier. The sky was clear, offering us little protection as the sun beat down like a great white torch. Sweat collected between my legs and the canvas seats. Grant expertly operated the ropes, pulleys, and winches. I loved the sight of him controlling this great white mass against a bullying sea.

When he was finally content with the breeze and our direction, he sat down behind me and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around my belly, “So, how are you feeling about things? When are you going to be through the slog at work?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of weird stuff going down.”

“Like what?”

I told Grant about the way I was controlled on interviews— how they gave me a finished script
before
I left the office,
before
I’d done the interview, and how the interviews had to exactly match my story notes.

“That’s not good,” Grant said, watching the waves hit the boat. “Why is it like that?”

“I guess it’s what
he
needs to keep his stories straight on air. They tape two shows in one day.”

“Two shows? When does he have time to meet the guests?”

“He doesn’t. Not until he’s on air, live. That’s the only time he spends with them. They don’t meet or talk to Mr. Dean before or after the show.”

“What?” Grant looked disturbed.

“Yeah, there’s no time.”

“What kind of help is he giving people, then? How’s that supposed to fix their lives?”

“It’s just how it’s done.”

We both stopped. This was a conversation Grant and I had avoided up until now. I worried that if we continued, Grant might say, “I told you so!” though he was probably too mature for that. Instead, it might go more like: “You’re overworking yourself for a greedy, big-money practitioner of self-interest, not self-help.” I believe the word he’d originally used was “snake,” to which I would retort: “No, really, we’re making a difference. We really are helping people.” At least, I hoped we were.

It was true that I’d begun to question the people around me, and the show’s story-gathering techniques. But I had to remind myself of the bigger picture—this job was part of paying my professional dues. Watching Meg in the office—the respect she commanded and the sheer power she wielded—convinced me I really wanted the same position someday, and the sooner the better! And it was worth it, even if the show wasn’t one hundred percent authentic all of the time.
Greatness entails great sacrifice.
Part of me worried Grant would never understand that.

“I’m planning a surf trip to Costa Rica,” Grant said, squeezing me tighter.

I was happy with his attempt to change the subject. “You are?”

“Yeah, I want you to come. Next month. There’s so much I want to show you.”

“Wow,” I said. “I don’t know. We might be out of our busy season. Could be doable. Sounds like fun.”

“It would be good for us. It’d be nice to. . . get closer. I feel like maybe we’re drifting apart.” He started massaging my neck. “I don’t know. . . this show. . . I wonder if it will always consume you.” He stopped and pulled his head around to meet
my eyes. “Is this really what you want?”

“What do you mean by that?” I wriggled my head out of his hands.

“Jane, I think you’re beautiful, and—” He looked away from me as if embarrassed, then continued, “The girl I met in France, the girl you were then, it’s just—”

I cut him off. “What do you mean, ‘the girl in France’?”

“Nothing. It’s not a bad thing. Since you started on the show, things have been a little different. You’ve been a little different. Back in France, I felt like I was falling—”

With the grace of a Chinese fire-drill sergeant, my phone suddenly buzzed, demanding my instant attention. I’d become so accustomed to diving for it in the field—it was always ringing with urgent orders from the office—that I lunged for my bag, nearly spilling our wine bottle and pushing Grant overboard.

“Hello. Jane here. . . Yeah, yup, no problem. Uh, lemme check. Got it, got the script. . . Yeah, it’s all here. No worries. It’s okay. Yup. . . Bye.” I tossed the phone back into my bag.

It had been Corinne about a shoot the next day in Texas. She said it was important. The story might be used in the sweeps week’s headline show Monday: a little unneeded pressure to ensure I got it right.

Grant turned his body away from mine, staring out at the horizon. I grabbed his hand. “Grant, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“Never mind.”

“No really, what?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember.”

“Oh, okay.”

Neither could I. Our conversation escaped me. The horizon looked a million miles away. Part of me wanted to sail toward it, and keep on sailing.

“Hey, Earth to Grant. Let’s talk.”

“Okay.” He looked at me with a smile that didn’t seem natural. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want to talk about,” I said playfully.

Grant smiled, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t place it.
Thoughts of work crowded my head. “So, I think Gib is on the chopping block,” I said.

“Your supervisor?”

“Yeah, one of the show producers said he’s screwing up big-time. Tapes not turned in on time, interviews botched. He told us to use backdrops that Meg and Mr. Dean hadn’t approved.”

Grant seemed only marginally interested. But I continued anyway, telling him about the time Ricky Dean had reprimanded me, in front of the entire bullpen, for not using the new interview backdrop, which ultimately was under Gib’s control and therefore his fault.

“Sounds like a lot of miscommunication, or non-communication,” Grant said.

“You don’t even know. Gib’s nice, but he’s a little out of it.”

“Poor guy—working nonstop, and a family to support. Must be tough.”

“True, but he just doesn’t seem right for the job, like he’s in over his head. I feel bad, but you know the saying: ‘Can’t handle the heat? Get out of the frying pan!”

“That’s harsh.”

“Well, he just doesn’t seem up to it. Maybe they should find someone who is.” I paused for effect. “Like, well,” I placed my hand on my chest, “yours truly.” I tilted my head for approval, hoping Grant might find my ambition cute.

Grant looked as if he’d swallowed a slug.

“What?” I said, insulted by his expression and unwilling to consider what he was really thinking. “This is for real, Grant. It’s big. I might be up for his job. People in the office say I’m the right fit. It’s a real opportunity. Supervising producer.”

“Would you take it?” he said, his eyes blinking, as if he was trying to hide that he was upset.

“I’d be crazy to turn it down!”

I sat staring at him, frustrated, while he turned to watch the main sail inflate with the wind.

“You’ve changed,” Grant said, almost under his breath.

“What’s that?” I said, knowing he didn’t mean that I’d changed for the better.

“Never mind,” he said, avoiding me.

“You know,” I said, weighing whether or not to finish my thought, “I’m too ambitious for you, aren’t I?”

“Jane,” he half-laughed. “That’s not it.”

“Then what’s going on here?” I put my hands on my hips.

“You’ve been brainwashed. You’re like one of their droids.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, lashing out.

“This is what I warned you about. It’s a scam. . . that show. . . your show!” he said. “You turn people’s misery into entertainment. What don’t you get? You tell me awful things about the show. The whole set-up stinks! And they’re using you.”

I hated him. I wanted to jump into the cold blue ocean and swim as far away from him as I possibly could. As he steered the boat back toward the harbor, my mind was spinning.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand me.

Grant pulled the sail in, but he no longer struck me as heroic or strong. He looked more like an insignificant blur. I smiled to myself.
He can’t take it. He can’t handle me. I’m too much for him.

The wind had completely died down by the time we returned from our afternoon sail. At the apartment, Toni was nowhere to be found. With the exception of a few homeless people on the Santa Monica boardwalk, there was no one around but me. Grant and I had said our goodbyes with barely a kiss on the cheek. We managed a level of civility that got us back to shore, but it was forced. Normally, he would have spent the night, but things were suddenly different, and I believed that was for the best. I wasn’t about to give up my career for a man.

I walked to my room and collapsed onto the bed. Feeling my brow crinkle into two giant creases, I thought of Corinne and Botox. I lifted my eyebrows to de-contort my scowling face and rolled onto my side, hugging my pillows. The duvet coddled me like I was a swaddled baby. The effort of walking ten paces to the bathroom seemed too great to be considered. Brushing my
teeth would have to wait until morning. I reached for the night table to set my alarm for five, then pulled off my shirt and pants, getting under the covers in my bra and underwear—too tired to put on my pajamas—and crashed.