Reality Jane (34 page)

“And now she’s really pissed. She had to take two days off work to come here to be on the show. They kept changing the show date on her, so she was stuck sitting in the hotel. Apparently she missed three days of work, which really upset her boss, who thought she’d miss only two. And she thought she’d be compensated. By us! Ha!” He smirked.

I was enraged. “That woman is broke! She gets one dollar over minimum wage and she’s supporting a family! How could we do that to her?”

“That’s not the worst of it.”

“What?” I said, not sure I could take it, as I racked my brain thinking how I could possibly make things up to her.

“She filed a complaint with the studio. Not that it’ll do her any good.”

“Really?”

“She said the show ruined her life: bullied in front of millions, humiliated, in front of her friends, family, work colleagues, the nation, and got nothing for it. No guidance, no help, nothing to set her on track. Oh, she also claims her son Oliver is stomping around the house like he’s king. He mouths off, saying, ‘Mr. Dean says you’re a bad mom,’ and Mr. Dean says this and Mr. Dean says that, and ‘I don’t have to listen to you.’ Can you believe her nerve?”

“This is outrageous!” I said, my veins pulsing. “That son of a bitch needs to help her, not slaughter her!”

“Whoa! You could get fired for saying that,” Jones whispered, his eyes darting around fearfully, as if spies lurked everywhere.

“I’ll take my chances,” I said and walked away in disgust.

It was ironic. The entire staff had not only been scared into submission, but it was totally dysfunctional, while working on a show about making people emotionally healthy. And not just any show—a show that had come to be adored. Ratings were through the roof. Mr. Dean was on the cover of countless magazines. There was Emmy buzz.

But in the flurry of our producing lives, we. . . the show. . . had become a lie. Was it possible I was the only one who saw it? No matter what our initial intentions had been, we weren’t
healing our guests. In fact, what we did was the same as what the rest of the shows in TV Land did: entertain. And that was all. Ricky Dean’s words didn’t mend, they amused. He didn’t manufacture healthy lives—he manufactured stories. And the audience bought it, like a McDonald’s Happy Meal. We were the McNugget meal of self-help—empty calories, satisfying only when consumed. An hour later, you have a tummy ache, like Brenda, sick, horrified, and regretting every minute of it.

I suddenly felt dirty. The kind of
dirty
no shower could cure. This scrubbing needed to start on the inside.

Producers began crowding into the boardroom for the 9:30 meeting. We were packed in like cattle, lining the walls and doubling up on chairs. Meg entered and looked around the room with a sneer.

“Guess the gang’s all here. I’m going to have to order a bigger board room,” she said haughtily, “or lay off a few of you.”

Corinne jumped from her seat, handing Meg her chair, then leaned against the wall behind her, utterly proud of herself.

“Listen, I know you’ve all been working long hours. And I thank you for that.” Meg spoke with a crisp edge. There was no warmth or sincere appreciation in her voice. “This is a tough start-up. But I want you to know it’s paying off. We’re up in the ratings again!”

Everyone clapped.

“That’s the good news.” Her face changed to a scowl. “The bad news is there’s been lots of complaining going on and some leaks.”

She was referring to the tabloids. The
Star
had just run a story on the show’s behind-the-scenes activities. It was entirely accurate, from Mr. Dean’s tirade in the studio to the suggestion that the staff was being grossly overworked, mistreated, and bullied.

I shut myself off for the rest of Meg’s rant. I needed that miracle shower. It was time. Time to clean up my act and take a stand. Justice for Brenda! Make things right. I just had to figure out what that was going to look like.

The phone rang. It was 7:30 p.m. I’d just arrived home from work—my first night home at a decent hour in nearly three months. I thought I might actually watch fluff TV for the first time in ages. I’d been missing all my shows; in fact, I no longer had any favorite shows. Then Nancy called. She was in charge of scheduling. I could hear her kids yelling in the background.

“Where are you?” I said.

“At my uncle’s funeral in Kansas,” Nancy replied.

“They’re making you work while at a funeral?”

“No sense fighting it.” She cut to the chase, too tired to get into it. “Listen, I’ve booked you on a flight tomorrow at 6:30 a.m.”

“What?! Production is on a two-week hiatus. We’re not taping new shows right now. I just busted ass for three months. Let them find someone else!”

“There
is
no one else.”

“Come on, there’s got to be,” I moaned.

“Look, don’t say a word to anyone,” she said quietly into the phone, another employee suffering from Mr. Dean paranoia, “but it’s only you left. Gib has been relegated to pushing papers. They’re not putting him in the field anymore. I think he might get fired. That’s all I know. You have to pick up the slack.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I said, unfazed by her Gib comment, and completely wrapped up in the fact that I now had a 4:30 a.m. call-time for a flight at LAX.

“You’ve been working harder than anyone,” Nancy said. “But I have no choice.”

“All right,” I said, reluctantly. “But I won’t last with these hours. One day, I’ll just collapse in some airport and that’ll be it. They’ll wheel me away in a gurney, and then bury me!”

“I know,” she said.

“And please don’t put me on Southwest again. I end up in the middle seats between pimply kids with Game Boys.”

“Okay.”

“And no more connections. Mr. Dean can come up with some coin for a direct flight. I’m putting my foot down. If he can afford a chopper, he can afford to fly me direct!”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“That reminds me: What about my expenses? I’ve received one check for two hundred bucks. They owe me close to six thousand dollars. And they better cover meals for the crew.”

“They don’t. Only
your
meals are covered, and only when you’re on the road.”

“I’m always on the road! And I always buy the crew
and
the guests lunch!”

“Uh-oh. Not good. You’ve been doing that all this time?”

“Yeah. Do you mean to tell me they actually expect me to order a meal for myself and not get anything for the crew and the people sacrificing days of their lives for us?” It suddenly dawned on me that a few thousand dollars’ worth of meals had been on me.

“Seriously, watch your money. I don’t want you to get screwed.”

“Mommy!” I heard Nancy’s son call in the background. “I need you.”

“I gotta go. Jake needs me.”

She forced an apology, but it wasn’t her fault. We were all in the same boat. I fell backwards onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling, regretting any prickliness I’d shown Nancy. Ticking off demands to someone at a funeral was beyond tacky. Must have been all the radiation that had soaked into my body during countless plane rides.

The house was dark. As I stared at my hipbones, which were jutting out like two shark fins in a pool of jean fabric, I didn’t bother turning on the lamps. My mind wandered back to my bus ride in France, meeting Grant, traveling the vineyard, surfing Malibu, eating his fabulous culinary creations, his smile, the way he held my hand, as if he never wanted to let go. . .
Why did I let him go?

Too wired to sleep and too confused to continue my train of thought, I flipped on the television. Glancing at the Tivo box, I was reminded that it contained an hour of Craig and a bunch of
bikini-clad space cadets begging for my attention.

Why not?
I figured.
I’m already depressed.

“He’s daring. He’s hot. He’s over the top,” the announcer’s voice boomed over pictures of Craig looking extreme, snow-boarding down a steep mountain shoot. “But this season’s
Single Guy
isn’t some Wall Street chump. He’s a one of a kind, modern-day explorer. And this adventure isn’t in the remote ice fields of the Arctic—it’s here, with 10 women, about to have the adventure of a lifetime.”

I couldn’t take it. Not alone. Not without Toni or someone to help me through it. I missed her. I missed our friendship. I missed friendship, period. I didn’t really have any friends anymore, just me and my job and Alex, when he was available.

The TV droned on in the background. I’d clicked off the recorded material and was now mindlessly watching
Celebrity Watch TV
, which had just come on CWT. It was Dagmar, Celebrity Reporter.
Blech
. She started blabbing in her new, slick anchor voice, looking as if she’d just tramped out of Sky Bar in a mini-skirt, stilettos, and a skin-tight purple frock. I couldn’t believe she was still reporting. I couldn’t believe she actually had a job other than heiress.

“And today we catch up with the hottest
Single Guy
to hit the reality TV airwaves since—ever! Craig Anders.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelped, leaning forward on the couch, knowing full well I should have expected this. But did it have to happen on the one night I got to watch TV?

It was Craig on the set of
The Single Guy
walking around in a pair of jean shorts (jean shorts?) with his bare, bronzed Herculean chest fully exposed. The girls were oozing over how dreamy he was. They cut to Craig on a date kite-surfing on the beach in Malibu.

“Well, Dags, finding the woman of your dreams is quite a task, but I’m up to it.” He mugged to the camera. All the while, Dagmar gawked at Craig in amazement, as if he’d just discovered how to turn ocean water into wine.

“And I hope to parlay my
Single Guy
experience into my own show.”

“
Parlay
? Does he even know what
parlay
means?” I screamed
at the TV.

Of course he wanted his own show. Everyone who goes on a reality show wants their own show, or their own movie, or their own clothing line. But announcing it before the
Single Guy
season even ended was beyond nervy.

There was one bright side to watching Craig on CWT: If there was ever any doubt, I was totally over him. . . for real.

Another 4:30 a.m. wake-up. I checked myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. I couldn’t believe it. In a month, I would be 30 years old.

What was that quote? If you’re not beautiful by the time you’re 20, successful by the time you’re 30, and rich by the time you’re 40, you’ll never be.

Scurrying around the house, searching madly for my phone and a power bar, I had no time for further reflection. I’d miss my flight.

After my daily ritual of getting felt up and herded by strangers in security uniforms, I nestled into a window perch en route to central California and flipped through my marching orders. Only one thought floated through my mind:
Am I going to die?

Being overworked and over-tired brought with it an acute sense of my own mortality.
Really, I could die on this airplane, and I’m not at all ready! I could depart this Earth forever, with nothing to show for my measly existence. Just gone, crashed into the ocean while working on a show that was trying to kill me, while hoping, praying, for that promotion I wholly deserved, thinking about a gorgeous boyfriend who loves me, I think, or maybe doesn’t and is cheating on me (no problem, I’m also willing to sacrifice inner peace for a Hollywood hottie), plagued by an ex who has surfaced as a TV icon and doesn’t deserve it, an estranged roommate who used to love me, and an apartment full of dead plants. And then there’s this other guy who really seemed to care for me. Fuck it.

The production notes read:

Jane, we may try to use today’s subject, Madeline, for our children’s Fat Forum next month. She’s a perfect candidate for the camp. Try to convince her to join. Call me when you get there.

PS – Heard you nailed the couples’ Fat Forum. Nail this and they’ll be calling you Supervisor! ;) Corinne.

Nice Sybil,
I thought. Seemed the whole office was talking about me replacing Gib, except the people who needed to be talking directly to me: Meg and Mr. Dean. Reading it on paper felt a little weird. So I chose to stare mindlessly out the window instead.