Reality Jane (7 page)

Screw the job! I can die now. This is really why I came to LA. The best part
?
It was real and I deserved it.

Three weeks later, we were like tenured lovers swooning over each other every spare moment. We went to movies, walks on the beach, and late-night dinners, and anytime we did anything together, he got the door, he got the check, he pampered me. “Put your wallet away,” he would say as if I was a lunatic for suggesting otherwise.

Such a gentleman. All man. My man!

“I
can’t believe we’re finally here,” I said to my cameraman, the sound of jet engines roaring in the background. “I’m so excited!”

“Sorry I had to charge the company for your last cancellation,” Joe said. “But this shoot has been so on-again off-again, I missed two paid days on another show.”

“I know. His majesty, MC Toke, scratched three times. He had us running in circles in the office.” I laughed. “Anyway, he’s coming today for sure.”

“Yeah, three weeks later. But are you sure?” he joked.

“His manager put him on his private jet this morning,” I said, feeling suddenly nervous something unexpected might still happen.

“Want me to get some pick-up shots while we wait?”

“Sure, grab some generic shots of planes coming in and taking off while I wait for the girls to arrive.”

The day was finally here:
Little old Jane was directing her first big LA shoot with America’s hottest rap star.
I felt important, but not the “I’m a pain in the ass” important, just the “I’m doing it, I can handle it, it’s all good” important. As I drifted into my dreamscape of funky new producer with gorgeous, totally loaded boyfriend, I heard my name being paged: “Jane Kaufman to Reception.”

I ran to the front desk, where an older woman with bouffant hair was waiting impatiently. “Jane Kaufman?”

I nodded.

“MC Toke’s plane is landing in 10 minutes,” she said painfully.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart rate jumping. “The limo’s here.
Got to run.”

“Oh, Miss?”

But it was too late. Couldn’t keep Lucy waiting. I was already out the door to meet the girls. Seemed my cool and collected persona went out the door with me. My hands began to shake as I self-consciously sucked in my stomach in preparation for America’s sexiest T&A thoroughbreds. I put on my freshest smile and hurried toward the limo, curious to meet Lucy’s team of fem-bot-babes.

The limo driver, decorously exiting the vehicle, placed his hand on the door handle, white gloves firmly in place.

“This is so exciting,” I whispered to him as a shiver ran through my body. “Word of the day—
exciting
,” I nattered on, seemingly to myself.

“Indeed,” he nodded, remaining stoic.

Lucy slinked out first in signature stilettos, a pink bustier, and ultra low-rise jeans. I was tempted to brush my hand against her rump just to make sure it wasn’t actually paint. Two additional and equally risqué women exited the limo as I held my hand out to shake for a formal hello, then quickly retreated.

No stuffy old-man handshakes here,
I thought proudly.
I do proper air-kisses!
I leaned in to Lucy’s freshly powdered cheek.

“This tin-can is a piece of shit,” Lucy squealed.

“Pardon me?”

“We can’t ride in this limo. We’re models! And I’m the host!” Her arms flailed, Triple-D knockers not budging an inch. “It’s embarrassing. And MC Toke won’t go near it. Are you kidding? He’s a star!”

“Okay, well, um. . . nice to meet you, girls. I’m Jane,” I said politely, hoping to calm them with kindness.

Lucy launched right back into her rant. “Look, Ms. Producer, we need a proper limo. Like now!”

“But I don’t understand,” I said, the sweat starting to bead on my forehead.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“First, it’s white. You see? Shit-box white. What are we, the construction crew?”

“Yeah,” said the other two models, nodding in unison and
cocking their heads sideways.

I turned to the limo. “Sort of retro cool, don’t you think?” I said, afraid they might smother me in a triple D sandwich.

“No, not cool,” she continued. “And, it’s a piece of shit. It sputters uphill.”

Just then an airport security guard tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss. You can’t set up your cameras here.”

“What?! You must be mistaken.”

“This is a private airstrip. You need a permit.”

“But. . . I. . . Wait. I, I, I have a permit. See, right here,” I stuttered, completely flustered.
This isn’t happening. I’m always so organized!

Before I could think, my cameraman hurried to my side with his camera/tripod ensemble in tow. “Should I shoot this? Is this part of the story?”

“Jane!” Lucy growled. “What are you going to do about the limo?”

“Eight hundred an hour,” said the security guard, joining the chorus. “Your permit allows you on the airport common grounds. You need another permit to be on this private strip. It’s what the studios pay.”

It was all too much! As if swallowing a marshmallow whole, I felt my throat tighten to pea-size, and my face flush, glowing like a beacon. Then, the lump. The dreaded lump, threatening a wash of tears.

“One more thing,” the guard grumbled to our motley bunch, “you here for MC Toke?”

I nodded pathetically.

“He’s landing now.” He pointed to the sky.

Lord, please hit us with the big one right now. Or a flash flood of Biblical proportions. Something. Anything! Please!
I even prayed that I’d been “punked.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,
I begged my body, but the thrust toward full-blown blubbering seemed out of my control.

Then, suddenly, as if coming from the clouds, the
Love Boat
theme rang in the distance, superceding the sound of jet engines.
That’s it. I’ve totally lost it!

My cameraman snapped his fingers across my glazed-over eyes. “Jane, is that your phone? Jane, your phone. It’s ringing. Jane?”

I glanced down at my phone, which was blinking with an urgent message, and I hit “read”:

Hi Hon-E,

KOTL —ILU.

Craig.

My eyes locked onto the little rectangular screen in front of my face.

“Quick, some net lingo here. What does KOTL mean?” I gently nudged one of the model girls beside me, suggesting the matter was both important and secret.

“Kiss on the lips,” she whispered, peering over my shoulder.

“Of course,” I nodded. “And ILU?”

“I love you, silly,” she giggled. “How sweet!”

Love?
Could I be sure?
Yes, true love.
Chaos swirled around me while I connected deeply to invisible bits and bytes traveling through the ether, sent from his mobile device to mine. Sweeter acronyms had never been typed or transmitted.

When I finally lifted my head, I felt a rush of elation, the earth had changed colors, and the menacing people who seemed to be placed on this earth to destroy me were suddenly soft, fawn-like, and precious. I loved every one of them! For a split second, I might even have reached enlightenment, sitting on that great big puffy cloud in the sky—just me and the Maharishi! Pure, pristine, love. I began to glow. I felt unstoppable.

Back to consciousness
. “Right, Lucy, sorry, but it’s too late. The limo will have to do. End of discussion. Joe, set up for the landing. Girls, follow him and stand behind the camera until I get there, which will be in a minute.” I motioned to the security guard. “Sir, here’s my credit card. Give it to whomever and charge it. And I’d like a receipt, please.”

I smiled the deepest smile my face could muster and watched things fall into place. With barely a second to spare, MC Toke and his fellow gangstas were rumbling down the
stairs of the private jet, arms in the air, saying “holla!” for all the world to hear. Joe recorded everything, with me directing in the background. Like Leopold Stokowski with his 200-piece symphony orchestra, I was expertly performing my own free-form
Fantasia
.

“Just me and the Kittens,” said MC, wrapping his arms around the girls and slapping their asses as they loaded into our fancy white limo. Smiling widely for the cameras, he showed off a gold-plated grill. “Gonna be a good day,” he declared.

Joe and I ducked into the limo, delicately stepping over legs, extra-large designer purses, high-top running shoes, and stiletto heels. Joe set himself up neatly in the front of the limo and pointed his camera to the back, where MC Toke had sandwiched himself between the girls. His bodyguard sat on the long side-seat, stretching out his tree-trunk sized arms and legs, oblivious to the fact my TV crew might have needed a little more room. I sat on one butt-cheek, squashed between a tripod, sound gear, and some serious gangsta legs, making log notes of the conversation.

Time Code 1:05:03: Lucy: “MC, you are so sexy.”

MC Toke: “Holla, babe.”

Tasha: “Can I feel your arms?”

Lucy: “Yeah, take off your shirt!”

MC: “Now that’s how we do.”

TC 1:05:22 – ***MC Toke removes shirt, girls rub his chest, Lucy kisses his nipple, girls laugh, MC Toke barks like a dog.

I’d triple-starred the entry, thinking this was exactly the kind of stuff CRP-TV audiences wanted to see. As for their smoking a big fat dube and clouding up the limo, probably not usable, but Joe rolled on it just in case we wanted to use the audio.

After two hours of cruising up and down Sunset Boulevard, we landed at the newly redesigned Mondrian Hotel Sky Bar. Koi, an established A-list hang-out, I’d since learned, wouldn’t let us shoot there, though they did invite us to camp out front with the paparazzi. As far as I was concerned, the Mondrian, with its chic interior, luminescent marble, bamboo-lined
exteriors, and crisp white furniture, was a true get. The manager allowed Joe to set up a rather obstructive light fixture beside MC’s table for a little quality control—video footage in a dimly lit bar would, according to Joe, end up unacceptably grainy and look totally amateurish. The club even dimmed its music for us. Satisfied and still aflutter from my “ILU” text, I was about to order myself a celebratory drink when Lucy grabbed my arm.

“We’ve got to shut the lights off,” she commanded. “MC doesn’t like the bright lights on him. He says it’s
harshin’
him.”

“But there’s not enough ambient light,” I said politely. “If we shut the lights off, we can’t shoot you.”

“It works in the movies,” Lucy said bluntly.

“But that’s film. Video will look grainy, assuming we get a picture at all.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to figure it out,” she said with a huff, the music now full bore. “Just turn the lights off or we’re out.”

“You realize,” I said, “that this is
your
show.”
As in you, the host, your gig, your series, your future, make it or break it.

Lucy waved her hand in the air, as if to say “later,” and strutted irritably toward the bathroom.

The only hope I had of getting any decent footage in the club was to sweet-talk MC Toke. As I walked toward the table, I wondered how he could possibly be interested in anything I might have to say while surrounded by uber-girls with impossibly low body fat, humongous breasticles, sparkling white chompers, and flawless complexions. A small part of me was hoping that, up close, these nudie models would look plastic, maybe even slightly inhuman, like creatures from Jupiter, such that I might look fresh and natural next to them, but I knew that was wishful thinking.

I took a deep breath. “Um, MC? I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m just wondering if—”

“Baby Sugar, I’m with the ladies and I need some privacy,” he said, not making eye contact or even bothering to look up.

“I know you probably don’t care, but this is like my first shoot in LA. I mean, I’m experienced; I’ve just never worked for CRP-TV before. Look, I’ve got to get more footage of you or I
won’t have a segment to cut together. I really need this.” I knew I sounded pathetic, but I was hoping he had a heart.

He finally looked at me, totally confused. “You a kitten, too? You want in on dis action?”

“Huh? No, I’m not a
kitten
, I’m the—”

“Here, baby, this’ll make it better.” He tucked a tiny plastic bag into my palm and turned away, back to the action.

My jeans slid against the leather bench as I joined the crew at the table. Feeling defeated, I uncurled the baggy in my hand. Joe leaned over and burst out laughing.

“Well, I guess when Karl asks for today’s tapes, you can hand him a bag of ganja instead!”

“Great,” I said, sighing. “Just fabulous.”

So Joe, the soundman, and I sat patiently, a few tables away, considering whether we should just get it over with and roll a fat one with our new stash of presumably primo West Coast weed. We opted not to, if for no other reason than that Karl might suddenly show up.

After passing an hour with some rather mindless crew banter, our precious host finally gave us the green light to film, lights and all. “We’re ready, Toke’s ready now, you can film us, but only for, like, two songs.”

“Lucy, first I just need you to deliver your lines for the segment,” I said, handing her a copy of the text I’d written to close the piece. She’d received the script at the office. It had also been e-mailed to her,
and
delivered personally to her house, with a fourth copy given to her when she arrived on set in the morning, leaving little excuse for not memorizing lines—or so I’d hoped.