Reality TV Bites (9 page)

But I don't jump up and get started. Instead, I look at the pictures for a long time. The buildings behind the men and women could best be described as ramshackle. The roads are dusty, the people's clothing threadbare and patched, and still the faces are smiling and full of happiness.

How could these people be so happy when they had so little? I think about my shopping excursion last weekend. I spent more than a thousand dollars, easy. Why does it take so much to make me happy?

Carefully, I take out the pictures, then head to the van to get supplies for frames. The carpenter is already out there, working on the bookshelf, so I use some of his materials. I decide to keep the frames simple, so I choose black wood and basic matting.

As I work, I can feel the eyes of the gang members on me, but the camera is on me, too, so I don't worry too much. About half an hour later, I look up to wipe sweat from my forehead and see the painter walking by.

Oh, my God.

His overalls are splattered with paint. Pink paint.

With a sense of impending doom, I look at the house and see it's half gray, half Frolicking Fuchsia. “Miranda!” I call. “You might want to come out here.”

When she does, her reaction is about what I expected. “What is this?” she screeches, pointing to the house.

Josh follows and is immediately attacked.

“Josh, I thought you were bringing Tranquil Fern. Why is the painter wearing Frolicking Fuchsia?”

Josh looks at the house, runs to the van, and pulls out paint can after paint can. He moans. Miranda and I huddle
around, and I get a sinking feeling in my gut. In all the hurrying and mayhem of preparations yesterday, Josh must have accidentally pulled fuchsia from the storage closet at work.

“Do we have time to go back and get the green?” I ask.

Miranda shakes her head, then turns to the painter. “This is all wrong. We'll have to mute the colors. Find me some white, and I'll mix it to a pale pink.” She stays at the van with him while Josh and I head inside the house to work on the shelf area.

The paint episode is put behind us, but by the time Miranda has it sorted out, time is getting short. We're all split up, working faster now, and I'm in the back hanging curtains in one of the bedrooms. I've just about got the draping right when a face appears on the other side of the window. I'm so wrapped up in what I'm doing that the face startles me, and I jump back and squeal. The entire crew comes running.

The kid on the other side smiles, raises his spray can, and keeps working.

“Hey!” I yell. I can't believe the audacity of this kid. “Hey!” I storm through the house, out the front door, and come face-to-face with the gang member. Besides my usual accompaniment of cameras, I have an audience of other gangsters, watching from the porch next door.

They're still drinking. One of them stands and says, “How do you like our decorating?”

I follow his outstretched hand and see the gang initials on the side of the neon-pink house. The kid holding the spray paint can laughs, howling until I grab the collar of his T-shirt. I don't usually manhandle adolescents, but I'm tired, dirty, and running out of time on this project.

“Look, kid, what do you think you're doing? We're trying
to make this house look nice. You're vandalizing it. Maybe I need to call the cops.”

He shakes my hand off and brushes his shirt back into place. “You go ahead, bitch. I'm only doing what those guys paid me for.” He points to the front of the house, where Yamamoto and Watanabe are watching us.

I should have known. What is reality TV without conflict? I glare at the kid. “Fine. You earned your money. Now get out of here. You can wreck your neighborhood when we leave.”

He snorts. “Right. Like you care. You act like you're doing this for us, but all you want is the money.”

I find the painter and beg him to go back there and fix the damage, and in the meantime, I go back inside and join Josh in a heap on the floor.

Miranda is collapsed delicately in one of the reupholstered chairs. The six hours we've been here feel like a hundred and six, and we're sweaty, smelly, and covered with paint, caulk, sealant, and adhesive.

The house doesn't look as unfinished as I'd feared. It's been mostly painted, wallpapered, rearranged, recovered, uncovered, and, yes, accessorized with nine vibrators. We've made them into lamp stands, door handles, artwork, and book stands. I stare at them and hope Mrs. Jackson can forgive me. We still need to add some finishing touches—lighting, new materials, new sheets and comforters—but I think we'll finish in time.

On the floor beside me, Josh turns his head toward mine. “We'd better win.”

“No million dollars is worth this.” I put an arm over my forehead. “My parents are going to disown me.”

“Better them than me,” Miranda says. “Now that we've
made it through one show, the others should be a piece of cake.”

Josh and I groan in tandem. “Ugly-ass houses, fine. Sex toys, fine,” Josh says. “But I draw the line at anything truly tasteless.”

I look around the bedecked and be-vibrated neon-pink house. “Josh, we crossed that line a long, long time ago.”

Friday morning Miranda, Josh, and I assemble for
Kamikaze Makeover!'s
second taping. With only one day between shows, we're all pretty frazzled, caught between trying to keep up with work at the office and preshow prep work.

But we three had a little powwow last night, while we were packing supplies for today's show—no Frolicking Fuchsia faux pas this time—and we're ready for whatever the producers throw at us.

First of all, in preparation for another trek into the ghetto, we've all worn our grungiest clothes. TV cameras or not, this time we're not going to enter gangland dressed like moving targets. In our stained jeans, faded eighties concert T-shirts, and unwashed hair—except Josh, who's bald—we look like we've been living in the
Kamikaze Makeover!
van rather than just traveling in it.

But as soon as we've been on the road for about ten minutes, our sunny, take-no-prisoners mood grows overcast. We're not heading for Englewood. We're not heading for south Chicago at all. We're driving north on Lakeshore Drive, toward the North Shore and the heart of Chicago high society.

When we finally pull to a stop in front of a cottage that looks like it's straight from the pages of
Chicago Home & Garden,
I think we're all feeling even more anxious to turn around than we did in Englewood. The camera teams and production managers clamber out, and finally Miranda bestirs herself and says, “Well, at least we know we won't be using sex toys to decorate here.”

“Yeah, but what
will
we be using? Do either of you know who lives here?” I ask.

The cottage is huge and looks to be a product of the early 1900s. From the attention to the setting and the landscaping, I'm betting it was designed by Jens Jensen, famous architect and conservationist.

Miranda shakes her head, but Josh nods slowly. “It's one of the Chippenhall residences. I did some work on it before I joined Interiors by M.”

I close my eyes. “Not Lucinda Chippenhall.”

Josh nods.

“Oh, man. I can't do this. Lucinda Chippenhall is on every charitable board and committee my mother's on. They're rivals. You know, who can get the most donations or the best bigwig to chair an event, even whose kids get into the best schools or marry the richest.”

“Guess you lost that one,” Miranda sneers. There are times when I really wish Miranda weren't my boss. Then I'd tell her where to stick her snide comments.

“The point is, Miranda, this woman searches for ways to make my family look bad. With me on the team, we can't win this one.”

“Wrong,” Miranda says, pointing a long red nail at me. “The homeowner doesn't vote. The team of professional judges does.”

“I thought it was a call-in thing,” Josh says. “Like
American Idol.
”

“No,” she answers. “There are three world-renowned designers, and they judge.”

There's a loud knock on the window, and we all jump. Yamamoto is outside, looking anxious and ticked-off. “Let's go,” he mouths.

I take a deep breath and climb out. After I'm miced, we're shown into the gorgeous house by a woman in a maid uniform. We walk on Persian rugs worth thousands of dollars and catch glimpses of art worth even more, and then when we reach the living room, we stand in various locations for lighting tests and good camera angles.

“Josh,” I whisper while one of the grips shines a portable light in my face. “What the hell are we doing here?”

He looks around the exquisite room with its simple, elegant decor: crystal Mikasa vases, antique lamps, lots of space and pale colors. Light spills into the room from the French doors at the back, and it glints off the crystal and makes the polished baby grand piano gleam.

“Penance,” he answers finally. “I think this is hell.”

I hear a
tap-tap
ping and look up to see a woman in a pink Chanel suit and tiny pink heels bearing down on us.

“No, that's hell,” I say, then paste on a beauty queen smile.

“Oh, my,” Lucinda Chippenhall of the pink Chanel says, looking around the crowded living room of her home. There
are wires and cables piled high and thick as pythons snaking everywhere. About a dozen grips, production assistants, and technicians are standing around, some working, most chatting on cell phones, and then, in the center, are Josh, Miranda, and me: the three hobos.

“Allison Holloway?” Mrs. Chippenhall says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Is that you?”

The noise and talking around us quiet, and the cameras swing around to capture the moment.

“Hi, Mrs. Chippenhall. Isn't this crazy?” I give an innocent shrug.

“Hmm. You look…different. I thought you were prettier last time I saw you. How is your mother? She really should stop with the Botox.”

I bite my tongue. As if Lucinda Chippenhall hasn't had her own share of work. God, if this section makes the show, my mother will kill me.

“Are you sure you're capable of this kind of work?” Lucinda Chippenhall asks.

Translation: I don't want some amateur like you touching my million-dollar house.

“Oh, absolutely,” I answer. “You're in good hands. This is Miranda, the M in Interiors by M.”

“I see. Still, I'll feel better if I'm here to supervise.” She plants her feet and crosses her skinny arms over her tiny chest.

“Is that allowed?” I whisper to Josh, pulling at my faded, torn Smiths T-shirt from 1988.

“Are you going to tell her to leave?”

Hell, no. And the Japanese aren't going to tell her to leave, either. She might do something interesting they can capture with the cameras. Watanabe comes over and hands us a box. It's surprisingly light today.

Yamamoto then begins to explain our task. “The lady only give us permission to work in the living room. You have eight hours to transform it, and you must use all of these.”

He tips the box and about thirty empty Campbell's soup cans pour out.

“Soup cans?” Josh says, keeping his voice low so that Mrs. Chippenhall—peering over a camera at us—doesn't hear. “We're not decorating with soup cans in Lucinda Chippenhall's home.”

Yamamoto shrugs. “Then you lose.”

“But why soup cans?” Miranda asks.

“American art. Andy Warhol used them. You will, too.” He touches his watch, indicating that the clock is ticking.

Looking around the Chippenhall living room, it's hard to imagine thirty soup cans in here.

“This is never going to work,” Josh mumbles, smiling for the cameras. “If there was some clutter, that'd be one thing, but this room—”

I know what he means. Everything already has a place, and the feng shui is perfect. Why would we mess with perfection? Of course, the Jackson house didn't need a pile of vibrators scattered throughout, either. A little paint, some curtains, and it would have been cozy as could be. I don't get this show. Most makeover shows take someone or something that needs fixing and make a transformation. This show takes places that are just fine and tries to mess them up. How did I get to be a part of this?

“Okay!” Miranda says, clapping her hands and securing the attention of the cameras. “Here's what we'll do. Josh, you and I will work on a new layout for the furniture. I want to open that space up”—she points to a corner that could be better utilized—“and distribute the furniture better. I'm also thinking brighter colors. Josh, mix me up a few different
shades of blue.” The room is pale yellow now, but blue would liven it up a bit.

I watch Mrs. Chippenhall's reaction to this, and though her lips thin, she seems amenable.

“Later we'll change out some of the fabrics,” Miranda continues. “Allison, you can work on that, but first I want you to do something with those.” She points to the soup cans. “Make them look”—she twists her mouth—“elegant.”

She and Josh tramp back out to the van, one of the cameras following, while I stare at the pile of soup cans and Mrs. Chippenhall stares at me.

“You're not seriously thinking of putting those”—Mrs. Chippenhall points accusingly at the soup cans—“in my sitting room.”

“Um…” I look at Watanabe, but he's smiling and nodding, lapping this up. “I'm going to make them into a work of art,” I say.

Mrs. Chippenhall's thin lips narrow to razor-sharp. “Are you an artist? I thought you were a decorator.” The way she says
decorator
makes me feel like one of her domestics.

Because I am the kind of person who takes the high road—and because were I to open my mouth I would probably get myself fired—I don't say anything. Miranda said to make these soup cans elegant. Elegant? Even Monet wouldn't make these soup cans elegant.

But that gives me an idea. I grab my sketchbook and make a quick design.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Chippenhall asks, peering over my shoulder. Feeling like I'm back in sixth grade taking a spelling exam, I cover my sketch with my arm. Lifting my wrist a bit, I scribble some notes for Miranda and Josh to look at later. Then I put the sketchbook facedown and get to work stripping the labels off the cans. I intercept
Miranda and Josh on their way back in with the light blue they've chosen for the room. I explain my idea, and it's a hit.

But that means I'm going to need to cut about twenty-five of the soup cans in half. No one said we had to use the whole soup can. So I grab the carpenter, and he gets out the power saw and starts slicing. We've got about four cans cut in half when the clouds that have loomed all morning open up and big fat drops of rain pelt us. Obviously we can't use a power saw out in the rain, so we decide to wait it out. It's no major hardship—gotta love hanging out with a man who can handle powerful machinery—but after an hour of pouring rain, I can't afford to wait any longer.

“We're going to have to bring the saw inside and cut the cans there,” I tell the carpenter.

He shrugs. “It's your ass, not mine.”

We don't even have the saw halfway in the door when Mrs. Chippenhall swoops down on us. “
What
are you people doing?”

I motion the carpenter to continue. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Chippenhall, but it's raining outside and we can't work with electric saws in the rain.”

“Well, you can't bring that machine in here!” She motions to her objets d'art and her expensive rugs.

“We'll be careful,” I say, dropping a dirty tarp over her rug, but she's not convinced. She hovers over us, wringing her hands and ordering her maid to stand by with a broom and dustpan.

Finally the carpenter finishes cutting my cans. It's taken way longer than I'd planned, but I gotta give the hottie a break. Every time he turned on the saw Mrs. Chippenhall covered her eyes and looked ready to swoon.

By the time all my cans are painted, Miranda and Josh
have the room cleared and taped, and I give them a hand with the painting. We all take turns stumbling over Mrs. Chippenhall, who is constantly in the way, and when she starts pointing out spots we missed, I have the urge to spatter that pink suit with blue polka dots.

Fortunately, Miranda—seeing murder in my eyes—releases me from painting to go back to my cans for the detail work. Martha Stewart, look out.

After about six hours, with only two to go, the industrialsize fans we brought in from the van have done their work, and the walls are dry enough for me to start mine. Normally I wouldn't touch the walls for at least twenty-four hours, but I don't have much choice today. So while Miranda and Josh move furniture and sew throw pillows, I get out the yellow carpenter's glue. I apply it to the edges of a can and hold it up to the wall, ready to position it.

Just as I'm about to press the glue to the wall, Mrs. Chippenhall yells, “No!”

She startles me, and I drop the can, gluing it to the floor instead. Josh runs over with turpentine and cleans up the mess while I glare at Mrs. Chippenhall. But when Josh hands me the can again, I don't even have a chance to apply glue before Mrs. Chippenhall tries to snatch it from me.

“Stop it!” I tell her. “We're running out of time.”

“I don't care. I don't want soup cans on my walls!”

I look at Miranda, then Watanabe. Watanabe is smiling. The little prick is loving this. Miranda gives me a long look, then turns her back.

What was that city in Vietnam where the soldiers killed all those innocent civilians and the military head honchos tried to bury the story? My Lai? Miranda's turning a blind eye now, but when the footage comes out, we're going to get an interior-designing court-martial.

Josh and I exchange looks, and then I nod at Mrs. Chippenhall, and Josh sweeps her up and off her feet. I think he would have carried her à la Rhett carrying Scarlett O'Hara, but she starts squirming and he ends up throwing her over his shoulder.

“I got her!” he calls. “Get to work, Allison!”

I do. In a frenzy of activity, I attach my half soup cans to the walls in random places. The soup cans are blue to match the wall and then painted with little pink, yellow, and red flowers for accent. With the angry cries of the imprisoned Mrs. Chippenhall echoing from the next room, I paint more flowers and stems, seemingly rising out of the cans on the wall above each soup can.

I take the last five cans and fill them with dirt and flowers from Mrs. Chippenhall's garden. I try my soup can vases in half a doze places, Miranda offering lots of suggestions, and just before Yamamoto's watch beeps, indicating that time has run out, I place the last one.

Josh frees Mrs. Chippenhall and she
tap-taps
back into the room behind him just as time runs out. She doesn't even look at the room, but she points at me. “I'm going to get you for this, Allison Holloway. And your mother, too!”

While the camera crew films the room for the after footage, I look around. I wouldn't say we've improved the room. Soup cans don't look elegant, no matter what I do, but we've taken the room from elegant metropolitan to French country. Again, I'm not so sure that's an improvement.