Unscripted (10 page)

“Do you have a boyfriend, Abby?” Sausage Lips asks, as she turns her attention to me.

“Ahh, no.”

“How old are you?”

I blink a couple of times from shock. Who asks a woman how old they are after twenty seconds? I don’t want to appear rude, so I answer her. “I’m thirty-two.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You need to get on the market. You can’t wait too long if you want children.” She turns to Zoë’s mom. “The girls these days put their careers first and that’s why there’s so much infertility. Did you know Diane Gold’s daughter Rachelle has done in vitro nine times?”

“Well, that’s nothing. Laura Stein’s daughter Stacey is getting an egg donor.” Zoë’s mom makes a tut-tut sound and looks at Zoë and I pointedly. “Poor girl. Only thirty-eight years old.”

I glance at Zoë, who’s listening intently to both women. No wonder she’s terrified about not being married. If I had to listen to this diatribe from birth, I would have been popping those kids out at twenty-five.

“So, are you going to give up work after your first baby?” Sausage Lips asks. “You can’t exactly be a mommy and a stunt woman at the same time.”

Zoë looks at her feet, searching for the right words. “Well, we haven’t really thought that far ahead. I mean, well, I might have to still work. It just depends on what Jeff is doing, you know? I mean, in terms of work and everything.”

Lynn’s eyes widen. “What are you talking about?” She turns to Roberta. “Of course she’ll stop working. Jeff makes good money. Plus, I’m not having my daughter jump out of any moving cars after she’s a mother!”

Zoë sort of shrugs and gives a slight, ashamed nod.

Thankfully, the tinkling sound of a fork hitting a wineglass interrupts our conversation.

“Ladies. Hello? Ladies. Can I get everyone’s attention?” shouts a short blond elderly bombshell decked out in a tight Michael Stars tank, studded True Religion jeans, and spike-heeled patent leather boots. Her overprocessed hair has been sprayed with so much hairspray that I could swear she has a pile of cotton candy balancing precariously on top of her head. “First off, I wanted to say congratulations to Miss Zoë on her engagement.”

The women put down their plates of food and glasses of wine and clap. Zoë smiles brightly and waves her hand to all the women.

“Secondly, we have some fun games planned for tonight.”

Great. Fun games.

“I also want to point you in the direction of the kitchen, where you’ll find scrapbook material, glue, tape, sparkles and stickers. Whenever you get a chance, please take the picture you brought from home of you and Lynn, and put it in the Mother-of-the-Bride photo album, and decorate that page however you like. If you want to write a poem, or a note, we have silver and gold metallic pens next to all of the material.”

“What a great idea. I love it,” whispers Lynn to Zoë.

Zoë shoots me a deadpan look.

“And lastly, I hope everyone brought their wedding albums.”

“What is she talking about?” I ask Zoë.

“Oh, it’s an idea my mom had. She thought it would be fun if everyone brought their wedding albums so we could all see what everyone looked like back in the day.”

I nod my head approvingly. “That’s actually cute.”

We move to the couches and chairs that are set up in the middle of the room and take our seats. I place myself next to Zoë and her mom so that I can be in a prime viewing position. This should be good.

The first album that’s passed to us belongs to Blond Bombshell herself. Zoë begins to flip through the pages as we all crowd around the white leather album. The photos are in black-and-white, and appear to have been taken during the sixties.

“Oh my God, Ellen, look at your hair!” laughs Zoë’s mom. “Your bee-hive was bigger than mine!”

Blond Bombshell walks behind the couch and glances over my shoulder. “I was so fat back then,” she sighs. “Jesus, and look at Gary’s tux. How ridiculous do we look?”

Zoë turns around to face Ellen. “I thought your husband’s name was Rick?”

Ellen shakes her head. “Oh, sweetie, Rick’s my third husband. Gary was my first.”

Zoë turns back to the album in her lap. “Oh, I didn’t realize…” Her voice fades out.

The next album to land in our laps looks pristine, as if no one has ever looked at it before.

“Okay, whose is this?” calls Lynn.

Sausage Lips raises her hand. “That one’s mine,” she says, pouring herself a hefty glass of booze. “That’s mine and Alan’s wedding.”

I look at Zoë without turning my head.

“First husband,” she mouths.

I nod and look back down at the album. The woman in the photos looks nothing like the woman I see today. Waifish and thin-lipped, Roberta was actually really cute at one time. Now she’s just, well, she’s just scary.

The next album has got to be from the seventies. The bride has Farrah Fawcett hair, and the groom is wearing a ruffled tuxedo shirt.

“That’s me and Ron,” squeaks a woman sitting in the chair next to me.

I turn to look at her. “Are you guys still married?” I ask somewhat wistfully.

“Oh no. We were divorced a year after we got married. We were young, and Ron was sort of directionless.”

I turn back to Zoë. “This is encouraging,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. She nods her head and rolls her eyes.

As soon as the conversation gets a little louder in the room, Zoë turns to her mom. “Why did you ask everyone to bring their wedding albums when you know they’re all divorced?” she asks under her breath.

“I just thought it would be fun to see what everyone looked like at their first wedding. Isn’t this fun, Abby?” Lynn turns to me and raises her eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah. It’s, uh, fun.”
And utterly depressing.

Another album lands in my lap. This one is definitely from the early eighties. The bride is wearing the most ostentatious lace-covered dress, with shoulder pads as big as a linebacker’s.

“Taylor, this is hysterical,” cries out Lynn to a woman across the room. “Your dress!”

The tall, younger-looking brunette walks over and takes a seat next to Zoë. “I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

I lean over Zoë to look at Taylor. “Are you still married to him?” I ask, feeling absolutely desperate for just one success story, if not for Zoë then at least for me.

“No, he died.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be. If he were alive today, we’d be divorced.”

I take a deep breath as my back slumps into the couch. “Oh,” I sigh. I’m at a loss for words.

Zoë and I are tucked behind the pool house in Zoë’s backyard and I’m watching her take a long drag off a cigarette. Zoë gave up smoking a couple of years ago, but still keeps a pack in her purse for emergencies.

“Jesus fucking Christ. How depressing was that?” Zoë closes her eyes as she slowly inhales the smoke.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly go to any of those women for marital advice.” I cough from the cigarette and wave my hand in front of my face. “Just blow that shit away from me, okay?”

“Sorry,” she says as she turns her head and exhales. “Seriously though, what was she thinking?”

This is going to be a longer talk than I expected. I stop crouching and take a seat on the cold, hard pavement. “Why even listen to those women? Your parents are still together. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Zoë snorts. “Oh please! All those two do is fight. They should have split up years ago.”

I pause for a minute to think. I’m not really sure what to say. My parents have been married for thirty-five years, and for the most part, have been fairly happy with each other. This divorce thing is completely out of my advice-giving arena.

“But things are okay with you and Jeff though.”

“No, they’re not okay,” she says a little too harshly. “You know they’re not okay. What the hell was he thinking accepting that job?”

I stare at her for a second. It’s time to let it all out. “Zoë, this is something Jeff has wanted for a long time. It’s an amazing break for him. So what if he’s taking a pay cut? You guys still make more money together than most of the people in America. He’s such a great guy and he’s really excited about this. I know it’s hard, but he needs your support.” I say this last sentence practically choking on the words. She can either see some sense and agree with me, or kill me.

“Me support him? Well, that’s exactly how it’s going to be! I’m going to be fucking supporting the both of us with my salary. So tell me this, how can I be a stay-at-home mom? And don’t give me that crap about being wealthier than most of the people in America. This is Los Angeles. Everyone is loaded. My dad always supported my mom so that she could raise me. I’m not having my own kid in daycare!” She takes a big breath and stamps out her cigarette on the pavement next to me. “Fuck that.”

I don’t want to remind her that she was actually raised by a nanny from El Salvador—whom she still calls Mama—while her own mother was out playing tennis, or lunching or doing whatever. I just have to appease her. “He’s not going to be making that salary forever. I think you’re sort of overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting,” she says more calmly. “It’s not just about the money. He made this decision on his own. Without consulting with me. Aren’t couples supposed to make these decisions together?”

Hmm, she has a point. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not taking sides. It’s just that he seemed so excited. You know?”

Zoë stands up and brushes the dirt off her pants. “Well, either way, you need to be on my side. You’re
my
friend, remember?”

I stand up next to her and give her a hug. “I know. I’m sorry. He should have said something to you before making his decision.”

“He really should have,” she says softly. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. I want to see the presents.”

As we walk back toward the house, I feel a growing sense of dread about this engagement, not to mention the shaky ground our friendship has been on lately. Zoë has always been a little spoiled and sometimes a bit unreasonable, but these days she’s breaking new records. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll just leave it at that.

Back inside the house the party is still in full swing. I’m relieved, because all I really want to do is forget this little argument. I can definitely handle the games and the gossiping, but I’m praying they haven’t hired any male strippers. These suburban cougars would tear a guy to pieces.

I’m reading through transcripts of all the interviews we shot for the show, looking for bites for the cold open. Will hired a freelance writer to pump out the scripts while I did the interviews, so that leaves me to polish the scripts and work with the editors.

Working in the edit bays has always been my favorite part of production, even if it is like taking a trip to the coldest reaches of the planet. Sure, some editors can be a bit temperamental (or sometimes downright crazy) but I can usually deal with it. What do you expect from someone who works in a cave for ten hours a day? But I have never encountered an editor like Tom, whom I have dubbed Knit Cap.

Knit Cap is a thirty-three-year-old man/boy editor, still hanging on to the skater punk days from his youth. He has an extensive collection of concert T-shirts and an even larger collection of knit caps to cover his slightly balding, stage-one comb-over. He has two tattoos that I can
see.
Shiver. One is a giant skull and crossbones on his right leg, and a colorful dragon around his left arm. Oh, and he’s a newlywed, although you’d never know it by the way he flirts with me.

While all of that makes him highly mockable, which I typically enjoy, I find him so distasteful that it’s difficult to sit in the bay with him. He has some disgusting form of frat-boy Tourette’s that causes him to yell out “Titty!” every time he finishes a scene or makes a good edit. It wouldn’t be as bad if he were an equal opportunity offender, but I’ve never heard that little fucker say it in front of Will.

I grimace as my phone rings for the fifth time in a row. For the fifth time in a row, I don’t answer.

“Who the hell keeps calling?” Christine slams down her pen.

I look at the number on my phone’s display and groan. “It’s Knit Cap. He can leave a message.”

“We have the craziest editors, ever.”

“I know, well except for Neil,” I say. Neil (sometimes known as Big Baby) is the lead editor. He’s sweet and funny and a hard worker, but a bit of a sensitive flower.

I look at my phone. No red light. Of course he didn’t leave a message. Oh well, I invite him to send me an email.

I look at my watch. Will should be finished with the John Taye interview by now. As he predicted, the network pressured him into doing it. Sasha, of course, pushed the interview date until the last possible minute just to screw with us.

“I have to go bring these interview bites to Neil,” I say as I pick up the document from the printer. “Will you please track me down when Will gets here? I’m dying to hear how it went.”

“Will do,” says Christine.

I walk down the hall to the edit bays and find Will heading the same way. “Hi, you’re back,” I say lamely. Clearly he’s back. “What was John Taye like?”

“He was difficult. He wouldn’t take off his baseball cap, so we’re going to have to blur out the Red Sox logo.”

“That sucks. How long did he sit for?” Okay. All I really want to know about is Sasha, but that seems too petty.

“Ten whole minutes. We’ll get one bite out of it.”

“And, uh how was Sasha?”

“As expected,” he says with a laugh.

Oh come on!
I want the dirt on Lucifer, but I’m pretty sure Will is too professional to talk shit.

Before I can squeeze out any more information on Sasha, I see the object of my aversion skulking about in the hallway.
Ugh.

“Well, no one told me there was a party,” Knit Cap says as he leans in the doorframe.

“Hey, Tom,” Will says as he hands me the tape.

“Hey, I was just going to kidnap Abby here. I’ve been feeling left out.”

He’s so gross.
“Yeah, I’ll be by in a second.”

“I’ll wait to escort you, these halls can be dangerous, you know.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I wish he would just go back to his dungeon. I can feel Will watching me so I struggle to maintain my light façade. I don’t want him to know that being around Knit Cap makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

“Actually I need to stop in and see Neil first, so I’ll come to your bay when I’m done.”

“Damn, I’m starting to get a complex,” he says with a pathetic pout.

Oh, my God. Your boss is right there in front of you. Please, just slither back to your edit bay.

“Since Abby is tied up, why don’t you just screen with me,” suggests Will.

“No big deal, I was just playin’. It’s not quite ready for your eyes yet. Abby, if you could just stop by for a sec when you’re done, that’d be cool.”

“Sure,” I say without looking at him. Will and I walk toward Neil’s bay.

“So you’ll add in a bite?”

“A bite?” Dumbly, I look down at the tape of John Taye’s interview in my hand.
Duh.
“Yes, absolutely. Just one.”

“Just one. I’ll talk to you later,” Will says as I head into Neil’s bay.

“Well, helllooo,” Neil drawls. “I have had the worst day. These machines are too outdated for this show. My Avid has crashed twice today. We need—”

“Yes, yes we need them to upgrade and clean out the Unity and blah blah blah. Just work, monkey, and stop complaining,” I mock shout. Well, it’s a real shout, but I’m only about ten percent serious. Okay, twenty percent.

“I’m telling ya, in the end, we will have wasted a whole day just rendering these effects.”

“Why are editors such freaks?” I flop myself down on the chair beside him.

“Don’t lump me in with Knit Cap.”

“Freaks. All of you,” I mutter. “Okay, how’s the cold open? I brought you some more interview bites,” I say as I hand him the updated script.

“It’s okay. You wanna watch?”

The phone rings, Neil answers and with an eye roll, hands it to me. “It’s Tom,” he whispers.

I sigh heavily. “Hey again, what’s up?”

“Just wanted to get an ETA on when you’re coming. I may walk over to Starbucks.”

“I’ll just come after lunch,” I say.

“Well, why don’t we combine, we can eat and you can watch me jam.”

For some reason, Knit Cap calls editing “jamming.”

“I’ve actually got plans, so I’ll just come by after 2:00. Okay?”

“I guess you need more time with your
boyfriend
in there. Don’t blame me if Will doesn’t like the cut Monday. I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“Tom, I just looked at your cut yesterday, what else do you have to show me?” I make a face to Neil, and he makes the same face in return.

“Well, now
that’s
a loaded question. If I answered it, my wife would say I was crossing a line.”

“Well then, don’t answer it.”
Please don’t answer it.

“Oh, Abs, don’t be hatin’. If we were lovers, you’d come in here and we’d kiss and make up. Ha, okay I’ll stop playin’ with you now, see you after lunch.”

Blech.
“He is repulsive,” I say as I hang up the phone.

“Yeah, you want me to talk to him?”

“No, no I can handle it. Thanks though.”

“He’s like that with all the pretty chicks in the office. I feel sorry for his wife,” Neil says, turning back to his keyboard. Neil’s cell phone rings. He looks at me guiltily and answers.

“All right, one call, I’ll give ya a freebie.” Jesus, he gets more calls than anyone I’ve ever met.

Neil chats for a minute and then hangs up. As we start to watch the cold open, the cell rings again.

“Don’t you dare answer that!”

“I swear it only rings when you’re in here.”

“Right. Okay, you’re staying fifteen minutes later tonight,” I joke.

“Come on now.” He answers his phone, tells the person that he’ll call back then puts the phone on vibrate and sticks it in his pocket.

“I saw that,” I say, smiling.

“Mussolini.”

“Big Baby.”

“Let’s watch. Mussolini,” he whispers.

I laugh and put my feet on his desk.

I spend the next twenty minutes working on the cold open with Big Baby and then head back to my desk. I leave Knit Cap a voice mail (thank God he didn’t answer) saying I’ll have to watch it Monday morning. I just can’t deal with him now after he skeeved me out so much.

I’m slightly hungry but it’s only noon and if I eat now the day will drag. So I check my email and find that Andrea, an old friend, has written me.

Okay. Will reply to that one later. She’ll be sorry to learn that I won’t be contributing any money to Matt’s box office. I have no desire to see that movie.

I head into the break room to get my lunch from the fridge and say hello to one of the accountants as she grabs a diet soda from the vending machine. I hit four minutes on the microwave and lean against the counter.

“Are you doing anything fun this weekend, Abby?” she asks.

“Not really. Just hanging out. You?”

“Well tonight my boyfriend is taking me to see
It’s Not Me, It’s You.
It’s supposed to be really good.”

“Yeah, I uh, heard that. Well have a good weekend.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Now this is surprising. I feel nothing. It doesn’t even faze me. I am so over this. Let Matt have his little movie.

I sit down at my desk and push my food aside to let it cool down. Might as well call Stephanie and tell her I’m completely over the whole Matt movie thing.

“Hey, how are ya?” I say as I take a bite.

“Fine, I’m watching daytime TV. How’s it there?”

“Same. So, uh, what are you doing tomorrow? Wanna see a movie?”

So much for being over it.

I arrive at the theater in Woodland Hills ten minutes early, which was really stupid since Stephanie is always ten minutes late. After buying both of our tickets along with a giant bag of peanut M&M’s, I decide to wait outside the theater. I know I could have brought Zoë with me, but she would have taken it as a sign that I’m still not over Matt. She then would have tied it into some theory as to why I’m not dating anyone. And then I would have to kill her. I also could have taken Nancy, but she would have put some sort of positive spin on it, and then I would have to kill her too. I think Stephanie was the perfect choice. I can vent all I want, and not only will she listen, she’ll probably agree and tell me he’s just a talentless hack.

“Hey,” Stephanie calls out to me from across the parking lot. “Could you have picked a more remote location?” She has an Egg McMuffin in one hand and a coffee the size of a Big Gulp in the other.

“Sorry it was such a hike,” I say as she gets closer. Her hair is in a bun, no makeup, and she’s wearing an old pair of sweat pants. The girl still looks gorgeous.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you on a Saturday morning in the fucking valley. You owe me big time.”

“I know, I know.” I give her a hug, and narrowly avoid a glob of ketchup, which is dangerously close to getting in my hair. “What will the people at your gym think of your fast-food habit?” I ask, eyeing her as she takes an enormous bite.

“I’m quitting as soon as I open up my location,” she says with a mouth full of food.

“So is it official?”

“Yep, signed the papers last week.” She smiles.

“That’s so cool. Congratulations.” I give her another hug.

“No more late nights. No more crazy network execs. No more piece-of-shit shows. I can’t believe I’m done.”

Is it me, or is everyone moving on with their lives? Zoë is getting married. Stephanie has a new career. Matt’s a screenwriter. A rich successful screenwriter. Okay, I have to stop thinking this way. This movie is going to blow. It has to.

“You ready for this?” asks Stephanie.

“Yeah, it’s just a movie, right?”

“Just a movie.” Stephanie smirks at me and tosses her breakfast wrapper in the trash.

As we walk inside the theater, I’m relieved to see that we are the only ones there.

“Wow, it’s a good thing we got here early. Another five minutes and we’d have to sit in the front row.” Stephanie rolls her eyes emphatically as she picks a seat smack in the middle of the room.

“Shut it.” I tear open my bag of peanut M&M’s and immediately pop two into my mouth. “So how is Nancy doing?” I ask.

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“I don’t know, a few weeks ago. I’ve been really busy at work.”

Stephanie throws her long legs over the seat in front of us. “She broke up with her sweaty yoga JDate guy.”

“What? Are you serious? She didn’t even tell me.”

“You know Nancy. She’s got to stay positive about everything.”

I shake my head. “She thought they were soul mates.”

“Turns out, JDate was a JDick. He basically told her in a text message that it just wasn’t working out. And this was like a week after they slept together.”

“No!”
Poor Nancy.

“Yep. What a fucking prick. She sure knows how to pick ’em.” At that exact moment the lights dim and Stephanie sits up a bit straighter.

“This better suck,” I say.

“Don’t worry, it will,” replies Stephanie as she puts her hand out for a few of my M&M’s.

One hour and forty-two minutes later, the credits for
It’s Not Me, It’s You,
begin to roll. Neither one of us has spoken one word to each other throughout the entire film.

“Right, let’s get out of here,” says Stephanie.

I stand up from my chair, but can barely feel my legs.

We both squint as our eyes adjust to the sunlight outside. “Want to go next door to the Starbucks and get a drink?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say quietly. I let Stephanie lead the way since I can barely move. She sits me down at a table by the window while she orders us both lattes. I stare down at my hands and notice that my cuticles are all torn up after gnawing at them for the last two hours.

“All right, let’s not bullshit around here,” says Stephanie as she places both cups in front of me. “How much of that was based on your relationship?”

“Loosely, I’d say a lot.”

The short of the movie is this: Guy has girlfriend. A whiny, needy, rather frigid girlfriend. About one-third into the film he falls for someone else, a beautiful model with a sense of humor who speaks two languages. He cheats on the bad girlfriend, dumps her and in the end winds up blissfully happy with the perky robot. Zoë was right. I should not have seen this movie.