Unscripted (7 page)

“You hardly know him,” Stephanie interjects. “Aren’t you sort of jumping into things a bit?”

Nancy stares at Stephanie for a second. “This isn’t about how long we’ve known each other. I think he might be my soul mate.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Nancy, you’ve been on five dates with the guy. Just take it slow is all I’m saying, okay?”

Nancy quietly exhales. I’m not sure if she’s angry with Stephanie, or resigned to the fact that Stephanie might have a point. Ever since I’ve known Nancy, she’s been the type of girl who rushes into things head first, without considering the consequences until later. She says it’s because she’s a free spirit. Stephanie says it’s because she’s a nut. A loveable nut. But a nut, nevertheless.

“I’ll take it slow, don’t worry,” Nancy says half-heartedly.

“Well, I have some news,” Stephanie says as she confidently lifts up her chin. “This is going to be my last show.”

“Did you get a job at a network or something?” I ask.

“No, I’m done with production. I’m done with television. I’m getting out.”

Although I have a mouth full of bread, my jaw drops at the shock of this breaking news. I never imagined I would hear those words coming from Stephanie. She’s a fast-talking, one-of-the-guys kind of producer. That’s why she always has her next job lined up, and why she can boast the best references in town.

Stephanie starts to slather an entire packet of butter on a piece of bread. “The thing is, I don’t have health insurance. No retirement account. I’m always hustling to get the next gig. And I’m sick and tired of working nights and weekends. I feel like I work in a sweatshop sometimes. And for what? A piece of shit show that will be forgotten and replaced a month after it airs? No thanks. And if I’m not willing to work those hours, you bet your ass someone else is. They’re hiring kids straight out of college, and they’re getting promotions left and right. One day this kid’s a researcher—the next day he’s a fucking producer. So, if I refuse to work the long hours, the execs know I can easily be replaced by these little shits who are desperate to get into the business and don’t give a crap about the horrible work conditions.”

Stephanie takes an enormous bite out of her bread, signaling to us that she’s finished with her tirade. Nancy and I look at each other sheepishly, having absolutely nothing to add. We both know Stephanie’s right. It’s one of those glaringly obvious problems in reality TV that I’ve never wanted to address, because every time I try to think about what else I could possibly do, I get nauseous.

This job definitely has an expiration date. Five years, ten years, who knows, but there’s no future here for me either. And to make matters worse, my options are severely limited. For future
security, I could try moving to the network side, where at least I’d have things like a 401k and benefits but everyone wants to do that. What I’m qualified to do exactly, well, that’s a mystery.

The other option, my dream option, would be to open my own production company and sell TV shows. I’d still have to work hard, of course, but it would be for something I created. But it just seems so daunting. At some point, everyone who works in this field comes to the same crossroads. We can’t all end up like Mark Burnett. So while I’m glad Stephanie is getting out, I’m not even sure what else she’ll do if she leaves television.

As if reading my mind, Nancy finally asks, “So what are your plans?”

Stephanie smiles. “I’m buying a circuit training gym.”

I let out a huge laugh. “
You’re
buying a gym?”

“Yep.”

“But you don’t even work out,” I say, still laughing. “You practically swallow your food whole so that you don’t have to spend energy chewing.”

Stephanie crosses her arms and smiles. “Just because I don’t exercise doesn’t mean I can’t own a gym. I’d be my own boss. I’m already looking for a location, and I have a meeting with the franchise people after this job finishes.”

“Good for you,” Nancy says. “I think this is your path, Steph. I’m so proud of you.”

On an impulse, I reach over and give Stephanie a hug. “I’m proud of you, too.”

“Thanks, I’m really excited. I just want out, you know? Anyway—” Stephanie lifts her glass and points it in my direction, “—moving on. How’s the clip show?”

“Oh, it’s okay, the usual. There is one thing though,” I add, eager to ask them their opinion on the whole Will issue. “So I think my supervising producer hates me.”

“What?” Nancy pouts her lips. “How can anyone hate you?”

“Oh, believe me, he does.”

Five minutes and two pieces of bread later I finish retelling the humiliating tale of my run-in with Will Harper, back when I thought he was a lowly PA.

“He treats me like a servant, like I’m not even there. I mean, just get over it, right?”

“Are you sure? It was how many years ago?” asks Stephanie. “He probably doesn’t even remember you.”

“He totally remembers me. Why else would he be so cold?”

Nancy reaches over the table and pats my arm. “I know people who know Will Harper, and from what I’ve heard, he’s a really nice guy. A little serious, but not mean. Maybe you just really wounded his pride.”

“You think?”

“It’s possible. I think you should just sit him down and talk to him about all of this. Share your feelings with him. You’ll feel so much better afterwards.”

Stephanie looks at Nancy, alarmed. “No, no, no! She can’t do that.” Stephanie turns to me. “Abby, the guy has enough on his plate. Just forget it. He has no idea who you are. Drop the Queen of Self-Created Drama act.”

But before I can argue, Stephanie’s cell phone rings, and Nancy excuses herself to the bathroom, leaving me just as confused as I was before. Even if Nancy’s right, there’s no way in hell I’m going to share my feelings with him. I guess I’ll just keep my head down until one of us cracks.

I’m almost out the door for work when my cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Abby, this is Will.”

“Hey, Will. What’s up?” My stomach does a little somersault. Why is he calling me at home?

“I have bad news. I just got off the phone with Peter, he was in a car accident last night.”

I stop lacing up my sneaker and take a seat on the couch. “Oh no! Is he okay?”

“He’s pretty banged up. He broke his leg in two places and fractured his collarbone.”

“That’s terrible. What happened?”

“I guess the other driver ran a red light.”

“Poor Peter.”

“I know.” Will sighs softly. “He’s going to be in the hospital for a few days at least. So, look, I’m going to need you to do the Bill Loudon interview today.”

What?
All I wanted to do today is poke around YouTube and drink lattes in my nice, air-conditioned cubicle. I’m not up for an interview, especially an interview with a notoriously cranky celebrity. How do I phrase this so I don’t sound like a shirker?

“The thing is, I’m not really prepared for the interview. Plus I have to write the questions for the interviews next week. And Bill Loudon is a really big name and I…”

“Abby,” Will interrupts me, “I have a network meeting this morning, so unfortunately, you are the only option.”

Did he just say “unfortunately”?

“Peter says you wrote the questions, so you’re more than prepared. Okay?”

“Okay.” I clear my throat to distract him from my stressed-out, squeaky voice. “How, uh, do you want the shot to look?”

“Just have them light the background with bright gels, stay away from ambers, they can wash people out. Use some gobos for texture, don’t center the shot, keep one shoulder towards the edge of the frame and obviously, don’t show the chair. Make sure you check the monitor for the eye-line, I don’t want him looking at the camera obviously. Make sure he’s not shiny and use a filter just in case he looks rough…”

I frantically scribble notes as he’s talking.
What the hell is a gobo?
“Got it,” I say confidently. “I’ll call you after the shoot.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

I look at my reflection in the mirror. I look God-awful. My hair is so frizzy it looks like a Brillo pad that’s just been through the drier. I washed it late last night and slept on it, which I can see now, was a huge mistake. Plus, I didn’t bother with makeup today, so I’m going to have to slap on some mascara or something to make me look more human.

I douse my hair with water and spread gel through the curls. I attempt to meticulously separate each piece, achieving the spiral look I should aspire to daily, but never actually take the time to do. I then apply some thick eyeliner, a touch of mascara and a bit of blush.

Why did Peter have to get in a car wreck now?
Nice. Peter is laid up in the hospital with broken bones and all I can do is think about how much I don’t want to do this interview today. I am going to hell. But, let me just say in my defense, I had a shit night’s sleep. In fact, I think I might even be getting sick. Last night my throat was a little sore and it still feels a little scratchy today.

I head to the kitchen and pour a packet of tangerine-flavored vitamin mix into a glass of water and down it in one big gulp. My stomach gurgles loudly. Well, that might have been a mistake. Now I have that waterlogged feeling. Plus I drank two big cups of coffee this morning so I’m all jittery. Maybe I should eat another piece of toast?

Oh for God’s sake, Abby, focus!

Fine. It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s not that I’m too busy, and it’s not that I’m getting sick. If I had to pinpoint the exact emotion I’m feeling right now, like, gun to my head, I guess I would say that I am a little, well, a lot… Okay, I’m completely paralyzed with fear.

But really, why? I can totally do this. I’ve interviewed people before. Sure, they were usually drunk reality stars, but this is just a guy.
A guy who makes $600,000 per episode. Shite!
I look down at my faded jeans and T-shirt. I’m definitely going to have to change.

“Zoë!” I call as I knock on her door. I don’t care if she’s sleeping. For once I actually want to hear her advice on my clothes.

“Mfmph boo whaana?” The door muffles her voice, but I’m gonna go ahead and interpret that as, “Come on in.”

I open the door slowly. The only light I can see is peeking out from underneath the blinds, gently framing her window. I can just make out Zoë leaning back on her elbows. She has bed-head and that distinctly pissed-off Zoë look. But she takes pity on me as I fill her in on my upcoming day.

“Give me five minutes,” she says as she pulls back the covers.

I open my closet and stare at the clothes. Bloody hell, how many jeans and cargo pants does one person need?

Zoë shuffles into my bedroom in her nightie and starts sifting through my wardrobe, grumbling about my sweater sets from 1999. Finally, she turns around.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to wear these pants,” she says, pulling out a pair of black slacks that I bought at J. Crew on a whim last spring. “This white shirt buttoned to here—” she points to just above her cleavage, “—and this jacket. Then you should wear your black boots to finish it off.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” The outfit looks nice without trying too hard, but I still feel like a nervous wreck.

“Stop biting your lip. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“I’ve never done an interview like this before. What if the shot looks bad?”

“Blame the camera guy.”

“What if I suck? What if he’s mean?”

“Who cares? You’ll never see him again. And you aren’t going to suck. It’s impossible for you to suck.”

“I don’t want to screw up. Will already doesn’t like me, if I mess this up, he’ll fire me.”

“No he won’t. You’re not going to mess it up.”

“You’re right. I’m being crazy. Thanks, Zo,” I say, trying to cut the conversation short. Talking about this is making me even more nervous so I hug her and shoo her out of the room.

I get dressed in my Zoë-approved outfit, put on another coat of mascara and a dab of lip-gloss and take a deep breath. I just want to fast forward to tonight when I’m in bed and the day is over.

Two hours later, I arrive at Bill Loudon’s house in Bel Air. From the street, it doesn’t look that impressive. All you can see are large pointy trees and an enormous black iron gate decorated with fleur-de-lis. It’s not until I get inside the property that I get an actual view of the estate. It’s
unbelievably huge. There are four garages, a fountain the size of my kitchen, a tennis court off to the east and a sculpture garden to the west.

The crew is already unloading the equipment so I pull alongside their SUV and park my car.

“Morning, I’m Abby. I’m the producer today.”
God help us all.

“Hey there, I’m Nicholas, and this is Scott. He’s our PA. And that’s Chris.”

I shake their hands. According to my call sheet, Nicholas is the camera guy so Chris must be the sound guy.

“Bill Loudon. I am a
huge
fan. I brought my camera, and if he’s cool, I’d love to take a picture with him. I just hope I don’t geek out,” Chris says as he adjusts the sound belt around his waist.

“Yeah, we don’t want another Clint Eastwood incident.” Nicholas laughs.

I laugh lightly too, although clearly I have no idea what they’re talking about.

I stand around looking like an idiot as they continue to unload the gear onto their carts. As a rule, crew guys don’t want you to touch their equipment, but I still feel a little awkward carrying a clipboard and a bag of tape stock, while they’re lugging huge metal cases and lights.

“Do you guys know where we’re setting up yet?” I ask, trying to sound like I know what I’m doing.

“Yeah,” Nicholas grunts while passing a C-stand to Scott. “We’re in the office out back. They don’t want us going through the house, so we’re heading down that brick path over there.” He points to a sidewalk that winds around the garage.

“Excellent. I’ll just go check it out.”

I begin to chant to myself:
I am the producer. My company hired them. They work for me. They have no idea I’m at their mercy
.

I make my way into the backyard, which is even more impressive than the front. That is, if you care for such ostentatious displays of wealth.

Oooh, a koi pond! And a waterfall! Look at that pool! You could fit three cars in there! I wish I could go swimming in it.

To the left of the pool, I see a set of French doors that open to the sprawling estate. Pacing in front of them is a harried-looking girl, her platinum-blond hair captured in a tight ponytail. She’s on her cell, so I smile at her and duck my head into the room.

A second later, Ponytail snaps her phone shut and walks over to me.

“I’m Emily, Bill’s assistant.” Without a smile, she shakes my hand. “Change of plans. You guys are going to have to do the interview outside.”

“Outside?” I ask, as I start to bite at my cuticles. “Is there any way we can shoot in the office?”

“No. Bill wants to work in the office,
uninterrupted,
while you set up outside.”

“Well we really like to control the light and sound for these interviews. The setup will only take an hour…”

“As I said before, no. There are outlets all around. This place is secluded. There really shouldn’t be a problem.” And with that, Mean Ponytail clacks into the office on her ridiculously high heels and closes the doors.

I quickly walk back toward the crew and meet them halfway down the lane. “Bad news. Loudon’s assistant just told me that they want us to shoot the interview outside.”

“Outside? Listen to that waterfall. We won’t get a clean bite,” Nicholas says, his hands on his hips.

“We’ll hear every bird, plane, it’ll be a nightmare,” adds Chris, looking up at the sky with a grimace.

“Yeah, someone is going to have to ask her again if we can shoot in the office,” Nicholas adds.

I can tell by the way they’re looking at me that I am the “someone” in this exciting scenario.

I grudgingly walk back to the French doors. Mean Ponytail taps her foot impatiently as I plead our case. She cuts me off with a terse “no” and closes with, “Bill will be here in fifteen minutes. Please don’t disturb us again until you’re ready.”

Fantastic.

“Well,” Nicholas sighs, “it’s a good thing we brought directors chairs. Where do you want to set up?”

Like I know. “I’d say as far away from that damn waterfall as possible. Right?” I laugh my fake laugh and tilt back on my heels. “Well, we need the area with the most shade…” I pretend to scan the area, hoping good ol’ Nicholas will figure it out.

“I guess we can do it over there by a few of the sculptures. They might look cool slightly out of focus,” Nicholas says.

“Oh yes. Good call.”

For the next forty minutes, the crew sets up the shot as I sit in the shade, reviewing my questions. The day, which started out quite cool, has turned into a hot, humid mess. I don’t even want to know what’s happening to my hair. Also, something in the yard is making my allergies freak out. I had a sneezing fit that lasted two minutes straight. The crew threw me a few “bless yous,” but eventually they couldn’t keep up with me.

“Hey, Abby?”

I look up from my clipboard to find Nicholas, breathing heavily and wiping the back of his neck with his hand.

“Yeah?”

“So, how do you want the shot to look?”

Rohh!
I really don’t want to pull out my crumpled paper towel with all of Will’s notes on it, I mean how unprofessional would that be? I’m just going to have to do it from memory.

After rattling off what I can, I come to the last instruction.

“And we’d love for you to use some jobos.”

“Jobos?” Nicholas looks confused.

“Yeah, um, for the lighting. The jobos, you know, for the, uh, texture.”
I’m sure Will said jobo. Jobo. Bojo? Crap.

“Well, the
gobos
won’t really read out in the sunlight. Unless we can get the shadow just right.”

Gobos! Damn it. Well, at least Nicholas is nice enough not to laugh in my face.

Thirty minutes later I let Mean Ponytail know we’re ready to go. I’m a little nervous. Plus, I’m sure I look a mess and my nose is completely stuffed up. Knowing that Bill Loudon has done a million interviews makes me feel a little better. At least one of us is a pro here.

Bill walks out of the office. He looks a little…searching for a nice word here…
disheveled.
His khaki pants and untucked Polo shirt are wrinkled, and he’s wearing raggedy flip-flops. He looks as if he’s come off a forty-year drinking binge, which is probably an accurate assessment. When we booked the interview, his camp said he didn’t want hair and makeup. That was clearly a mistake.

Mean Ponytail is trailing behind him with a steaming cup of something and a bottle of water.

I reach out my hand. “Hi, I’m Abby Edwards. I’m the producer on the show.” Bill shakes my hand quickly, without looking at my face and mumbles hello.

“Um. We need a table here for Bill’s drinks,” Mean Ponytail says in a sing-songy voice, glaring at the PA in disgust as he carries over a camera case.

Chris goes over to Bill to fasten a mic to his shirt. I hope he knows better than to ask for a picture now.

“Hey, I’m Chris,” he says as he works the wire up inside Bill’s shirt, “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I am a huge fan. I’ve seen every episode of
Mellow and The Fuzz
at least three times.”

“Um hum, great.” Bill studies his nail beds. Chris, a little stung, finishes up and walks back to his gear.

Silence. Shit, I have to make small talk, don’t I?

“So are you familiar with our show?” I ask, my Up with People voice in full effect.

“ABT blah blah anniversary clip show. Sounds like they’re really breaking new ground here.”

“Ha, well, we’re getting great interviews. The fans are really going to love the show.” Lame, but really, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?