Unscripted (3 page)

As everyone finishes filing in, Rob closes the door. “Thanks for coming, everyone. I’ll make this quick. As you know, ratings for
Matchmaker
have been down. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that the network has pulled the plug on the show. We’ve been cancelled.”

Shit.

“We’ll finish editing the three dates from last week and then that’s it.”

Shit, shit.

“So, essentially, with the exception of a few editors, everyone’s last day will be today.”

I can feel the blood rush to my face. I try not to let the panic take over, but I’ve got that rolling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was expecting this job to last seven more weeks. It always takes a few weeks to find the next gig, so I need that lead-time. I should be used to the freelance world by now, but every time a job ends, I feel like I’m jumping off a cliff.

I look around the table at the twenty or so faces and recognize the usual mix of emotions that normally follows news like this. Everybody that works in reality is freelance, but not everybody is used to the roller coaster. You have the newbies with that dazed look of Bambi in the headlights. Then you’ve got the mildly seasoned professionals, such as myself, who appear totally pissed off, but not at all surprised. And finally, you have the long-time players. These guys know the drill inside and out and are already flipping through the Rolodex in their heads, securing a position for their next gig. I look across the table at Grant as he quickly texts someone. Bastard always gets unsolicited job offers. He probably has three offers lined up already.

While everyone drags themselves back to their desks, I continue to stare at Grant from across the table. “This totally sucks and I’ve only got $1,000 in my checking account,” I say to him as he continues to type away on his BlackBerry.

“I told you to open up that ING account,” he says as he begins to cough uncontrollably.

“Serves you right.” I squint as Grant turns back to his phone to finish off his text. “Whatcha got there, Sparky?” I raise my chin a bit to try and catch a glimpse at the message he’s typing.

“It’s called a BlackBerry. Did you just fall out of the sixteenth century?”

Damn it. He didn’t take the bait. I was hoping Grant might toss me a lead. But when a show ends, it’s every man for himself. Everyone who was once best friends on a production turns fiercely competitive and secretive as they search desperately for the next show to work on.

I peel myself out of the conference room chair, leaving Grant to finish his message in peace, and head back to my cubicle. As I start the quick process of packing up my desk, I glance at the other workspaces around me. Several are decorated with pictures of friends, their pets and even the token movie poster. When I first started doing freelance I did the same thing. I thought I was marking my territory and making the space my own. I know better now. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m a nomad, and nomads never get too comfortable with their surroundings because they know that it’s only a matter of time before the food runs out and they’ve got to pack up their gear and move along. I feel sorry for the people who sit in those optimistic cubicles. Poor, little lost souls. They’ll learn.

I pull off the crew’s contact sheet, our shooting calendar and a few other work-related items that are carelessly tacked up on the walls of my already bare cubicle. I dread what must come next: The Obligatory Mass Email.

I start typing on my laptop.

I really hate writing those, but that’s just how it is. Believe me, it wasn’t my dream to work in reality TV. I don’t think it’s anybody’s dream. Friends back home ask me all the time why I don’t just go out and find a normal job, with normal hours, health benefits, a 401k and two weeks’ paid vacation (all of which are screamingly absent in this industry). But the problem is, I always wanted to write for television. So after college I took a boring job as a receptionist, lived with my parents, saved every penny I earned and moved to L.A. Unfortunately, after I got here, I realized I didn’t have the three most important things one needs to get a job as a scripted TV writer: connections, an Ivy League degree and a penis.

The other crucial factor was money, or lack thereof. The key is, if you can afford to take a job as a writer’s assistant (and that’s assuming you can get your foot in the door in the first place) then you might be able to work your way up the chain as a staff writer. In addition to all that, you also have to have talent. And I’m afraid I might be lacking in that department, as well. Oh sure, I wrote a few spec scripts that my friends seemed to like, but isn’t that what friends are for? So, one low-paying production job on a reality show led to another and eventually I got to where I am now.

The upside is, when you get to a certain level, you have the potential to make a shitload of money.
Matchmaker
is (or now, was) paying me $1,500 a week, but Grant, for instance, probably makes about $2,500. Now, if I made this kind of money in Kansas, I would own a home, be debt-free and vacation every year in Hawaii. But this isn’t Kansas. Here’s an example.

And that’s without eating out, drinks, dry cleaning, toiletries, the occasional parking ticket, movies, books and everything else that goes along with living in a big city. With my take-home pay around $3,600 a month, that doesn’t leave me with much breathing room. So working in reality is not my dream job, but based on what I saw as a receptionist back in Kansas, it’s not hell either.

“Hey, Abby,” Grant says, leaning half his 6’4” frame over my cubicle wall. “I know of a show that’s looking for a segment producer. You interested?”

“Hell, yes.” I smile broadly.

“Okay, here’s the executive producer’s email address. His name is Craig, and he’s one of my poker buddies. I told him you’d be sending him your resume today.”

All right, I would like to retract my original statement. Not everyone is a competitive asshole in this business. “Thanks so much. Are you going to do it?”

“Nah, I think I’m going to take a few months off and golf for a while.”

I guess that’s the other supposed benefit of reality TV. If you have enough “fuck you” money saved up, you can take as much time off as you want. I haven’t personally experienced that type of professional nirvana just yet…but I’m working on it.

I’ve been driving around in circles for the past fifteen minutes, frantically looking for the offices of Craig and Doug Productions. When I got the call yesterday to come in and interview with Grant’s friend, Craig, I was thrilled. Well, until I found out the offices are in the bowels of Downtown, Los Angeles. First of all, on a good traffic day it takes at least thirty minutes to get to the heart of Downtown from my house. Secondly, this particular area has the highest crime rate in L.A. (yes, I looked). It’s definitely going through a cultural renaissance—lofts are springing up everywhere. There’s the Museum of Contemporary Art, L.A. Live and a ton of new restaurants. And yes, I’ve bought my fair share of Marc Jacobs knockoffs down here and inhaled churros on Olvera Street, but this particular area is a little
too
Downtown for me.

I’ve passed the same building four times, and even though it’s the right address, there is no way in hell this could be it. The two front windows actually have plywood nailed over them, and the building itself can’t be any larger than a 7-Eleven. So, how this crack house could possibly be the production offices of a new network show is beyond my comprehension. This goes way beyond the usual penny-pinching in reality television.

To make matters worse, I’ve been getting these sharp pains in my stomach for the last five minutes. The kind where you hold your breath until it’s over, waiting for some little metal-mouthed alien to chew its way out of your gut. I’m trying to think of what I ate today, but all I had was some oatmeal and a hard-boiled egg. Oh yeah, and a large frozen caramel mocha with whip, which admittedly is something I’ve never had before, but it was delicious.

As I pull up behind the building, I notice a couple of guys standing next to the back door, smoking cigarettes. They have that production-crew-guy look (ugly cargo shorts with more pockets than they need, Vans shoes, bed-head hair) so I know I must be in the right place.

I walk inside and it’s even smaller than it appears from the outside. There must be only three or four rooms in total. The main room doubles as a receptionist’s station and an office for six cramped and uncomfortable-looking people. There are production binders and posters of long-forgotten reality shows leaning against the walls, and as I move past them I narrowly miss a big box of recycled tapes placed haphazardly near the door. I can’t tell if they are moving in or out.

At the receptionist’s desk, I feel another sharp cramp in my side.
Jesus.
That one was bad enough to start a cold sweat.
Okay, ignore the moisture along your hairline, and just get through this.

“Hi, my name is Abby Edwards. I’m here to meet with Craig.”

The receptionist glances up at me briefly from her magazine and points to a folding chair in the corner. “He’s with someone right now. Take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

I sit down and look next to me at the six other people who are typing on their computers. They’re all sharing one large desk the size of a pool table, planted directly in the middle of the already claustrophobic room. They look miserable. I can’t believe I bitched about having to share a cubicle with two other people. That was paradise compared to this hole.

Shit.
The pain hits me again, but now it’s like a fist in the middle of my ribs. My stomach also releases a loud rumbling sound to accompany the cramp. I nearly leap out of my seat I’m so shocked by its volume. The girl sitting across from me lifts her head up and smiles. I pat my stomach and blush. “I have got to start eating breakfast,” I whisper. She nods her head, smiles again and goes back to work.

What the hell is going on down there? It’s probably just a bit of gas brought on by all that caffeine and sugar, right?

Wrong. The next cramp has me clutching my purse in agony. I exhale as it passes. This is not good. Please, please don’t let it be
the other…
The Big D. Not here, not now.

A few pain-free minutes later, I sigh with relief. I must be riding it out. But then another contraction strikes. This time, I feel a bead of sweat the size of a pea gather by my temple. As I move uncomfortably around in my seat, the bead begins to slowly trickle down the side of my face, landing right underneath my chin. It’s not critical yet, but I decide to take the plunge and ask the receptionist where the bathroom is. Perhaps I can solve this problem now.

Just then, the back door opens and the guy I saw smoking outside squeezes his way into the room. I watch as he shimmies behind the receptionist’s desk, winking at her first, before opening up a door that is two feet from her back. She rolls her chair closer to her desk so he can edge his way through.

Before I even have a chance to wonder where he’s going, I hear the familiar sound of a steady stream of water splashing into a shallow bowl.
Is he peeing?
I listen harder.
Oh my God, he’s peeing.
In fact, it’s pretty obvious that everyone else in the room hears the same thing as their heads lower an extra notch, and they begin to bang harder on their computers.

Well, I guess I can’t have a bout of explosive diarrhea anywhere near
that
bathroom. I have a choice. I can wait five more minutes for this Craig character to come out of his office, so that I can have the quickest interview of my life, or leave now and find the nearest gas station bathroom. The wave of gripping pain disappears again, and I think,
five more minutes…I can hold out for five more minutes.

I watch the second hand as it creeps around my watch and try not to think of the danger I could be facing with the next bout of spasms.

Agh.
Big cramp. Where the hell is this guy? I’ve been sitting here on this stupid plastic chair for twenty minutes. Can’t they afford real chairs? Why is the bathroom in the middle of the office? What the hell kind of stupid name is Craig and Doug Productions anyway?

That’s it. I’m going to tell the receptionist that I can’t wait any longer because I have another appointment. That’s perfect. I’ll blame it on them.

I pick up my purse and start to stand up but all of a sudden, the receptionist’s phone rings. With the receiver still stuck to the side of her face, she turns her attention to me and points to one of the rooms in the back.

“Craig’s ready for you now.”

No! Why? No!

I squeeze my way toward Craig’s office, apologetically bumping into the back of everyone’s chairs as I go.

The room is large compared to the box I just escaped from. A man with curly brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses sits behind a cluttered, pine desk typing away on an iBook. I’m assuming he’s Grant’s poker buddy, Craig. Who knows where the elusive Doug is.

“Have a seat, I’ll be right with you,” he says without ungluing his eyes from his laptop.

I sit in another plastic chair and take a deep breath. I can make it five more minutes. These things never take longer than five minutes. Just five more minutes and I’m out of here.

Craig’s eyes do not move from his screen and he begins to type, laughing as he goes. I don’t believe this. Is he IM-ing someone? Craig pauses, reads and writes something in response.
What the fuck?
He’s having a conversation on IM. I’m dying of typhoid, and he’s probably flirting with some PA in the other room. This is unbearable.

Okay, I need to find a graceful way to extricate myself from this hideous situation.
I have a dentist appointment in half an hour, and it’s across town; I have to pick up my parents from the
airport; my roommate just called, she’s been in a car accident and I have to go and get her; I’m going to shit my pants, and I mean that literally.

“Uh, Craig?” He shifts his eyes from his screen to me and raises one eyebrow. “I have to go soon.” I try to look contrite. “I have to pick up my parents from the airport, and well, you know what traffic is like on the 10 and the 405 at this time of day.” I shift awkwardly in my chair. So far, so good. No contractions. But it’s time to take matters into my own hands.

Craig holds up one finger, glances back down at his screen and begins to type again. Should I just leave? I’m not one for big dramatic exits, but this is some bullshit. How can Grant be friends with this tool?

Oh holy shite.
The mother of all cramps hits me. I clear my throat so I don’t have to groan.

Craig stops typing and meets my eyes. “So, you know Grant?” he asks.

“Yep, worked with him,” I reply, barely able to finish a complete sentence.

“Cool. So, the show…we’d like to think of it as a ‘feel-ality’ show. We’re staying far away from the Fox formula. We want to turn the tide on the exploitive shows that are out there.”

Huh, that’s funny. There’s a poster hanging behind him for a reality show called
Seven Sins at Sea.
It’s the one where seven couples spent two months cheating around on a cruise ship. Not exploitative at all, Craig.

“It really has a feel-good factor that we think viewers will love,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’re going to take a bunch of people with obsessive compulsive disorders and put them in a house together. The hitch is, they aren’t allowed to perform any of their rituals. Like washing their hands a million times a day, turning lights on and off, you know, shit like that.”

Come on!
Tell me he’s kidding.

“Basically, the house will be a sty but they’re not allowed to clean it. There’ll be a farm out back and every day they’ll have to clean out the stalls, feed the animals, all that good stuff. And once a week, they all have to participate in a competition that really puts their neuroses to the test. In the end, the winner walks away with $100,000.” Craig looks at me as if he is waiting for some kind of congratulatory response. Another cramp hits. All I can do is fake-smile at him and nod my head. I try for my best “wow, what you’re saying is really fascinating” look.

“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. They’ll get some therapy and shit too, so really, we’re trying to help them,” Craig says. “Now, since this is a heavy-hitting show, we need heavy hitters working on it. So, we’ve got a mandatory six-day week schedule, for five months.”

Between the ridiculous schedule and the stabbing stomach pain, I must have flinched because Craig’s eyes widen just a fraction.

“We really want people who are dedicated. It’s all worth it when you work on something you love, on something that gives back, you know?”

If it weren’t for the shower scene from
Psycho
playing out in my stomach, I’d be laughing in his face.

“Grant says you’re good in the edit bay as well as the field and that’s what we need. We’ve got $1,200 a week in the budget for a segment producer.”

What? Cheap bastards.
So this prick wants me to work an extra day, for $300 less a week? All for the good of mankind? Right. All for the good of Craig and Doug’s pockets, more like. The cheaper they can produce a show, the more money left over to bank for themselves.

As I open my mouth to tell do-gooder Craig to go to hell (politely of course, never a good idea to burn a bridge in this business), he raises his finger once again, and looks back down at his computer.

Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrggrgrgr

Oh no, please, it can’t be. Was that noise actually coming from me?
Another convulsion erupts down below and this time there is no mistake. My stomach is now performing an Olympic-style gymnastics routine and I need to leave RIGHT NOW.

Grgrgrgrgrgrggrgrgrgrgr

Craig looks up from his computer. “Everything okay over there?”

I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead. I don’t care that he can hear my stomach rumbling like Mount Vesuvius. I don’t care that I’m blowing this interview. I don’t even care that Grant is going to tease me mercilessly about this. All I know is that in T-minus three minutes, this baby’s gonna blow.

“Actually, I need to go. But thanks so much for meeting with me.” I hastily get up from my chair, shove my hand in Craig’s shocked face for a handshake and make a wild dash for the exit.

As I’m running to my car, my butt cheeks are clamped together so tight that I’m sure everyone in the office notices. But I couldn’t care less. I’m shivering from the chills and my skin is prickling. There is no time to waste with embarrassment. I shudder at the sight of the gas station down the road (was there an apocalypse and no one told me?) but my fear of dirty restrooms is overruled by my fear of crapping my pants.

An hour later, I’m home, showered, and filling Zoë in on my
fantastic
interview. Tears stream down her face as I’m reliving in detail the day that was my nightmare. Between her wheezing cackles and unrestrained laughter, Zoë nicknames this chapter in my life Abby’s Excremental Assault Story. It’s nice to know that the depths of my humiliation can be turned into a source of amusement. Oh, all right, who am I kidding? If it had happened to Zoë, I would have forced her to take re-creation photos and then emailed them to everyone in my address book.

Since my stomach is still a bit off, I drain the remnants of my hot tea and drag my weary self to my bedroom for a little nap. Before melting under the covers, I decide to brave my email and see if Grant has heard anything about my hellish meeting with Craig. As I scroll through and delete twelve new spams (damn you, spam filter) I’m relieved to see that there is no word from Grant. There is, however, an email from my friend Nancy telling me she’s given my resume to her friend Peter who’s producing a new clip show. Years ago I worked on a few and they weren’t that hard once you got the hang of them. I wouldn’t have to deal with any high-maintenance wannabe reality stars, that’s for sure.

Even though it’s a little aggressive, I decide to call up Nancy’s friend (well, she included his number) and ask him about the show.

Five minutes later I’m getting the entire scoop from Peter, who seems nice, says they need a segment producer and tells me to come in tomorrow for an interview.

“Great,” I say, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “I’m flexible so let me know what works for you.”