Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  Killing Reality

  Bob Henderson

  Well Mom, I finished.

  I dedicate this book to you.

  I know you would be pleased.

  Contents

  1. Big Ass, Big Hair, and Bigger Trouble

  2. The Slugger

  3. Botox Babe

  4. Sucker Punch

  5. Losing My Grip

  6. Only the Fake Make It

  7. Who’s Playing Who?

  8. Out with the Old

  9. When in Rome

  10. Flavor of the Month

  11. Swimming with the Sharks

  12. In It Now

  13. How to Be a Millionaire

  14. Money Talks

  15. That ‘New Car’ Smell

  16. Déjà Vu All Over Again

  17. A Slight Change

  18. Too Late to Turn Back

  19. Showtime

  20. The Big Debut

  21. Hurricane Sandy

  22. Life Is a Drag

  23. Introducing: Armando

  24. By the Numbers

  25. Brothers in Arms

  26. Made of Steel

  27. The Girls

  28. Temper Tantrum

  29. The Squeeze

  30. Not Bad Enough

  31. When Opportunity Knocks

  32. Back In Business

  33. Quick Sand

  34. Next Up

  35. Play It as It Lays

  36. Thrown to the Wolves

  37. Humming Right Along

  38. Bingo

  39. Partner

  40. Probable Cause

  41. The Con

  42. The Best-Laid Plans

  43. Killing Reality

  44. A Star Is Born Again

  45. Snakes

  46. A Fine Romance

  Thank You

  1 Big Ass, Big Hair, and Bigger Trouble

  “Hey, you little shit, who the hell do you think you are?”

  That’s what I heard as I regained consciousness from the whack to my head.

  As my eyes gradually focused with the blood dripping down my face, all I could see was this big Kurt Russell wannabe pointing a freakin' gun at me in my own living room. The worst part? The son of a bitch looked like he was enjoying himself. So, I killed the bastard. Not really. Well, I did kill him, but it was self-defense.

  Hold on, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let me set the stage for what resulted in me being tied to a stained coffee table in my apartment, as this fucking animal named Petra Stronge waved a gun in my face.

  I wanted to be in the movies—like a million other L.A. teens who walked around Hollywood wearing wool caps and sipping five-dollar mocha Frappuccinos, thinking they were cool. It’s as simple as that. A buck-fifty could get you into a noontime double feature at The Cinerama Dome, with its curved screen and dome top that resembled a giant golf ball. Oh man, I loved that place and all its futuristic glory. And I loved the movies that were shown there. They were vintage classics filled with timeless talent, not this brain-numbing crap that’s churned out now.

  But life has a way of taking unexpected, demoralizing turns. I never made it as an actor (big surprise), so I went to school for set design and production. I figured if I couldn't act, at least I'd still be around the action. After graduation, and then a lot of low-paying temp jobs, I finally landed a decent freelancing job as a grip for a slew of second-rate TV shows. Since I was the low man on the totem pole, I also had to be the gofer for some pretty reprehensible people. Initially, everyone played nice. They'd smile and give a “hello” or a “thank you.” They actually acknowledged that I was a human being with a soul. But it wasn't long before the claws came out, along with the monstrous insecurities and egos, making life on set intolerable.

  Not many people know what a grip does—it’s not like we’re given a lot of credit or publicity for the work we do. We’re invisible. How many people do you think stick around to watch the credits roll to see the list of grips and gaffers? That would be a very small amount. It isn’t easy being a grip; we work on complicated elevated equipment that supports the cameras and lighting. Sometimes we even have to support the overweight director who’s had too many three-martini “working lunches.” Yup, hard work for sure. Most of the time, I convinced myself I was doing something worthwhile, even if it was a thankless job.

  My job as a grip was all about the camera working perfectly for every shot. Where the camera was, so was I. Which meant that with every close-up, romantic gaze into the lens, or last dying breath, the actor had to look at me as well. There wasn’t anything I didn't see in front of the camera or behind it. And that’s where all this shit went wrong.

  Turns out, I should never have accepted the grip gig on the set of Being Stronge, one of TV’s rating winners at the time, which meant it was also one of the most cringe-worthy reality shows out there. The show should’ve come with a warning that watching was harmful to your mental health. The Stronge family made the Osbornes look like churchgoers.

  Petra Stronge, the show’s biggest star, relied on his nearly obsolete fame as a former hockey player for the Detroit Red Wings. He was six feet tall and still in decent shape, but he was far removed from his playing days. Petra had a mountain-like, chiseled face with a prominent jawline and ocean blue eyes that pierced anyone who got in his way.

  He had brown, longish wavy hair with a five o'clock shadow that failed to hide a jagged scar on the left side of his jaw. He claimed it was a souvenir from his playing days, when he was sliced by a hockey stick. Anytime someone mentioned his scar, Petra would launch into an embellished version of his injury and how he had insisted on playing through the pain, which led to a Red Wings victory in the playoffs.

  His oversized, bloated vanity also meant that the stylists and makeup crew were often kept working overtime. No doubt, he still had swagger. People often turned to watch and whisper as he strutted by.

  Everyone on set called him "Pet,” not so much like a lovable family pet, but because he was a salacious pervert who couldn't keep his hands from petting other women on and off the screen. He was a well-known womanizer. To Petra, if a woman was breathing, she was fair game.

  The nickname stuck, and the disturbing part was that it didn't even bother him. In fact, he wore it like a badge of honor, even though he was married. Most women couldn't help but find him irresistible, although deep down they knew he was despicable.

  His wife Sandy was the stereotypical big-haired, Botox-lipped former supermodel. She was also an incredible bitch on wheels with an ego that could, and did on many occasions, match her husband's. Of course, Petra and Sandy loved to act like their marriage was filled with rainbows and roses, but just like so many other couples, they had only married out of convenience. Both of their careers were dwindling, and they needed each other to stay relevant and to keep their good press and publicity checks. Petra didn’t let a little thing like a marriage vow keep him from straying, nor did it keep Sandy from using Petra's image for her own benefit. They were perfectly self-absorbed and soulless together.

  New Jersey Governor Chris Christie didn’t help the situation when he dubbed the historic East Coast hurricane of 2012 “Superstorm Sandy.” From that time on, Sandy was known as “The Hurricane” or “Stormin’ Sandy,” and boy, did she wring every drop of publicity from that nickname for all it was worth. Her behavior became even more outrageous. Adding fuel to her fire, the other reality show she appeared on, Want $um, was winding down, leaving Sandy worried about her lack of visibility (I swear, you can’t make this shit up). Want $um, according to a press release, "follows current and former supermodels in their daily lives, giving viewers unprecedented access to what goes on in front of—and behind!—the cameras." Translated, this meant view
ers got to watch women behaving very, very badly. When they weren't on photo or commercial shoots, they fought like tomcats and drank like fish. They constantly took turns at creating drama between each other and then they would make up by the end of each episode.

  If the constant bickering and preening Petra and Sandy did for the show wasn't enough to push a director over the edge, their three kids (aka, The Spawn of Satan) would. Spoiled, volatile, eternally adolescent, and always aggravating, this unholy trio came complete with three ridiculous names. The oldest, Army Stronge, was twenty-one years old and excessively tattooed and rigid like his father. He was followed by his nineteen-year-old pot-smoking brother, Navy Stronge. Then there was the baby, Ranger Stronge, who was seventeen, gay, and unconcerned with who did or didn't know his sexual preference. These gun-toting, steroid-abusing brothers, who looked more like hoodlums than young men, made a compelling argument for birth control. Everyone on the set avoided these boys like the Plague. As much as I tried to stay out of their paths, they were destined to become a part of my very big, very public downfall.

  It wasn’t the family’s collective arrogance, rudeness, or ability to suck all the air out of a room that started pissing me off, and it wasn’t that they made every day on the set feel like a school trip to Guantanamo Bay; it was that they treated me and everyone else who was low on their food chain like a doormat—all for the fun of it. They would find someone’s weak spot and then go in for the kill. They’d play cruel jokes on them, laughing at the poor victim’s embarrassment and humiliation. Grips and gaffers, the makeup crew, wardrobe and hair stylists, and not to mention the food service people, we were all easy prey.

  Even though this dysfunctional family was receiving lots of attention from the show's hit ratings, most of the crew (including yours truly) thought the show was dreadful. I admit, it didn't take long before I was burnt out and ready for a new job. I had become tired of having to arrive on set by 5 am every day, sitting in the I-10 traffic all so the Stronge family could hurl insults and crass remarks. I needed a change, and I got one; it just wasn’t the one I had expected.

  The day when it all began to unravel started out like every other tumultuous workday on set. Activity on the set would gain steam around 6 am, with an endless flow of strong coffee and sugar-laden assortments of jelly-and-cream-filled donuts, powdered pastries, and monstrous chocolate-filled croissants to rev up everyone's engines. The cast and crew would stuff themselves silly. You could time your watch and see their sugar highs hit before the first take, leaving them to bottom out into cranky, sullen moods by the middle of the day. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Word to the wise: make sure that after the celebrities indulge in their hypoglycemic nose dives, there are no sharp instruments within reach.

  As everyone crammed their faces with sugar and downed the high-test coffee, big-haired Sandy crawled out of her trailer and claimed her territory over the last French cruller. I quickly gulped down my cup of coffee and passed on the donuts to avoid hearing Sandy rave to her personal stylist about those stubborn three pounds she "just had to lose.”

  I meandered my way towards the storage room to get a longer cable for one of the menace arms to rig the lighting for the day's shoot. The door swept over the lightly dusted tile as I turned into the back aisle, where all the electrical equipment was stored. To my surprise, I swiftly collided into everyone's un-favorite "Pet" Stronge, doing what he did best: copulating. Since I had just seen her emerging from her trailer, I knew it wasn't Sandy whose faux leather skirt was up to her navel, with her lace panties halfway down to her knees. It was Andrea Milk, one of Sandy's much younger predatory co-stars on the show Want $um.

  Andrea was a total “hottie” (as we on the crew called her), and her smart remarks were even hotter. Her catty attitude didn't keep men from lusting after her. Not only was she a looker, she could kick the ass of almost every female on set, and probably half the men. Andrea was a total gym rat, and no one wanted to cross her or make her angry.

  When Petra realized someone had interrupted his thrilling escapade with the very flexible Mrs. Milk, his eyes shot open in what I guessed could only be fear. As soon as he recognized it was me, however, there was a palpable sense of relief in his eyes. He growled in my direction as he reluctantly dropped the handful of breast he was fondling. I was standing directly behind Mrs. Milk, who was frantically tugging at her now wrinkled sheer blouse and faux leather skirt, trying to put her clothing back together as quickly as possible. As she turned to face me with complete embarrassment, I noticed her dark crimson lipstick smudged haphazardly across her cheek. When my head pivoted back, I stole a look at Petra. His face was turning an ugly shade of red and his upper body shook, like he was going to blow a fuse. I wished I could become invisible at that moment, wanting to escape and fast, but I was frozen stupid.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Henderson? Get the fuck out of here!”

  His usual piercing blue eyes had narrowed into nearly black slits. He didn’t even bother zipping up his fly. My mind couldn’t totally comprehend what I was witnessing. Somehow, like when a hypnotist snapped their fingers, I came out of my shock, grabbed the spool of cable, and bolted like a scared rabbit out of the storage room.

  I ran back to the set as fast as my out-of-shape millennial body would take me. After I calmed down and got the rig wired up and the light mounted properly, I realized the absurdity of the situation and started to laugh. Petra must have noticed, because the aging hockey defenseman suddenly slithered up behind me. I tried to ignore him, feeling his moist breath on my neck, hoping he would go away and retreat to his dark hole, but that wasn’t gonna happen.

  "Listen, you little prick, you didn't see a thing. Catch my drift?" I could smell Binaca on his tart breath, mixed with a splash of scotch—a wonderful sensory bouquet. “If you say a fucking word to anyone—the media, your shit-for-brains friends, or my family, especially my wife—you won't have any hands to grip your nuts with!" he spat through perfectly capped, clenched teeth.

  I didn't move a muscle, because the menace and intensity in his voice cut right through me. It was no laughing matter now. I knew that Petra Stronge meant what he said, even though he was a lying, cheating prick. And if I breathed a word about this godforsaken “incident,” I would not only be dead professionally but dead period; I’d heard stories about Petra’s mob connections and how he’d taken a handful of bribes during his mediocre hockey career.

  I was about to calm him down with assurances that I had no intention of saying anything to cause him or Andrea any trouble. Everyone who knew me best, like my mother or my next-door neighbor Mrs. Fox, would tell you I was the last person who would go looking for trouble. I was the peacemaker. But as Petra continued his spewing, I suddenly caught a crystal-clear picture of how the rest of my time on Being Stronge would play out: being routinely bullied and threatened by Petra. It was what I envisioned Hell must be like. Fuck this, I thought.

  In a split-second it came to me. There was only one logical thing to do: quit! So, I did. I abruptly turned and left Petra standing there like an angry gorilla, ordering me to come back. I made a beeline for the HR Department. Looking back, it was a stupid decision. But at the time, I was in a state of panic—not to mention, sheer terror. I could only think of getting as far away from Petra’s death ray stare as I could, and as fast as humanly possible.

  I took a few days off before filing for unemployment. I slept past 5 am for the first time in forever, and it felt glorious. But then, reality of life reared its ugly head, so I combed the local Variety ads to look for my next job. I checked out websites like Indeed and JobMonkey.com. I wasn't seeing many opportunities. After a few weeks of fruitless job hunting, I started to feel depressed. I had been so sure that there would be more jobs available, considering how strenuous the role of a grip can be. Maybe it was time for me to desert reality TV altogether. I had paid my dues working on second-rate shows hoping to eventually land an exclusive gig on American Idol or America’s Top Model, b
ut they had never come my way. It would have been a considerable improvement to work on a show with actually talented actors instead of the plastic, Botox-injected Barbie and Ken wannabes on Being Stronge.

  As the days wore on, I became more and more fed up with phony reality stars who were getting all the attention, and big pay to boot. Unsurprisingly, the viewers weren’t turned off by their shady and scripted behavior. In fact, it increased their popularity. It gnawed at my inner core as I became more and more obsessed with how unfair it all was. People like Sandy and Petra Stronge didn’t deserve their immense Hollywood mansions and front-page headlines in every rag in town.

  After a few more weeks of self-imposed exile, slumped in the sunken cushion of my threadbare couch, I glanced around my meager living room floor that was littered with laundry. The dining room table was piled high with newspapers with job leads circled that had led nowhere, and the whole place was making me feel claustrophobic.

  Afraid I would turn into a Howard Hughes-like hermit or worse, I hauled my sorry ass out of the apartment and headed for the nearest Starbucks a couple of blocks away. Grabbing the latest Variety, I parked myself at one of the outdoor cafe tables. After blowing on the steam from my triple espresso, I sat back and crossed my legs. Moments later, I found myself choking on my espresso when I opened the paper to a startling headline, a headline that almost knocked me off my chair: “Petra Stronge Scores.” What the bleep?