Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  19 Showtime

  After staying up all night, binge-watching every true crime show I could find, I couldn’t sleep. The stories were horrid, but I couldn’t turn away. I was glued to my brand new, crystal clear, 80” curved, high-def Sony television. I was a researching maniac—if anything had to do with crime, I was all over it. I surfed the web, hunting down eye-catching headlines from the past several years. I was trying to memorize, and hopefully emulate, what other crime show hosts and reporters did. I had to know what I was getting myself into. I wished I had more time to prepare—maybe talk to some people, take some notes, follow a few professionals around—but it was probably way too late for that.

  It was 9 am when I woke up, still laying in the same place as last night. I had morning breath and my hair was beyond scruffy. I felt like I had a hangover, which was sadly becoming a part of my normal morning routine. With so little sleep, I could barely wrap my head around all the things I’d watched last night. After shows like Locked Up and The First 48 Hours , I was even more scared of all the possible kinds of criminals that were going to appear on the show, and I was seriously starting to doubt if I could pull this off. My armpits were sweaty, my muscles were twitching, and my mouth was dry. I smacked myself in the face and splashed it with cold water and told myself to get my act together. This “pep talk” was also becoming a new morning ritual. I needed to be prepared for whatever might happen today. It was time to man up, take control, and put on my game face. Since I didn’t need to show up till after lunch, I decided to at least do something about my hair, and hoped a change in my appearance would do some good and psych me up a little. I searched for a nearby hair salon that I had seen advertised a few weeks prior; they looked like they might take walk-ins. Since it was still fairly early in the morning, I was able to get a seat quickly.

  Casey, my hairdresser, was a slim young girl probably fresh out of cosmetology school. She looked no more than 18 or 19 years old. She seemed thrilled to help me with a new look. She suggested a few natural-looking highlights to go along and I agreed. That seemed to make her happy, and she said, “Excellent! You’re not going to believe how great you’ll look!”

  Jeez, I hadn’t thought I looked that bad. She gave me a complimentary coffee and donut, then got to work. After she worked her magic, I was blown away by the man I was looking at in the mirror. Casey must’ve noticed how stunned I looked, because she was clapping her hands and laughing at my expression. I gave her a generous tip and headed out. I felt like a new Marc—well, maybe not new, but definitely an improved Marc.

  I drove to the set wearing my new Ray Bans, a shirt that cost more than a week’s pay back when I was just a grip, and of course, my new “fresh” spiky haircut complete with the highlights, feeling a lot more confident than I did hours before.

  At the parking lot, I hopped out of the car, tossed the keys to the parking assistant, and headed for the front door where a few crew members were standing around, smoking cigarettes before the set got rolling.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to act nonchalant, as if I belonged there. The crowd stepped back, but there were a few sneers as I walked by. I couldn’t help feeling a little foolish with my new look and all—I mean, it had only been a few weeks ago that I was one of them.

  I spotted Spitz and approached him from behind. He was in full executive mode, directing his harried-looking assistant with multiple simultaneous orders, all of which apparently needed to be done “ASAP!” That poor girl. Spitz dismissed her, then turned and saw me.

  He immediately poured on the charm. He put his arms around my shoulders and guided me towards the kitchen, where a few people were gathered around the food table happily stuffing themselves with donuts, muffins, and coffee again.

  “Marc! I love the new look.” He then turned his attention to the table. “I want you to meet one of our first house guests you’ll be interviewing today for the pilot episode.”

  He smiled and gestured towards a very pale, thin, twitchy young guy with a bad haircut. He looked sixteen but was probably in his early twenties.

  “Owen! How’s it going, buddy?” Spitz said over-enthusiastically, which alarmed the boy, making him spill his coffee. Boy, and I thought I looked nervous. This kid looked like he’d eaten a plate of static electricity for breakfast.

  “Marc, Owen will be one of our guests on the first show. He survived an incredibly tumultuous and tragic family situation a few years ago. He tried to stop his father from physically beating his younger brother, and as the situation escalated, he ended up having to defend his own life. Since then, Owen has been fighting a tough uphill battle with the court system. For now, he’s spending his time in the NA Chanderjian Youth Correctional Facility.”

  Spitz exhaled, acting deeply distressed by Owen’s situation. But I had the feeling he didn’t care at all.

  “Hi Owen, it’s great to meet you. I’m sorry about what happened,” I said sincerely, moving to shake his hand. I picked the wrong time to greet him, because he had a donut in one hand and coffee in the other. We both smiled at the awkwardness. He shoved the donut in his mouth to shake my hand. Afterwards, I felt a little sticky jelly in my hand, but I pretended not to notice. I definitely didn’t want to scare him anymore than he’d already been.

  “Oh, great!” Spitz exclaimed, as if all the magic pieces were gloriously falling into place. “Marc,” he said placing his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes, “I’m going to send you off to the producers and segment coordinators. It’s important that you have all the notes, info, and background, so you can do right by…” Spitz snapped his fingers, straining his mind to remember.

  “Owen,” I interjected.

  “Right! Right,” he slapped his leg. “Yes, sorry, Owen. It’s a big day, and we’re all a little nervous.” He shook his head and went about his executive duties.

  It took about two and half hours to go over notes, cues, numerous walkthroughs, lighting tests, makeup and wardrobe, and of course, the final “dry run.” Thankfully, my initial bundle of nerves were beginning to wear off. I was given step-by-step instructions, and as a former grip, I was excellent at following orders. As I hit more of my marks, repeated endless uninteresting dialogue for sound checks, sat for lighting tests, and changed my outfit a slew of times, I felt a little more comfortable and at ease.

  It was finally show time. As soon as they brought Owen out, it looked like he was going to faint. I really felt for the guy. While the cameras rolled, we started talking about his unbelievably difficult childhood. His mother had died when he was seven, and his dad was an abusive alcoholic. Owen wasn’t a big guy at all, so he wasn’t able to defend himself too well. He was also selfless, taking the beatings his father had inflicted so his younger brother Charlie didn’t have to.

  But as Charlie got older and bigger, his father started ramping up his abusiveness, and smacking him across the face, pushing and shoving him. His father had tried to justify his actions, claiming he was trying to make a man out of poor Charlie. But Owen knew it was just a matter of time before it escalated into something even worse.

  On the night in question, Owen’s dad was in a drunken rage over some imagined injustice that he’d had to endure. His father’s way of handling injustices was to create injustice himself, so he decided to go after Charlie, who was hiding under one of the beds in the room he shared with Owen. From the onset, it looked like this wasn’t the ordinary fury that their father was always in, so Owen instinctively intervened to protect his younger brother.

  Owen watched a lot of television in those days and especially loved the UFC and MMA fights, imaging that he himself would one day be able to defend himself like the fighters he idolized. One of the moves he tried to master on his younger brother was the sleeper hold. Owen practiced all the time and for some reason, thought this would be a good time to test it out for real on his father. Well, that didn’t go as planned, because he was easily overpowered. His father threw him against the wall, where Owen fell limp o
n the floor. His dad turned his rage back to Charlie, visibly more angry. He aggressively pulled Charlie from under the bed and in doing so, lifted the mattress and box spring off the ground with him. He started to viciously pummel Charlie, who was curled up into a ball. Seeing his father hurt his younger brother, Owen mustered up the strength to stagger to his feet and grab one of the metal bed slats that had fallen in the midst of the chaos. He swung like a bat out of hell and hit his father on the back of the head, immediately causing his father to stumble and fall heavily to the floor. Horrified by what he’d done, Owen stopped in his tracks, fear plastered across his face, backing up as he stared down at his father.

  Dazed and wobbly, his father scrambled for balance, and pulled a gun out from the back of his jeans. He cocked the trigger and aimed it right at Owen’s heart. Owen, looking from the gun to his father, froze. He didn’t know what state his father was in, or what he would be capable of doing with a gun. His father’s face curled up into a sinister grin, and the boys knew from experience that when that grin appeared, something very bad was about to happen.

  Being young, petrified, and scarred from years of abuse, Owen screamed when he noticed his father’s gun had moved off of him and was now pointing straight at his younger brother. Knowing he had to do something fast, Owen charged with everything he had. Before his father could react, Owen drove the metal slat straight through his father’s chest. His father’s eyes went blank and he slumped over.

  Owen said he remembered breathing so hard that he could barely stand. He didn’t dare let go of the metal slat. But that’s when he noticed blood dripping from where he’d penetrated his Dad’s chest. Blood was pooling everywhere, and Charlie and Owen both knew their father was gone. Kneeling down, Owen dropped his weapon and picked up Charlie from the floor, telling him that it’d be okay, that no one would hurt them again and they were free now. Together, they fled from their horror movie of a life and never looked back. I felt a wave of sympathy as we wrapped up the interview, and thanked Owen, and told him he’d done a great job.

  From there, I made my way to the editing room, which was set up in what looked to be the old laundry room to see if they needed to do any retakes. All they said was that this was going to be a great show, and nothing needed improving. The crew was satisfied, and I was able to take a break. What a day, and what a story! I couldn’t believe this was my job now.

  I was hyped up on adrenaline and called Aud to see if she was busy. She said she wasn’t, but commanded that, “If you are coming over here, you better not show up empty-handed.”

  I hung up and immediately headed to her favorite Southwestern restaurant for takeout, and then to the liquor store. I bought everything I needed to make her favorite margaritas. I was sure we’d both need a drink—or two—while I told her Owen’s story.

  I took a minute to examine my old digs as I pulled up to the apartment complex and made my way toward Mrs. Fox’s front door, stopping to peak in the window of my old place. It looked empty. It probably hadn’t been rented out yet.

  Mrs. Fox greeted me at her front door. Of course, I had to give Daisy her standard amount of puppy love before Mrs. Fox and I could get to happy hour. Aud gave me a big kiss on the cheek and a fierce hug, which I returned. Man, I’d really missed her. Maybe I was just imaging things before when I’d called her the last time?

  In a few minutes, she whipped up our drinks like a pro, and I laid the takeout on the table. It was like I’d never left. We slid right back into our comfortable routine of shooting the breeze. We took the time to update each other about our lives. Sadly, one of her “peeps,” Joanie, had had a stroke and wasn’t doing well. I got a rare glimpse of Aud’s vulnerable side, something I hadn’t expected.

  “I don’t think she’s going to come out of this too good…”she said. “Her doctors think she didn’t get to the hospital quick enough, and there may be some serious, permanent damage. No one was with her,” she looked down, clasping her hands together.

  I leaned in towards her, “You always tell me that it’s not over until it’s over, right?” She slowly nodded. “So, give Joanie all the love, support, and encouragement that you can. She probably needs you right now.”

  I hugged her and she clasped on to me, hard. It dawned on me that Aud was contemplating her own immortality. Suddenly, she straightened up and said, “Enough of this bullshit. How was your day?” She was acting like her old self again. “If you came over here to bring me down like this, next time I will be busy when you ask to come over!”

  She threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh. I told her about Owen’s story and what was happening on set. Hours quickly passed, and the food and margaritas looked to be finished as well. There was a calm in the air, and then we said our goodnights. I confirmed that I’d be back tomorrow with even better stories than today. I gave Aud and Daisy good night pecks and walked out the door.

  20 The Big Debut

  When I got home from Aud’s, I checked my email, quickly scanning my inbox for anything that looked important. Spitz had sent over some of the footage they had pieced together from that bizarre first day on the Stronge set. I was always amazed at the talent some of the behind-the-scenes people had. With only a little footage, they could arrange and switch things around like a puzzle. My initial reaction was, not bad.

  It was really weird seeing myself in the footage. I knew better than to get too excited about what to expect. I sent back a reply telling Spitz I thought it was good and I was really excited to see what they were going to do with Owen’s story. I emphasized that I thought his story was going to be the hit. I figured, what the hell, I’d try to do anything I could to get the Stronge’s show out of our lineup. Who wouldn’t love to be rid of those guys for good?

  Thursday came around quickly, and I found myself struggling to get out of bed again at 4 am. Spending the last few days with Mrs. Fox had really lightened my spirits, but I still wasn’t fully prepared to tackle a new day on set.

  This time, I decided to park the car myself. As I turned the corner for the parking area, I noticed a different group of guys standing around smoking cigarettes. I hustled up the stairs and as I tried to squeeze my way through the small crowd and into the building, I couldn’t help but hope that I didn’t literally rub any of them the wrong way. It was not the day to find yourself splattered on the floor chewing broken concrete. As I got to the front door, one of the younger guys stepped in front of me, blocking the entrance.

  “Yeah, you that Marc Henderson guy, right?” he said as he side-eyed me. “Hey, Benny, this here is our boss man, Marc Henderson,” he said smirking at me.

  The guy who spoke looked awfully familiar, and then it dawned on me. This was the guy from that crazy billboard. The guy who resembled a younger, but more obnoxious Joe Pesci, and he couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He seemed more or less harmless in real life, except for the nasty-looking skull tattooed on the front and side of his neck. His buddy Benny was a different story. Benny looked mean and menacing—exactly like he did on the billboard. Benny looked over at me and stomped his cigarette under his black work boot and shouldered his way to where we were standing. He measured me up and down, as if to decide if he should show respect or not—a process that he probably went through with everyone he met.

  He was huge, hairy, and tall, much like Sasquatch. He had sleeves of tattoos, and yellow teeth that needed help from the dental gods. The way everyone moved out of his way, I assumed he was the ringleader of this group, or at the least, its enforcer.

  “Yeah, hey, I’m Marc,” I said, turning to address the group. “Good to meet you guys. Look forward to working with you, but I’m sorry, I’m not the boss. That would be Mr. Spitz.”

  I tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Benny spit at the ground and proceeded to squeeze my hand until it was numb. “Well, I was told,” Benny pumped up, “to take my orders from you and my money from Spitz.”

  Did I mention Benny looked like he weighed as much
as a school bus? He was now literally blocking the sun, and it strained my neck just to look up at him. Unknowingly coming to my rescue, David the line producer popped his head out the door. “You guys need to be in makeup. You’re supposed to be ready in twenty.”

  Benny looked horrified, almost like he’d just seen his own reflection. It was nice to know that something at least scared the beejeezus out of Benny. I’d file that away for future reference. “We don’t do makeup,” he objected, pointing to the gang.

  David gave them a look and said forcefully, “No makeup, no money!”

  Ah, the universal language of greed. Still not happy, they complied and pushed past David into the building.

  “Are you sure this was a good idea?” I asked, looking at David as I was sitting in wardrobe.

  Benny and his gang were a huge distraction; they were trying their hardest to give the makeup artists a hard time. It was like watching a train wreck, and it was clear that my criminal status couldn’t hold a candle to these guys.

  Then it was my turn in the makeup chair. The artists looked frazzled beyond belief, but also relieved their part was over. I wouldn’t be so lucky. As the finishing touches were being applied to my face, Spitz popped in to give an unsolicited and wholly insincere “we’re all a team” pep talk, but he knew these guys didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it.

  “Okay!” Spitz clapped his hands together. “Are we ready to make some history? I’m talking about some cutting-edge, hardcore shit! Something that’s never been done before!”

  Then he looked sternly, pointing at each of us, “But for this to work properly, and if you guys want your fifteen minutes of fame, not to mention your moolah, there are a few unbendable rules you must abide by.”

  Spitz inhaled, closing his eyes as if these were the most important words he’d ever have to say. “The first and most important rule is that there are absolutely NO FUCKING WEAPONS. No exceptions.”