He spoke slowly and forcefully, as if he was in front of a kindergarten class and not hardened ex-criminals. It was kind of funny watching Spitz stand there, hands gesturing wildly like some mad conductor, and speaking in that loud, all-in-caps type of way he did when trying to shove a point home. He paused, waiting for Benny and the boys to give some type of nod or indication that they heard and agreed. It was pretty ridiculous telling gang members that they couldn’t carry weapons of any kind. If the cameras had been rolling, they would’ve zoomed in on bulging vests filled with only God knew what, and that was what you could see. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d had some other hardware tucked neatly away for “special occasions.”
Spitz carefully ticked off the remaining rules, followed by numerous threats to fire everyone before their checks even cleared payroll if they didn’t play right. It was pretty clear that Spitz was serious about these non-negotiable standards. He even said that everyone would be subject to frisking at any time should management deemed it necessary, just to make sure everyone was living up to their end of the bargain. After a few stern looks, the group reluctantly agreed. What the heck, I thought, these guys have been living locked up for who knows how long now. They’re probably used to taking orders. These guys knew how to get around orders and within hours, I knew there would be all sorts of weapons hidden away in this place. And even if they couldn’t have their weapons close by, they’d find a way to protect themselves if the shit started hitting the fan. It wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy introduction to our new show.
It was finally time to prep for the next taping. I looked over the notes that I’d been given about our next guest, who went by the name of “Armando.” After quickly reading about this guy’s past, I was immediately impressed with his story and looking forward to meeting him. In prison, Armando stood out, but in a good way. He’d found a passion for helping the lives of some of the other gang members, who initially were told they were lost causes. Because of his work with gang members, for the first time in years, the statistics of prison fights and gang-related killings in the Union City Maximum Security Correctional facility had decreased by 20%. This was huge, especially when you learn that violence in prisons never goes down—just up. Soon after, other correctional facilities were coming to Union City to learn their secret. I was looking forward to interviewing him and hearing what he had to say, especially what had made him decide to turn his life around.
Spitz approached as I was finishing up my preparation for the Armando segment later this week. He was ecstatic and remarked about how good the pilot for Proven Killers looked. He was expecting “pretty big numbers.” Let’s pray these numbers are as big as he hopes, I thought. He congratulated me and patted me on the back, then quickly took off searching for his overworked assistant. If she was smart, she’d be hiding in a closet somewhere right about now.
As the day of filming some of the background footage wore down, the anxiety of the crew heightened, as we were all nervous about hearing the world’s reaction to our first episode. After taping, Spitz invited me to watch the test pilot with him and his executive team in his office. It was tempting, as it would be exciting to see everyone’s hard work come together, but I decided it would be best for me to go home, just in case things didn’t go so well.
As I headed out the door, Brian, one of Spitz’s team members, stopped and asked me if I was going to join them in Spitz’s office. “Thanks very much, but no. I’m just really nervous about it and honestly, I’d just rather be alone—just in case things don’t go as planned,” I said politely.
“No problem, man. I totally get it,” he said, waving it off. “Opening night jitters can be a bitch.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said with a half-smile. “Talk to you later.”
But he was no longer paying any attention to me. He was already leaving, on his way to the next “to do” item on his list.
After getting home, I laid down to take a nap, but it was no use. I couldn’t turn my mind off for a single second. Mrs. Fox had invited me over, but my stomach was so tight with knots that I couldn’t bear the thought of being around anyone until I heard the reviews from the show. To top it all off, my mother called. She was excited for me, correctly assuming I could use some maternal support. We talked for about 15 minutes and I started to relax. She teased me about how everyone thought they now had a bona fide TV star in the family. It was just what I needed.
But then she started going into the whole family rundown. Cousin Bernadette was getting married again and everyone was hoping the third time was a charm. Uncle Stan’s dementia was getting worse. Blah, blah, blah. I cut her short, knowing this could go on for another thirty minutes and I’d miss the show.
Spitz set up a Google Portal conversation so he, his executive team, and I could watch the show more or less together. I guess even though we all weren’t in the same room, Spitz wanted all of us close by. I was okay with that, but I was still just as nervous.
I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and settled in on the couch for the big debut. I waited anxiously for a few minutes. Then, after a few preemptory commercials, the show finally came on. The knot in my stomach was getting bigger and bigger. It took everything I had not to cringe when the beginning credits started to roll. I thought listening to a recording of yourself was weird, but seeing yourself on a TV screen was worse, and pretty humbling in a strange way.
My eyes were glued to the TV for the next hour. The more I watched, the more I felt the need to critique everyone’s performance, especially mine. There were so many things we could’ve done differently. But as the show continued, my nerves settled. Once the second interview came on, I felt a little more relaxed, like I could enjoy it for what it was. It definitely flowed more naturally than the choppiness of the first interview. As the final credits rolled, I was relieved. I turned off the TV and sighed. Thank God it’s over.
Ping! It was Spitz texting me. Ack! Should I respond? But before I had the chance to, my phone pinged again. This time it was Greg. And then another one from Sarah, an assistant producer. I closed my eyes. How bad was it? I didn’t think it had been that horrible, had it?
Okay, get a grip, Marc. I took a deep breath and read the first message.
James: Don’t have numbers yet, but the team seems to like what they saw! Not bad for a first run, Marc, eh? See you in the AM!
Ok, that was pretty encouraging. There was no mention of being fired, so that was definitely a good thing. Not too shabby, Henderson. Maybe this wouldn’t so bad after all.
21 Hurricane Sandy
I saw Greg talking intently to Sandy’s assistant, Shana, after I arrived at the Stronge mansion for day two of shooting. I walked around the long way, so I wouldn’t have to approach them and get caught in the crossfire. I tried my best to stay incognito, as I wasn’t ready for the day’s unnecessary shenanigans. However, I was curious as to what Greg and Shana were discussing. From my angle in the kitchen, it appeared that they were in the middle of a heated argument.
Veins were bulging, faces were red, and arms were flailing around, accentuating frustrations and proving points. I was hoping to stay hidden and snatch some peace and quiet before taping, so I quickly grabbed a hot cup of dark roast coffee and a chocolate donut before heading to the pool.
As soon as I walked to the end of the long jungle-themed hallway, I saw Rich and Spitz talking privately behind the waterfall. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking and accidentally bumped into a large, standing bronze vase holding some type of green leafy plant. I tried to right myself but couldn’t avoid making some noise. Their necks snapped and immediately turned to what caused the noise. Crap—there went my cover. It was too late to turn back now.
Surprisingly, they didn’t dismiss me. Instead, they motioned me over like two kids with a secret they couldn’t wait to tell. James grabbed me on the shoulder and excitedly whispered, “Sandy and Milo are having a huge fight. This is going to be great. We’ve already sent a
camera guy over to their room to catch the whole thing. Hurry,” he pushed, “Move!”
I had to leave my coffee and donut next to the decorative rocks surrounding the waterfall. We weren’t due on set for another twenty minutes. No peace, no quiet, and no donut. Damn. It was time to work, and I needed to do as I was told, so I sprang into action. Spitz handed me one of the lightweight portable cameras, and I headed toward the action.
As I was getting closer to the room, I could hear Sandy screeching, “You lying son of a bitch! How dare you come into MY house stinking of her!“ She punctuated her accusation by throwing a vase at the wall.
I could hear the desperation in Milo’s pleading response. “Sandy! Honey. Baby. You’ve got it ALL wrong! Margot is not my girlfriend. She only works for me as a consultant. That’s all! It’s not what you think,” he said, dodging more hardware.
At the rate things were flying in the air, the set designers would have more job security than they needed, dealing with these two. Sandy was no push-over, nor was she a stranger to borderline abusing her latest boy toy. Sadly, Sandy was a twelve-year-old bratty tween trapped in an adult woman’s body.
I braced myself and slowed my steps as I approached the door. I peeked inside, looking left and right for the other camera guy, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably hunkered down somewhere, trying to protect himself from flying objects while trying to get all this craziness on video.
Crash! “One, two, three,” I counted. I took a deep breath and slipped quietly inside, covering my head. Fortunately, I came in to the left, behind Sandy, who was in such a rage, she wouldn’t have heard a herd of elephants stampeding into the room. Her face was contorted in rage, and I could feel the heat a mile away.
I looked up and saw Milo at the end of the room, where there was debris and broken glass scattered all around. Luckily for him, he was far enough away that Sandy’s aim kept missing him.
If Milo noticed me or the other guy, who I eventually spotted tucked behind an overstuffed chair in the other corner, he gave no notice or warning. He looked terrified, and I was an up-close witness. The scene playing out right before my eyes was reality TV ratings gold. Unable to afford missing a second of footage, I setup the camera and hit Record.
“You vile snake! How could you slither into my bed reeking of that slut’s perfume! You two-timing piece of crap! You thought you had it made, didn’t you? You thought sleeping in MY bed, wearing MY husband’s pajamas, eating MY food, and spending MY money was going to allow you to do whatever you wanted! She’s young enough to be your daughter, you pervert—I could just kill you! I know people who would slit your throat right now—just to be in your position!”
For Sandy’s finale, she hoisted a ceramic lamp in the air, yanked its cord out of the outlet, and hurled it straight at Milo’s head.
Reflexively, Milo ducked behind the liquor cabinet just before the lamp crashed into the wall behind him. Damn. That could’ve been the money shot.
But Milo’s luck was running out.
Sandy charged a little closer, grunting and grabbing a small Grecian statue off the coffee table. Crouched like a scared rabbit, Milo pleaded, “Sandy! Please! You’ve got to believe me! Margot is nothing. She’s nothing to me. She’s just a poor stupid young girl with a crush. That’s all. I swear to you! Why would I want her when I have you?!”
Without warning, the door flung open with a bang. It was Margot, and by the royally pissed off look on her face and her defiant stance, she must have heard the whole thing. I stole a quick look at the other cameraman who had popped his head out from his hiding place. He gave me a thumbs up sign and disappeared again.
“You dirty old man! ‘A young girl with a crush’?” she shrieked, storming towards Milo. “Are you kidding me?” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “You and your baby-sized dick were rubbing up against me every chance you got! The only reason I slept with you is because you promised me a spot on the show. And let me tell you, that twenty seconds of torture definitely wasn’t worth it. Everything and everyone about this place is horrid. I’m out of here!”
And with that, Margot turned and left as quickly as she had entered.
Milo timidly popped up briefly behind the cabinet to see if Margot was gone for good. Sandy took advantage of the moment and hit her target right on the money. There was a thud, and Milo crumpled like a rag doll. Just perfect.
“Oh my God! Boys!” Sandy screamed in a panic. “Boys!”
I heard voices coming from the hallway. Thankfully, it was a female’s voice and not one of Sandy’s offspring. I turned to find Shana and Greg entering the room, their eyes taking in the room and assessing the damage. After spotting Sandy, Shana made a beeline and did her best to calm her down. Greg ran over to Milo to see if he was still breathing. “Milo!” he shouted.
Greg gently shook Milo to get him to come around. Greg then slowly helped him to a sitting position against the wall. “Ugh,” Milo groaned. He looked dumbstruck, eyes widening as he saw blood—first on his fingers from where he rubbed his head, then on the floor, where a small amount had smeared. His features quickly switched to rage.
Shaking Greg off, he staggered to his feet, determined to confront Sandy, who, seeing the murderous look on his face, started to scream. Before anything could escalate, Spitz appeared.
“Knock it the fuck off! I’ve had enough of you two!” Spitz roared. “Milo—get the fuck out of here! You are off this show!” Spitz’s authority sure came in handy when you needed it.
“Oh yeah?” Milo growled. “You think so? I’m suing you and that bitch!” He pointed to Sandy, who was now using Shana as a human shield.
“Peter? Marc? Please tell me you got all this shit,” Spitz asked, looking for confirmation.
“Got it,” Peter confirmed, looking spent.
I stood up, straightened my shirt, and nodded in agreement.
“Go ahead,” Spitz challenged Milo. “See how far you get. Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops, or better yet, before I get Sandy’s boys to kick your ass!” Spitz said, daring Milo to give a rebuttal.
Milo pushed Greg out of the way and stormed out the door. “Bastard!” Sandy shouted, hurling one last insult at Milo. She was more courageous now that she had reinforcements.
What a day. Shana, Greg, and I shook our heads at each other, knowing this was turning into just another “normal” day on this crazy job.
22 Life Is a Drag
After Milo (aka “Measles”) and Sandy’s meltdowns the other day, Sandy demanded that the cameras be shut off for a while so she could figure things out. But since reality television must go on, Spitz came up with a plan for Greg and me. He sent us over to meet a few new cast members from the third show that he was involved in called Reality Is A Drag. I had to hand it to him—Spitz definitely knew how to scour the landscape for all his off-the-wall TV show ideas.
Apparently, this new show was about some L.A. drag queens who had developed a cabaret act that became a huge hit, with waiting lines for every performance. Now they wanted their shot at the “big time” (didn’t they all). Spitz claimed he had found them by accident, but nobody believed him. There were always rumors going around about his penchant for kinky things like this, but since he was the man paying the bills, no one had the courage to rock the boat. The way Spitz told it, what really intrigued him about this idea was not their well-produced and professional show, but all the conversations that took place behind the scenes, and between the acts and afterwards, when the cast chilled out in the bar and let their hair down, so to speak.
Being the self-proclaimed reality TV genius he was, Spitz thought it’d be perfect to follow them around with a film crew to record their performances, their back stories, day-to-day lives, and anything else that would grab the audience’s attention.
With that in mind, we drove to a club downtown off of Hollywood Boulevard. There was a neon sign that read, “The Venetian Blind,” which reminded me of that great Robin Williams flick fr
om some years ago, The Birdcage. Greg and I looked at each other, both with the same unsaid question, Are we actually going to do this?
Walking into a darkened foyer, I could vaguely make out some tables and chairs which were randomly arranged throughout the cavernous room. There was also a good-sized stage along the back wall, with a catwalk jutting out into the seating area. There were pink and purple lights twinkling all over the place.
“Hi, sweeties!” said a voice from the front of the room. The club was pitch black coming in from the outside, and our eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the sudden change in light.
“Oh, cut it out,” another voice popped up.
Greg elbowed me in the ribs. Apparently, his eyes adjusted quicker than mine, and he was considering making a run for it. “Last chance to turn around,” he whispered.
As we walked further into the main room, we noticed a small round table right in front of the stage where four women dressed in their finest were sitting and drinking. The closer we got, the more I noticed that each lady had very high hair and dramatic makeup just like the woman I’d seen on the billboard that promoted our show.
“Hello, gorgeous!” said one of the women. She patted the vacant chair next to her. “Come sit down here.”
She could’ve passed as Tina Turner’s identical twin. Greg—always the braver of us two—sat first, and I went around to the other side and sat next to an Adele look-alike. “Well, look at you,” the woman next to Greg said, smiling. She struggled to wiggle her chair closer to him. She was twice the size of Greg and had on a skintight leather outfit.
“Be nice, Stella,” the Adele clone said. Then she turned to me, introducing herself. “Hi, my name is Cherish,” she offered, giving me her hand. “That big brutish one is Stella. This is Sam,” she said, pointing to a Cher doppelganger, “and this is the beautiful Daphne.”
Killing Reality Page 13
