Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  Felix rolled his eyes and pushed Claudio to the side. “Man, here’s a small warning. Armando’s a heavy dude. You just don’t go around asking questions about him, and you definitely don’t fuck with him. He’s pretty good friends with some of the big boys in the game. You know, the real big boys.” he winked.

  Claudio nodded, “That’s right. Armando only came on the show because he’s only biding his time. He doesn’t want to be a part of this system, but I guess he figured if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

  “So all this time, he’s wanted the show to fail? Why’s he against you guys earning legitimate money? Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked.

  “He knows the dudes on the streets are mad jealous. When they got out there, nobody was offering them no show for some dough. Jealousy in a gang is no Bueno. Somebody has to pay,” Claudio said, looking pleased with himself.

  Felix interrupted, “The jelly on the stick is that his parents had been running some kind of meth lab out of Compton. They weren’t too bright and got their asses blown up cooking up a big-ass batch. Armando was just a kid, so the Church took him in. I guess they was good to him, ‘cause all he wanted was to be some kinda street preacher, like a reformer or some shit. Just watch. He’ll tell anyone who’ll listen how drugs fucked up his parents’ lives and shit like that.”

  I tried to wrap my head around what they were telling me. “Let me get this straight. Armando wants to put an end to all the paychecks you guys are earning legally on the show? Is that what you’re telling me? And no one holds that against him?”

  Spitz would be dumbfounded by this news; he definitely didn’t have any inkling that this was happening under his watch. I knew Spitz would want to keep Armando right where he was, so Spitz could keep those ratings up and that demographic of 43% females would be glued to their seats. The real question was, how could we not only make Armando stay and fulfill his contract, but also ensure he’d be willing to step into a starring role on the show?

  Claudio’s voice jerked me back into the conversation. “Yeah, that’s right. But you gotta understand, dude. He has some major street cred. Everybody gives him wide space.”

  “Yeah, and he can also kick some serious ass!” Felix interrupted with the kitchen knife still dangling from his left hand, “and that’s the ultimate street respect.”

  “Kick ass?” I asked, keeping an eye on the blade.

  “Hell yeah! He’s some kind of martial arts guru. You know, that Flying Tiger shit? Oh, and he does that UFC fighting too. He’s got big ups in the hood. He was undefeated in the house. They was beggin’ him to go pro when he got out, but he just kept refusing. It’s like he chose the big man upstairs over big bucks. Mucho loco! But everybody, gang or no gang, looks up to him. He’s a protector. Our protector,” Felix finished.

  “I don’t think Armando’s gonna like you wanting him to show his face more, Homes. He hates P Killers, so good luck with that.” Claudio laughed.

  I knew Felix and Claudio’s stories wouldn’t stop Spitz from pursuing Armando to star on his show. Where money was concerned, Spitz was like a pit bull, and not unlike Felix and Claudio, he was part of his own kind of gang. You could call it a “white-collar gang.” Armando was in Spitz’ wheelhouse now.

  “Well guys, I know the bosses would really like Armando to have a bigger role on the show. From hearing your stories, I think he deserves the respect, so it’s time he stops taking a back seat and gets in front of the camera. That’s all.” I went to leave, then turned back to the guys. “Think of all the people he could reach with his message, if only he had a spotlight. Enjoy your game.”

  26 Made of Steel

  The mysterious and elusive Armando stood roughly six feet tall, and dark brown hair with a stray lock that often fell between his eyes, a la Brad Pitt in his debut role in Thelma and Louise. The eyes were a piercing blue, and habitually hidden behind a pair of pitch-black sunglasses. He sported gray-flecked stubble and had the tan of someone who spent a lot of time outside in the sun. Last but not least, he had a build the ladies loved. In short, Armando was a stark contrast to Benny. Hell, he was a stark contrast to everybody that was even remotely associated to the show, for that matter. Armando was a sleek Lamborghini in a sea of Chevy Malibu’s.

  For all the physical gifts God had bestowed upon him, Armando Quesada (full name) didn’t like the spotlight, and for good reason. First and foremost, he did prison time. Hard time. There were still people out there who did not like Armando or his message, so it was important to stay under the radar. Secondly, he didn’t want his looks to supersede his message about the pitfalls of gang life. The message was the star, not him. And Armando would stop whatever he was doing to have a heart-to-heart with anyone who was willing to listen—especially gang members—about the evils of drugs, gangs and street violence. The message was clear: that way of life was a dead-end.

  After I left Claudio and Felix, I needed to get rid of the four cups of coffee I’d had that morning—quickly—before my eyeballs popped out. After sprinting to the nearest restroom on set, I settled myself on the throne and got busy in the cramped stall, conjuring up a potential anti-drug campaign that would bring this Armando character into the fold. My concentration was snapped when I heard two men come in and enter the stalls adjacent to mine.

  “We got about an hour before the next shoot. Then, you get to drive with Benny and three others over to East LA. Your home turf, right?” the first voice asked, with a laugh. It was a voice I recognized but couldn’t immediately identify.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it home,” answered a low, smooth Latino voice. I finished my business, exited the stall, and went to the sink to wash my hands. Looking in the mirror, I saw a heavyset man with red hair and a beard to match coming out of the adjacent stall. It was Carl, the props man, and owner of the voice I’d recognized.

  “Hey,” Carl said.

  “Hey. How are you, Carl?” I responded. I was hurrying, as I hated having conversations in small, confined areas, let alone next to urinals. Then the last stall opened, and Armando exited like a slow-motion Adonis.

  I seized the opportunity and said, “Armando, since you have an hour before you’re needed, could I see you in the makeup room, in say, fifteen minutes?” I tossed my used paper towel into the garbage can.

  “Sure,” Armando replied agreeably.

  “Great!” I said, then exited the bathroom without so much as a backwards glance to either Armando or Carl.

  Fifteen minutes later on the dot, Armando appeared in the doorway of the makeup room, which doubled as an on-location meeting room, when needed. It was anything but posh, but it got the job done.

  “Come in, have a seat,” I waved.

  Armando glanced at me, grabbed a chair, and sat down. I sat in the other chair, adjusting it so I could face Armando directly. I hadn’t had much time to notice his face in the men’s room, so now I was able to really see what Armando looked like without his trademark sunglasses. His good looks more than lived up to the hype that was going around the set.

  I wasn’t sure how to start, so I decided to just put it out there. “I need to get something out there.” I said, looking up at the ceiling tiles. “I know you want the show to fail. I know you’re not a fan of Proven Killers, and you especially don’t like gangs being portrayed as glamorized criminals on this show.”

  I leaned in closer and whispered, “But between me and you, I don’t like it either. The way I see it, it’s like this. We can do each other a favor; together we have the opportunity to turn lemons into lemonade, if you know what I mean. The more you appear on the show, the more you can spread the good word, and the greater the chances we both have in saving a few lost human beings from going down the dark path.”

  Armando just stared, listening intently but not giving his emotions away. I continued on, “The good thing about reality TV is that we have the power to showcase the realities and tragedies of gang life to thousands—no millions!—of viewers. We can help people rea
lize that they have a choice in what happens in their lives. But to do that, I need your help in steering this ship in the right direction. This partnership will not only help keep us on air, but it will also help keep these young men from continuing down the wrong path. I think it’s a win-win situation.”

  Armando kept my gaze as he got up slowly and stood. I tensed in my seat. He leaned over me and looked directly into my eyes, “I hear what you’re saying. I’m happy to do whatever it will take to advance both of our goals.”

  Armando quickly flashed his thousand-watt white smile and winked one of his sea blue eyes. I realized at that moment why the ladies loved him. Armando Quesada was 100% TV ratings gold. Think of a Latino Paul Newman in his prime and there you had it.

  I stood and said, “Good. What do you think about doing a backstory on your past? You know, how you tragically lost your parents at a young age and how they turned you—” I stopped talking when I noticed that Armando’s dazzling bright smile had vanished. “What? Not a good idea?” I asked, puzzled.

  “My past life, and everything about it, is none of your business,” Armando said in a no-nonsense, discussion-closed voice. “If you want me to help you with this show, then you’ll make certain whatever you know—or you think you know—about me and my past, has nothing to do with whatever plans you or Spitz have up your sleeves. Comprende?”

  Armando waited for a response. I held a breath for a moment, then clasped my hands together, playing it cool. I wasn’t sure how Spitz would react to this, but I wasn’t about to piss of this guy.

  “Absolutely! Your past is your past—off limits. Gotcha.”

  Armando relaxed a bit but gave me one more good, long look before he was satisfied with what he saw.

  “I’ll pass on the good news to Spitz,” I said.

  We shook hands, and I waved goodbye as Armando turned to leave. Like taking candy from a baby, I thought, feeling like the new mini Spitz.

  27 The Girls

  The sun was pouring into my windshield, partially blinding me as I drove down the A-10 on my way to The Venetian Blind. I was busy keeping my thoughts calm when I heard my phone buzzing on the passenger seat; it was Greg.

  “Yo, where you at? These girls are ecstatic and can’t wait for their big day.”

  “Ladies! We are ladies! ” I heard them yell, giggling in the background.

  “Okaaay, ladies,” Greg amended, then turned his attention back to me. “Just hurry.”

  Click. Had Greg just hang up on me? That wasn’t like him. Poor guy must’ve had his hands full. It wasn’t only a big day for the official cast of Reality Is a Drag, but for everyone involved, including the crew and production teams. With the Stronge show finally out of the picture, it was imperative for the remaining shows to succeed. The initial concept of Killing Reality was to get behind-the-scenes looks at three completely different shows, not just the two we now had left.

  I walked through The Venetian Blind’s rusty back door, hoping to avoid a big entrance. As my eyes adjusted from the harsh L.A. sun to the darkened atmosphere inside, I noticed that Stella, Sam, Daphne, and Cherish were already in wardrobe and makeup, putting on a full-blown show on the small stage. I squinted my eyes to focus, and sure enough, in the middle of the stage, poor Greg was tightly tied to a chair with his t-shirt pulled over his head. The ladies were tickling him with long, pink, glittery feathers.

  The club was packed like a can of sardines. Almost every drag queen in L.A. was in attendance and having the time of their lives. When the girls ended their torture, I noticed there was a vacant chair right next to Greg, and I had a bad feeling that one was being saved for someone else.

  I carefully approached the stage side stairs and peeked out from behind the red velvet curtain, intrigued by the outrageous antics on stage and the noise level of the crowd. I felt like I was at a Justin Bieber concert. Just then, Daphne saw me and slowly moved in my direction. The audience got in on the action, raving and yelling. As if on cue, the other three performers excitedly began cheering and clapping. “Please pull his shirt down,” I commanded in my nicest tone, as Daphne still headed in my direction. I obviously hadn’t been authoritative enough, because Daphne took that as a dare of sorts and bull-rushed me like an NFL lineman. She scooped me up and over her shoulder, and not so gently plopped me into the empty chair next to Greg’s. The only thing I could see were the pink ruffles from her puffy dress. I could hear the crowd roar, loving the scene: two unwilling, completely embarrassed straight guys being tied up and toyed with.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” Daphne exclaimed, trying to calm the audience. I took that as a chance to help Greg out and pull his shirt down. I had figured he was miserable, but when I pulled the shirt and revealed his face, he was grinning from ear to ear! He turned to me, laughing. “Welcome to the show, bro!”

  “We are the stars of this magnificent show,” Daphne said confidently to the audience, “but none of this would’ve been possible without these two hunky young specimens here.”

  She threw her arms in the air like a circus ringleader. The place erupted in more waves of whistles and screams. Each girl took turns and triumphantly graced the stage with a bow and unexpected burst of fast dancing and twerking before thanking us in front of the audience for turning them into big stars.

  I thought, Stars? I wished I’d had the same confidence as these ladies; they hadn’t even watched the pilot yet. The whole reason we were there wasn’t to be show toys, but to have a small pilot screening for a very select audience of fellow drag queens to support the girls, as well as a small focus group, who were probably lost in the wild audience.

  Confused, I pulled Sam aside, knowing he was the more level-headed one of the group. “Sam, what’s going on? I think it’d be best if we started watching the pilot,” I stressed, letting him know it was time to speed things up.

  He batted his eyes in full drag mode, smiled, and then gave me a quick wink to let me know all was okay and that I should relax, which I did. Whew, she had a plan. He turned and whispered to Daphne. She gathered the other girls like a mother hen and directed them to take their seats and get ready to watch the pilot.

  A huge projector screen scrolled down in the middle of the stage. Whispers were hushed as everyone braced themselves to witness the first TV version of Reality Is a Drag.

  “Is everyone ready? Action!” Daphne squealed, clapping her hands.

  BOOM! Crack! A collective gasp of surprise rippled throughout the audience. A small cap gun had been shot, signaling the release of a massive wave of balloons and confetti from the stage ceiling.

  I peered at Sam, who was laughing. “That was supposed to happen after the screening.”

  “Oh, boogers to Betsy,” Daphne said, clearly disappointed. But being the trouper she was, she rallied. “Oh well, on with the show!”

  28 Temper Tantrum

  Although everyone loved the Reality Is a Drag pilot, the same still couldn’t be said for the Proven Killers group. After my chat with Armando, it was official that he’d be given more of the spotlight. One day, during our break, Spitz decided it was a good time to reveal the TV exec’s new ideas for the alternate direction of the show. Some “genius” on the team had come up with the bright idea of scouting local gangs for a few members who were dissatisfied with some of their compadres being on the show. If willing, these members would appear on the show and room with some of the parolees for a while. The goal was for the experienced ex-cons to try and help these guys get out of the gang life before it was too late. In Spitz’s words, to “scare them straight.”

  I hated the idea, but I didn’t have much say in the matter. I also desperately needed the show to be a hit, so I was willing to do whatever it took to be prepared and be a team player. I tried reaching out to some of the so-called future house guests, but most were reluctant to talk to me. As far as they were concerned, they were taught to always keep their mouths shut, and to let nothing trap them against their will.

  If I was ever going to s
tay on top of the show, I knew I needed to get some respect from these guys. I really needed to toughen up, even if it was just a little bit. Yet, I wasn’t quite sure what “toughening up” actually meant or how I could go about it. I figured if I acted more like one of them and stopped trying to play nice all the time, maybe I could make a statement. I needed to let them know I wasn’t going to take any shit. But that was a lot to ask of someone who never went to the gym and always wore long sleeves to the beach. Screw it, I thought. If I wasn’t a bad ass, I’d have to start acting like one.

  I decided to pattern my new persona after some of the sickest, weirdest dudes I could think of, so I started acting like one of the Stronge boys. Brilliant idea, right? I threw tantrums, wrecked props, and made demands on everyone around me. I criticized other people’s work, nitpicked things that went wrong on set, and in general, I made other people’s lives miserable. And the truth was, I was making my own life miserable as well. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my bullying and loud-mouthing didn’t do anything except get me into trouble. In fact, it worked against me, not for me. It worked against me so badly, that I earned a new nickname behind my back: “Killer Bitch.”

  I needed this to end—fast. I figured Spitz would hear me out, but all he said was, “Well, Marc, what can I tell you? They’ll stop calling you a bitch when you stop acting like one.”

  Who was I kidding? It was apparent that I didn’t know how to act tough or reverse people’s poor perceptions of me. I wracked my brain for a new strategy, hoping it wasn’t too late to salvage my reputation on the show. After a long, arduous week, I plopped myself in front of the TV with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a Valium that one of the new on-set roomies had given me. I did my best to think, but alcohol and a depressant weren’t the best combo when searching for clarity. I barely made it through one show before I passed out cold.