My entire weekend was a haze. Monday came around way too fast. The very moment I arrived on set, I decided to ask Benny directly if we could speak in private. I led him outside to a balcony where I knew there weren’t any cameras; I needed to confide in someone who could keep their mouth shut.
I put on my best Ray Donovan face and explained to him that I could be a big help in his career going forward. I told him we could make a really good team; as long as he had my back, I would have his. I waited. Benny didn’t say anything at first, just gave me a good, hard look.
He seemed to make up his mind. “Look, Marc, I don’t want to mess up the good deal I have. And I don’t need a ‘partner,’ especially not one like you,” he said He chuckled. “I ain’t even sure why you’re here. Anybody can see you ain’t cut out for none of this shit. That whack self-defense you did on TV? That ain’t gonna get you no respect with my boys. And even that whole prima donna thing you tried? Shit, that was probably the most worst thing you coulda done.”
He laughed a little more, shaking his head. I needed to step up my game; I was losing him. As he turned around to leave, I knew I had to impress him with something. “Benny!” I called, pulling out my gun from my jeans. “This is my CZ 75 out of the Czech Republic. It’s a semi-automatic with selective five variants You do understand this, right?”
Benny turned and gave me a look in return. He was assessing me, really looking at me for the first time. I could see something shift in his eyes. He looked down at me and smiled a slow, creepy laugh. “Well, alright man! That’s what I’m talking about! There may be a little gangsta in you after all!”
Benny laughed, then abruptly looked around to make sure no one was lurking close by. He inched closer to me, bent his head and said quietly, “Okay, I hear ya. I’ll have your back. We’re good, man. You go be Mr. Reality Star or whatever.”
Benny laughed again, thumping me in the chest. He must’ve seen how relieved I felt, because he turned serious and warned, “But listen here, Marc, don’t ever think of pulling that piece on me. I’ll stick that thing so far down your fuckin’ throat, you’ll choke on it. You feel me?”
He didn’t wait for my answer. I watched him walk away, shaking his head. I turned, leaned over the balcony, and promptly threw up my breakfast.
With Benny now on my side, I could now focus on the other cast and crew members who still had a grudge against me. Granted, I wasn’t always going to have Benny with me for protection, but I had to get my point across if I was ever going to survive on the show. So, I mustered my best Tony Soprano impersonation and declared to anyone in earshot as I walked back into the living room set, “Hey! I’m giving fair warning to anyone who calls me a bitch one more fucking time, that I’m gonna hang you up by your balls and let you bleed dry.”
Hm. Good job, Marc. I like the sound of that. You could have heard a pin drop. The entire floor was quiet, if only for a moment. Then laughter erupted.
“Did you write that line yourself, Henderson?” one of the grips shouted, followed by more laughter.
“Come on, Henderson. Give us a break and shut the hell up.”
I looked for Benny, who was supposed to have my back, but he was nowhere to be found. I’d been expecting him to step up. Suddenly I felt the familiar heat of rage well up inside. I was mad and humiliated at the same time. Then I had another stupid idea and before I could stop myself, I took out my concealed pistol and fired a shot right out the window and into the backyard. In the cavernous room, the noise was amplified, echoing through the entire building. Everyone froze with mouths wide open.
“I’ll only say this once. You all have your jobs because of me. I’m not your little bitch, and if anyone wants to argue that, you can come see me and my partner here.” I nodded to the gun, which I still had in my hand and out in full view. “Do we understand each other?”
I scanned the crowd, trying to make eye contact with as many people as I could. I met Benny’s gaze, who must have heard the shot and had come running in. His eyes first looked at me, with a WTF? look, then to one of the cameras that had been rolling through the whole episode.
Everyone hurried back to their tasks, studiously avoiding me. Anybody who wasn’t working, ran to the nearest hiding place. All except for Eddie (the Danny DeVito look-alike), who stood his ground like a pit bull. Then he got right up in my face and my feelings of power evaporated as fast as they’d come.
“You ever pull a gun like that again around me, I promise you’ll be the one who disappears,” Eddie whispered harshly in my ear.
Then he thumped me on the forehead with the open palm of his hand and strutted away. Everyone who was trying to pretend they weren’t watching, resumed their tasks at hand with a renewed focus. My plan had not gone as planned.
29 The Squeeze
News of my hissy fit circled back to Spitz very quickly. He seemed to be disinterested until he found out there had been a gun fired on the premises. Spitz wasted no time hunting me down. I was in the makeup room, getting my dark circles covered for the next shot. The door flew open and I saw Spitz standing there, just staring at me in the mirror with that pissed off look on his face. He then politely asked the makeup artist to take a ten-minute break in a very calm, steady and low-pitched tone. In other words, he was about to blow.
Sensing Spitz’s mood, she bolted from the room, leaving me wrapped in a black plastic cape they used to protect the wardrobe from getting stained. Spitz approached me from the back and jerked the chair around so I could face him. I felt totally exposed and vulnerable, not to mention ridiculous.
“Hey James…” I said in greeting, hoping he wasn’t carrying any concealed weapons.
He sharply cut me off. “Is it true? Did you really fire a fucking gun on my set? Are you crazy!? On my fucking set?”
I tried to calm him down. “James, I’m so sorry! Things just started unraveling so fast. I was constantly being berated by the cast and the crew. I figured I needed to handle this the only way I thought they would understand. It was just a little scare tactic to make them back off. It was wrong, I know. I realize how wrong now, but I just wasn’t getting the respect I deserve as the star of this show. But look, I purposefully aimed it out of the window, so no one would get hurt. It was totally, totally wrong, but you understand where I was coming from, right?” I asked, hoping I was flashing my most disarming smile.
“You idiot—you fuckin’ moron! What do you think you’re doing, you ungrateful little shit? You’d still be a pathetic, unemployed grip if I hadn’t made you a somebody, and this is how you thank me?”
His face was turning red and spittle was coming out with every other word. I was praying for him to finish already. “And for your information, Mr. Big Shot, your timing couldn’t be more perfect. We just finished our focus group testing and you ain’t the guy, pal! That’s right. The viewers could give a crap about you,” he scoffed. “They said you simply don’t have that ‘star quality’ that’s needed to carry this show. Hell, you can’t even follow one simple rule. So you know what, Marc? You’re fired! You have fifteen minutes to pack your shit and get off my set. Turn in your ID and get the hell out of here.”
Spitz turned to walk away, not even waiting to enjoy my stunned, horrified reaction. I could hear him saying under his breath, “First it’s those Stronge kids, now this asshole.”
Not knowing what to do, I ripped off the salon cape and ran after him. “James, wait! I’ll do whatever it takes. I—I’ll take a back seat, I won’t cause any more trouble. I need this job—I’m in debt, I’ve got bills! I just can’t lose everything!” I sounded like a whiny little twerp.
Spitz stopped and turned to look at me as if I were a piece of dog crap he’d stepped in. “You broke your contract, Henderson! Read the fucking print. You can read, can’t you? You did this to yourself. You’re no better than those Stronge kids. We’re done, and the show doesn’t need you anymore.”
He turned to go, and then stopped one last time. Some of the anger seemed
to drain away, and he looked more disappointed than disgusted. “Marc, listen to me. You had a good thing—hell, a great thing—and you could’ve carved out a nice little career for yourself. But you didn’t focus on the show, you focused on you, and only you. I’ve seen this a million times in my career. You were all wrapped up in you and how you needed respect. Your insecurity basically sucked the life out of your scenes. The camera never lies, Marc. And while this may be ‘show business,’ it’s still a business. I’ll be using your remaining salary, which will end as of this moment, to cut my losses with you. We don’t need you anymore. Good luck and goodbye,” Spitz said in parting, as he began to power-walk away.
I stood there, devastated and frozen, like a deer in the headlights. Everything was crashing down around me. Without thinking, I took off running and saw Spitz crossing the street towards his waiting stretch limo. He was already ensconced in the back seat when I finally caught up to him. “Please!” I begged, trying to see through the tinted window. “Give me a chance. Just one more! I swear I can do this.”
I had no pride left and was begging like a man for his life. Spitz lowered the window down a few inches. “Really, there’s nothing I can do for you. It’s out of my hands. Policy is policy—especially involving guns and security. So, get a hold of yourself, man. Show a little pride. It might be the end of the show, but it’s not the end of the world.”
Spitz rolled up the window, looking forward as the car sped off, leaving me standing alone in the parking lot. I fell to my knees, drained and broken.
30 Not Bad Enough
If being fired hadn’t been bad enough, more problems kept piling up. Once the show started airing, I became increasingly depressed and needed a way to suppress my feelings, so I started to dabble in the elite Hollywood’s favorite vice: cocaine. I began experimenting, but it quickly spiraled into spending a large portion of my remaining funds on my new “hobby.”
After a particularly bad day, when another new episode aired without me, I locked myself in my apartment and went on a three-day binge, hoping I could either come up with a way to save my ass on the show or at least figure out a way to make some money before what was left of mine ran out for good. On the third day, I rose. Unfortunately, I wasn’t reborn or anything. Instead, I was hit with a back-to-reality headache and, to top it all off, I was out of my entire stash of drugs and booze. I rolled over in bed and took a deep breath. I braced myself for the day and decided to get out of my stupor. I was completely out of everything: food, water, beer. I ran my head under cold water trying to knock myself into some kind of sense. No groceries? Fine. But I needed a cup of coffee—a strong cup. I put on some sunglasses and stepped out of my door.
When I got in the elevator, I examined my reflection in the mirrored walls. I looked like hell. I felt the movement of the elevator pulling itself down to the lobby. I tried fixing my uncombed hair before the elevator made it to the lobby. No such luck. The doors silently opened to an ambush of hyperactive reporters. Shocked, I hurriedly pushed the close button several times, but of course, the doors didn’t close fast enough. A brown-haired reporter stuck his arm in the door, prying it open.
The cameras were flashing, and they were all yelling, “Marc, did you try to kill someone?”
Another yelled, “Were you attacked again?”
I had no idea what to do. I was trapped. There was no way to easily or safely exit without force, so I screamed the first idiotic thing that came to my mind, “I have a gun!”
It worked. The reporters buzzed away, and even the bellman dove behind his desk station for cover. I hurriedly pushed every button on the elevator just to get out of there and make my way back to my apartment. Just as the doors were closing, someone threw in an LA Times newspaper and, lo and behold, there was a picture of me from a previous interview smack dab on the front cover. By now, my head was spinning like a top from my hangover—not to mention all the rabid reporters—so it was hard for me to focus. But what did come into focus was the headline: “Reality Killer Losing His Grip.”
I snatched the paper up and ran back into my apartment, dove onto the couch, and read the article as fast as I could. Whew. The article wasn’t as bad as I’d been expecting. All it claimed was that the show was most likely causing too much stress, and the most important part: no charges would be filed. Thank you, God.
But there was one thing that I didn’t like, and it was a statement from Spitz: “It just goes to show that being a reality television star isn’t as easy as everyone thinks. You need someone who has self-awareness, who can lead others, and especially crucial, someone who can handle the stress of being in the spotlight.”
What the—? My eyes grew wide and I threw the paper across the room. Before I’d been scared, but now I was just mad.
31 When Opportunity Knocks
After getting back to my apartment and finally settling down, I called the doorman and apologized. I made sure to let him know that I’d panicked and hadn’t known what else to do, and that the last thing I needed was the paparazzi hanging around again.
He laughed and said “Well, it sure did work.”
I asked him if he would call me when the coast was clear, which he said he would. The article made my still partially hungover mind start to turn its wheels and think. If I had that many reporters for just firing a gun out of a window, imagine what would happen if they knew about what else I had done. Since both of my previous murderous encounters were in self-defense, I reasoned that this might be my chance to get back into real money again. The more I sat there, the more I thought of the debt that was piling up while I wasn’t making any money. And with everyone in the business knowing by now that I’d fired a real gun on a professional set, there was no way I was getting a grip job in this town again. I became overwhelmed with anguish and felt depression settling over me like a black cloud. The longer I sat there, the more negative scenarios came into my mind.
A good while later, reporters must’ve still been hanging around outside the apartment building, because I hadn’t received a call yet and it was dark outside. All night, I pondered if I should come clean or not. I tried to play out every scenario in my head. I thought there was a good probability I’d get off on self-defense if I came forward. Was it too late, though? What were the repercussions for withholding evidence of a crime? And not just one crime, but two? There had to be a way for me to get out of this mess.
In my absence, Spitz and the writers would be busy trying to come up with an easy way to write me out of the show. Maybe I could help him with that and help myself out in the process. It was worth a try. I called Spitz’s office an hour later with a pitch I was hoping he couldn’t resist. As his secretary, Tracy, buzzed his private office, I heard Spitz answer her buzz with a short bark, “Not now, Tracy. I’m busy.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Spitz, but Marc Henderson is on line three,” she said, sounding like a whipped dog. “He said it was urgent.” Tracy didn’t realize she hadn’t put me on hold as she’d dialed his inner sanctum, and I could hear their exchange.
“I’m sure he did, Tracy. Everything is urgent to Mr. Henderson.” There was a pause. “Alright, go ahead and put him through.”
I heard Spitz’s voice come through my phone’s speaker. “This better be good.”
“I just want ten minutes of your time, James. I’ve got something that you’ll find interesting. No, not interesting—unbelievable. And I guarantee it’s money in the bank. But I need to tell you in person.” I was trying not to hyperventilate, but it was nearly impossible not to sweat.
Spitz was silent. I plowed onward. “This isn’t a trick, or a gimmick—nothing like that. What I have to tell you could push the show to a higher level, one you’ve been dying to get to since you started all these shows. Think Kardashian-level…and that’s an understatement. I promise.”
“Fine. Meet me at my office tomorrow morning at ten sharp. I’ll give you ten minutes and no more.” And with that, he hung up.
That night seeme
d like an eternity. I was up and out of the house in record time, arriving at the studio at ten sharp and was frisked by a security guard who seemed to enjoy his job a tad too much. I was ushered in to Spitz’s office and sat in the leather wingback chair across from the ornate oversized desk that all but dwarfed anyone sitting opposite of Spitz.
“The clock is ticking. Ten minutes,” Spitz said in a bored tone.
“Okay. First, I’d like to apologize again for what a horrible mistake I made bringing the gun to the set and I—”
Spitz cut me off. “Fuck your ‘I’m sorry.’ Now, get to the point—you’ve got eight and a half minutes left.”
For a moment, I thought about what I was actually about to do. I wanted to turn back, but back to what—more ridicule and crippling debt? I knew I couldn’t face either. I took a deep breath and then dropped the bombshell. “I need to tell you something, but I need your word you won’t tell anybody until we agree that this information can safely be put out to the public. I’m serious. This has to be like ‘attorney privilege’ type of stuff.”
I knew this was taking a big chance, because Spitz would only do what was best for Spitz. But I was out of options by now.
“I told you to stop wasting my time. Just spit it out—what the fuck do you want?!” He was quickly losing his patience.
I reiterated my condition. “I am dead serious. I need your word.”
“Okay Marc, you have my word. Now,” he said, glancing at his watch, “you have three minutes.”
“Lync Prime wasn’t my first brush with death, you could say,” I began, pausing to see if the statement had registered.
Killing Reality Page 16
