by Jayne Denker
* * *
Cripes, all this nonsense was supposed to be behind me, but I was going through it all over again. I knew what I had to do—remind myself of what happened after those heart-fluttering incidents. Nope, didn’t want to. I liked staying in Happy Memory Land. So instead of running through our entire history, I turned off the playback right there. At the good times. I rolled over and closed my eyes . . . then heard voices coming from the main part of the house. I wondered who Jamie was entertaining this time. Because I was nosy, and because (I told myself) I wanted some water, I made my way down the hall.
My dining room table was covered with empty beer bottles and an open pizza box, Jamie and two other guys lounging around it, laughing and talking. When they spotted me, the two strangers froze, their eyes wide. Oh great. Fans. And me in my pajama bottoms and cami.
“Evening,” I said conversationally, snagging a slice of cold pizza from the box as their eyes followed my every move. One was a scrawny dude with a white-boy ’fro, glasses with huge black frames, and a mud-colored T-shirt with a stretched-out neckline; the other was a rather large young man, with a mop of dark hair and ruddy cheeks glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“Whoa,” the skinny guy breathed. “You’re Faith Sinclair.”
“That’s true,” I replied calmly. “And you are . . . ?”
“This is Evan and Sean,” Jamie filled in. “Met them at a party in the Valley.”
Evan nearly fell over getting out of his chair and sticking out his hand, while Sean waved hello. “We’re huge fans,” Evan breathed.
Hm. They didn’t fit the demographic of the show, but I’d heard weirder. “Thanks.”
“Jamie told us what happened. Sucks,” Sean said.
“We’re, uh, in the entertainment business too,” Evan said. “We’re co-presidents of Random Shit Productions.”
Co-presidents. Wasn’t that cute. I wondered where their tree house was. “Random Shit Productions,” I repeated neutrally.
“Yeah.” He winced. “Oh, I hope the profanity doesn’t bother you.”
Poor kid. He looked green. I decided to throw him a bone. “You fucking kidding me?”
Relief lit up his face as he let out a laugh. “Oh. Cool. We, uh, shorten it to RSP.com for the site name. Don’t want to get banned from search engines, classified as some scat fetish site, you know?”
“And RSP.com is what now?”
Jamie decided to clarify. “It’s, ah, you know, like that other one—wassit—Funny or Die.”
“What, like, with shorts and Web series and everything?”
“Yeah,” Evan enthused. “It’s going to be huge—we’ve got big plans.”
“Really. Like Funny or Die.” I was skeptical, but what did I know? Heck, I used to think Funny or Die was a Web site about a clown named Ordie—you know, Funny Ordie—until they changed the capitalization and the penny finally dropped. What could I say? On rare occasions I was slow on the uptake. I had gotten up to speed since then, however. “But that site is a fluke, a one-off.”
“It’s pretty darn huge for being a fluke,” Evan argued.
“It’s a side project of some major players, something for fun, and it just happened to take off. How can you do the same thing? If you don’t have Will Ferrell, or a foul-mouthed toddler video, how are you going to get on the map?”
“We could makea foul-mouthed toddler video. Or whatever,” Sean stammered. “And then we could be millionaires in, like, six months.”
Evan added, “The Web is the next big entertainment medium for scripted shows. We want a piece of that.”
“All you need is a bong and a dream,” I muttered.
“Faith, it’s the future of entertainment,” Jamie said, a twinkle in his eye. He was just trying to “wind me up,” as he would say, to see if I’d take these guys to the woodshed for daring to try to teach me something about my field.
Just their luck, I was feeling cranky enough to dive in. “So tell me,” I said, “what’s your business plan?”
They blinked at me, silent. I wasn’t surprised.
“Budget? Strategy?” I persisted. “Long-range goals? Marketing plan? In fact, where are you getting your material? Who’s writing it? Who’s shooting it? Who’s editing it?”
They looked at each other, and I could practically hear the beer sloshing in their gullets as they tried to get a more solid footing.
And maybe it was the time of night, or maybe it was the fact that I’d spent way too long cooped up in my house, stewing in my own juices, but the next thing I knew, I slid into a chair opposite them, tossed the rubbery pizza crust back into the box, and said, “You need answers. Lucky for you, I’ve got some. Let’s talk deal.”
Chapter 5
Regrets? I had a million. Top of the list at the moment: jumping into this new “job.”
The air was stifling as I stood outside Random Shit Productions’ “corporate offices”—a brick-front ranch somewhere in the middle of Highland Park. A random mix of nicely tended and run-down low-slung houses dotted the flat, treeless street. The one across the street, painted pink and turquoise, was a church of some sort, according to the hand-lettered sign in the tiny dirt yard. The street was eerily devoid of any other people.
I walked up the single step and rang the doorbell. “Oh, man! Faith!” Evan hurriedly pushed open the black-barred screen door. As I stepped inside, he shouted over his shoulder, into the dim recesses of the house, “Dude! Faith’s here!”
I heard a faint voice holler back, “No way!”
“Come on in!”
I put on what was probably a tight smile and squeezed past him. The place smelled like damp cardboard, probably because there were a dozen pizza boxes stacked up in the hallway.
He must have seen me looking at them, because he said, “That’s our Leaning Tower of Pizza.”
I raised my eyebrows and tried to look amused.
“Aw, man, that was weak, I know. Sorry. Come on through.” He gestured for me to follow him farther into the house. Not much furniture, bent blinds on the few windows I could see. The décor was pretty much “frat boys turned loose.” Not for the first time, I cursed Randy B. Scratch that. Cursed myself. The only person who got me herewas me. I had suggested this. Could’ve shut up at any time, I reminded myself. But I didn’t. So much for making business plans at three in the morning.
“Wow, this is so cool. I’m sorry,” Evan stuttered, “I just can’t believe you’re going to help us out.”
I heard rustling, and Sean appeared in the dim hallway. “Hi, Faith. Come on in and see our operation.”
Fleetingly I wondered if I was in danger. You know—single female goes to a job at a place that turns out to be a run-down house with no discernible evidence of an actual business. Single female disappears, then twenty years later single female’s bones turn up in the backyard when new owners dig it up to put in a poured-cement patio.
“Would you like something to drink? Water? A beer? Monster?” Evan offered.
“No thanks.”
Nah, these guys weren’t killers. If anything, they were more nervous than I was. Sean disappeared into a back bedroom, and since there wasn’t anywhere else to go, I followed. I walked into the dark room and my breath caught. I may have known very little about technology, but the collection of computers, monitors, servers, keyboards, editing bays, and everything else with green and yellow lights blinking in the computer-nerd gloom was truly impressive, even to me.
“Wow.”
“You like it?” Sean breathed eagerly. “A lot of the equipment is actually outdated. I’m hoping once we get successful, I can get more up-to-date stuff.”
I cocked an eyebrow, looked the sweaty boy squarely in the eye. “You do realize I’m not here to invest in your Web site, right? I’m just here to help you guys out.” They nodded reverently. I fought down the regret surging through me again. I had offered to rescue these half-drowned puppies, so rescue I would. “Okay. Let’s get to work, shall we?”
Evan piped up, “Oh dude, we’ve gotta get a big banner up on the home page. Right fuckin’ now, man: ‘Faith Sinclair Joins Random Shit Productions!’”
Although I hated to burst their bubble, I wasn’t about to shout to the rooftops that this was how I was spending my free time, so I fixed him with a stern look. “Let’s keep this, um . . . under wraps for now, okay? I’m just helping you out unofficially. Now, I’m assuming you don’t have any stock options yet . . .” They looked at one another rather guiltily, as though they should have had some to offer. “So I’ll accept payment in coffee runs. Frequent coffee runs.”
They both breathed a sigh of relief. “Cool,” Evan smiled.
* * *
You know, there’s always a lot of talk about people who hit “rock bottom” before turning their lives around. Granted, it’s usually reserved for serious addicts, not someone like me who had experienced a mighty comedown in a professional sense, but it applied all the same. Random Shit Productions was my rock bottom.
Sure, when I had signed on with them I had been all sorts of arrogant, thinking I could teach these whippersnappers a thing or two about writing witty shorts that would get them on the map. I sneered at their fresh-from-the-curb-on-garbage-day furnishings. I rolled my eyes at their wide-eyed optimism. I looked down my nose at their (lack of a) business plan, misguided perception of the entertainment industry, and just about everything else.
But in the end, I had to admit that the whole thing had me beat. And it only took a few weeks. And half the time I didn’t even show up for “work,” just sent them ideas and suggestions . . . and, more often than I cared to admit, admonishments that they freakin’ get their act together or give up on the idea entirely. I had a bad habit of being a bit scoldy. And a bit of a control freak.
Maybe it was the vast divide between what these hipster frat boys saw as clever, humorous, and production-worthy and what I thought was worth their time, effort, and pixels. Or maybe it was the fact that when I’d offered to help them out, I had been more interested in filling my days than actually getting RSP off the ground. All I knew was the Grand Canyon came to mind when we tried brainstorming ideas. Our sessions went something like this:
One of them: “We can interview homeless people—”
Me: “No.”
Them: “But it’ll be funny—”
Me: “No.”
“Okay. We get a cat—”
“Oh no.”
“And we put vodka in its water bowl. It’ll be like Maru, right? But a drunk Maru!”
“No!”
“Jump out at people wearing a gorilla mask?”
“Bad idea.”
“And flash ’em.”
“Bad idea and illegal.”
“Secretly film our hot female neighbor.”
“Also illegal. And that’s a dude, by the way.”
And then the inevitable digression:
“Didja ever wonder if strippers get dizzy going around that pole?”
“Dude, I am so there!”
The boys together: “Vomiting strippers!”
Aaaand I was out.
Repeated scenes like this, albeit with slight variations (very slight), made me wonder not only what I had gotten myself into, but why I ever thought I would be able to communicate with a pair of individuals who were, at twenty-five years of age or so, nearly fifteen years younger than me. Even though Modern Women had a lot of younger fans, when I was one on one with twentysomethings, I found myself as confused as an octogenarian with a smartphone.
This wasn’t the first time I’d had this problem. Back when I was stupid about Alex, I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter that he was ten years younger than me. I told myself that he was different—insightful, sensitive, even mature for his years. Whatever it took, right? But I was lying to myself, and I knew it. The times we truly connected were rare. Our moment with the Hershey’s Kisses was one. Our moment at the first season’s wrap party was another.
As the first season drew to a close, I wasn’t sure we were going to be renewed, although the preliminary signs pointed to yes. When we got the official confirmation, I knew we had to have the mother of all parties to celebrate. As usual, I took care of all the planning. I didn’t mind because, as usual, I enjoyed having complete control.
I considered having it at my house, but I had invited a million people—everyone from the lowliest intern all the way up to Randy B., because at the time I was still trying to suck up to him. We may have been renewed, but I wanted to make sure we got a full twenty-two episode order—no more of this piddly thirteen episodes shit—and if I had to actually amuse Randy B. to get my way, then so be it.
In the end I rented out Zapp, a club on Sunset that was just the right side of skeevy—nasty enough to be cool (really cool, not fake cool), but not so nasty that we were afraid to drink out of the glasses. I catered the hell out of it and of course had an open bar, plus got one of the hottest DJs on the Strip, so it wasn’t too far into the evening before everyone was feeling no pain. Randy didn’t show, by the way. But we didn’t miss him.
I even gave myself permission to have a good time: I dolled myself up (face by Lacey, one of our makeup artists; hair flattened by Mario, my stylist; stomach flattened by Spanx) and even had a couple of drinks. I was feeling pretty good as I watched my flock enjoy themselves, thinking, These are my people. I was responsible for their happiness, their success, their future. And so far it was going well. For that, I reasoned, I deserved to have another martini.
The night dissolved into one loud, raucous, flashing blur. I remembered being surrounded by cast and crew members, giddy friends pushing their faces into mine to shout excitedly to me over the throbbing music. I remembered dancing, but not to what music or who with; laughing at jokes I couldn’t recall afterward; hugging lots of people; and even engaging in a few flirtatious exchanges with some of the guys on my staff—something they’d never dare try in any other setting, something I’d never allow in any other setting. In short, all the usual elements of a spectacular night out.
But one part of the night remained crystal clear. I had been gossiping with Jaya, still in my presiding corner, when she glanced up, over my shoulder, and took a polite step back. I looked behind me to find Alex standing there, smiling, looking hot in a white dress shirt and suit, as though he were some sexy corporate dude who had just gotten off work and dropped in to the party. Like a good bestie, Jaya disappeared quietly, and then it was just me and Alex, in this weird bubble. I couldn’t move; I was just staring at his lazy smile and the hollow of his throat where his white shirt lay open.
“Hey,” I rasped, faintly, and it was lost under the music.
He reached down and picked up my hand, which was hanging limply at my side, and raised it to his lips. Yes, he actually kissed my hand. “You look really nice tonight.”
I was surprised I didn’t turn into a stupid puddle of ooze on the floor.
“Really great party too,” he said, leaning in so I could hear him. I wanted to say “Thanks,” but nothing came out. Alex looked around the room, lifted his chin in greeting to someone, then looked back at me. “Want to dance?”
That brought me out of my stupor. I glanced around at the gyrating dancers, the strobing lights, the DJ bopping behind her equipment to the beat of the deafening, throbbing techno-something I was too old to recognize. Then I turned back to Alex with an incredulous look.
He only laughed. “Hang on.”
He caught the DJ’s eye and, unsurprised, she nodded, and the booming techno faded immediately, replaced by—no lie—a waltz. It was a pop song, but it was definitely three-quarter tempo. Alex took my drink out of my hand and put it on a nearby table, smooth as you please, then lifted my other hand onto his shoulder, easing me out into the middle of the now sparsely populated dance floor.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he murmured—because now we could talk at normal volume—as he navigated me in circles that made me dizzy. Or maybe
I would have been dizzy without the dance steps. “I learned the waltz when I was a kid, and it’s the only formal dance that’s stuck with me.”
I could just picture him as a preteen, awkwardly stumbling around a dance floor with a girl half a foot taller than him. So cute. “Charm school?”
His lopsided smile resurfaced. “No. For a play.”
“You did theater?”
“Sure did.” He navigated me smoothly around a couple of crew members who were just doing the standard middle-school stand-and-shuffle slow dance in the middle of the floor.
“I didn’t know that about you.”
“Well, there’re a lot of things you don’t know about me.” He said this with a twinkle in his eye that made me want to jump him right there in the middle of the club. “Yeah,” he went on, “I love live theater. It’s the only medium where an actor really finds out what he’s made of, you know?” I nodded, even though I hadn’t set foot on a stage in my entire life. “Acting without a net, without a second take—anything could happen. What a rush. And you really get into a role, you know? It’s not like television, where we memorize the lines in five minutes, spit them out, and then move on.”
I stared. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him say more than ten words at a time unless he was reciting the ones laid out for him in my scripts. He looked abashed—he might have even been blushing, but the dim light made it hard to tell—and glanced away.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t mean to knock television. It’s been great for me so far.”
“I just never knew you had such a love for the theater.”
“It’s so real, Faith.”
