One Year of Reality and How It Nearly Killed Me: My Life Behind the Scenes (19 page)

I wish I could’ve lied about my mistakes so easily and had them well hidden and protected by a
crew, but that never happened because the mistakes I made would affect them. By the afternoon, everything had been cleaned up, and I’m sure the line producer had to notify the production office in Los Angeles and start an insurance claim. I remember the hotel owners telling me that it would not have been a big deal if the place had burned down… They would’ve loved the insurance money. I guess that’s why they weren’t too upset. They handled the situation beautifully.

There were other problems toward the end of filming too. The head of our German crew was not a happy guy. He wanted to be paid for his final week right after shooting. Well, that wasn’t the policy; people were always paid the following week. I sat down with him and explained that, but he wasn’t having any of it. I think he was worried that he’d get ripped off and wouldn’t get his final paycheck. That absolutely wasn’t going to happen, but I guess he just wanted to be done with the shoot. And when I walked past the German contingent and said hello, they’d just stare at me like I was a comic who was bombing on stage. They also drank a lot, and I remember at our last hotel that there was this purple stain on the first floor of the hotel near the breakfast buffet. Turns out the Germans were pouring unused wine over the edge of their hotel room. I was
afraid of going to my room alone at night since I was surrounded by them. I had the Italian accountant walk me to my room once because I really thought I was going to get beaten up by a bunch of drunk crew members who didn’t like me.

I did have some fun moments.

Dennis, Emanuele’s accountant, would always jokingly accuse me of being “mean” to him. I told him if he didn’t like it, he could call my mother. After hearing that a couple of more times, I called my mom and handed Dennis the phone. My mom was in on the fun and after Dennis had spoken to her, handed back the phone to me. She then lectured me about being kinder to Dennis and how he seemed very nice. Now up to this point I never told my mother where I was since the shows locations are confidential. This was the only time I really spoke to my mom for any length of time while on the road. She asked me if I was in a place where they said “Ciao.” I told her that I was under a confidentiality agreement and had to go. Right before I hung up, I said “Mom, I gotta go, Ciao.” figuring she would get it.

The end of the show was finally within our sights, and there was a final night party where everyone ate
and drank and took buses to the airport. A few of us stayed behind. My boss asked me to help wrap the show and go to Rome for a few days. I was ready to help out in any way I could. I had a really fun time with Emanuele and was looking forward to spending time with him and Dennis wrapping up the show.

I couldn’t wait to wrap up the show and go home. And, oh yeah, enjoy Rome!

I didn’t do much in regards to wrapping. Wrapping a show is basically going over the details and seeing what is outstanding in terms of who needs to be paid, what damages need to be covered, and whether anything’s missing. In the corporate world, I guess it would be like ending a business and making sure there are no outstanding legal or financial issues. I was ready to help as needed, but my boss was mainly being generous and allowing me to get some R&R and enjoy my surroundings. At first I didn’t get that that’s what he was doing, and I thought I’d need to do more. I wanted to help wrap out to make sure there wouldn’t be any loose ends. But no one needed me to do anything. I was going crazy. I was ready to work, not relax. I couldn’t turn myself off. I tried to hook up with a friend from
Amazing Race
, but he was busy working in Milan. So I spent a lot of time walking around Rome, bored. I was itchy to assist if
needed. But I did hang out with a couple of other people who were staying to wrap the show. (I don’t know whether they did anything to wrap either.)

Finally the line producer, accountant, and I were flying home. I was still wound up and really tired. Kind of like a zombie. I wasn’t particularly energetic, but I was mostly functional. I went into the washroom at the airport to try and wake up, but that didn’t seem to work. So I sat down away from everyone and just waited to get on the plane to sleep.

Then something happened that woke me up fast.

A few minutes went by and I heard the announcement that it was time to board. I went to get my ticket, but it was gone. I couldn’t find it. I didn’t want to tell my boss who was sitting about ten feet in front of me. I was trying to figure out how I was going to pay for a ticket back home. I was absolutely panicked and didn’t want to look like an idiot. I decided to retrace my steps to find the ticket. I walked down long hallways, around kiosks and finally went into the bathroom. And there it was, lying on the ground. My ticket was in the middle of the bathroom floor, where at least twenty women were standing around, and no one seemed to have noticed it in the last half
hour. I can’t tell you how relieved I was. I was swearing at myself, much like a crazy person who talks to himself. I think my boss must have thought I was angry about something, but I couldn’t tell him what had just happened.

I was looking forward to my window seat, hoping that I’d be able to rest. Of course, another lady was already sitting in my seat. I kindly asked her to move. She didn’t even look at me. I asked her again, thinking that if I spoke English louder, she might understand. I don’t know whether or not she did, but she sure wasn’t going to move. Then I got angrier and asked her. I wasn’t going to take this crap from anyone. Finally a flight attendant helped me, and the woman reluctantly moved to the middle seat and I took the window. This took about ten minutes. On long flights back to Los Angeles, even coach had individual screens to watch movies. It turns out that the screen in the middle was not working at all. So I felt a little bad that the woman next to me didn’t have video, but I went to sleep pretty soon afterwards and didn’t care. I tried to sleep the whole time and only got up once. I was nauseous most of the time, and was afraid to eat in case I would get sick. I didn’t want a repeat of what had happened when I returned from the States the last time. Finally we landed.

Just like before, Kelly picked me up in my car. I was so excited to see her. It was good to be home… for about one day, and then I had to deal with another medical situation.

CHAPTER 9

DO NOT GO TO
DINNER WHEN YOU
HAVE JUST BROKEN
YOUR LEG

W
ell, it was great to be home again. I still hadn’t quite settled into my apartment yet as I had been gone a month for the
Amazing Race
and another month for
The Mole
, so I knew I had some catching up to do.

What’s more, I already needed another job. I sent my resume off to another production in hopes of finding one. When I was in between jobs in the
past, I had been known to send out seven hundred resumes in one sitting, basically to every production company in Los Angeles with some sort of humorous cover letter to help me stand out from the crowd. This time, I was going for only one job. I didn’t have the time or energy to send out seven hundred resumes while I was still working. I also figured that if I didn’t get this job, I could spend some time organizing my apartment and do a blitz of job applications if necessary. But for now, my only task was to relax and finish wrapping up my work on the show.

I had arrived on a Thursday and my friend Kelly had organized a spa day for me on Saturday. There’s something about being on the road that makes you want to have everything scrubbed, rubbed, and massaged off you. So I was looking forward to spa day. And then later that night, Kelly and I were going to check out the new subway system in downtown LA— the walls were lined with art—and enjoy a fabulous dinner.

Saturday promised to be a fabulous day.

The spa was everything I’d hoped it would be. I had a sea salt scrub, massage, facial—the works. I was relaxed and feeling good about life. I had a beautiful apartment that was bright and sunny in
Santa Monica, where I’d always wanted to live, and I had just spent the day pampering myself. And when I came home, I went into the kitchen for a drink and immediately freaked out.

There were hundreds of ants in my kitchen.

Not just in my kitchen, but on the kitchen floor, on the countertops, in my sink, and inside my pipes. They never made it to the living room next to the kitchen or on the rugs. They were after the water. Apparently, it had been a hot summer in Los Angeles. When I turned on my water after getting back from India, the ants must have sensed it and headed straight for my apartment. And there was just a sea of them. I have an extreme phobia of bugs, so this completely grossed me out to no end. Luckily, I found some ant spray and started spraying all over my kitchen and floor. And then it happened. As soon as I stepped foot in the kitchen, I slipped on some ants and ant spray. And like a baseball player sliding into second base very badly, I slid into the table and chairs in my kitchen. I was in agony, and I screamed for help because I saw my neighbor walking next to the house. My window was open, so I knew he could hear me, but he either ignored me or was deaf to my cries. Not only was I in agony, but at this point I felt like I was in some bad horror movie. Ants were
crawling all over my body, but I couldn’t get up because my ankle hurt so badly. So I did a zombie-like slide/crawl out of my kitchen onto the carpet in my living room and started rolling around, trying to get those damn ants off of me. If I wasn’t covered in ants, you’d think I was on fire the way I was rolling around and hitting myself to make sure I was ant-free. Finally, after a doing that for a while, I got onto my back in the living room and propped my leg on a chair. I could see that it looked nasty and wasn’t sure what to do next. I couldn’t stand up.

When in doubt, always call your friend. I rolled over to the phone and called Kelly.

We exchanged pleasantries, and she asked me how the spa was. I told her it was great, and then I told her, “I think I’ll be late for dinner, and I probably can’t take the subway around to see the artwork.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I think I broke my leg.”

“WHAT???”

I told her the story, and she was over in a flash. She’s my pit bull, coming in with a serious look, ready
to take care of the situation. And when she saw the ants, she gave them a good tongue lashing. I watched as she cleaned up the dead ones and made the kitchen spick and span. I was still on the floor looking up at the ceiling, my foot propped up on the couch seat. Kelly sat on the chair and looked down at me.

“We can’t go to dinner,” she said emphatically. “We should go to the hospital.”

“I can’t go to the hospital,” I said. “I can’t afford it. I can get a doctor to check it out if the swelling doesn’t go down.”

“Well, we can’t go out tonight,” she said again.

“No, we’re going out,” I said emphatically.

Now she was dumbfounded. “We can’t go out, you can’t even get up. How are you going to get up and when?”

“As soon as I have to go to the bathroom,” I told her, completely serious. “I’ll be up. I’ll figure out a way.”

And sure enough, I had to go to the bathroom, and since bladder pain trumps ankle pain, I got
up and hopped over to it. I dressed up, keeping my foot wrapped in a sock I had retrieved from a past medical visit, and Kelly and I went out to dinner. It was important to me. I wanted to enjoy American food with my friend, and I was determined that a little ankle sprain wouldn’t spoil my evening. I was stubborn, and Kelly was kind enough to oblige me. It was a nice evening, with the exception of my ankle, but I was glad to be out, cleaned up, and home.

I went to the office on Monday to finish up any leftover paperwork, and I put together a detailed memo of what I had done, providing information about where I could be reached if there were any questions. I was still limping and my ankle was completely swollen—a nice blue, purple, yellow, black color. I called my doctor, who referred me to a doctor who dealt with sports injuries. I decided to go see him on Tuesday. I went into the office for a while in the morning, and then was off to the doctor. I waited around for a bit in the waiting room. Everyone in the waiting room had a cast or was in a wheelchair. I felt pretty sure that I wouldn’t need either, that they would just give me some pain pills, an ice pack, and call it a day.

I’m glad I’m not a doctor.

Well, I finally went into the office and they took some x-rays. It turned out that I had broken my leg above my ankle. At least that’s what I think I heard. I never care too much about diagnoses, all I want to know is how long it will take to heal and what I have to do to take care of myself. But I remember the broken leg thing. Then he threw in a slider, “Did you know that you broke your ankle before, a long time ago?”

Well, I knew that I’d
hurt
my ankle before. When I was fourteen, instead of cleaning the house like my mom had asked, I helped out some smaller kids who were building a tree house in the forest behind my house. That seemed like a lot more fun. Anyway, I was on the top of the tree and starting to work on the house when I fell through the floor. Apparently it was big enough to hold a couple of little kids, not one big one. I fell about twenty feet, hitting the trunk on the way down. A couple of nails impaled my leg. Not a fun thing. The kids got a wheelbarrow to put me in because I couldn’t stand up. And someone, I’m not sure who, got a hold of my mom, who was working. She met us in the forest and got me into her car and to the doctor.

Luckily my mom worked for radiologists, and I got a little preferential treatment. It turned out that
I had sprained my left leg, and I was on crutches for a couple of months. It wasn’t until ten years later when I was in college that my right ankle swelled up and started to hurt. When I went to the doctor on campus, it turned out that I had several small broken bones in my right ankle that hadn’t healed well from a very old injury. I could only figure that it had happened when I fell out of that tree. Nothing came of the injury—the swelling went down and I was fine. It seemed like a weird thing, nothing more. Neither the doctor nor I could figure out why now it was swollen, but eventually it went away. I should point out that a little kid in high school had nicknamed me “Grace” because I was as clumsy as a bull in a china shop.