Unscripted (4 page)

“Okay, cool. Why don’t you make it around 2:00 p.m.?” suggests Peter. “Hopefully, our supervising producer will be around so you can meet him, too.”

“What’s his name, maybe I’ve worked with him before?”

“Will Harper. Ring a bell?”

Mother of God! Nooooo. Not Will Harper.

“Hmm, sounds vaguely familiar,” I respond nonchalantly, though I’m beginning to pull at my eyebrows, a nervous habit I’m trying to break. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer, I’ll see you Wednesday.” I hang up the phone and take a deep breath.

Will Harper? Ughhhh. I can kiss this job goodbye.

I met Will Harper eight years ago, long before reality TV really exploded. It was my first job in television and I was more than green. A friend got me in the door at a large production company that was producing a
Behind the Music
knock-off called
Musicians.
Rather than start out as a production assistant, I lucked out and was offered the next step up: a researching job.

I worked on a team of three that included a producer, an associate producer and me. Besides researching and fact-checking, it was my job to find the photos, headlines and rare footage needed to fill an hour show. Admittedly, I was in over my head, so I worked twelve-hour days and weekends to catch up. But it was my first real job in TV, so I didn’t mind too much.

The first episode I worked on was about Johnny Cash. One day, my producer (for reasons I still don’t understand) decided that he needed a photocopy of a 350-page biography on Johnny Cash. I had dozens of calls to make and didn’t have time to stand in front of a copy machine for hours on end. My face must have been full of dread because my producer finally gave in and told me we could bring on a production assistant: the lowest man on the totem pole. So, I called up the executive producer’s assistant (who handled such matters) and she said she’d send someone over shortly.

About an hour later, I was on the phone when a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties walked over to my desk. He was handsome in that slacker way, with curly dark hair and a sprinkling of light stubble. I took one look at his ratty, faded jeans, vintage T-shirt and trendy Converse and knew that he had to be my PA.

“Hey, I’m Will—” he began.

I held up my finger, mouthed “one minute” and continued with my phone call. He shuffled back and forth looking impatient as I haggled with a photographer over rates. I remember thinking to myself that it had taken me two days to get this guy on the phone, so the slacker pacing in front of me was just going to have to wait.

After about five minutes, I hung up and turned my attention to Will. I immediately realized he was a bit older than I had assumed, but just figured he was most likely a late-starter in this business.

“So, thanks for coming. Unfortunately, I have a really annoying task for you,” I said as I shoved the book into his unwilling hands. “We need a photocopy of this thing. All of it.”

PA Will looked puzzled.

“It’ll take you at least a couple of hours. We don’t need it until 6:00, so don’t feel like you have to be chained to the copier all day.” I smiled benevolently at him. He didn’t smile back; he just stared at me with that same quizzical expression. I wondered if he was a little—well, okay, this is awful—a little slow.

“Do you know where the copier is?” I asked, determined to move this along.

“No, not on this floor, but…”

“I’ll show you.” I started walking briskly down the hall, half expecting him to stay rooted in his spot, but he followed.

“If you could make double-sided pages that would be best. Although, can you even do double-sided copies with a book? I don’t actually know how to do that myself, so you may have to get someone to show you. Just bring it back by 6:00.” I repeated the time again in case the information had already disappeared from his presumably pot-addled brain.

“If I’m not here you can leave it on my chair,” I said as I turned the corner and entered the facilities room. “Well, here we are.” I gestured toward the gigantic copier like one of the models
from
The Price is Right.
PA Will placed the book back into my hands. It was my turn to look confused.

“Um, I think there are some wires crossed here. I’m the coordinating producer. I came over to see how long you would need a PA for.”

I felt a hot flash of lightning shoot through my body, followed immediately by a paralyzing cold chill. Well, it paralyzed everything except my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! When I saw you, I thought you were the PA.”

“No problem,” he said with a smirk.

I might as well have said,
“You dress like shit, so I thought you were the PA.”
I’d only been there for one week and had already managed to piss off the coordinating producer. Granted, I had no idea what the hell that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good.

I took a deep breath and decided to play it cool and make a casual joke of it all. So of course, I completely spazzed out.

“Ha ha. Well, now that you’re here, you wanna copy it anyway?” I slapped his arm and snorted. Non-PA Will took an involuntary step back and glanced in surprise at the spot on his arm I had just assaulted.

Not even the look of shock and burgeoning terror on his face could stop me. My mind was screaming,
shut up!
But my stupid mouth wouldn’t listen. “I should have known you were too old to be a PA. Oh shit, I don’t mean that you…ha, um. Well…I’ve got a feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

Why I turned to the
Wizard of Oz
in my time of need is beyond me. I always cringe when strangers quote it to break the ice. Plus, he had no freaking idea I was from Kansas. What an incredible dork.

“Um, right. So. Let’s start again. How long are you going to need a PA for?” Will asked as he glanced at his watch.

“Er, I’m not sure. How long do you think it will take to copy this whole book?”

He looked like he wanted to kill me.

“I have no idea. Let’s just make up a number. Three hours? Done. Have a nice day…what was your name again?”

“Abby Edwards,” I said dejectedly. I was certain my name was going to end up on a blacklist somewhere.

Over the next few months I did everything I could to avoid Will Harper. On the rare occasions that we ran into each other I willed myself to be normal, but I could not control myself. I always made some lame copying joke. He’d shoot me a tight smile and give a weak courtesy laugh, but he never broke his stride. He would just keep walking, desperate to get away from the crazy person. Soon after though, he left the company, and I could finally take the elevator again.

I know I’m being ridiculous. It was eight years ago. He’ll never remember me and I really need this job. I probably just need to crawl under the covers, close my eyes and hope that blissful sleep will take away my humiliating memories of Will Harper.

I walk out of my room, feeling much better after my nap, and find Zoë and Jeff working away in the kitchen. Jeff is carefully retrieving a baking pan out of the oven. I see that he’s baked his famous corn bread tonight, or as I like to call it, corn brick. It’s not so much food as it is a weapon.

“Mmm, smells good, you guys. What’s the occasion?”

Jeff gingerly places the pan on top of the stove. “Ummm—” he pauses, “—well, we’re sick of eating out all of the time.” Jeff turns to look at Zoë as if searching for a better answer, which is kind of weird. I don’t see any remnants of a fight, so I’m guessing Zoë hasn’t blasted him with the shit-or-get-off-the-pot speech yet.

I hope tonight isn’t ultimatum night. Zoë occasionally likes to use me as a buffer, and I usually end up playing along against my better judgment, but I’m really not in the mood to get in the middle of their problems this evening. Plus, I’m not sure my stomach can take Jeff’s cooking, which is at best hit or miss.

“We also thought it would be nice for all of us to sit down and hang out together,” Zoë adds.

While Jeff turns back toward the stove, I shoot Zoë a quizzical look, throwing my hands in the air, sign language for
well, did you or didn’t you?
Zoë shakes her head and waves me away. Fine, she doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Not the first time.

“So what’s on the menu?” I ask.

“Well, I cheated a bit,” Jeff says. “I bought the salad and roasted chicken from Gelson’s, but I’m steaming some asparagus, making mashed potatoes and your favorite, corn bread.” Jeff grins proudly. “Don’t worry, nothing too flashy or spicy for Miss Poor Constitution.”

“Don’t mock the sick,” I say, smacking him on the back of his head. God, I’m never going to live that one down.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Zoë looks at me accusingly.

I look down at my typical nighttime attire, flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized hooded sweatshirt. “What, are we dressing for dinner now? Because if so, my Valentino footies are at the cleaners.” I wait for a laugh and instead get two guilty faces.

“Well, Andrew may stop by.” Zoë pops a carrot in her mouth.

“Who’s Andrew?”

“Remember, we went to college together, he just moved here from New York…” Zoë trails off like this should mean something to me.

“I’ve never heard of him.” This had better not be what I think it is. Suddenly, I wonder where my car keys are. “He may stop by or he
is
stopping by?”

“He is stopping by. There’s still time if you want to freshen up.” Zoë smiles innocently at me.

I am going to kill her.

Just then, with sitcom timing, there’s a knock on the door.

“Ooh he’s early! Go put on that cute red cardigan I gave you. And please, for me, just fix your hair.”

Truthfully, part of me wants to run to the bedroom and try to make myself presentable. Or at the very least, make it look like I didn’t just crawl out of bed. A little voice inside me whispers,
He could be the one. You should at least put on pants.
But then another, larger pissed-off voice comes and beats the shit out of the first one. I try to give Jeff the stink eye but he ignores me and opens the door.

“Hey, baby!” Zoë hugs Andrew. “How are you, sweetie?” She gives him a Euro kiss.

“Hey, gorgeous, what’s up?”

“Not much. I haven’t seen you in ages,” she says as she takes his leather jacket. “You remember Jeff.”

Jeff and Andrew perform that male-bonding half handshake, half hug that guys always do.

“And this,” she says meaningfully, “is Abby. She’s been under the weather today, so she isn’t quite herself.”

Nice.

“Sorry to hear that. Good to meet you.”

I say hello and shake his hand. I can’t believe they pulled this on me. Especially on Excremental Assault Day.

“Hey, man, we’re just finishing up in here. Take a seat, and I’ll open a bottle of wine,” Jeff says. He doesn’t even meet my eyes as he walks back into the kitchen. He looks like a dog that has just peed on the carpet, knows he’s done something bad and is running back to his crate with his tail between his legs.

Run, you coward!

“You two get acquainted while Jeff and I sort out dinner.” Zoë also avoids direct eye contact with me as she skulks away.

Great. Small talk. In my hoodie, and pink flannel pajama bottoms.

Okay, Abby, don’t be a bitch. It’s not his fault he’s been thrown into the lion’s den.
And I suppose, now that I actually look at him, he’s cute-ish in that very tall, very blond, very scruffy, bearded, Seven-Jeans-and-blazer-wearing kind of way.

“So you and Zoë met in college?” I ask.

“Yeah, she was my roommate’s girlfriend.”

There is a small beat where I think he is going to say more, but it seems that little gem is the scope of his story. All right, I guess it’s up to me to keep the conversational ball rolling here.

“I met Zoë through a friend, I’d say about…what was it, seven years ago.” He just nods and looks bored, so I continue. “Are you from L.A. originally?”

“No, I’m a New Yorker. L.A.’s nice, but I’ll tell you, I’ve literally traveled all over the world and there’s nothing more beautiful than the Manhattan skyline.”

Oh Jesus, that doesn’t sound pretentious at all.

And now, more silence.

I begin to concoct suitable tortures for Zoë: bamboo sticks under her nails, Chinese water torture, real sugar in her cappuccino…

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m a music video director.” He relaxes into the couch and crosses his legs. I notice a wallet chain dangling from the front pocket of his jeans. Wallet chains really piss me off.

“Right now, it’s mostly music videos and commercials, but I’m gearing up for a feature.”

“Cool.” I wait another beat, but he’s silent. I have a strong urge to instruct him on social etiquette.

He’s looking at his right shoe, which is an expensive driving loafer. I know my next question should be,
who have you directed?
And I’m marginally interested, because who doesn’t love a good celebrity nightmare story? But I guarantee this guy is the type of jerk who will only talk about how cool everyone is, and how he went on vacation with Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale or some such crap. But I don’t want to appear rude, at least outwardly, so I give in. “So who have you directed?”

Ah yes, I have his interest now.

“Man, everyone. Shakira, Kanye, The Killers, Rihanna, I just shot Radiohead’s new single. Bono is awesome. Fergie and I had drinks the other night. She is such a cool chick. Everyone’s pretty bummed that I’m moving on to features, but I’ve got to see my vision through. And who
knows, if a song inspires me, I may do another video. I never say never, especially when it comes to my art.”

What a name-dropping poser. I’m biting the insides of my cheeks so I don’t laugh.

“We’re almost ready.” Zoë tentatively makes her way into the living room, holding two glasses of wine like peace offerings. “I heard you just finished working with Radiohead,” she gushes.

“Yeah, they were cool guys. I got back from filming in London Thursday.”

Oooh, London! Please!

“Paris and Nicky were there too, so we hung out with them for about five days, you know, just partying and shit. It didn’t suck.” Andrew runs his fingers through his artfully messy hair, attempting to make it even messier.

Zoë turns to me like a born yenta. “Andrew is a director.”

I nod my head dramatically and raise my eyebrows. “Yes, I know. He’s told me.”

Not catching my attempt at sarcasm, Zoë begins to list all of Andrew’s
fabulous
attributes, including his mad skills on the ski slopes, his stint as an actor on a soap and his sudden rise to fame as one of
the
premier video directors of our generation. I’m just waiting for her to launch into his Rhodes scholarship, his humanitarian aid in Africa and his possible candidacy for president.