He lit up two cigarettes and laughed as he toyed with the camera angles. Dagmar and Dominic were doing it doggy-style with a sheet draped over them, while she gripped the bedpost and moaned. The real dogs in the room, big fat Steak and itsy-bitsy Tofu, were flitting in circles around them, jumping up on the bed, then down off the bed, then up on the bed, then down, then fighting over her purple, diamond-studded, silk G-string as if it was a thick, juicy rabbit. It was a circus.
“I need some air,” I said, grabbing the cigarette, sliding the chair away from our station, and opening the door to head outside. “Whoa!”
I nearly tripped on two bodies camped out in the hallway. It was their highnesses’ TV assistants: Snookums and Sarcasm, whose real names were Sally and Matt.
“You okay?” Matt said lazily while flipping through InStyle, his jeans so tight that, against the wall, he looked like a bent V.
“I’m okay. Just didn’t expect. . . What are you guys doing here?” I asked. “It’s getting late.”
“Oh, they insist we wait out here until midnight, just in case we’re needed,” Sally said, smacking her gum and twisting her hair, her flip-flops dangling off her toes.
“Hmm. Okay. You need anything? We’ve got craft service in there. If you want a drink, I can grab you one,” I said, feeling sorry for the little slaves—actually, for all of us little slaves.
“Thanks. Maybe later.” Matt had stopped to inspect a Guess ad in his InStyle mag. “That girl’s so yesterday,” he said to Sally.
“Totally,” Sally replied.
As I walked down the hallway, it hit me: Those damn assistants are our B-story. The poor peasant romance juxtaposed with our holier than thou royal romance—the servants and their masters. Fantastic! To add to the intrigue, something strange between Matt and Dominic had begun after that very first conversation in the bathroom with Sally. I reached into my holster and beeped for my roving camera—I finally had the radio thing down.
“Hey, Orange Cam. Are you off break?” I said into my walkie-talkie, pressing the big black square on the side of the box.
“Yup, we’re just sitting in the great room, waiting for direction,” he replied.
“Okay, could you guys come film the assistants in the hallway? If they ask what you’re doing, say you’re just getting some B-roll coverage and tell them to act natural. Don’t make a big deal about it. Copy?”
“Copy that, boss.”
“Oh, and please get some close-ups of them holding hands and being romantic. And let’s use the boom—no lavalier mikes—and from a distance, please. I don’t want them to think anything’s up.”
“Copy, copy.”
Using surveillance cameras since the show began, I had been quietly recording Matt and Sally’s conversations in the bathroom every time it was my shift—tonight was the first night I’d get our big cameras on them. Something interesting was bound to happen considering their proximity to two of America’s hottest quasi-celebs. Plus, they were in love, and everyone loves a good tryst.
It was pitch black when I finally made it outside. The rain had left behind a scent of fresh evergreen and mint that reminded me of home—home-home, not LA. I leaned against the castle wall wondering what parallel universe I had happened upon. This was the first time I’d ever watched two people having sex. Live! Not only that, but I was asking for different camera angles.
I couldn’t decide if I should throw up or quit. If I quit, what would I do? Go back to waiting tables? Audition for a reporter’s job? Host a reality show? Right. They’d laugh me back to Canada: “Hey, wannabe, come back when you’ve had a boob job and veneers.”
It was an odd torment: stripped to the absolute essentials, we were getting paid to make undeserving people famous, propping up a rich girly-girl who was little more than eye-candy. The entire crew was in the same boat, making a career of it, despising it at some level, yet buying into it solely because we got paid and therefore continued to do our job. And the worst thing of all was that it was strangely compelling. I felt important for the first time in years. Naomi had even complimented my work—she said my interviews captured the show’s only true emotion. I mattered! I got the job done! I was an integral part of the team! But was I sacrificing my moral fiber? And, if so, what was I to do?