in, not even remotely self-conscious despite a small line of party-goers forming behind me.
I put the car in drive and didn’t look back.
“You have arrived! I’m so proud of you,” Penny, a lawyer and my closest friend from college, said from the other end of the phone line, 2000 miles away.
It was a huge day for me. After a month of unemployment, and all the stress and self-sabotage bundled with that, I had landed the job of a lifetime. Just in time too. Plan B was to beg at Naomi’s doorstep—we hadn’t talked in weeks—and pucker up for Karl.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’s just a field producer position.”
“The Fix Your Life show? Are you kidding? He’s America’s advice guy. He’s on the news practically every night. And now he’s going to be on TV every single day! That’s huge!”
“Okay, it’s awesome,” I agreed, unable to contain my excitement. “It’s so great to finally work on something that matters.”
It all happened thanks to a text message I’d received a few days after walking away from Danny and the supposed “wedding of the decade”:
Greetings from Jamaica! It’s been too long. Busy. This show I’m hosting is awesome—met Ziggy Marley yesterday. Hey, not sure what you’re doing for work, but my friend is looking for a producer. She’s head cheese on Ricky Dean’s new show. Told her you kicked ass: Meg Cohen, 323 589 6117. . . Miss you. Big smooch, Alex
Yes!
The text message hadn’t come completely out of the blue. Throughout the past few months, Alex had sent me a few e-mails with similar themes: “just checking in” and “how’s my little field producer?” They were harmless enough, so I always replied with the latest details of my career, including various Danny shenanigans. He never asked about my love life, and I never asked about his, though I mentioned I was dating. We were friends—friends with a bit of a past—and now friends involved in an innocent cyber-flirtation. With this latest message, though, he had turned out to be a better friend than I could ever have imagined.
At first, I thought it would be Naomi’s boyfriend, Hank—“Mr. YBC”—who would get me inside the hottest new talk show in television history. But our Grammy night meeting hadn’t gone well. So I decided to go it alone and simply submit a blind resumé, along with hundreds of other skids without a leg up in the competition. This accomplished nothing. It wasn’t until I got Alex’s auspicious text and made a direct call to Meg, dropping Alex’s name ever so casually, that I got an interview. The rest was history.
Penny continued with enthusiasm. “No kidding, from Sex Kittens to saving the world! Maybe one day you’ll host the show with him. I can see it all now: Sanity Tips with My Little Janey!”
“Don’t joke. I want to go all the way with this.”
“Great. Just call me when you attend your first party at his Malibu mansion. I want to come!”
Penny was the fourth person to call that day, all of them welcoming me to the big leagues. It was a first—friends calling to congratulate me for getting a job. And word got around fast. Even some of my new producer colleagues were calling with their kudos.
My mother, on the other hand, called every time I got a job—any kind of a job. She’d even sung my praises when I landed my crappy waitress gig in Vancouver: “Good for you, kid. Just a temporary stopover.” But this time, I could tell she was glowing.
“That Ricky Dean, I’ve read so much about him lately. He’s tremendous, helping people improve their lives! And he’s written all those bestselling self-help books. Get in real tight with him, honey. Hitch your wagon to his star!”
It was my first big Hollywood deal. YBC required me, along with the rest of the senior staff, to sign two-year contracts. A lot of producers would have killed for one year. Typical job security in TV production was two months, not two years!
Once I saw the contract, I understood the significance of my career leap. The contract was 70 pages long, full of mind-numbing detail, and not exactly negotiable:
$2000 per week—firm;
zero percent raise in the first year—firm;
zero benefits the first year, and no obligation for any in future years—firm;
zero chance of getting out of the contract, unless they want me out—firm;
sign on the dotted line, please—done.
Hundreds had sought my position, and I was just some wannabe producer who needed a job. But, besides my