pencil, and a mini-Leatherman (a present from Grant). I nearly spilled my coffee trying to disguise the end of the tampon—it was poking out of the wrapper.
“That’s one big Q-tip,” I joked.
The security guy looked at me as if I was from Mars.
“It’s not as if it’s used,” I remarked uncomfortably, still trying for a laugh.
“Move along.” He began searching the contents of the next employee’s bag.
“Do we have to do this every day?” I said as I was shuffled onto the studio lot.
Golf carts whizzed by me, expertly handled by execs, assistants, and maintenance types. I pictured myself being chauffeured in one of the carts, and I wondered what it would take to get one. There was a paved roadway to Building AB22. Someone told me it was near New York Street, where they filmed all sorts of movies. I couldn’t wait to see it in action. I peered upwards for a glimpse at the studio’s famous tower. It was all so imposing in real life.
The studio lot was like a mini-city, but with no way to tell the gray buildings apart from one another except for the pink numbers stamped in faded paint on the sides. Passing a set of metal doors that were cracked open a pinch, I couldn’t resist poking my head in. Pictures of famous celebrities adorned the walls: Lucille Ball, Greta Garbo, Mae West. Just beyond, there was a rack of clothing and a familiar living room set that looked lonely, with synthetic plants, pictures, and windows that opened to a mock skyline. I wondered if it was a famous set and wanted to go sit on the couch, but I didn’t, opting to get to work on time instead.
Two glass doors marked the entrance to my new show, with Fix Your Life written in bright bold lettering. The receptionist greeted me with a tough but friendly smile.
“You here for a meeting?”
“No, I’m a producer. First day.”
“Who should I let know you’re here?”
“Meg, I guess.”
“Oh.” She looked impressed.
She placed her headset on, careful not to muss her hair, and typed in a phone extension. I didn’t listen to her conversation, too busy soaking everything in and thinking myself special for my fancy new job.
“Excuse me. Miss Kaufman?”
“It’s Jane.”
“Okay, Jane. Meg says you’re to report to Gib. Straight back and through those doors.”
“Thanks,” I said, hesitating. “Uh, who’s Gib?”
“He’s your supervisor.”
Supervisor? Any of the haughtiness I’d carried into the office quickly disappeared. I thought I’d be reporting directly to Meg, the EP, the woman at the top. That’s how it had been on The Purrfect Life.
I pulled myself together and put on a happy face. “Nice to meet you,” I said, sounding ultra-professional in greeting Gib.
First, he asked me about my experience. Then he asked me what I wanted to get out of the job. Then he asked me where I saw myself in five years, all with a nervous smile exposing tiny teeth and thin lips. I felt myself growing impatient but never would have shown it. Instead, I brooded over the fact that my supervising producer was re-interviewing me for a job I already had.
“So, what’s your interview style?. . . Ever edited a vignette?. . . How do you feel about being the first point of contact?. . . Is that something you’re comfortable with?” I kept my answers short and simple.
“What about you?” I grinned, happy to let him talk for a while. “What’s your story?”
“I live a few blocks away. My wife and I just had another baby. It’s hard to find a job with any security these days. . .”
I was torn. Part of me liked him. He was nice—borderline simple. But I also thought I might be able to do his job. After all, I’d survived Lucy Lane and Dagmar Bronson. I had more journalism and fieldwork experience than he had. And he lacked much of a presence. I wondered how he would do with Meg as his boss.
“Here we are,” Gib said, leading me into my new office. “It’s a bit of a squeeze.”
Five of us were to share the space: me, Gib, two guys in charge of post and editing, and a show producer whom I hadn’t met yet. Fluorescent lights gave off a sterile glow, kind of like a hospital, and there were no windows. Everything was off-white, except the carpet—it was beige. And the desks were brown.
Outside of our room, the promo department had littered the walls with posters of Ricky Dean, who always