hadn’t seen his boys in a week. His wife had been sick and unable to care for them. Gib hired one of the girls from the office cleaning staff to help at home. Between urgent work requests and his non-existent home life, Gib, not our guests, needed a reality check, if not a Ricky Dean intervention.
Each time I told him to go home, with an, “I’ve got this under control, go get some rest, see your family,” he would sigh and say, “Can’t. Need to make sure the tapes get handed in. Need to be at the nine o’clock meeting.” Need to, need to, need to. . .
Despite his long hours and apparent diligence, Gib had become the scapegoat for many of the mistakes made in editing. I was too busy to know if they were truly his fault. The little man was ultra-committed. He never missed a minute in the office for fear something might go wrong. Meanwhile, one show producer, two APs, and five PAs—dubbed “Team Less- Than-Excellent”—had been fired. We shuddered at the thought of joining their ranks.
In the few spare moments I had while flying from city to city, I would reflect on what was slowly becoming a less than dreamy dream-job. Each day introduced a number of chinks that chipped away at what was once a flawless front, beginning with the big man himself. Ricky Dean never talked to any of the staff. He seemed more shrewd than sympathetic, more Hollywood than grassroots. I expected a heroic figure, shouting, “Go team! Meet at my house for drinks” or at least a “Thank you, good job.” Nothing.
Then there was Meg, who sent trifling office e-mails that chastised those of us who let face jewelry slip by in interviews. And there was my partner, Corinne, the quintessential middle-management TV captive with her uncomfortable shoes and now mostly prickly personality. I sat in on a few of her pitch meetings to Mr. Dean and watched her puff at his praise when she succeeded and bawl like a baby when she flopped. One minute she was pouring syrupy anecdotes your way, the next she was slicing out your innards with glass shards. The young office researchers/APs would hang on her every command, nodding in ass-kissing unison. Meanwhile, they would blow a donkey if it meant getting a shot at her job.
But was I any better? Manufacturing stories through the mystery of digital video and sound, lobbing pointed questions at unsuspecting subjects, often just pretending to care while admiring my shoes or thinking about a nice soft bed. I’d begun to hate the sound of my own voice—or maybe I was just tired.
Somehow I’d survived two months of the hardest work I’d ever done. Despite the unavoidable slivers of acrimony, and a small but growing distaste for certain colleagues, I still thought I was part of a noble cause leading me toward something even nobler. I still believed.
On my first day off in more than 38 days, Grant rented a 30-foot sloop for an afternoon sail. He said it was my day to read, relax, drink wine, meditate—anything I desired. I started by sleeping in until noon and showing up late at the marina.
“How are you?” he whispered between kisses. “How are you feeling?”
“I thought I’d be dead to the world, but I feel surprisingly good.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re with me.”
“Must be.” We giggled.
There was a gentle wind, enough to inflate the main sail and send us out the harbor entrance into the Pacific. We passed my apartment and the Santa Monica Pier. The sky was clear, offering us little protection as the sun beat down like a great white torch. Sweat collected between my legs and the canvas seats. Grant expertly operated the ropes, pulleys, and winches. I loved the sight of him controlling this great white mass against a bullying sea.
When he was finally content with the breeze and our direction, he sat down behind me and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around my belly, “So, how are you feeling about things? When are you going to be through the slog at work?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of weird stuff going down.”
“Like what?”
I told Grant about the way I was controlled on interviews— how they gave me a finished script before I left the office, before I’d done the interview, and how the interviews had to exactly match my story notes.
“That’s not good,” Grant said, watching the waves hit the boat. “Why is it