nonstop lapping-up of calories, shot at multiple low angles (heavy people look fatter that way), with extreme close-ups of chubby little pores sweating gray toxins as she consumed obscene amounts of food-garbage. Then we got her drinking an extra large soda, then drinking another soda, then smoking a cigarette. It was the epitome of Eataholics! I even saw an Emmy flash before my eyes.
“No,” I said, my blood starting to boil but containing my emotions—I knew where Meg was going with this. “Laura did not cry during her interview.”
“She needs to cry. You need to do the interview again!” Meg commanded.
“Meg, with all due respect, if we’re to roll tape in less than an hour, and I’m to find and coach Ashley, as well as direct our five cameras, I’m just wondering where I will find the time,” I said gently, sweat pouring off my brow.
Ta-da! I’d completely mastered the art of the kiss-ass! It might not have sounded very ass-kiss’ish, but given what I wanted to say—“Go pull that giant pitch fork out of your boney little ass before I scratch your eyes out”—it was pretty darn slick.
“That’s for you to figure out!” she snapped and started to walk away.
“Really, Meg,” I continued, though perhaps I shouldn’t have. “Does Laura actually need to cry? Her interview was excellent. It was very touching. She explained how she—”
“All truly excellent producers know that crying makes for quintessential TV. Surely, even you know that,” she said condescendingly. “And make her take off that necklace! It looks tribal.”
This time she did walk away. Mr. Dean beckoned.
“Necklace? Tribal?” I said under my breath.
Meg had an uncanny ability to make people feel as if they’d done something wrong (the necklace, the non-crying), when they hadn’t. What a great line for her resumé: “As executive producer, I shamelessly inflict unjustifiable guilt on the people I direct and manage!”
Poor Laura. By the time we were done with her, she wouldn’t know what hit her. I wouldn’t know what hit her. This woman needed a full-time coach, or a sponsor, not some magic pill in the form of a 15-minute turbo-therapy session from Miss Ashley Starlet, with her runway legs and non-existent psych background.
I didn’t get Laura’s second interview until well after the cameras rolled for Ashley’s TV debut, or should I say Ashley’s TV debacle, which was nearly five hours late! Our biggest setback was having to light the set when we realized we were running out of daylight, adding another two hours to our mounting overtime bill. And apparently all this was my fault. Nobody stopped to consider that the extra $3,000 that we now owed the crews could have been saved had we skipped the Airforce 1 helicopter ride for Ricky Dean and her majesty, Meg.
“One more time, Ashley. You’re doing great,” I said as if I was talking to a three-year-old. Crouched just slightly off-stage, I fed her her lines while massaging my throbbing temples.
“Join me—cut! Join us—cut! Join Ricky Dean—argh! Join us for our next program next week when we’ll be—cut!” She looked beaten. “This is hard!” Ashley whined.
“I know, sweetie,” said Meg as she handed Ashley a bottle of Evian. “You’ve been working like a dog, and I just want you to know that you have Celine Dion’s favorite Vegas masseuse at your disposal just as soon as this is over.”
It was ten o’clock at night, and Ashley’s tenth attempt at a proper close for the show was failing miserably. It didn’t help that she kept yelling “cut,” for herself, which was just wrong. For the first time in my journalistic career, I wished I were dead.
“I know you guys are against this, but let’s just please give these cue cards a try,” I said carefully.
Meg and Mr. Dean were adamantly against cue cards because, they said, Ashley would appear robotic. But desperate times called for desperate measures, even if it was for less than thirty words.
Ashley straightened herself center-stage, pushed her shoulders back, gave a firm smile, and began her read: “Join us next week when we catch up with Laura, Christopher, Mindy, and their spouses to see who’s winning our From Fat to Fit challenge. Thanks for coming out!” Ashley spoke awkwardly and, yes, robotically. But so thrilled was she to complete her close that she looked as if she might explode in joy. No one was more surprised at her accomplishment than her.
“Good work, darling!” her larger-than-life boyfriend exclaimed as he bounced out to mug as the credits ran