Mr. Dean. Reading it on paper felt a little weird. So I chose to stare mindlessly out the window instead.
“Yup, got me a gold in the steer wrestling event. . . Yup, first time in a ro-day-oh. . . Yup, showed them cow-pokes who’s boss. . . Dem’s were the days.”
This cabbie was so annoying I pictured myself making a run for it at the next red light. Then I realized, he was probably the only cab driver in this two-horse town. So I settled back into my corner, fastened the seatbelt, and found myself mildly intrigued by my driver’s vignettes.
We had a few extra minutes, so he drove me by the Steinbeck Museum—who, my cabbie trivia-master said, used to live there—and talked about his favorite novels. By the end of our ride, I was entranced. I would have much rather spent the day driving around, hearing dusty stories about the good ole days, than do what I had to do. I made him promise to pick me up at 5:30 p.m.—the end of his shift and the end of mine—for another tall-tale pow-wow before my evening plane back to LA.
“I’d be glad to, Missy. I’ll be here. Now buh-bye.”
I arrived at the location exactly on time. However, it took twenty-five minutes to find the right gate and call button so Denise, Madeline’s mom, could let me in. The condo complex was surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence that came to sharp points at the top of its 15-foot exterior. It looked glum, and foreboding like a prison.
Prancing delicately on platform heels, Denise rounded the corner towards me. She appeared curvy, bubbly, and pretty. I was expecting someone a little more damaged, and not quite so intelligent looking.
What does she want with us? I wondered. I even considered warning her: Turn back! Don’t do it!
Instead, I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Jane. I’m the producer. Is the cameraman here?. . . Great, we’ll be starting with interviews. Is your daughter home too?. . . Great, can’t wait to meet her. So, Denise, ever been on TV?”
The camera crew had already rearranged the furniture in the living room and set up the lights for our first interview. The apartment was so small they’d had to fold up the kitchen table and put it on the porch to make room for the camera and the tripod. I made a few minor changes to the background, hid a couple of tacky knick-knacks from the camera frame, then made my way to the back room to introduce myself to Madeline, Denise’s daughter. She was watching TV.
I’d seen a photograph of her, which suggested she wasn’t too fat for a seven-year-old—plump, maybe, but not fat. However, when I saw her in person, I could see what her mother was worried about. She was twice the size she should have been, and already scowling. Carefree young kids shouldn’t scowl—only overworked, underfed field producers should.
I double-checked my notes. Corinne and her AP, Heidi, were calling this their “Obsessive Mothers” story. The mothers weren’t “horrible” this time, but “obsessive.” They said Denise was “a real witch”—a recurring theme, I’d noticed:
The Story: Denise says her daughter’s obese. She tells us she can’t love her daughter like she wants to because she’s fat. If Madeline were skinny, she says she could love her more. This woman is sick.
I’m embarrassed when I’m with Madeline in the supermarket.
If she were skinny, I could love her more. She’s always eating.
Her friends call her “Fatso.” I don’t blame them. I don’t let her know I feel sorry for her because then she’ll think it’s okay to be fat.
She used to be so cute. Not anymore. I love her, but she needs help.
Please help my daughter lose weight so she won’t be teased at school. I just want her to be happy.
Note: Get shots of Madeline in the mirror putting on tight clothing and bathing suits.
My phone rang from my pocket. It was the office. I almost didn’t answer.
“Jane? It’s Corinne,” she said, not waiting for a reply. “Listen, it’s all there in my notes. Do you have it? Good. Make sure Denise and Madeline say everything on the script. Don’t leave out a thing, especially the stuff about Denise not being able to love Maddy because she’s fat. Okay? Call me directly if she doesn’t. Meg needs to know.” Corinne was now talking like a computer, slowly enunciating each syllable as if I was brainless. “We don’t have a show if they don’t. Am I