He’s gone. So now you are officially our ‘acting’ head writer.”
“You’re kidding, right?” You have to love this television business, really. A man is missing, a production is in crisis, seventy grand has just flown out of the window because a door is left ajar. If you screwed up badly enough here, you could very quickly wind up running this town.
“Greta, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said. “Fate and Howie were here a few minutes ago. I am not Fate’s favorite staffer. Not at all her cup of tea, to tell you the truth. Really. She’d rather stomp on me with her silver platform boots than listen to me.”
“This show is my life,” Greta said, finding perhaps one more speck of dust in her eye. She dabbed. “I know how pathetic that must sound, but this show is all I have. I have worked so hard, so hard to get a hit series. And here it is, Maddie. I just need a little time. I need your help.”
I’d gotten us into this mess and now Greta was counting on me, however misguidedly, to get us out. But what was really going on here in Game Show Land? The head writer of the show was seriously missing, his office was turned into a rubbish heap, and what about that Post-it note that read: “Heidi and Monica might have to die.” Were these events connected?
“Greta, about Tim Stock—”
“Oh, don’t worry about Tim,” she said, her face pale. “Forget what I said. He’ll turn up. I know it. But I honestly don’t think I can handle one more thing goingwrong right now. Once the Hindenburg has crashed, it’s down, you know? Will you go see Howie for me? I need a miracle, here. Maybe some little white lie to stall him while I think of a way to cancel today’s taping that won’t arouse suspicion.”
“I’ll try my best.”
With all the backstage drama swirling around Food Freak, I had a lot of questions. Another visit with the show’s charismatic star might lead to some answers. And that sent me searching for Chef Howie. And Fate.
Chapter 6
A favorite TV show is like a pal. It is an intimate relationship. You invite it into your living room or den in the evening and it tries hard to entertain you.
To the people who package those half hours and send them to your house, however, time stretches out. It takes a week of days and nights to produce each twenty-two-minute package of fun, minus the commercials. And while it may seem like we’re in your bedroom or your family room, we’re not. We’re on some hot soundstage in some dusty studio in an industrial-looking neighborhood of Los Angeles.
Arthur Herman Productions leases office space in the old part of Hollywood, east of Highland. Food Freak is made on what is now the KTLA lot, located at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Bronson. Here, a scattering of eighty-year-old buildings covers twelve acres of studio space, all enclosed like a medieval fortress by high, barbed-wire-topped walls that go on for blocks. The guards on duty are not so much occupied with fighting off medieval dark knights as they are mostly busy painting over the rude spray-canned markings of those knights’ present-day equivalents. Sentries posted at the entrance gates keep out thepassersby, mostly neighbors, recent arrivals from El Salvador or Guatemala or Mexico who live in the surrounding dusty apartment buildings. Only those who are employed on one of the productions that are shot at this studio are admitted into this small kingdom, or those lucky ones who have business here and have had their names left at the gate, a pass waiting.
When I worked as a caterer, arriving with dinner for casts and crews at studios like this one, I’d often have a pass waiting. But now, for my tiny stint as a writer on Freak, I actually belonged here. I ran down the dozen stairs from our second-floor offices, and opened the exterior door, exiting our building onto a private alleyway. It might not look like much, but I loved being on this lot. Like many transplants to Los
“You’re kidding, right?” You have to love this television business, really. A man is missing, a production is in crisis, seventy grand has just flown out of the window because a door is left ajar. If you screwed up badly enough here, you could very quickly wind up running this town.
“Greta, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said. “Fate and Howie were here a few minutes ago. I am not Fate’s favorite staffer. Not at all her cup of tea, to tell you the truth. Really. She’d rather stomp on me with her silver platform boots than listen to me.”
“This show is my life,” Greta said, finding perhaps one more speck of dust in her eye. She dabbed. “I know how pathetic that must sound, but this show is all I have. I have worked so hard, so hard to get a hit series. And here it is, Maddie. I just need a little time. I need your help.”
I’d gotten us into this mess and now Greta was counting on me, however misguidedly, to get us out. But what was really going on here in Game Show Land? The head writer of the show was seriously missing, his office was turned into a rubbish heap, and what about that Post-it note that read: “Heidi and Monica might have to die.” Were these events connected?
“Greta, about Tim Stock—”
“Oh, don’t worry about Tim,” she said, her face pale. “Forget what I said. He’ll turn up. I know it. But I honestly don’t think I can handle one more thing goingwrong right now. Once the Hindenburg has crashed, it’s down, you know? Will you go see Howie for me? I need a miracle, here. Maybe some little white lie to stall him while I think of a way to cancel today’s taping that won’t arouse suspicion.”
“I’ll try my best.”
With all the backstage drama swirling around Food Freak, I had a lot of questions. Another visit with the show’s charismatic star might lead to some answers. And that sent me searching for Chef Howie. And Fate.
Chapter 6
A favorite TV show is like a pal. It is an intimate relationship. You invite it into your living room or den in the evening and it tries hard to entertain you.
To the people who package those half hours and send them to your house, however, time stretches out. It takes a week of days and nights to produce each twenty-two-minute package of fun, minus the commercials. And while it may seem like we’re in your bedroom or your family room, we’re not. We’re on some hot soundstage in some dusty studio in an industrial-looking neighborhood of Los Angeles.
Arthur Herman Productions leases office space in the old part of Hollywood, east of Highland. Food Freak is made on what is now the KTLA lot, located at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Bronson. Here, a scattering of eighty-year-old buildings covers twelve acres of studio space, all enclosed like a medieval fortress by high, barbed-wire-topped walls that go on for blocks. The guards on duty are not so much occupied with fighting off medieval dark knights as they are mostly busy painting over the rude spray-canned markings of those knights’ present-day equivalents. Sentries posted at the entrance gates keep out thepassersby, mostly neighbors, recent arrivals from El Salvador or Guatemala or Mexico who live in the surrounding dusty apartment buildings. Only those who are employed on one of the productions that are shot at this studio are admitted into this small kingdom, or those lucky ones who have business here and have had their names left at the gate, a pass waiting.
When I worked as a caterer, arriving with dinner for casts and crews at studios like this one, I’d often have a pass waiting. But now, for my tiny stint as a writer on Freak, I actually belonged here. I ran down the dozen stairs from our second-floor offices, and opened the exterior door, exiting our building onto a private alleyway. It might not look like much, but I loved being on this lot. Like many transplants to Los
Similar Books
