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Authors: Shannon Nering
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firmly behind them. A bouncer immediately parked himself in front.
“Guess that’s a wrap.” I turned to my crew. “Good shooting,” I said, hoping we had enough to build a segment.
“Thanks, Jane.” Joe had already collapsed the tripod and was wrapping cable. “And, hey, you did well—all things considered. There aren’t many like her. She’s one tough cookie.”
“If by cookie you mean totally insane,” I said, spinning my finger around my temple, “I couldn’t agree more.”
The bill came to eighteen hundred dollars, and was put onmy credit card, which I’m pretty sure let out a wail when they first swiped it. After three more equally noisy (and unsuccessful) swipes, the charge was denied. Thankfully, our production manager was reachable and supplied her card info over the phone. So, for eighteen hundred smackers, we got to film a grand total of ten minutes of our stars downing ridiculously expensive champagne, and a measly three and a half minutes of mostly x-rated grinding on the dance floor.
About 1 a.m., I arrived at my quaint one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, seven blocks from the beach—picked it up from Craigslist a few weeks prior as a sublet. The air was warm and smelled of jasmine. I could hear crickets chirping in the distance. I nearly stepped on a couple of avocados from a neighbor’s tree, so plump and ripe that they were dropping to the ground. That nature had adapted so well to the plethora of beachside concrete was comforting. Maybe Planet Earth isn’t going to hell after all , I thought. I’d concluded otherwise a few hours earlier.
Something about getting paid to spend eight hours watching other people get wasted made me question my usefulness. I mean, it was interesting, even fun, minus Lucy, and I liked the chi-chi Sunset Strip bar, and the trendy outfits, and even rubbing elbows with Hollywood hipsters. But for all the glamour and intrigue, it was beyond strange. Were people really going to tune into what might be described as a PG-13 orgy? With my name rolling in the credits?
But all the work craziness aside, I was in love, for the first time in five years, which catapulted me into a surreal mix of near-elation and quasi-confusion.
Moments later, Craig pulled up in his Jeep. My heart skipped a beat. Back to elation.
“Hi, babe,” I said suggestively, anticipating Craig hauling me into his arms and throwing me on the bed, repeating the words he’d typed only hours ago—“I love you, I love you, I love you”—and pasting my body with kisses.
“How’d it go?” he said disinterestedly as I led him through the door and into my apartment.
“Huh?”
“Your shoot. You were all nervous about it. Was it good?” He chucked his jacket onto the floor and unbuttoned his jeans.
“Um, well. . . um.” I’d been taken off-guard. Where were the diamond tennis bracelet, the flowers, the barrage of love poems? “Yeah, it was good. Actually a little weird. Are you sure this is what you want to talk about?”
“Just curious,” he said, already naked and sliding into bed. “Hop in. Let’s talk.” He perked his eyebrows and patted the mattress playfully, as if I might jump up on all fours. “Was there a cat fight? Meow .”
“Very funny. No. Well, I mean, ok, aside from the fact that Lucy treats me like crap, which I’m beginning to think is part of my job description, and which at two G’s a week, I’ll take, no questions asked.” I realized I needed to vent.
Actually, the day’s events called for a full-blown decompression, or at least a five-minute diatribe. “You know,” I continued, “after an eight-hour shoot, we got two 30-minute tapes, and the second tape has maybe five minutes on it. And, well, there’s no story. Whatever happened to story? Three hot babes on a date with a megastar rapper, and they booze and make small talk for eight hours—oh, and some smarmy foreplay. The girls get a thousand bucks a day. Plus, everything’s paid for.
“Guess that’s a wrap.” I turned to my crew. “Good shooting,” I said, hoping we had enough to build a segment.
“Thanks, Jane.” Joe had already collapsed the tripod and was wrapping cable. “And, hey, you did well—all things considered. There aren’t many like her. She’s one tough cookie.”
“If by cookie you mean totally insane,” I said, spinning my finger around my temple, “I couldn’t agree more.”
The bill came to eighteen hundred dollars, and was put onmy credit card, which I’m pretty sure let out a wail when they first swiped it. After three more equally noisy (and unsuccessful) swipes, the charge was denied. Thankfully, our production manager was reachable and supplied her card info over the phone. So, for eighteen hundred smackers, we got to film a grand total of ten minutes of our stars downing ridiculously expensive champagne, and a measly three and a half minutes of mostly x-rated grinding on the dance floor.
About 1 a.m., I arrived at my quaint one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, seven blocks from the beach—picked it up from Craigslist a few weeks prior as a sublet. The air was warm and smelled of jasmine. I could hear crickets chirping in the distance. I nearly stepped on a couple of avocados from a neighbor’s tree, so plump and ripe that they were dropping to the ground. That nature had adapted so well to the plethora of beachside concrete was comforting. Maybe Planet Earth isn’t going to hell after all , I thought. I’d concluded otherwise a few hours earlier.
Something about getting paid to spend eight hours watching other people get wasted made me question my usefulness. I mean, it was interesting, even fun, minus Lucy, and I liked the chi-chi Sunset Strip bar, and the trendy outfits, and even rubbing elbows with Hollywood hipsters. But for all the glamour and intrigue, it was beyond strange. Were people really going to tune into what might be described as a PG-13 orgy? With my name rolling in the credits?
But all the work craziness aside, I was in love, for the first time in five years, which catapulted me into a surreal mix of near-elation and quasi-confusion.
Moments later, Craig pulled up in his Jeep. My heart skipped a beat. Back to elation.
“Hi, babe,” I said suggestively, anticipating Craig hauling me into his arms and throwing me on the bed, repeating the words he’d typed only hours ago—“I love you, I love you, I love you”—and pasting my body with kisses.
“How’d it go?” he said disinterestedly as I led him through the door and into my apartment.
“Huh?”
“Your shoot. You were all nervous about it. Was it good?” He chucked his jacket onto the floor and unbuttoned his jeans.
“Um, well. . . um.” I’d been taken off-guard. Where were the diamond tennis bracelet, the flowers, the barrage of love poems? “Yeah, it was good. Actually a little weird. Are you sure this is what you want to talk about?”
“Just curious,” he said, already naked and sliding into bed. “Hop in. Let’s talk.” He perked his eyebrows and patted the mattress playfully, as if I might jump up on all fours. “Was there a cat fight? Meow .”
“Very funny. No. Well, I mean, ok, aside from the fact that Lucy treats me like crap, which I’m beginning to think is part of my job description, and which at two G’s a week, I’ll take, no questions asked.” I realized I needed to vent.
Actually, the day’s events called for a full-blown decompression, or at least a five-minute diatribe. “You know,” I continued, “after an eight-hour shoot, we got two 30-minute tapes, and the second tape has maybe five minutes on it. And, well, there’s no story. Whatever happened to story? Three hot babes on a date with a megastar rapper, and they booze and make small talk for eight hours—oh, and some smarmy foreplay. The girls get a thousand bucks a day. Plus, everything’s paid for.
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