Chapter 10 #2
All the business and tech stuff happened in Glendale—the editing, the logging of footage, the phone calls where the network gave notes.
Someone’s intern led me into the lone conference room—a generic space with a large blond-wood table and swivel chairs and a sweating pitcher of ice water.
Around the table sat Lauren and Dan and a guy introduced to me as EVP of programming, who messed around on his BlackBerry in the corner throughout the whole meeting. No one offered me a drink.
“Cassidy,” said Lauren with what passed, for her, as warmth. “We’ve been worried about you.” I didn’t buy it, but whatever. There was no harm done in letting her play mother hen. “It’s been quite a time for us all.”
I’d been unable to cover the dark circles under my eyes with enough concealer to disguise my lack of sleep, but Lauren looked bright as a daisy.
Her hair was pulled off her face, her pallor of the previous few weeks gone.
You couldn’t even tell she’d been in whatever chokehold with legal and the network had prompted this meeting right now.
Funny that Rahul and Eli weren’t here. Where was Vinnie?
Shouldn’t they be in on this? Or was I the scapegoat?
We’d all been on that set, but they would foist the blame on me. There was a good chance I deserved it.
“What happened to Sally Ann was a tragic accident.” Dan sounded like the voiceover on a history documentary.
You’d think Sally Ann had been killed by someone’s bayonet during the Civil War rather than by food paid for and distributed by production on his watch last week.
“But we’re going to carry on with the show.
We know that’s what Sally Ann would have wanted.
” Even he wasn’t buying his own bullshit.
He gave an awkward glance at the suit in the corner, who hadn’t looked up.
Yes, indeed, Sally Ann, a tangential member of the cast who’d hoped the show would be her own ticket to stardom, wanted nothing more than for us to keep on making money.
They were going to put an in memoriam at the end of an episode and call it a day.
“The show must go on,” I said.
“Yes!” Dan missed my sarcasm entirely. He looked relieved, flashing a doofy smile at Lauren. “That’s the spirit.” I’d never pictured Dan as someone who’d say That’s the spirit in an unironic way.
“Cassidy, I know it seems callous.” Lauren reached across the table for my hand.
Her nails were short, green polish flaking.
In the six months I had spent working beside her, she had never once touched me.
The ceiling fan clicked above us. “But when you think about the money and time we’ve invested here, we can’t just shut down indefinitely because of one accident. ”
“People have families to feed.” Dan was not good at this. Lauren shot him a please-shut-up glare.
“Shouldn’t there be more of an investigation?” I said.
“Into what, exactly?” Lauren’s tone was sharp.
“I mean . . . she died.” I wouldn’t let them see me cry about this. They exchanged a glance that I couldn’t quite read.
“Cassidy.” Lauren seemed to think that if she said my name enough times she could tether me to her point of view.
“People die.” This was essentially what Gabe had said, and I couldn’t help but see myself as naive.
Everyone else understood that accidents happened and the world didn’t end, but here I was, unable to function.
Thinking it was all my fault because when Lauren had given me that do-nothing stare, I had obeyed.
Or was I acting like a human person, not a Reality TV sycophant who threw away whatever interactions didn’t suit the plot?
“We understand that this whole thing has been upsetting, and we’re making counseling available to you, if that’s something you think that you need.” Dan was back in History Channel mode, reciting a memorized script.
“We’re also prepared to offer you a different role in the production process.” Lauren glanced at the EVP, who had yet to acknowledge that we were having a conversation right across from him.
“I don’t—” I began. Lauren interrupted me.
“The health of our employees is our number one priority. We would never want to put you back in a situation that made you feel unsafe.” I was losing them now.
“Therefore Laur—we—think it best to move you into postproduction,” said Dan. “You’ll be in an extremely important role. We’re going to have you log the footage. You’ll be first on the line.”
This was not a promotion. Logging footage was an awful job, as grueling as PAing but without the excitement of the change in routine.
Loggers sat all day at a desk, wearing headphones, writing down the basics of what had been caught on film.
Maggie paces hallway, waiting for ambulance.
Jason makes phone calls. Cassidy hyperventilates and hides in the laundry room.
It was important in that it saved the editors from having to watch every dull moment.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is this because I didn’t come in yesterday? Why don’t you just fire me?”
“Legal.” Now the guy in the corner spoke, though he still didn’t look at us.
“Our legal department advises against that,” said Dan. “They’re worried you’ll bring workplace safety complaints. And isn’t your brother a lawyer?”
“A doctor,” I said. “Almost.”
“We think this is a great opportunity for you, Cassidy,” said Lauren. A great opportunity for me not to go public about Sally Ann’s death. Also an opportunity for me not to throw away my past few months of work. They were going to make me sign something, weren’t they?
“We’ve got this paperwork here for you, and then you can go check out your new space.”
The executive left first, then Dan. I wasn’t dumb enough to sign the papers without reading them, nor was I dumb enough to turn down the new job.
Lauren sat there while I skimmed. An NDA that would prohibit me from talking about anything I’d seen on set, a commitment to finish out the season, etc. , etc.
“You’re in this, Cassidy,” said Lauren. She was different without the men present, less inclined to hide her hunger.
The job was easier when she didn’t have to finesse both her Honeymoon Stage duties and Dan.
“Whether you want to be or not, you’re in this, and we might as well work it to both of our advantages. ”
“What do you mean?”
“When legal said we couldn’t fire you, Dan wanted to keep you on set and just roll back your responsibilities.
But I think it would be better for me to have someone in post, so I suggested that we move you.
” She didn’t pretend to have fought for me to stay on, only for me to stay on in a role that made sense for her once she knew I wasn’t leaving.
“Dan has what’s his name, that editor—they have each other’s backs.
Dan flags stuff for him to watch for, and he tells Dan what he needs, and together they make neat little stories, and the network promotes them.
That’s how they got that thing with Brent’s boyfriend. ”
“Okay . . .” Dan had invited Brent’s boyfriend to film at the house a few weeks prior, where he and Maggie had gotten into it over some proposed state law about strip clubs.
It was going to make a great scene in a forthcoming episode, and everyone knew it.
From Lauren’s phrasing, I could now assume some story editor had sussed out their opposing views on the issue and told Dan to get them talking.
Very clever. “But I’m not in editing. What can I do? ”
“You’re smart. You notice things.”
“I mean . . .”
“I know you’ve seen things.” She was looking at me strangely.
Did she think I had known about the nuts in Sally Ann’s food?
Or was this about Jason and Maggie? I was in no real position to press her.
She continued. “Whatever you see while logging, you bring it to me first. You get any ideas for story, see anything we can use in a way that might hit, we brainstorm before you submit your log so I can pitch it up above before the guys do.”
“So go behind their backs.”
“Around them.” Lauren sighed. “Nobody’s looking out for Cassidy Baum here. They’re all looking out for themselves. When we have the chance, we take it—with me out there and you in here, we’ll have everything we need. We can go far together.”
I thought of Dan telling me about the mouths to feed. Explaining how a computer worked like I was his child and not his colleague. Sending me back to the drive-through because I’d gotten him the unsweetened iced tea.
“Okay,” I said. “Can do.”
Poor Sally Ann, I thought as I pulled out of Glendale.
When Celia talked about her auditions, she made it clear that she was always one of many in the folding chairs, lined up against the walls.
All mumbling the same sides, wearing the same version of whatever outfit.
In Hollywood, there was always someone else to take your place.
Girls all over with the same dream—generally to be in the spotlight but also lots like me, who wanted to direct its gaze.
Step out of line or voice a reasonable complaint, and the higher-ups would quickly replace you.
Even Maggie McKee was expendable, prey to the next well-endowed triple threat wearing a newer spangly bra.
Sally Ann wasn’t a person to mourn but a job opening that now needed filling. I bit my lip so hard it bled.
For whatever reason, Lauren thought I was special.
Could it be she saw in me what I wanted to see in myself?
Or had I simply lucked into the right kind of screwup: one that could bring legal scrutiny where nobody wanted it, that wasn’t unequivocally my fault but wasn’t not my fault either.
Whichever it was, I’d be stupid not to team up with Lauren, turn this all to my advantage to help my career.
I might be racked with guilt, but I was certainly not stupid. Or so I thought.
In retrospect, I kept my job because the network was scared I’d find a way to bring charges against them, and Lauren was scared I’d dug up secrets that were still buried deep.
I don’t think Maggie and Jason were scared. At least not yet.