Three
Tait
I manage half-hearted responses and wrap up the call as quickly as I can, missing every other itinerary detail I’m sure she was attempting to share, but desperately needing to get my bearings.
So. Maybe my confirmation on this particular job was just a tad premature.
Shaking myself out of my stupor, I quickly decide to act.
Gratitude aside, the anxiety over the would-be awkwardness of exploring my stranger-for-a-dad’s ranch is far more potent than my pride. After quickly brainstorming my approach, I decide that I better just go directly to Fletcher to explain why I’ll need to withdraw, and flat-out admit the blunder. I’m sure I could share it with Gemma, but it seems like the more efficient option to come clean to the people who write the checks, first.
Gemma couldn’t have known about my ties to the ranch since she only knows me by my pen name—Tait Leigh. Frankly, Taitum isn’t even my name, I just don’t correct her. Besides, even if she’d known my last name, Logan is common enough.
Starting off in the blog world, being young(er), jaded, and self-important enough to think that my name needed to be catchy to be recognized, I decided a pen name was for me.
Also, my last name at the time was Van Rijckevorsel. So—yeah, there’s that.
Obviously, I will owe them an explanation on my flip-flopping, and since the further I let this go, the more details I’ll have to give. I decide to call Fletcher when it occurs to me that it is, in fact, 12:30 A.M. and no one will be in their office until nine. I don’t think it wise to blow up his cell phone at this hour, either.
Panic continues to percolate, though, and I eventually give up any hope of falling back asleep. Instead, I attempt to pick up a book, do some yoga, look online at dog shelters for a dog that my laptop and I both know I won’t end up committing to, and even complete an eleven-step skincare routine that consists of rubbing every sample I have amassed onto my face, before I finally concede to do some reconnaissance.…
Dollar Mountain is the newest hit show to take over the nation. It would’ve been impossible to avoid it being on the fringes of my awareness with the various billboards, memes, and quotable one-liners constantly being shared or talked about—even without having a regularly active social media account. It is the highest rated television show out there after two seasons. Ava confirmed that it was Logan Range after the first commercial for the pilot featured the same stone barn from our childhood. The barn looks like something that belongs on an old English estate rather than a working cattle ranch, but, slightly behind and perpendicular to that is a sprawling white ranch house with a wraparound porch—all Americana.
I decide that it seems sensible to watch a bit of the show so that I know exactly what I’m turning down. Plus, I hope I can glean some focus points to share with them for whoever they replace me with, possibly earning me a few forgiveness points. After all, it’s not as if I’ll actually be watching Charlie, or his new family. Just about all the memories I have of the Range itself are pleasant ones.
It doesn’t need to be personal.
I’m not invested.
I prop myself up on a mountain of pillows and start episode one.…
Two episodes into the season, around 4:30 A.M. , I watch the scene that sparked the “hot extra” phenomenon. A six-and-a-half-foot, scruffy Viking in a cowboy hat. He only sticks out like a sore thumb because he’s standing as stiff as a statue in the background of a scene where Joseph Dollar—the patriarch of the family—is beating the shit out of one of his unruly sons. The entire aesthetic of the scene is thrown off by his looming and awkward presence in the background. I snort. You can’t get a clear picture of his face, all you can discern is his size and that he’s got dark auburn-blonde hair that brushes the top of his collar, and a closely cropped beard. When the camera pans over him he even passes a quick, uncomfortable glance into the lens. The eyes are probably what all the fuss is about. They’re a light gold, framed by the kind of lines that weather a man’s face, but (annoyingly) make him more handsome. It couldn’t be more obvious that this guy is not an actor of any kind. I imagine the television crew pulling him out of some diner booth out there, thinking that using him would add to the realistic atmosphere. It has the opposite effect. If anything, he eclipses the too-pretty actors and actresses of the show; the ones with artfully distressed clothing and bodies manufactured in gyms versus digging posts and pulling barbed wire fencing.
The show is… well, it’s wonderful.
A modern day Western that pays homage to family and all the drama that entails, with entertaining and dramatic storylines that are rooted by breathtaking landscapes. There’s artful symbolism, satisfying romance that doesn’t feel earnest or phony, and enough dysfunction to be endearing.
Still, from what I recall of Charlie Logan, I remain as confused as when I first heard the news that he allowed them to film on Logan Range, his family’s legacy.
The Range is the real mistress that he loved so much; the one he left my mother and us for. There was another woman, yes, but long before she came into the picture, my mom had made it abundantly clear to my dad that she never intended to be a ranching wife or a ranching family. She wanted us to grow up with friends and extracurriculars and choices, not to be duty bound to our forefathers’ legacy. When my grandfather died, any one of my two uncles, or my aunt, could have taken over Logan Range. But Dad decided it was his to continue. My mom always told us that we were the family he could’ve chosen, but didn’t.
Mom held her ground, and we eventually moved to be nearer to her parents. I don’t even recall the exact time the divorce became official, just that he never followed. After that, he seemed to easily fade from our lives. Charlie became too wrapped up with running Logan Range to maintain his relationship with his daughters. He remarried and started a new family instead. He remarried and had a baby within two years or so.
I wonder if perhaps, just as in the show, the ranch itself was struggling financially? Hence the reason for allowing the show access.…
But, since I’m not invested and since I hold no claim of connection to the place, it’s none of my business. I decide to be thorough, though, and do a quick Google search. I’m further flabbergasted to read that the place is not even a working ranch anymore: it’s been converted to a guest ranch. They run guided hunts out of it during the season, and host guests and tours. It states that the guest ranch is completely booked for the next two years given the show’s production seasons.
So, Charlie left us to run the ranch, and it’s not even an actual ranch. He supposedly worshipped his family’s legacy so much that he abandoned us for some idea that he never actually upheld. Right on. Wonderful.
I eventually manage a few hours of restless sleep, and call Fletcher’s cell at 8:00 A.M.
“Tait—was just calling you. First off, good morning. Secondly—thank you for being you and for being available to drop everything and take off.”
I try not to read into that and the implication that I’ve got no personal commitments holding me back. Joke’s on him after all, I’ve got my air fryer. Cue sad trombone.
“Oh, um, that’s what I’m calling about… Fletcher, I am so sorry, I completely messed up. I can’t go.”
He laughs, clearly assuming I’m joking.…
“No, Fletcher, really. Listen, I feel there’s a conflict of interest here—somewhere. And I really hope that this information can remain confidential, but”—I blow out a breath that gusts static through the phone—“that ranch is owned by my father. I have spoken to him maybe three times in the last twenty years, Fletcher. This would not be a good situation. It always goes better when people are excited to have me and are welcoming. They would not be welcoming or excited to have me there, and the whole assignment would just be… full of distractions. I’d be wasting your time and Deacon’s money, and this seems like a story Gemma is very excited to develop.” Big inhale. “There’s definitely a lot of great photography there, though, so I know anyone else would jump at this. There’s the landscape, wildlife, multiple houses on the property. There’s a house that one of my uncles lived in with its own dock on a small lake—well, it’s a pond really—but I haven’t seen it in any of the episodes yet…” I ramble until he has to raise his voice over me.
“Logan—Logan. Tait! Listen, Tait… you clearly already have memories and an idea of the place and its surroundings. From what I hear, the owner is rarely even around any of the TV crew. We have an extremely small window of time that this is available to us for access, before shooting for the winter episodes begins. You were specifically requested by one of our highest grossing clients. I already arranged for an entire coinciding article and spread to be done for our travel magazine, and our entertainment magazine for the show, too. I had my assistant book your flight this morning—you’re supposed to leave tomorrow. Why did you agree to this if you couldn’t do it?”
I fess up to how I mishandled the situation.
“Alright…” He sighs, and I can almost hear him gearing up to pitch. “While I understand that this is a—difficult situation, why not try to look at this as an opportunity? Oftentimes when art is emotional, we do our best work—or so I’ve heard, right? It’s a miracle that we were so easily granted access to this place. They’ve had to lock it down like Fort Knox. Also, hey, some of the actors are going to be there while you’re there! You’ll get a chance to meet them! From what I hear, some even stay in the bunkhouse and everything!”
“Fletcher, I just—I really don’t think I can.”
“Tait. You can. And, I’m asking you, please… please don’t make me regret how hard I pushed for you here.” And then, more gently, he adds, “You can have the sales rights on all of the photography for other projects if you’d like, too. Given the journalism aspect along with Gemma’s book, this could be very lucrative for you.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, thinking about the dwindling, dismal state of my bank account. I’m swept by some unnamed force (one that’s actually named “impending poverty”). “Okay… okay, ” I practically shout. “How long will I be there?”
“That’s my girl! We’ve arranged for you to stay there for six weeks.”
“SIX WEEKS?! Wha—Fletcher, the longest assignment I’ve ever been on has been two!”
“Yes, well, I had to give you ample time for the book and make arrangements for both magazines as well. If you do your best work quickly, we could always arrange to bring you home sooner, but it’s going to be four weeks, minimum.”
“O-okay.”
“Great. Isabel is sending you your flight details shortly, and Gemma will be in contact with you about any specific focus she needs, etc. Also, Tait, please squeeze in some fun for the rest of us.” He huffs a satisfied sigh. “Oh! Lastly, if I have something couriered over to you, could you take it with you to get Sadie Dollar to sign it for me?! That girl is a pistol!”
“Umm, sure. Yeah.” Why the hell not.
“Wonderful. Contract and details coming your way.”
Against my better judgment, I am now invested…