Chapter 4 New York, New York
New York, New York
AJ Graves sat in a padded editing bay at HGTV’s Midtown offices waiting for an audio clip to load into Avid Media Composer.
Her boss, Ian Farnum, clicked a pen over her shoulder.
“Not helping,” said AJ.
“Sorry,” said Ian. “We’ve just got no story.”
“Patience,” said AJ.
AJ had once heard Ian describe himself as a thirtysomething potato in glasses, which…fine. He was bald and pasty. But AJ would have added that he was a top executive producer by day and a crack comedian by night. Then again, she had Ian to thank for basically everything in her life.
They’d met her sophomore year at NYU during a networking event for the Film and Television department.
AJ had settled on a writing concentration, aiming to apply all she had learned from her classes and that summer to TV scripts.
Ian worked in unscripted television but was a kindred spirit, and with no connections in the business, AJ had readily agreed to intern for him on House Hunters.
She had been working in reality TV ever since.
After graduation, Ian hired her full-time as an associate story producer on Turn It or Return It, the compulsively watchable feel-good show that pitted hapless house flippers against conservationists hoping to reclaim the underlying land for Mother Earth.
Which was how they had arrived here.
Even feel-good shows needed some drama, or story. The problem was this couple—Jim and Malinda. They were too nice. Nothing had ruined their reno. They were going to pull it off.
It was terrible.
“If only they’d brought the mother-in-law on the walk-through,” Ian whined.
“Patience,” AJ repeated as the audio clip finally appeared in her timeline.
She hit play.
“They don’t show it, of course, but a mother always knows.” The mother-in-law’s voice crackled over the speaker. “The truth is, they’ve been going through in vitro, and their bills are through the roof. Even the slightest issue with this house will completely bankrupt them.”
Suddenly, every corner of the pretty house on AJ’s screen exuded menace. Tada: story.
“How did you—”
“One of the field producers had it on her phone,” said AJ, rotating her chair to face him. “I figure we can really make it sing with some shots of that creepy carpet in the garage.”
Ian grinned. “NautiGurl, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
AJ laughed and turned back to save her changes. She had told Ian, a fellow Nautical, about her Astronauticals fanfic years ago—he only called her NautiGurl as the highest praise.
“Come on,” said Ian, standing. “The Frying Dutchman is downstairs, I’m buying.”
AJ jumped up—her favorite food truck.
As they walked toward the elevator, Ian said, “I heard the WGA is about to strike.”
AJ rolled her eyes. “They’re always saying that.”
Those who worked for reality programs, such as AJ and Ian, were exempt from union strikes. Because they weren’t part of a union. Because the industry didn’t consider story craft “writing.”
Ian shrugged. “Will you picket in solidarity?”
What went unsaid was that most in reality TV would give their left eyeball to get a shot at a real writers’ room. This included AJ, and, AJ suspected, Ian as well.
She shrugged. “I’m just glad to have a job.”
Outside of work, AJ’s entire world revolved around the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, the grungy enchanted oasis for aspiring comedians founded by Amy Poehler’s improv quartet of the same name.
Though housed in a dismal basement in Chelsea, UCB had massive cachet—those on house teams, like AJ, had a shot at making shows like 30 Rock, The Office, and SNL.
From AJ’s spot on the back wall of the black box, she had a clear view of the stage, a central floor surrounded by risers on three sides. As her Maude teammates stepped out to perform her latest sketch, she inhaled the scent of beer and Axe body spray and felt a wave of nausea.
God, she loved sketch writing, but AJ always dreaded her shows—even if the material landed in rehearsal, it could still crash and burn live.
It never got easier, standing at the back of the house, waiting to see which jokes would fizzle, which actors would flub their lines, or disregard them entirely.
It mostly came down to Dave Marans, one of AJ’s roommates and her good friend. Dave had always reminded her of Mike—same slight build and dark coloring, same intense nerdiness—but while Mike now lived for his large D they belonged to the same world and understood one another’s ambitions.
It was a collegial kind of closeness, which suited AJ.
After that summer, she felt safer keeping other people at arm’s length.
Toni served the next joke, and the crowd ate it up. AJ let out a short breath of relief.
“You know, there is a way to ensure your lines are said the way you want,” said Ian, his eyes still on Toni. “And that’s to say them yourself.”
“Thank you, wise one,” said AJ.
AJ had known Ian so long that he had actually seen her perform, albeit drunkenly, with her NYU comedy troupe. That was why he had first encouraged her to get involved at UCB.
But after that first sketch-writing class, AJ never looked back.
Okay, she’d occasionally fantasize about being onstage.
But Toni was the actor, Dave the improviser, and AJ the writer.
They never competed—a rarity in New York comedy, which was as cutthroat as it was thrilling.
And while AJ knew she could count on her friends, she saw no point in stressing their ecosystem.
She felt someone’s eyes, and looked up to see her sometimes-hookup “U up?” Jeff approaching along the back wall.
“Hey,” he whispered, passing AJ. “You’re killing it right now.”
“Thanks,” said AJ, smiling quickly, then looking back at the stage.
AJ’s love life was best described as “play on demand.” As someone who worked full-time, spent her nights in a comedy basement, and churned out, minimum, one sketch a week, her baseline level of arousal was tired, and she rarely “met” anyone, which did not concern her.
Yes, her brother Patrick’s wife was pregnant, and her sister Libby was engaged to a lawyer. But in the past year, AJ had written two viral sketches, a spec pilot, and most of an SNL submission packet. The jump to scripted television was in her sights.
And if she got horny, there was always Jeff.
Who, incidentally, was correct: this sketch was on fire. The lines were crisp and good and crackling, and the audience was loving it, right through the final Silly String inferno.
As the lights came up, AJ thought, It’s over and it didn’t bomb.
“Nice one,” said Ian, giving her five. “And here come the other two musketeers,” he added, as Dave and Toni rushed up the aisle.
“Was that not the most faithful delivery you’ve ever heard?” said Dave, clapping AJ’s shoulder.
“Yeah, under threat of fire hose,” said Toni, winking at AJ. “No worries, Age. I got your back.”
AJ grinned at her friends—they all did.
The next day, the WGA went on strike and Ian mysteriously left work at noon. Around nine that night, he texted AJ and Dave telling them to get to the theater by eleven p.m. for a “surprise.”
“You have no idea what it is?” asked Dave as they stepped onto the Lorimer L platform.
AJ shook her head.
As the train pulled in, Dave watched his reflection, adjusting his new glasses.
He telegraphed “nice” enough to play an IT nerd in a string of Best Buy commercials, but Dave got around.
AJ was one of the few who got to see him turn off.
Under all his charms, Dave felt deeply and was intensely private.
He and AJ didn’t confide in each other so much as commune together, which made them excellent roommates.
“Those frames make you look like late-stage-capitalist Harry Potter,” AJ teased him.
“And you look like a house elf on liberation day,” said Dave, eyeing her oversize white T-shirt and holey jeans. AJ laughed and they boarded the train.