I can’t help but smirk at the chaotic energy.
I guess Ididmiss this a little bit.
I’m in a good mood today—mostly because the per diem finally made its way into my bank account last night. Kyla was so excited when I transferred the money that she immediately called me just to shout, “NO MORE GIRL DINNER!” and then promptly hung up.
I spot Glen speaking in hushed tones to a tall, willowy woman in jean shorts and a white T-shirt. A walkie-talkie is strapped to her hip, and her sleek black hair is pulled back in a high ponytail. While Glen looks fairly calm, the clipboard clutched tightly to the woman’s chest looks like it may snap in half at any moment, and her brows are knit together in clear frustration.
“No, it’s too late,” she argues. A few heads turn toward her raised voice, and Glen rests his hand on her arm, his eyes nervously zigzagging around the room as his facade of control cracks.
“I hear you, Demi. We can make this work, I?—”
“Just find a way to fix it.”
I make a mental note to steer clear of this particular woman, for a few days at least. I don’t think I recognize her, but she’s too far away to tell for sure.
Glen opens his mouth to respond, but she holds up her palm to cut him off, then stalks away without another word.
I imagine her cracking a “Talk to the hand!” and chuckle to myself before approaching Glen with a reassuring smile. His shoulders sag with relief as soon as he spots me.
“Oh, thankGodyou’re here. I can’t stand these people.” Glen rubs at his temples as his dark brown eyes flit around the room, taking in the chaos around him. He’s far shorter than I am, his features soft and round. When he’s smiling, he’s warm and approachable. But when he isn’t? He can be a little scary. Glen has perfected the discerning producer sneer—a look that screamsI am judging you.Which is exactly what hisface is saying as he eyes a clumsy PA across the lobby who has dropped the same camera case a few times now.
I’ve known Glen since my early career days—he was the first colleague I made friends with outside of work. I was a production assistant, and he was a producer. Having graduated from the same film school only a few years apart, we bonded quickly and became fast friends. While we eventually drifted a bit, we still chatted fairly regularly over social media and met up for the occasional double date. He’d bring some boyfriend who would probably only last a few months, and I’d arrive towing whatever jerk I was dating at the time—and there had been a lot of them. So, I know him well enough to recognize that when Glen’s stressed, it’s usually for a good reason.
“I have one PA who’s already lost their passport, a sound guy who has no voice—so he’ll probably be out sick within two days—and Demi is getting on my last nerve,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
“Demi?” I ask, trying to remember if I’ve met her before. I don’t think I have, but her name rings a bell.
“Demetria Sidirakis. She’s a new producer and comes highly recommended. But she hasn’t exactly made my life easier.”
I don’t envy him. As an executive producer, he’s basically spinning plates. The crew reports to him for the most part, unless there’s another executive producer on-site, or if the director decides to take an interest in managing people (which they usually don’t). But even then, Glen tends to give the orders since he’s been at this so long.
“What was she chewing you out for?”
“She has a difficult contestant this season. The girl won’t stay in her room, she’s refusing to give up her phone, and apparently she’s already made two production assistants cry.”
“And this is why I don’t produce,” I say with a grin. Glen frowns sullenly, harsh lines bracketing his mouth. “Why not just send her home?”
“Too late for us to get someone else in, and…well, my instinct says she’s going to be really good TV.” He scratches at his stubble thoughtfully. “Her preshow interviews have been laugh-out-loud funny and I can already imagine the kind of one-liners we’ll get out of her. I think we’re going to see if we can get a villain arc going.”
I raise a brow at that. It always surprises me just how much story planning and character development go on behind the scenes of reality TV. Even on the fishing shows I’ve shot forNational Geographic, or the seriesSpace Rules,in which a NASA scientist follows people with cool space jobs—none of it is truly real.I mean, sure, what they’re doinggenerallyis. But the situation itself is most likely manufactured by a producer or director, laying the groundwork for a narrative that everyone can follow.
For example, watching an engineer try to fasten a bolt on something in real time for forty-five minutes won’t be especially interesting…unless it’s an explosive bolt for the launch pad of the space shuttle, and it must break exactly on cue or else a rocket might fail to launch.
Stories are all about stakes, and real life is actually pretty boring most of the time. So, at the end of the day, whether there’s a script or not, everything on TV is fake to some extent.
“Well, at least you know you’ll have someone keeping things interesting on screen,” I offer.
Glen hums in agreement, but his lips are pursed, his eyes still sharply tracking the lobby commotion.
“I don’t know why I still do this to myself,” he sighs. “I think next year might be the year Iactuallylook for a desk job.”
“You could never sit at a desk. You love this too much.” I laugh, teasingly nudging his elbow with mine. Our eyes meet, and his scowl turns into a devilish smile.
“God, I really do. The drama istoogood…I just hate all the hand-holding. Sometimes I swear it’s like I’m running a daycare.”
“That feels accurate.”
He flashes me another grin, then turns his attention back to the lobby.
