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Love The Wine You're With
By Kim Gruenenfelder St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2017 Kim Gruenenfelder
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7463-3
CHAPTER 1
NATASHA (NAT)
9:58 A.M.
Man, I love my job!
Not very many people can go to work every day feeling like this is exactly where they are supposed to be. As a kid growing up in San Diego, I had always dreamed of being a TV writer. And now, at thirty-two, I am the head writer for one of the top-rated game shows of the season. I even won an Emmy last year.
How many people can say they are excited to get out of bed in the morning? On tape days, I don't even hit the snooze button once.
I am standing at the judges' table on the set of the game show Million Dollar Genius! feeling fantastic in my new purple cashmere sweater. (At the beginning of a tape day, most people on the crew wear a sweater or a jacket, because the lights have not heated the place up yet, so the set is beyond freezing. I've been on sets in August watching a two-hundred-pound cameraman shiver in a wool peacoat.) I'm sipping a large vanilla cappuccino made especially for me by the craft services guy (who also made me my favorite bacon-and-cheese burrito earlier; gotta love tape days — Free food!) and am going over a few questions with our host, Cordelia Mumford, a beautiful former CNN reporter who accidentally got into game show hosting, and my producer, Marc Winslow, a handsome Brit who accidentally got into game show producing.
The contestants are still squired away in a soundproof greenroom in back, but we keep our voices low so that the audience can't hear us as we hunch over the table, poring over our scripts.
"Okay, we switched out the six-hundred-thousand-dollar question in this game so that we didn't have Kafka as the answer twice in the same week," I whisper to Cordelia. "Here's the new question." I point to a pink paper square that has been glue-sticked onto her white script, which she silently reads.
"As long as the answer is never Kardashian, I'm a happy camper," Cordelia quietly jokes.
I chuckle, then continue. "And by the way, for the million, it's the South Sea Bubble, not the South Seas Bubble. If they say 'Seas,' we're going to have to rule them wrong."
"Frankly, I think if they know the name of a market bubble from another country three hundred years ago, they deserve a million dollars," Cordelia tells me.
"That's because you're not from England," Marc, who's from London, politely tells her in his perfectly lilting English accent.
"No. That's because I spent my college days getting drunk and under an assortment of frat boys and football players. Far better use of one's time," Cordelia counters playfully.
"Yet here you are, the maven of American trivia," Marc says, rather flirtatiously.
"I know. Life's weird," Cordelia says, lightly folding her script in half and pulling away from our table. "Did I tell you that I got invited to the White House?"
"That's awesome," I say, surprised. "I didn't even know you were a fan of the president."
She leans in to me to cheerfully confide, "I'm so not. Plus, I was in the middle of a transcontinental move that year and couldn't even figure out where my polling place was." Then she walks to the middle of the stage and breaks into a huge smile as she booms to the audience, "Thank you guys so much for coming! We are going to have a great time today! Isn't our warm-up guy Jerry amazing?!"
Marc and I take our seats as judges while the contestant coordinator escorts the first three contestants to the stage. Cordelia walks to her podium, then stands patiently as the makeup artist presses her face with a powder puff and does "last looks," which is exactly what it sounds like — the last look the makeup person gives before Cordelia is ready for the camera.
I forget about work for a second to clear my mind, look around the room, and savor the moment.
There is no better feeling than being on a set right before a show begins. When all of the hard work is done: the writing, the rewriting, the arguing with your nerd staff about whether or not the average American knows the difference between the national debt and the national deficit, or explaining that Jean Patou was a French parfumeuse, not the inventor of pâté à choux pastry.
That moment when you get to just bask in the glow of a happy audience, a crew filled with people who worked their butts off to get to where they are, and that rare feeling of being exactly where you're supposed to be, working on something you'll want to be remembered for at your funeral.
Okay, that last point may be a bit dark. Let's just say rest home. I'll be proud of Million Dollar Genius! at my rest home.
I smile at Marc next to me, and rolling begins. The first assistant director announces to the crew, "And we're on in ...!" He puts up his left hand and fans out his five fingers, "Five!" then ticks back one finger at a time, "four ... three!" and then he goes silent as he folds down his ring finger for two. Then one. Then he points his index finger toward the host.
"Welcome to Million Dollar Genius!" Jerry Winters, our show's announcer, belts out in his smooth baritone voice as Marc slips me a sheet of paper. I open it with a serious look on my face, and read:
You look so bewitching in that sweater. It makes your olive skin glow. It's taking all of my self-control not to slide my hands under it right now. And that red lipstick? I want traces of it smeared all over my body from your kisses.
I try to suppress a smile as I earnestly scribble a note back:
Well, the only way your suit would look better is if it were beside you in a heap on the floor.
I fold the note and pass it back to him. Marc opens it to read. No smile, just a stern note back:
Meet me at the top level, northwest corner of parking lot two at lunch.
Oh, yeah. There might be one downside to my job. Small detail. Hardly worth mentioning, really. I'm kind of, maybe, sleeping with my boss.
CHAPTER 2
HOLLY
8:00 A.M.
I want to quit my job.
Actually, that's not true. I love my job — when I'm actually working. I'm an actress, and there is nothing more fun than being paid to spend the day flying around the set in a harness, or being outfitted by a costume designer in a seven-thousand-dollar sequined dress, or looking across a table at a love-struck George Clooney, who asks you to pass the salt.
But today my job is to get a job. Which sucks. Always, always, always. I wish I could be like that actor who said every audition is an opportunity, however short, to practice your craft. I'm thirty-two years old and have been working for fourteen years. I'm done. I'm ready to (a) start fielding offers or (b) win the lottery and retire.
I start today's round of auditions at six (fucking) A.M., because audition #1 is at eight A.M., but in Santa Monica, a city west of Los Angeles. I live with my roommate, Natasha, in Silverlake, which is a good hour from Santa Monica even in the best of traffic conditions. Add drizzling rain, the usual frazzled commuters, and two lane closures for road work, and one must leave the house two hours early.
As if that weren't bad enough, it's for a commercial for a pharmaceutical where I have to look like a scientist, and where I've been told to "dress the part."
You tell me how not to look like an ass when you show up to a job interview in a white lab coat. (The same lab coat you've worn to at least twelve auditions, and one very weird second date.)
I don't know why the trend lately, but I'm half Asian, half Caucasian, and I seem to be getting audition after audition for "scientist" and "doctor."
Okay, I totally know why the trend. And the stereotype totally pisses me off. Although I suppose one advantage of being in my thirties is I'm now the smart scientist type. Once, in my twenties, a director gave me the most back-handed compliment when he said, "With your straight, black, 'shampoo commercial' hair, and porcelain" — (read: half-white) — "kin, you're like an approachable geisha."
Yeah, as opposed to all of those stand-offish geishas.
Anyway, a little before eight, I make my way to the ad agency, which is on the third floor of a mirrored building that looks like all of the other mirrored buildings in the area. I sign in at the reception area to let them know I'm there and try to pretend that I don't see twelve other Asian women, all dressed in lab coats, silently rehearsing their lines.
The receptionist hands me the sides, which is what we call the pages with the actor's lines on them. On the top of the first page is a word: XKLGGENZS. Judging from the rest of the script, I'm guessing that's the name of the drug they're selling. I resist the urge to ask to buy a vowel.
I sit down on a white pleather sofa and read through the script. The first page is for a younger actress, who will play Sarah, my afflicted patient. What she is afflicted with, the script will not say.
My part, on page 2, starts out innocuously enough:
INT. LAB — DAY
JULIA, a handsome woman, older, approachable, tells us in her authoritative voice ...
JULIA
But now, we women have options.
Then page 3 scares the shit out of me. Because over a shot of four beautiful young women laughing over cocktails (Sarah and her friends), I (the phony doctor) have a voice-over to warn consumers:
JULIA (v.o.)
Side effects include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, decreased libido, stroke, depressed mood, dry mouth, tinnitus, and death. Pregnant women should not take Xklggenzs. If you have thoughts of suicide, please stop using Xklggenzs and consult your doctor immediately.
EXT. BEACH — MORNING
A glowing Sarah runs up to the camera to confide ...
SARAH
It's time for a new start. It's time for Xklggenzs.
I quickly look up tinnitus on my phone: ringing in the ears. Seriously?
"Holly Graham." A curly-haired guy in a navy blue suit calls out, clipboard in hand.
I raise my hand and tell him cheerfully, "That's me." I gather up my things and make my way into the casting room, whispering to him as we walk in, "How do I pronounce ...?"
"x-KEL-ggenzs."
"x-KEL-ggenzs," I repeat.
"No, the second g is silent," he tells me, then raises his voice to announce to a roomful of executives, "This is Holly Graham. She'll be reading for the part of Julia."
I quickly survey the room to see who I'm playing to. In front of the floor-toceiling windows is a super-long table with twelve people seated to face me. Shades of Da Vinci's The Last Supper. In the center of the table, substituting for Jesus, is a video camera. While one of the execs stands up to run the camera, the man farthest to my left (I assume he's the casting director) says to me, "Can you state your name?"
"Holly Graham."
"Great. Now, Holly, can you read the side effects for me as quickly as possible?"
"Sure," I say, giving him a huge I'm-a-team-player smile. "Side effects include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, decreased libido —"
"Let me stop you right there," he says, putting up his palm. "You gotta go faster than that. I'm understanding every word you're saying."
"Absolutely. Thanks for the note," I say cheerfully. Then I begin again, rapidfiring it, "Side effects include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, decreased libido, stroke, depressed mood, dry mouth, tinnitus, and death. Pregnant women should not take Xklggenzs. If you have thoughts of suicide, please stop using Xklggenzs and consult your doctor immediately."
"Oh, my God. You sound sooooo bummed out when you say that," the executive the second from my right tells me. "Can you sound a bit more upbeat?"
As I talk about thoughts of suicide? I think to myself. Then I tell him, "Absolutely," and run through it again.
"Okay, now you're sounding too happy," the one woman executive in the room tells me. "How about something a little more authoritarian?"
This went on for five more read-throughs. If I'm supposed to be grateful to the universe for giving me this free opportunity to pursue my passion, I'd like to remind the universe that my passions also include ice cream and pretty much anything to do with Hawaii, France, or Ryan Gosling.
10:00 A.M.
I want to quit my job.
I should have been a dental hygienist. You never have to audition to clean out people's mouths.
Audition #2 of the day is a callback, meaning I have already auditioned for the casting director, and either she wants to see me again, or I get to audition for the director. After a snail's crawl commute down the 405 freeway to get from Santa Monica to the Valley, I make my way to soundstage three of the CBS Studios lot, where I see a line of stunningly beautiful women waiting patiently. Most of them are wearing shiny neon spandex from the 1980s.
Uh-oh. Before I get in the line, I quickly text my agent, Karen:
Hey — question about the NCI: Boise callback. Why is everyone in spandex?
I wait for Karen to text back.
Didn't I tell you to wear spandex?
No, I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that.
Hold on ...
I wait about fifty feet away from the line of actresses while (I assume) Karen talks to her assistant. My friend Audra (who is also mixed-race Asian and Caucasian, so we frequently end up at the same auditions) spots me.
I put out the palms of my hands and lift my shoulders to mutely signal, What the fuck? She responds by shaking her head, then pretending to hang herself.
I love her.
My phone pings that I have a new text. Karen.
Apparently they want you to look like Jane Fonda.
They want an Asian-looking Jane Fonda? Would that be before or after she was in Hanoi?
Very funny. Why did you put "Hip-Hop Dance" under special skills on your resume?
Because I'm desperate for a job. But Jane Fonda taught aerobics in the 80s, not hip-hop in the 90s.
Pretty sure they don't know that.
Swell. I quickly head to a ladies' room to change into some (circa 2010s, very unshiny) yoga pants, then Google the term "Fly Girls" to get a crash course in hip-hop from the 1990s. The Fly Girls were a group of dancing girls choreographed by Rosie Perez and featured on the show In Living Color. Jennifer Lopez got her start dancing with them. On my phone, I check out a picture of her from that time — she looks nothing like Jennifer Lopez. Welcome to Hollywood.
Twenty minutes later, I clumsily manage the Cabbage Patch and the Running Man, then nearly break my neck while attempting a move with my leg that the choreographer should just call the Broken Clavicle. This is followed up by a dance that should be renamed, Learning to Ski at the Age of Fifty.
Needless to say, I don't think I got the part.
12:00 NOON
If I quit my job to become an Uber driver, would the amount of driving for work actually go down?
Audition #3 is on the Paramount lot in Hollywood, a short enough drive that I have time to hit Arby's, change out of yoga pants and into blue jeans in their ladies' room, then wolf down a large roast beef sandwich, potato cakes, and Diet Coke. All in less than five minutes. On my way out, I drive through for a ham and cheese with Horsey Sauce, silently promising myself to hit the gym before seeing Nat and Jessie tonight.
Twenty minutes later, I am signing in at the next production front office, where I am handed my sides. Normally, sides look like this:
NORMAN
Can we speak to Mr. Huang?
RECEPTIONIST
I'll see if he's in.
Only for this audition, I am given a blank sheet of paper — except for one blue line drawn horizontally across the sheet.
I flip the sheet over, thinking the casting director's assistant must have handed me the sides upside down.
Nope, nothing but white on the other side.
I smile pleasantly at the receptionist. "I'm sorry, you just handed me a blank sheet of paper."
"Oh, did I?" she responds politely, looking over at the paper. Then she shakes her head. "No, that's right. You're Blue."
I can feel my lips scrunching toward my left ear, trying to figure this out, when my name is called. "Holly Graham."
"Here!" I pipe up nervously, then follow a puffy middle-aged woman with fried bleached blonde hair and long acrylic nails into a room where three men in suits sit at a table across from me.
"Okay, Holly is coming in as Blue," Bleachie announces to the men before taking her seat at the side of the table.
They all wait for me expectantly.
I stand in the middle of the room and stare back at them.
The man in the center seat of the table beams a cheerful smile at me. "Whenever you're ready. Just have fun with it."
"Okay," I say awkwardly, trying to study the blue line.
Crap.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Love The Wine You're With by Kim Gruenenfelder. Copyright © 2017 Kim Gruenenfelder. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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