Authors: J.J. Murray
Aaron stood on the diving board, took two giant steps, bounced, and flew into a front flip. Not bad. Other Crew members lined up at the diving board. Oh, now it’s a diving contest. Can they see me? Probably not. I’d have to be out on that little balcony. She stood away from the window just in case.
A knock on the door. “Jazz, it’s Larry.”
Sonya opened the door, and Bob Freeberg—all five feet of him—walked in ahead of Larry.
“Sonya, I mean, Jazz,” Larry said, “I’d like you to meet the executive producer, Bob Freeberg.”
He’s just a kid! I have shoes older than his freckles! “Hi, Bob. Did Larry let you know my demands?” They weren’t kidding about the half-dollars. But no socks? Yuck. And the crease in his chinos could cut steel.
“Yes,” Bob said. “Your sister is on her way.”
All right!
“And it will save us about thirty thousand dollars,” Bob said, sitting on the edge of Sonya’s bed.
Get off my bed! “Do you mind?” Sonya stared at the bed.
“Oh.” Bob stood. “Um, will you at least wear the wig? We got some nice play on the online blogs about your hair last night.”
“No wig.”
“Okay.” Bob smiled. “No wig, then.” He turned to Larry.
“We’ll have to adjust lighting and try not to do as many close-ups to, um, hide her age.”
Jerk. “Fine.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Bob asked.
I don’t like his fake tone one bit. I know Bob is setting me up for something. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch?” Bob looked at Larry. “There’s no catch.”
There’s always a catch. “What do I have to do, then?”
“Just be you, Jazz,” Bob said. “Just be you.”
Oh really? “So I can be forty again?”
Bob looked away. “Except for that.”
“And what else?” Sonya asked.
“The religion thing,” Bob said.
I haven’t even been religious on camera, have I? “I haven’t been.”
Bob bit his top lip. “We, um, filmed you and Arthur in the great room last night.”
Where I was a bit religious … and had a foot rub. Hmm. Yep. They’d put that on the air to make me look like a hypocrite. Sonya sighed. “You’re going to run that, um, footage.”
Bob laughed.
I wasn’t trying to be funny, Bob.
“No. That won’t make the air.” Bob’s eyes narrowed. “So you’ll be less religious from now on?”
Ah. If I agree to this, they won’t show the foot rub. If I don’t agree, they’ll try to embarrass me. They’ve given me no other choice. “If I can’t be, as you say, religious, then I can’t be me, Bob.”
“Can you just … imagine it’s not Sunday?” Bob asked.
Which shows how much Bob knows about real Christians. “Every day is a gift from the Lord, Bob. I don’t just act Christian on Sundays.”
“What about this morning?” Bob asked. “You and, um, John on the couch. How religious was that little interlude?”
“My feet hurt and he rubbed them,” Sonya said. “Jesus washed folks’ feet.”
Bob blinked. “But the Crew has already seen the two of you in action. We showed them the, uh, footage this morning.”
They’ve seen … Hmm. “And how did they react?”
“How do you think they reacted?” Bob asked.
“That’s why I’m asking you, Bob,” Sonya said. “I wasn’t there, was I?”
Bob shrugged. “The Crew didn’t like it one bit.”
Sonya looked at Larry, who shook his head slightly. Bob is lying. “Okay, so they didn’t like it. They’ll get over it.”
“They feel betrayed,” Bob said.
Again Larry shook his head.
So this is how they “script” controversy. Well, I’m not going to be a part of it. She went to a drawer and took out her bathing suit. “I’m going swimming, Bob. Will there be anything else?”
Bob blinked. “Don’t you … feel that you have betrayed them?”
“Bob, my feet hurt. John rubbed and made them feel better. The end.”
“You sure looked cozy with John,” Bob said.
“It was cozy,” Sonya said. “And?”
Bob looked at Larry. “Um, well.”
So that’s the key to shutting up Bob. Just agree with him.
“Okay,” Bob said. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
Let’s see … “One of the challenges has to be at a soup kitchen.”
“What?” Bob said, his voice rising. “A challenge at a soup kitchen?”
“You put it in my fake bio that I volunteer at soup kitchens, and that was the only thing close to the truth in that bio,” Sonya said. “I do volunteer my time at the Salvation Army and at local shelters. I’ve done four missions trips to Haiti. I was in New Orleans after Katrina. The soup kitchen has to be part of one of the challenges.”
“It would be easy to set up,” Larry said. “I know a few—”
“Just who do you think you are, Miss Richardson?” Bob interrupted. “You don’t dictate how this show will go. Who does she think she is, Larry?”
Sonya towered over Bob. “I am a Nubian princess worthy of your utmost respect, and don’t you ever forget it.” She went into the bathroom and closed the door.
“I am paying you a lot of money!” Bob yelled.
Sonya opened the door. “I don’t need your money, Bob. I have a Roth IRA, a healthy investment portfolio, my house and car are paid for, and I am already comfortably retired.” She closed the door.
“Bob, I did a documentary once down in Skid Row at the Hippie Kitchen,” Larry said. “It won’t be hard to set up at all.”
“No, Larry! What an absolute cluster-f—”
Sonya opened the door. “And don’t you be cursing up in my room, Mr. Freeberg. I won’t have it.” She closed the door and put on her swimsuit.
“Next time, Larry,” Bob said, “get me an atheist.”
Sonya laughed. “I’ll pray for you, Bob!” she shouted.
She heard a door slam.
“Sonya?”
Larry didn’t leave? “Yes?”
“Bravo.”
She looked at herself in the mirror. Thank you, thank you very much.
Sonya sat on the edge of the pool in the shallow end, her feet dangling in the water, a towel around her shoulders, while the Crew swam around in the deep end.
They’re the sharks circling down there, Sonya thought, and I’m the little guppy who can’t swim way down here.
John swam over and whispered, “I think we’re safe. I haven’t found any microphones around the pool. Sleep well?”
“Yes, and I think we better keep whispering, just in case.” She leaned closer. “I didn’t know they were filming us last night.”
John smiled. “No harm, though.” He grabbed her foot and squeezed. “All better?”
“Yes,” she whispered. And please squeeze it again! “Is the Crew really angry with me?”
“Only Aaron.” He looked at the diving board, where Aaron was doing half twists and flips. “He doesn’t like me very much.”
Because you’re now a threat! “Um, Arthur,” she whispered, “do you think you could teach me how to swim?”
“Sure. C’mon in.”
In front of everybody? “Oh, not now. I, um, I’ll need a private lesson.” And that sounded extremely naughty. “I can’t swim. At all. I never learned how.”
John nodded. “Four AM again?”
“Why so early?”
“I’m on Alabama time, and you’re on …”
He’s fishing in a pool for my hometown. “North Carolina time,” Sonya whispered.
“I thought I heard a little Southern belle in you. It’s mixed with something … northern. I like the mixture.”
Sonya smiled.
“Don’t be late,” John said. “The water won’t be this warm at four AM.”
“I won’t be late.” I’m going to learn how to swim! Who said you can’t teach an old lady new tricks?
John backstroked away.
“How you doin’, Ma?”
Sonya felt Aaron’s shadow before she saw him. Be nice. She looked behind her to see him toweling off. “Good afternoon, Aaron.” Hungover? Sweating out that turpentine?
“Why don’t you get in the pool?” Aaron said. “The water’s great.”
“I’m fine.”
Aaron sat beside her, his towel on his shoulders, his leg nudging hers. “You lookin’ good, Ma.”
This “Ma” noise has to stop now. “I prefer that you call me by my name.”
“All right,” Aaron said. “You lookin’ good, Jazz.”
Do I take this compliment? I guess I should. “Thank you. So, did you ever get the chance to play in the NBA?”
“You heard about me?”
The tattoo on his bicep is a naked black mermaid with triple E’s. How quaint. Why do men put this pornography on themselves? And why do some women consider these pornographic tattoos attractive? “I read your bio, Aaron.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“So, did you ever make it to the show?”
“I went to a few tryout camps after college,” Aaron said. “Led LaSalle in scoring for three years. Fourth all-time leading scorer. Honorable mention All-American my senior year.”
“Impressive.”
“I had tryouts with the Clippers, Hornets, and Bucks,” Aaron said.
“Yeah?” That’s more impressive, even if those teams aren’t annual contenders.
“But I had an old knee injury from high school.” He pointed to a sizable but faded scar on his knee. “Tore the MCL and the ACL. They didn’t want to take the chance on me even though I proved I could play four years in college. The City Six in Philly was no joke, and neither was the Atlantic Ten.”
Yeah, Philly has some great teams, and A-10 teams always gave us fits in the NCAA tournament.
“I played in the NBA Developmental League for a few seasons until the team folded,” Aaron said. “Led that team in scoring every year, too.”
I guess it isn’t really bragging if it’s true. “Was it always your dream to play in the NBA?”
“Yeah. Ever since I was a little kid growing up on the mean streets of Philly.”
Philly? He isn’t from Philly. He has no Philly accent. I played ball with a girl from Philly, and instead of saying she was reading some poems by Walt Whitman, she said, “I’m reading Wall Women.” Aaron’s from somewhere much farther west. Wait. His bio says he’s from Houston. Geez. Why would he lie about something I could check?
“You, um, you still have that dream?” Sonya asked.
Aaron smiled. “You’re the only dream I see now.”
That was actually sweet. But you ain’t from Philly. And what’s that black thing on his towel? Is that a bug? No. It’s not moving. “You have something on your towel.”
Aaron glanced at it. “It’s just the microphone.”
“The what?”
He pointed at something on her towel. “You have one, too. All the towels have them. State of the art, huh? They’re even waterproof.”
Which means … Bob and Larry know about my little rendezvous tonight with John. Terrific. Unless the water noises drowned us out.
“They say,” Aaron said, rubbing his shoulder on hers, “these little mikes can pick up ants farting.”
Nice image, Aaron. And, yep. Bob and Larry heard. Should I still go? Yeah. This is my show, right? “Um, Aaron, you just said that I was a dream.”
“You are.”
She looked around. “Where are the cameras?”
“Everywhere, I guess.” He pointed to a spot in a palm tree. “Think that one’s a fisheye. Takes in the whole pool area. Every room has them here and there. There’s one right over the kitchen table so the world can see us pigging out.”
“What about the cameras they follow us around with?”
“They only use the hand-held ones for live stuff,” Aaron said.
I am such a fool! I read it in the contract! I am being filmed twenty-four-seven wherever I go. “Well, take it off.”
“Take it off? Ooh, Mama.”
“No, Aaron.” She plucked the little microphones from his towel and her towel and threw them into the water.
“Why’d you do that?” Aaron asked.
“So we can really talk, Aaron,” Sonya said. “Now what were you saying about me being a dream?”
“Huh?”
“You called me a dream.”
Aaron looked around. “Yeah. So?”
Just as I suspected. “So you only said I was a dream because you knew you were being recorded.”
“Well, isn’t that the point of the show?” Aaron asked, breaking into a broad smile.
“You really want to get to know me?”
Aaron hesitated. “Of course I do, Jazz.”
Yeah, right. You just want to win the game. “Then don’t come around me only to act interested.” And that gives me a great idea. She stood. “Everybody. Throw your towels into the pool.”
“She can’t do that! Is she out of her mind? Larry, why is she changing everything?”
“She wants a real experience.”
“What?”
“She doesn’t want to be treated like a princess.”
“Every woman wants to be treated like a princess, Larry. It’s in a woman’s genes.”
“I don’t think Jazz does. She wants to be treated like a normal person. She wants to be treated with respect. She wants to have real conversations with the Crew.”
“You can’t have real conversations on a reality show, Larry. You know that.”
“Bob, you know the camera does strange things to people, and Aaron is the worst. He only talks to Jazz and uses those obviously rehearsed lines when he’s on camera. Arthur mostly talks to her when he thinks he’s not on camera. You see the difference?”
“But those mikes are the best! They cost a fortune!”
“We’ve already miked every palm tree, light fixture, chair, table, couch, and ceiling in the house. I don’t know why we needed so many. And didn’t we just save thirty thousand dollars?”
“Yeah, I better call Casa Malibu.”
“You mean you haven’t called Jazz’s sister yet?”
“I was just bluffing, Larry. Who’s running the show here, her or me?”
“Well, you had better call her now.”
“It’s just down the highway, Larry. Relax. Everything’s under control.”
“I’ll call her for you.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You know, Bob, by ditching all the towel mikes, the Crew might begin to act natural around the pool.”
“I don’t want natural, Larry. Natural is boring. Natural has no glamour. Natural is for real life. This is TV. I want come-ons. I want to hear those lines, rehearsed or not. I want those men to show some real game.”
“Bob, this could be the first reality TV show to be really real. Think of the possibilities.”
“Look at the scene, Larry. Nothing is happening.”
“They’re swimming in the pool. They’re talking. They’re flirting. So what if it isn’t in your face. I think it’s charming.”