Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (9 page)

I’m fairly certain I’ll lose a few readers after this,
but what is a memoir without a generous helping of honesty that’s bound to make
people sick? Nothing, I tell you.

Before a strange period in my life I’d rather not address where
I worked for the Church of Jesus Christ, I found myself unemployed under the sunniest
of circumstances. Finally getting fired by BMW Complex, I took six months off to
read books and travel and mostly do nothing with my 23-year-old existence, while
those lovely unemployment checks came in the mail every two weeks. (Fuck yeah, America!)

Staying true to my hobo lifestyle at the time, I decided office work
was a ridicule I didn’t want any part of, so instead, I looked for various methods
of obtaining cash through the beast that is craigslist.com. My multiple sources
of income mostly stemmed from amateur work as a “promotional model,” which is a
sweet and false terminology used for a girl who stands at conventions selling dentures
or handing out pens with the words
Prozac
or
Cialis
on them. Sometimes,
other odd gigs would pop up as I searched, and even though some were scams, others
were legitimate work offers that paid in cash, like serving wine at a wedding or
handing out gum at the mall.

One of these jobs particularly stands out in my memory as the weirdest
thing I’ve ever done for money. The ad on craigslist read like this:

FAST TYPIST NEEDED FOR TELEVISION GIG

When I called, a chirpy girl I could only imagine to be named
Heather answered and asked me three simple questions:

Heather: How fast do you type? How old are you? And does pornography
make you uncomfortable?

Me: 88 words per minute, 23, and nope, not really. *shrugging
on the other end of the line*

Heather: Alright. This gig lasts a week and we pay in cash.
Twenty bucks an hour.

Me: Awesome.

Heather: Great! You’ll have to sign a disclaimer when you arrive.

With that, she gave me the address and hung up. Two days later,
I was ready to tackle my first time working as a reality show typist.

I made it to the run-down warehouse 10 minutes early and the sign
on the door that read, “
All Actors For Stretch Come Inside”
confirmed I was
at the right location. I figured 12 crack heads were lurking in the back and mentally
kicked myself for not telling my mom I had taken up this “job,” as I was certain
I’d possibly joined a prostitution ring whose most coveted product was slightly
chubby girls with unusually fast hands. As soon as I stepped in, Heather ushered
me to a small office with a desk, two lawn chairs, and a creepy-looking orange cat
just hanging out in a corner. She pulled out the “disclaimer” and gave me the job
description.

“This week, we are interviewing all potential actors for a reality
TV show by
Screw Me Enterprises
(fictitious name, obviously). This will sort
of be like
The Real World
, but with actual televised sex. Are you okay with
that?” she asked.

“How much did you say this paid?” I replied shyly.

“Twenty dollars per hour for eight-hour days, catered lunch included.”

She had me at lunch.

For the next seven days, I typed my ass off in a room that consisted
of a computer, flat screen television mounted on a wall, one desk, and two chairs
(cat not included). The images from the interviews that were taking place in the
room next to me would play on the screen, and all I had to do was type the questions
asked by the panel of judges, along with their respective answers and contestant
descriptions.

So basically, if a guy looked like this:

I’d have to type this: Roided up Caucasian guy with scary fucking
tattoo on forehead and missing front teeth that likes elbows and sucking toes.

It isn’t an exaggeration when I say this is a rundown of all the interviews
I witnessed:

When my gig was over, I was fully convinced that porn is made
up of two types of people: savvy television producers and incredibly naïve girls/sex-starved
losers with dreams of becoming the next Holly Madison/Ron Jeremy.

I wish I could say it all ended with this traumatic experience
and my inability to think of sex for almost eight months, but after I received my
check for $1,100, Heather called me back. She asked if I wanted to come in for another
three days until the permanent typist returned from vacation and upped my pay another
$2.00 per hour.

“Sure,” I agreed.

Big mistake.

My job once again was to take record of everything that took
place in front of the cameras, but instead of interviews, it was sexual situations
at the site. The only difference between these people and real porn stars is that
they’d do anything to impress the producers, so each contestant made it their mission
to upstage each other in amateur kinkiness. I can hardly explain the sorts of nasty
shit that went down in those days, most which I’m sure didn’t make it on the show.
Imagine
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
but without clothes and then men
of all shapes and sizes humping them while the camera is rolling and the director’s
yelling, “No, lick her ass from
that
angle so the camera can catch it.”

The lunch buffet for the crew was spread in the most beautiful
manner each day at the back of the mansion. Even though I wanted to eat all the
succulent delicacies as badly as I wanted a threesome with Ricky Martin before he
was gay and Channing Tatum, I was afraid I’d end up eating a chicken breast doused
in pube gravy, seeing most of the “actors” had no qualms about piling their plates
while prancing around Adam-and-Eve style. On my last day, I forgot my wallet at
home and my stomach was growling so hard one of the producers looked at me and said,
“I think someone’s hungry, come.” With a grin across his portent face he grabbed
my hand and led me to the back of the line, where five naked strangers already stood
waiting to serve themselves. I surveyed the buffet nervously while tugging on my
skirt, finally picking a sealed chocolate pudding and a banana. An actor named Chukk
with a double K stood next to me and asked, “Is dat all you finna eat?”

“Yeah,” I looked up at him all nonchalant-like. “I’m not really that
hungry today.”