Rugged(4)

Hook. Reel. The bad jokes write themselves.

I’d told him I thought he had potential. Granted his ideas weren’t really great, but with some punching up from yours truly, they got better. Mostly, I’d been responsible for taking all the boobs out of his pitches. Tyler had been floored by my ideas. So much so that he came home with me that first night we had drinks, and nearly every night for the next sixteen months afterward.

It had been fun, talking in bed post coitus, discussing our ideas, sharing our hopes and dreams. It’d felt like a partnership. And did I mention he was hot? Like men’s Mach3 Turbo Razor ad on a billboard on Hollywood Boulevard hot. Like Nordic Track infomercial hot. Sriracha hot. If I’m honest, a lifetime of being the mousy brunette had sort of set me up with a Tyler-shaped hole in my self-esteem, just waiting to be exploited. Live and learn. I guess the next guy I date will have to be in his forties, balding, and with a heart of literal gold. Maybe that will teach me. Then again, maybe not.

“What about the secret, sexy lives of Renaissance festival employees?” he’d said one night. “Like, girls in those low-cut Ren Fair gowns? Wouldn’t that sell?”

“Those aren’t really period appropriate,” I’d replied gently. “Although you could do something like The Bachelor, but have it in period costume. You know? Women have to vie to win the heart of an actual prince, and learn how to survive 16th century court life. So it’s sexy, sure, but also competitive and interesting.”

“Huh,” he’d said. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

Then, one day Tyler went in for a big pitch meeting without telling me. He used my Bachelor at the Court idea, charmed the right executives, and now is riding high with his long-coveted producer job. And me? When I told him how angry I was, he only winked and said, “I’ll make you my personal assistant. How’s that sound?” He’d tried to kiss me, and I’d stomped on the inside of his foot.

Our relationship deteriorated pretty quickly after that. My resentment seemed to grow in direct relation to his mushroom-clouding ego, both of which were now totally unbearable. His shiny new producer status rotted him from the inside out, and I watched it happen before my very eyes. I finally gave him the “it’s not working” speech a few months ago—and his response was a hearty laugh in my face. Apparently he’d never considered our relationship ‘official’ to begin with.

You might say I’m still dealing with the breakup.

You might also say that if I did half the things to Tyler that I fantasized about on a daily basis, I’d be in jail serving a life term, or five. But what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, right? And as far as I’m concerned, the best revenge is runaway success.

Which means it’s my God-given duty to kick this douchebag’s ass at work.

“So. Tell me some of your brilliant ideas,” Suze says, waving for another margarita. I down the rest of my whiskey. Always polite to keep up.

“Um. Zero gravity romance? Love and science aboard the international space station?” Why does my head hurt?

“You’re not trying,” Suze says. She leans forward, a concerned look on her face. “Listen, I can see about getting you hired on Love Lorne in Melbourne, if you want.”

She doesn’t believe I can do it. “I’m trying! I am! It just feels like Tyler sucked all the good out of me.” Which is pretty much all he was good at sucking…heh. Okay, I probably shouldn’t have another drink. “I’m going to lose this, aren’t I?” I want to curl up into a ball and let the world go by without me. I hate this despairing feeling. That’s not who I am. Am I really going to let Tyler the jackwad win again? Do I want to admit defeat? Never.

“Think about what inspires you,” Suze says, giving me her best comforting smile. “What makes you unable to turn away from the screen?”

I groan. “That’s just it. Tyler’s what Reel World wants. It’s all about big boobs and low IQs. How am I supposed to compete with that?” I have this gross, nauseous feeling. Though a lot of that may be because of the whiskey. “Screw it!” I slam my fist on the table. “I won’t let him win. I’ll chase him ‘round the moons of Nibia before I give this pitch up,” I say, completely bastardizing Wrath of Khan. I get to my feet, stumble a little, and grab my phone to call for Uber.

“Where are you going?” Suze asks, looking alarmed.

“I’m going back to the office. There’s gold in them thar old casting submission tapes, and I’m going to find a nugget if it kills me.” So saying, I stride purposefully out of the bar, then come back a minute later to get my purse off the chair. I only forgot it for a second, dammit.



“Why did I think this was a good idea?” I mutter, chin in my hand as I click through digital file after digital file. Oh, right, whiskey can make anything look golden. A couple of hours and a cup of coffee later, and suddenly common sense bows back into the picture. I keep watching the auditions, shaking my head in disbelief. Can just anyone send us a tape? Some of these are normal, young women sitting and talking to the camera about their sordid love lives. Others are just peculiar.

One video starts with a man in bib overalls, a straw hat, and nothing else. He grins at the camera. “My name’s Ignatius Butterstock, the king of the Pig Mambo.” I watch as he gets his three prize hogs out, turns on the soundtrack to The Mambo Kings, and starts dancing with the first pig. It looks as confused as I feel. Skip.