Trying Texas

One I must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve this kind of punishment. Really terrible. Like clubbed baby seals and knocked down old ladies in the street terrible. As I stared out the front window at the long, never-ending stretch of highway, I had to fight the overwhelming urge to fling myself out of the moving SUV. The gray strip of blacktop seemed to go on into infinity. Pure, unabashed nothingness. Isolation surrounded by dust, cows, and— “Was that a tumbleweed?” I demanded. Eddie stared straight ahead, eyes on the road like a hypnotized zombie. “Uh-huh.” Had we really been in New York just this morning? It didn’t seem possible. My six a.m. caffeine injection and everything bagel with shmear from the deli around the corner from my apartment felt like a lifetime ago. Twelve lifetimes. As a native Manhattanite, Los Angeles was normally as uncivilized as I was willing to get—and that was only for the few short years of film school because my undergrad advisor thought I should “broaden my experience base” before entering the industry. But even though New York was half-a-continent closer at the moment than when I had been in California, I’d never felt farther away. I had no idea how much nothingness actually filled the country between the two coasts. I’d never been one of those snotty New Yorkers who considered everything between us and L.A. to be nothing more than a flyover state, but I was starting to think maybe they were right. Did people actually live here? Dallas hadn’t scared me. It was a big city, after all, with shopping and culture and every amenity a die-hard city girl could want. There had been skyscrapers and traffic noise. Grit, pollution, and panderers at busy intersections. A drugstore with ample supply of my more-necessary-than-ever heartburn medicine. Sure, the attendant at the car rental desk had a thick accent and said y’all a lot—a lot—but that was almost charming. I’d actually thought to myself, Maybe Texas won’t be so bad after all. But this? This was a different world—a different universe. A couple hundred miles west from one of the busiest airports in the world in one of the largest metro areas in the country, and I might as well have been on the moon. Was this even the same planet? “How long since you had signal?” Eddie asked. I glanced down at my phone, clutched desperately in my fist. “Half an hour,” I replied. “At least.” Since leaving Fort Worth city limits I’d seen more cows than cars and more abandoned tractors than cell towers. Four hours in the car and I hadn’t seen a fast food place in the last two. I was starting to forget what drive-thru coffee looked like. This was literally the middle of nowhere. Eddie swerved suddenly, sending me shoulder-first into the passenger door of our rental SUV. “What the hell?” I demanded, pulling myself back upright. “There was an armadillo in the road.” I stared at him incredulously as I rubbed my bruised arm. “An armadillo?” He made a face. First a tumbleweed, and now an armadillo? Those had to be against traffic laws or something. “How much longer?” I whined. “According to the GPS,” he said, “about twenty minutes.” I dropped my head back against the seat. “Thank God.” “Oh, my bad,” he correct. “We exit the freeway in twenty minutes. It’s another thirty-five after that until we’re in Rocky Gulch.” If Eddie knew how badly I wanted to stab him in the neck with a pen right now, he would probably pull over and make me get out of the car. If he knew how badly I wanted to stab myself in the neck with a pen, he would probably hand me a sharp ballpoint. I settled for digging the bottle of antacids out of my purse and chomping two chewable cherry tablets. As much as I didn’t want to be in the middle of nowhere, I wanted to die in the middle of nowhere even less. As we chased the sun toward the horizon, I thought back over the series of events that somehow culminated in my exile to America’s answer to Siberia, aka the desert dry plains of central Texas. In my own defense, I couldn’t have known. I wasn’t in charge of the casting decisions, and even if I had been, I couldn’t possibly have known that four of the five cast members on our gay makeover reality show, One Straight Guy at a Time, were in fact not gay at all. I wasn’t a mind reader and my gaydar was apparently set on oblivious. How was this my fault? Still, as the least senior producer involved, when the big boss set out the chopping block, my neck was the first one offered up in sacrifice. I should have been grateful that Bud Gorman was giving me a second chance. My mission was simple. If I could produce the rough pilot of a new show, Try It On, with a next-to-nothing budget and only a cameraman for crew, without incident, he would consider—consider—putting me back on the list. And the list was where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be. Being on the list was Plan A for climbing the ladder of career success, all the way to an Emmy, an Oscar, and a Golden Globe at the very top. Being off the list was… well, I refused to consider that possibility. There was no Plan B. I was under no misconception that this was anything less than a sudden death probation. I had to make Try It On a success. Try It On was one of those reality shows where seemingly normal and sane people—and I used those terms in the most liberal sense—gave up their ordinary lives to experience something completely different. Episodes in the works included a stay at home mom who would live the life of a Park Avenue princess, a school teacher who would play the part of Broadway star, and a motorcycle shop owner who would try to hack it as a park ranger. What made Try It On different from the five-thousand other shows with the same general premise was the amount of time participants committed to their trial lives—an entire month. Filed under the why-would-anyone-do-something-so-dumb category of TV shows, as far as I was concerned, but a gig was a gig and I needed to get back on Bud’s good side. My career in television was ready to take off and I needed to stay on the right track. Even if that meant I had to spend the next thirty days in exile from civilization. “Chocolate?” Eddie asked. “Sure.” I sat up a little straighter in my seat and held out my hand. “Thanks.” He scowled at me sideways. “As in do you have any?” “Oh.” I slumped. “No. Not even a breath mint.” “My boyfriend always has chocolate.” Eddie pursed his lips. “Then again, he’s more of a girl than you are.” I punched him in the arm. “If I had known we were traversing the Kalahari, I would have grabbed a jumbo bag of candy bars along with my antacid.” When Bud told me I could choose my own cameraman for the pilot from the selection of lens jockeys with horse riding experience—a very necessary skill for someone expected to capture every moment of life of a working ranch—I been relieved to see Eddie Monroe on the list. He was the size of a taxi—and not an ordinary four-passenger sedan taxi, one of the giant minivan ones reserved for swarms of tourists with more luggage than sense. He was fast as a panther, though, and had the ability to make me laugh in almost any situation, which was why I’d blurted his name on the spot. We’d been through more disastrous productions together than I cared to remember. He saved me from a trip to the ER on Apes with Knives, managed to make a hardened cage fighter cry on Into the Octagon, and deftly avoided the advances of a dozen drunk coeds—whose gaydar was as faulty as mine—on Spring Break Strip Poker. On top of all that, the man was a regular Houdini with a camera. I knew that if I was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere for a month, the only way to make the experience bearable would be to bring along someone who knew how to get the best shots in the worst conditions and who I could actually tolerate for long periods of time. Lord knew, there was nothing else about this wasteland that was inviting me to hang out any longer than I absolutely had to. I popped another antacid and quietly knocked my head against the window. Eddie stopped the car in front of the dusty blue Victorian house with a three-story turret and dormers in the roof. A streetlight out front cast an amber glow that turned the white trim into gold. A carved, painted sign in the yard declared this the Yellow Rose Bunkhouse Bed and Breakfast. A picture-perfect image that looked straight off a movie set. Hopefully not one with a psycho serial killer hiding inside. “Not bad,” I said as I climbed out of the car. “I’ll go get us checked in.” The sidewalk and front path were lined with small purple flowers with centers that were almost the same color as the house itself. When I got to the front door, I hesitated. I’d never stayed in a bed and breakfast before. It was kind of a hotel, but it looked like a house. What was the protocol for this time of night? Was I supposed to knock or just walk right in? I tried the handle and found it unlocked. In the end, I decided on a hybrid approach. I knocked on the door while opening it and walking inside. “Hello?” I whisper-shouted to the empty front hall. There was a table to the left with an open book, like a guest register. Otherwise, it looked completely residential. A pair of doorways opened off the hall to either side. One led to a dining room, with a big wooden table and a dozen mix-and-matched chairs. The other was hidden by a decorative folding screen, painted with a cattle drive scene straight out of the Wild West. This really looked like someone’s house. Maybe the sign out front was a mistake. Maybe I missed an arrow or something. I needed to get out of there before I was arrested for breaking and entering. Or at least entering. “Welcome to the Yellow Rose Bunkhouse,” a cheerful voice whispered behind me. I covered my mouth to hold in a shriek as I spun around to find an older woman, mid-to-late-sixties probably, with a broad smile on her round face and a pile of gray hair curled into a loose bun. She wore plain blue pants and pale blue blouse beneath a brightly-colored floral apron. Blue seemed to be the color of the day—or night, as it were. “Can I help you?” she asked, her smile unwavering. “I’m Cassie Bishop,” I replied, keeping my voice as low as hers. I stepped forward and offered her my hand. “I’m with Go Gorman Studios.” Her head tilted slightly to one side and her smile grew twice as big. She stepped forward, bypassing my offered hand to pull me into a tight hug. “It’s so nice to meet you, Cassie,” she said as she patted me on the back. “I’m Sue-Anne Arnold. I’m the chief cook and bottle-washer here.” “It’s a beautiful…” I struggled to choose the right word. Hotel? House? Bed and breakfast? I decided to avoid the confusion altogether. “It’s beautiful.” “Did you just come by to check out the property?” she asked. Property! That was appropriately neutral. “No, we’re ready to check in.” Her eyes widened and for some reason that made my heart beat a little faster. “I’m sorry, but—” She wrung her hands helplessly. “—we have no vacancy tonight. The Filcher-Farmer wedding is next weekend and they have the entire place booked. We’re full.” “Full?” She couldn’t be serious. “We have a reservation.” “Yes,” she replied. “For next month.” “For next—?” I shook my head. “No, that’s not possible.” She gestured at me to follow her and then turned and walked deeper into the house. We went down the hallway, past the staircase, through an open doorway, and into a cozy white kitchen. Sue-Anne crossed to the round kitchen table where a laptop was open. She sat down and started punching in keys. A moment later, she called me over. “Here, look,” she said pointing at the screen. I leaned down to read the open email from Bud’s assistant, Marian, making the arrangements for our reservations. The date in the original email was one month off. That was just what I wanted to hear after a long day of travel. I got up a four o’clock this morning to finish packing and had been trying to get to the middle of Texas—Rocky Gulch, to be exact—ever since. First, our itinerary indicated a flight out of LaGuardia, only to get there and be told we were flying out of Newark. One high-speed cab ride later, we arrived just as the flight was canceled. After being bumped from three flights—thanks to awful thunderstorms blanketing the Midwest—we finally got routed through Atlanta, Chicago, and Denver, before catching the last flight into Dallas. What should have been a short, direct flight had turned into an all-day mess. It was after midnight back in New York. Exhaustion and frustration hit me full force. I shoved a hand into my curls. “Crap.” “Language dear,” she said gently. Fine, there had to be another option. We would just have to find another place to stay. “Sorry,” I offered lamely. “It’s been a long day. Can you recommend another place to stay in town?” Her laugh tinkled like bells on a Christmas tree. “There isn’t one.” I scowled. She couldn’t be serious. “I’m sorry, but Rocky Gulch isn’t terribly metropolitan. The Yellow Rose is the only lodging in town.” At least she sounded genuinely sorry. “If I had a cot or a bedroll to spare I’d make room. Even the sofas in the parlor are full of little ones tonight.” I sighed. “How far is the next closest hotel?” “That’d be two exits down on the highway,” she offered. “Near to an hour away I’d imagine.” “An hour?” I couldn’t hide my shock. How was it possible that the closest thing to a hotel in this town was full and the next closest place to stay was over an hour away? This production was already a nightmare, and filming hadn’t even started. “I’m so sorry, dear.” She reached out and patted my hand. I took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “It’s fine. We’ll make it work.” She pushed to her feet and crossed to the counter, where a rack full of freshly-baked treats sat cooling. She placed a pair of muffins at the center of a blue bandana and then wrapped them up. Tied them with a bow and everything. “Here,” she said, handing me the bundle, “take these for the road.” I gave her a weak smile. “Thanks.” Sue-Anne followed me to the front door and waved as I climbed back into the rental car. As soon as the door clicked shut, I let out a string of sailor-worthy swear words. Eddie stared at me. He wasn’t entirely unused to this kind of rant from me, but usually it took at least a couple days of shooting for something to so completely upend my calm. Today I was ahead of the curve. When I finished, he cleared his throat. “How’d it go?” I glared at him. “Bud’s i***t assistant reserved the wrong dates.” Marian tried hard. At least, I thought she tried hard. Maybe she was just really good at pretending to try hard. Clearly she was not good at actual work. On any production you have to roll with the punches. Avoidable punches are a little more painful to swallow. “So, let me guess,” he said. “No room at the inn?” “There’s a wedding this weekend.” I forced my fists to unclench. “The entire bed and breakfast is full and the next closest hotel is an hour away, back on the freeway.” Eddie shook his head. Then sniffed the air. “Do I smell blueberries?” I handed him the muffin bundle. If he could be appeased by a pair of muffins, who was I to deny him? Letting my head drop back against the seat, I considered our options. Choice one, we drive all the way back to the hotel on the freeway. But even if they had rooms available—clearly not a sure thing, given my current luck—we would have to drive all the way back here in the morning. The shoot was scheduled to begin a seven, which would mean getting up at the butt-crack of dawn. Again. I groaned at the thought. It was already nearly midnight. If I didn’t get a good night’s sleep, things could get ugly. “These are amazing,” Eddie exclaimed. He held out a muffin to me. “You sure you don’t want one?” I shook my head. All I wanted was sleep. Choice two, we… what? Stayed here? I twisted around in my seat. The car rental company had upgraded us to a full-size SUV. The thing was a least a few square feet larger than my apartment. The passenger seat felt like a luxurious recliner and the back seat looked like a darn comfy sofa bed. “Hey Eddie,” I asked, “how would you feel about spending a night in the car?”