brilliant! A couple of prostitutes. Ha!”
“ Hmm. Thanks,” I said, not entirely sure if I should be pleased with the complement.
“ Seriously. I never would have thought of that. You are a good reporter, girl.”
I cleared my throat, re-buttoning the top button of my blouse. “That wasn’t exactly reporting,” I mumbled.
“ With moves like that, you must make the Informer a fortune. It’s amazing your editor hasn’t hired you an assistant until now.”
I shot him a look. “Just leave the talking to me, okay?”
He put his hands up in a surrender gesture. “I’m a mute.”
I should be so lucky.
“ There he is,” I said, pointing to where the actor in question was just emerging from one of the white trailers.
Simonson was average height, though he wore lifts in his shoes to tower over contestants on the show. He had dark hair, dark ominous eyebrows, and a spray tan that was always one shade darker than recommended. He wore his usual uniform of a white T-shirt and a layer of black jeans so form-fitting he had to walk with a sort of straight-legged hobble to the sparkling white toilet in the middle of the beach.
“ Simonson’s on the set,” a P.A. announced, prompting grips and cameramen to scatter, putting their last-minute adjustments to their equipment.
Gary and I hung back, watching the director order everyone to “first position” and yell, “Rolling!”
Simonson did a pirouette in the sand then pointed to the toilet and said, “Happy Time Lucky makes the competition look pathetic.” Then the go-go dancers sprang into action, giggling and prancing around him, until the director yelled, “Cut! Back to one!”
We watched the same scene a dozen times before the director was happy with his cut and the grips moved to set the stage for the next scene. The go-go girls lit up cigarettes, the P.A.’s sprang into action, and Lowel hobbled straight-legged to his trailer.
I elbowed Gary in the ribs. “Now’s our chance.”
I made for Lowel, catching up to him just as he hit the door of his trailer. “Lowel Simonson?” I asked.
He paused, hand on the knob, and spun around. “Oy. Who’s askin’?” he asked, his accent markedly thicker than it was on the show as he squinted against the sun at me.
“ Allie Quick. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
“ For?”
Good question. “I’m…with a Japanese newspaper. We’re doing a behind-the-scenes of the Happy Lucky Time commercial shoot.”
“ I thought it was Happy Time Lucky?”
“ Right. Absolutely. May we come in?” I asked, gesturing to his trailer.
He looked from Gary to me then back. “You don’t look Japanese.”
“ American correspondent.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I suppose a minute won’t hurt.”
I did a mental fist-pumping “Yes!” as Gary and I followed Lowel up the two metal steps to the interior of his private trailer.
As we stepped inside, the décor was eerily reminiscent of the Winnebago I’d been forced to spend my eighth-grade summer in. A fold-down table jutted out from one side, a bench seat beside it. A pullout sofa took up one wall of the trailer, while a small kitchenette sat at the back.
Lowel lowered himself slowly (as a concession to his tight pants) onto the sofa, gesturing for Gary and I to do the same. “Please, sit down. Would you like some tea? Cookies? Lemonade?”
Gary and I looked at each other. This was America’s Asshole?
“ Uh, no thanks,” I said, passing on refreshments as I took a seat on the edge of his sofa.
“ You sure? They delivered a whole bunch of pastries to me fresh this morning. I have raspberry croissants?”
What was the catch? Was this like the tiger offering the wildebeest a salt lick before devouring her?
“ Um, no. Thank you.”
“ Is it too warm in here?” Lowel asked. “I could turn up the AC?”
“ I’m fine. Thanks. Listen, we wanted to ask you a couple questions about Chester
“ Hmm. Thanks,” I said, not entirely sure if I should be pleased with the complement.
“ Seriously. I never would have thought of that. You are a good reporter, girl.”
I cleared my throat, re-buttoning the top button of my blouse. “That wasn’t exactly reporting,” I mumbled.
“ With moves like that, you must make the Informer a fortune. It’s amazing your editor hasn’t hired you an assistant until now.”
I shot him a look. “Just leave the talking to me, okay?”
He put his hands up in a surrender gesture. “I’m a mute.”
I should be so lucky.
“ There he is,” I said, pointing to where the actor in question was just emerging from one of the white trailers.
Simonson was average height, though he wore lifts in his shoes to tower over contestants on the show. He had dark hair, dark ominous eyebrows, and a spray tan that was always one shade darker than recommended. He wore his usual uniform of a white T-shirt and a layer of black jeans so form-fitting he had to walk with a sort of straight-legged hobble to the sparkling white toilet in the middle of the beach.
“ Simonson’s on the set,” a P.A. announced, prompting grips and cameramen to scatter, putting their last-minute adjustments to their equipment.
Gary and I hung back, watching the director order everyone to “first position” and yell, “Rolling!”
Simonson did a pirouette in the sand then pointed to the toilet and said, “Happy Time Lucky makes the competition look pathetic.” Then the go-go dancers sprang into action, giggling and prancing around him, until the director yelled, “Cut! Back to one!”
We watched the same scene a dozen times before the director was happy with his cut and the grips moved to set the stage for the next scene. The go-go girls lit up cigarettes, the P.A.’s sprang into action, and Lowel hobbled straight-legged to his trailer.
I elbowed Gary in the ribs. “Now’s our chance.”
I made for Lowel, catching up to him just as he hit the door of his trailer. “Lowel Simonson?” I asked.
He paused, hand on the knob, and spun around. “Oy. Who’s askin’?” he asked, his accent markedly thicker than it was on the show as he squinted against the sun at me.
“ Allie Quick. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
“ For?”
Good question. “I’m…with a Japanese newspaper. We’re doing a behind-the-scenes of the Happy Lucky Time commercial shoot.”
“ I thought it was Happy Time Lucky?”
“ Right. Absolutely. May we come in?” I asked, gesturing to his trailer.
He looked from Gary to me then back. “You don’t look Japanese.”
“ American correspondent.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I suppose a minute won’t hurt.”
I did a mental fist-pumping “Yes!” as Gary and I followed Lowel up the two metal steps to the interior of his private trailer.
As we stepped inside, the décor was eerily reminiscent of the Winnebago I’d been forced to spend my eighth-grade summer in. A fold-down table jutted out from one side, a bench seat beside it. A pullout sofa took up one wall of the trailer, while a small kitchenette sat at the back.
Lowel lowered himself slowly (as a concession to his tight pants) onto the sofa, gesturing for Gary and I to do the same. “Please, sit down. Would you like some tea? Cookies? Lemonade?”
Gary and I looked at each other. This was America’s Asshole?
“ Uh, no thanks,” I said, passing on refreshments as I took a seat on the edge of his sofa.
“ You sure? They delivered a whole bunch of pastries to me fresh this morning. I have raspberry croissants?”
What was the catch? Was this like the tiger offering the wildebeest a salt lick before devouring her?
“ Um, no. Thank you.”
“ Is it too warm in here?” Lowel asked. “I could turn up the AC?”
“ I’m fine. Thanks. Listen, we wanted to ask you a couple questions about Chester
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