can’t see anything. And the other guys have televisions on sticks and we can see everything that’s happening in the room. And the cameraman let me look in his camera, and Ricky, the grip—he’s really a carpenter—he let me try out his nail gun even though Dad didn’t think I could do it. And look, they gave me my own earphones to wear. I brought my walkie-talkie, but these are even better. See, it’s got a number one on them, and they’re red. That’s the best color. They have four channels. . . .”
“Whoa, sport,” Grady said, putting his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Take a breath and give your aunt Jessica a second to look around.”
“I will,” Frank said, “but you have to see this, Aunt Jessica.” He took my hand and dragged me down a corridor of cubicles filled with lights and stands and rolling carts containing all manner of construction material. Over the tops of the cubicle walls, I could see bright lights illuminating another part of the office.
A voice called out, “Quiet, everyone. Settle down, please. Okay, roll tape, roll camera.”
Frank came to an immediate stop in the hallway. He put his index finger over his lips, his eyes wide as he looked at me. I nodded and put my finger over my lips, too.
Another voice: “Rolling, rolling, rolling. Quiet, please. We’re locked up. Ready? And action.”
A third voice: “Permezzo, five-oh-one, take eight. Mark!”
Frank let go of my hand and tiptoed slowly down the hall, carefully stepping over the coil of cable and dodging a light stand and toolbox in his way. He leaned forward to see around the corner, turned back to Grady and me, and waved his arms to indicate we could come forward.
I smiled at Grady, who rolled his eyes and smiled back. Dave motioned us forward and we walked gingerly, making sure not to trip over the equipment and wires that Frank had so skillfully avoided.
“That’s a cut,” we heard. “Reset, please.”
Frank let out the breath he’d been holding, and whispered to me, “They’re shooting the barbecue lady in the kitchen, but she can’t remember her lines and the other lady with the red hair is mad.”
I looked around the corner to see a kitchen with white cabinets and stainless-steel countertops. Cookie, looking like one of her cookbook covers in blue overalls, a checkered shirt, and a straw hat, was standing next to a butcher-block-topped island on which were various-sized mixing bowls and an assortment of bottles that could probably be found in most kitchens: ketchup, mustard, oil and vinegar, and some others, the labels of which I couldn’t see. Arrayed around the island, but out of sight of the camera lens, were at least twenty people, most wearing earphones. One man held a boom microphone over Cookie’s head.
“You see, the problem is, I wouldn’t use a word like ‘cuisine.’ ” She pronounced it “coozine.”
“The problem is, you never looked at your script until you got on the set,” Betsy Archibald said to her. In contrast with her elegant attire at the agency, she wore jeans and tennis shoes, and a baseball cap with her red ponytail pulled through the gap at the back. She looked like a little girl, an angry little girl. She turned away from Cookie, a look of exasperation on her face. “I can’t believe this. How simple can it be? Any idiot could have learned those lines by now.”
Cookie continued talking to her back. “And another thing. I’m a cook. I cook barbecue, basic stuff.” She held up a bottle and made a face. “There ain’t no bottles of champagne and cilantro dressing in my kitchen. This just isn’t authentic at all.”
“Authentic! This is a spot for a credit card,” Betsy exploded. “It’s not your ridiculous cooking show. It doesn’t have to be authentic. It’s just for atmosphere.”
“Now, see here.” Jimbo jumped up. “You’re not to talk to her that way.” He pointed a finger at Betsy. “You give Mrs. Bedford your respect.”
“I’ll give her
“Whoa, sport,” Grady said, putting his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Take a breath and give your aunt Jessica a second to look around.”
“I will,” Frank said, “but you have to see this, Aunt Jessica.” He took my hand and dragged me down a corridor of cubicles filled with lights and stands and rolling carts containing all manner of construction material. Over the tops of the cubicle walls, I could see bright lights illuminating another part of the office.
A voice called out, “Quiet, everyone. Settle down, please. Okay, roll tape, roll camera.”
Frank came to an immediate stop in the hallway. He put his index finger over his lips, his eyes wide as he looked at me. I nodded and put my finger over my lips, too.
Another voice: “Rolling, rolling, rolling. Quiet, please. We’re locked up. Ready? And action.”
A third voice: “Permezzo, five-oh-one, take eight. Mark!”
Frank let go of my hand and tiptoed slowly down the hall, carefully stepping over the coil of cable and dodging a light stand and toolbox in his way. He leaned forward to see around the corner, turned back to Grady and me, and waved his arms to indicate we could come forward.
I smiled at Grady, who rolled his eyes and smiled back. Dave motioned us forward and we walked gingerly, making sure not to trip over the equipment and wires that Frank had so skillfully avoided.
“That’s a cut,” we heard. “Reset, please.”
Frank let out the breath he’d been holding, and whispered to me, “They’re shooting the barbecue lady in the kitchen, but she can’t remember her lines and the other lady with the red hair is mad.”
I looked around the corner to see a kitchen with white cabinets and stainless-steel countertops. Cookie, looking like one of her cookbook covers in blue overalls, a checkered shirt, and a straw hat, was standing next to a butcher-block-topped island on which were various-sized mixing bowls and an assortment of bottles that could probably be found in most kitchens: ketchup, mustard, oil and vinegar, and some others, the labels of which I couldn’t see. Arrayed around the island, but out of sight of the camera lens, were at least twenty people, most wearing earphones. One man held a boom microphone over Cookie’s head.
“You see, the problem is, I wouldn’t use a word like ‘cuisine.’ ” She pronounced it “coozine.”
“The problem is, you never looked at your script until you got on the set,” Betsy Archibald said to her. In contrast with her elegant attire at the agency, she wore jeans and tennis shoes, and a baseball cap with her red ponytail pulled through the gap at the back. She looked like a little girl, an angry little girl. She turned away from Cookie, a look of exasperation on her face. “I can’t believe this. How simple can it be? Any idiot could have learned those lines by now.”
Cookie continued talking to her back. “And another thing. I’m a cook. I cook barbecue, basic stuff.” She held up a bottle and made a face. “There ain’t no bottles of champagne and cilantro dressing in my kitchen. This just isn’t authentic at all.”
“Authentic! This is a spot for a credit card,” Betsy exploded. “It’s not your ridiculous cooking show. It doesn’t have to be authentic. It’s just for atmosphere.”
“Now, see here.” Jimbo jumped up. “You’re not to talk to her that way.” He pointed a finger at Betsy. “You give Mrs. Bedford your respect.”
“I’ll give her
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