The Holiday Games

Chapter 2

two

. . .

Leo Sampson Fenton

A man whose once fulfilling, creative life

has become an exercise in herding cats.

Feral, fame-hungry cats…

“ W e’re screwed.” My director, Ainsley, watches two of the five innkeepers in our soon-to-be-doomed reality show wrestle on the ground of The Tender Rose Tea Room Saturday afternoon, her eyes growing wider with every passing second.

“So screwed,” I agree dryly as Meredith, the allegedly “sweet” contestant from Seattle, easily evades one of the grip’s attempts to catch her under the arms and drag her outside.

She lunges forward instead, punching Hannah, the “troublemaker” contestant from Georgia in the nose, drawing blood. Hannah responds with a repeat of the “C word” insult that started all this.

Ainsley’s hand flies to cover her mouth, while the boom mic operator leans his pole in to capture the resulting font of profanity Meredith spews in return.

“Oh my God,” Ainsley mutters, her already pale face now ghostly white beneath her brown bangs. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

I sigh, trying to work up the will to step in and take care of this. I’m the creator and producer here. This show is my first big solo project with major financial backing, my chance to prove that Americans can make a tasteful reality show a la The Great British Bake Off instead of devolving into violence, scheming, and melodrama.

But Meredith and Hannah clearly didn’t get the memo, and all I can think as tiny finger sandwiches and scones begin to fly across the room, is “this can’t be my life.”

It just can’t.

I’m a writer. A comedy writer, no less. I spent three years with Sketch Night Live and even wrote a movie for one of their most popular characters before transitioning to a gig as head writer at the Sandy Saunders Skit Show. There, I honed my craft as a monologue and sketch creator, delighting television audiences with work that made people laugh and feel and think.

I never wanted it to end…

For a long time, it didn’t seem it would. Sandy was a titan of the comedy scene, who ran a tight ship. She didn’t drink or do drugs and maintained close ties with all the top comics in the country, ensuring an endless supply of famous guest stars who kept the audience tuning in every week.

Then, she had to go and have a thirty-something crisis and sleep with her sister’s stepson. Her step-nephew . He’d only been her step-nephew for a few months and was twenty—legal, if just barely—but it was too much for the public to take. The court of public opinion ripped Sandy limb from limb, leaving nothing but a few sequins from her iconic pantsuit and a clump of bleached blond hair.

That clump of hair is now happily retired to an island in the Caribbean, with its step-nephew, having a fabulous time. The pictures Sandy sends to our former co-worker group chat are filled with sun, sand, and lobsters she’s teaching to do underwater ballet.

Meanwhile, I spent six months pounding the pavement without a nibble from any of the comedy shows still in production. Times are hard in sketch entertainment and there just aren’t as many writing jobs as there used to be, even for veterans of the scene.

That’s how I found myself producing a season of Horny Housewives for the Realer than Real channel. The original producer had a heart attack—probably from the stress of listening to the horny housewives scream at each other for five seasons straight—and I stepped in to take over the reins. I’d never produced before, but my emergency savings was running out, I needed a job, and the Realer than Real people were desperate.

I expected I’d muddle through one season, save every penny, and be ready to look for another job again when I was inevitably fired.

But unfortunately…I did a fabulous job.

Turns out, I’m really good at getting candid confessions from horny housewives. So good, that I lost three years of my life to the mind-numbing drama.

If this show isn’t such a hit that my network or some other purveyor of reality television immediately buys it and orders more episodes, I’ll be back for a fourth season with the horndogs starting February Fourteenth. (The housewives are always especially frisky on Valentine’s Day and the network wants to take advantage of that to craft a banging episode—pun intended.)

If I have to go back, it will kill the last of the artist inside of me and snuff out what little sense of humor I have left.

If I have to go back…

I shake my head, banishing the thought. I can’t waste time staring into the void right now. I have a tasteful reality show to save. And it will be tasteful, damn it, even if I have to babysit these contestants twenty-four seven to make sure they don’t do something stupid and crass.

“That’s enough!” I shout with enough volume to make Trevor, the boom mic operator, flinch and whip off his headphones. “Sorry, Trevor,” I say, lowering my voice slightly. But only slightly. I have Meredith and Hannah’s attention now, and I don’t want to lose it. “Meredith, Hannah, you’re both out.”

Meredith’s jaw drops. “But she’s the one who?—”

“You threw the first punch,” I cut in as I shift my glare Hannah’s way. “And you showed your true colors. We don’t tolerate verbal attacks or foul language on this set.”

Hannah mutters something about people not having a sense of humor anymore, to which Kara, our costume consultant calls out, “Calling someone a trashy ‘c- word’ with a nappy weave isn’t funny, girl. It’s mean,” making me proud of my crew.

The people working behind the scenes on Innkeeping with You: Holiday Games Edition are a diverse group, from every background and walk of life, but they all have three things in common—they work hard, they know my cranky side isn’t anything to be afraid of, and they’re kind.

Kindness is important. Even when I was writing raunchy jokes at some pop star’s expense back on the Sandy show, I did my best to keep my verbal punches playful, not hurtful.

I’m not about to spend another two weeks with garbage people, not even to save this show.

“Eric, escort Meredith back to the hotel to pack her things and get her on a flight out of LaGuardia this afternoon. Grace, do the same for Hannah, please, but book her out of JFK.” I divide my attention between the women as I add, “Since the two of you can’t act like adults, we’ll separate you like toddlers until you’re out of our city.”

“I’d better get my check or I’m going to share everything I know about your stupid show on my socials,” Hannah says as Grace, one of our junior production assistants, comes to stand beside her. “And I have six thousand followers!”

“Violate your non-disclosure agreement and we’ll sue you into the ground,” I say with a smile. I wave as Grace guides her out the door onto the quiet Chelsea street outside. “Goodbye, Hannah. Make better choices.”

“I’m sorry,” Meredith says, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Please don’t make me go. I can be good again. I promise. I just have a lot of unresolved anger. Mostly from my childhood, I think.”

“Then you should probably deal with that before it lands you in jail for assault,” I say in a gentler voice. “You’re lucky Hannah’s too focused on getting a check to think of pressing charges against you . Go home, and take care of yourself, okay? A check for the first three days of filming will be sent to the address on file.”

Her brown eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really,” I assure her. “She provoked you. It doesn’t excuse punching her in the face, but…I get it.”

Meredith sniffs and nods. “Thanks. Maybe I will look into anger management or something. My family always says therapy is for people who don’t have real problems, but…maybe they’re wrong. Maybe it could help.”

“It did for me,” Ainsley says, dividing her attention between Meredith and whatever she’s doing on her cell. “I had a lot of anger, too. One time I threw a bowling ball at a frat boy at a party.”

My brows lift as I take in all five-foot-one of tiny, scrawny-armed Ainsley.

Reading my expression, she adds, “Rage gives a person enhanced strength.” She glances back to Meredith with a wrinkle of her nose. “Until it starts feeding on its host and slowly devours you from the inside out.”

Meredith makes a considering sound. “It’s definitely been eating at me.”

“Therapy and positive self-talk,” Ainsley says, pausing in her phone-tapping to flash a shy smile. “It feels silly at first, but talking to yourself like you would talk to someone you love is pretty powerful.”

Meredith swipes the tears from her cheeks with a wobbly grin. “Maybe I got what I needed out of this show, after all.”

“I hope so,” I say, lifting a hand to bid her and Eric goodbye before turning back to Ainsley. “Tell me all this tapping on your cell is you contacting alternate cast members.”

“Jenna, our alternate ‘troublemaker,’ the one with the tattoos who runs the Goth Girl Inn, is on her way to the city from Poughkeepsie as we speak,” Ainsley says, easing some of the tension from my chest.

Maybe we can pull this out of the fire, after all. We’ve only been filming for three days, and that was mostly intros, cast interviews, and this first competition. Even with needing to reshoot the tearoom challenge with new cast members, it shouldn’t put us behind schedule or over budget.

“Everyone take an early lunch,” I call out to the three remaining cast members and crew. “We’ll regroup at noon with an update on where we go from here. Thank you again for your professionalism. I know this day hasn’t gone the way any of us expected, but we’ll rally and come back stronger. And we’ll still have you home in time for Christmas. I promise.”

A short, but intense round of applause further lifts my spirits. I haven’t lost my team’s trust, and it’s a gorgeous winter day outside, perfect for filming the ice-skating challenge tonight.

We just need to get the new cast members here—ASAP.

“The ‘sweet’ pick is proving more of a challenge,” Ainsley adds, making my stomach sink again. “Ashley is pregnant and battling a bad case of morning sickness, Kitty took a job on Single Men Seeking Soul Mates and is in the final three, and Priscilla joined a cult.”

My brows snap together. “A cult?”

Ainsley nods, glancing back at her cell. “But she said it’s a nice cult. They only have to work four hours a day, get all the quinoa and kale they can eat, and she can leave whenever she wants to. But she doesn’t want to.” Ainsley glances back up. “Apparently, the cult members are nicer than her ex-husband and she really likes kale.”

“I feel that. Kale’s the stuff,” Trevor says on his way by, touching gentle fingers to Ainsley’s shoulder. “You okay, kid? I thought you were going to pass out there for a minute.”

Ainsley blushes and exhales a breathy laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. I just wasn’t expecting all that. Leo said this was going to be a nice reality show.”

Trevor shoots a knowing grin my way, his teeth bright in his golden-brown face. “Yeah, Leo’s an optimist. It’s cute. Almost like he hasn’t spent three years rolling around in the reality show mud with the rest of us.”

“I’m not cute,” I say. “I’m determined. This show is going to be different.”

“If you say so.” Trevor glances back at Ainsley. “Want me to grab you a sandwich from the deli? I’m betting this one will keep you too busy to get lunch.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ainsley says, her blush deepening. “An Italian with?—”

“Extra banana peppers and no cheese because of the lactose thing,” Trevor cuts in with a wink. “I know what you like.”

As he walks away, Ainsley sighs.

I fight a smile. I’ve given up on true love myself, but I still have hope for the younger generation. Rolling the dice on forever is something best done while you’re young and too dumb to understand the magnitude of the risk you’re taking, giving your heart away to a fallible human creature.

At twenty-seven, with her directing career off to a great start, Ainsley is in the perfect position to give love a chance.

“You should ask him out,” I murmur when Trevor’s out of earshot.

Ainsley tugs at her ponytail with a nervous giggle. “Oh no, I couldn’t. We work together!”

“So what? You don’t have the power to hire or fire him; I do. You’re ethically in the clear.”

She bites her lip. “Maybe, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like me that way.”

“Um, I think he might,” I say. “He’s buying you a sandwich, and he already knew your order. That’s man-speak for ‘I like you and want to make out with your face.’ Trust me, I know these things.”

She shakes her head hard enough to send her glasses sliding down her nose. As she pushes them back up, she insists, “No way. He’s just a nice person. He’s sweet to everyone. I’m not special.” Before I can argue she adds, “So, it looks like we won’t be able to bring in a previously vetted applicant, but there’s still hope. Look at this.” She holds up her phone, revealing a brightly colored website.

I squint, reading aloud, “The 55 th Annual Hotelier’s Conference and Trade Show.”

“It’s this weekend, with over two thousand people attending from all over the country,” Ainsley says. “Surely, one of them has to be a sweet, upbeat innkeeper who’s up for extending his or her trip to the city and earning extra money and visibility for their business. I’ve already pulled up the names of the innkeepers attending from rural Vermont and New Hampshire. They’re from quaint mountain towns, most likely have experience being patient with obnoxious city folk coming to buy maple syrup, and may be less inclined to throw a punch if things get intense on set. Additionally, we’ll be able to send an assistant north to grab anything they might need for the shoot and have that back on set within a day.”

“Yes!” I clap my hands together. “You’re a genius.”

Ainsley beams. “I know. And I already booked us two tickets for the vendor expo. It starts this afternoon. After lunch, I’ll put together a few packets to hand out to potential candidates and meet you by the Javits Center at two thirty.”

“Perfect. But put together ten packets. We should cast a wide net. The more fish we drag on deck, the better the chances we’ll catch the sweet, patient one we need.”

And if worse comes to worst, I can always work with another personality type. Conventional reality show wisdom suggests casting at least one unproblematic person for the audience to root for, but Eduardo, the innkeeper from Miami, is a cinnamon roll beneath his sarcastic fa?ade. Dirk from San Diego is a blowhard, but Millie from Bad Dog, Minnesota, also seems like a solid human being. She’s kooky and honestly believes her inn is haunted by spirits, including a ghost hamster, but she’s a sweetheart.

So, maybe I can work with another archetype.

Maybe another troublemaker in disguise, like Meredith was shaping up to be, but without the anger management issues…

I’m still thinking of troublemakers in disguise when Ainsley and I head into the Javits Center later that afternoon, and I find myself face-to-face with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

A woman with long ebony hair, the face of an angel, and an appetite for chaos made clear by the way she dashes down the wide exhibition aisle and dives into a blow-up igloo at the “Ice Camping in Quebec” booth.

Seconds later, a pink-cheeked man in brown jeans and a red flannel jacket that makes his broad shoulders look cartoonishly wide, jogs around the corner.

“Candy? Candy is that you?” He glances back and forth as he passes me, not thinking to check the igloo to see if “Candy” might be hiding inside.

But then, he doesn’t appear to be the kind of guy who wastes a lot of time on creative thought. He looks like one of the beefy farm boys who enjoyed pounding my face after school when I was growing up in Western Massachusetts.

Eastern Massachusetts is all lobster-loving beach towns and big city lights. Western Mass is cows, corn, and guys who don’t like it when you make jokes about them having intimate relations with their prize pig. (In my defense, the pounding started before the jokes, and back when I was still a skinny late bloomer, animal husbandry punchlines were my only form of self-defense.)

Now, I could easily defend myself from a farm boy with an axe to grind. I hit the gym almost every night after I leave the set. It’s my way of blowing off steam, of cleansing my mental palate before I head home to Greg “Satan” the cat, the angriest feline in the world.

But I’d be angry, too, if I’d been forced to move in with a jaded bachelor after spending the first six years of my life being pampered like a prince.

I still can’t believe Vivian left Greg behind.

I really thought she loved that stupid cat.

But then, I thought she loved me, too…

I never imagined she’d ghost me without a word. No explanation, no warning, not so much as an “it’s not you, it’s me” before she vanished. I would have suspected foul play if she hadn’t been spotted in Vermont a few days later, photographed making out with a lumberjack she hooked up with at a Scottish festival.

They’re married now and have two children. I know because I follow Vivian’s social media from Satan’s old pet account that she curated for him when she lived in the city. I keep waiting for her to notice her cat stalker and block me. Or text to demand that I send Greg to her in Vermont, post-haste.

Or at least slip into my DMs with an apology for bailing and leaving me with an evil cat who hates my guts.

But so far…nothing.

Four years later, the whole thing still chaps my ass.

It also makes me certain that I don’t have what it takes to win the game of love. I was with Vivian for two years, and I never saw it coming. None of it. The cheating, the lying, the ghosting, the cat abandonment—they were all a complete shock.

It left me determined never to be blindsided or played for a fool again. I’ve shut down the part of me that craved a relationship more meaningful than friends with benefits. I don’t flirt anymore. I barely notice women in that way. I don’t feel drawn to make conversation with attractive girls at happy hour or at the rare industry party I’m obligated to attend. I haven’t downloaded a dating app and have no future plans to swipe left or right. Not. Ever.

Call me crazy, but normalizing online shopping for people doesn’t seem like a societal step forward, and I’m happy alone. I honestly love it! Alone is solid and safe and fun and good.

Still, for some reason, I hear myself tell Ainsley to continue on to the New England Innkeeper’s meet and greet without me.

Before I know it, my feet have carried me over to the entrance to the igloo and I’m squatting down, peering in to lock eyes with the angel in the red sweater.

She’s still the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, and quickly becomes one of the most intriguing as she whispers, “Ever had one of those days? One of those ‘diving into an inflatable igloo seems like a good idea’ kind of days?”

My lips twitch. “Oh yeah. Big time.”

She smiles, and that’s all it takes for me to drop to my hands and knees and crawl into the igloo to join her.