Trading Up
“What’s everyone doing during hiatus?” chirps Mindy, the sprightly, albeit butterfingered production assistant who’s perpetually fumbling my hot beverages. I barely recognized her outside of her usual cargo shorts and U of A sweatshirt. Somehow in the past three days, she’s turned as brown as a native in the Hawaiian sun, with nary an extra freckle, whereas I’m practically fluorescent except for the large white circles around my eyes from my sunglasses. Shameful.
As for our upcoming hiatus, we wrapped the second season late last week and we’re not due to start shooting again until after Labor Day. As previously mentioned, I might not earn quite what I did in private practice, but I didn’t have summers off, either. During the break, I plan to accommodate a few of my favorite private patients while I allocate the bulk of my time to training for the October marathon and snapping up continuing education credits. I’m agog with anticipation over my upcoming course on Exposure and Response Prevention in Practice!
Everyone even tangentially related to I Need a Push (and their guests) is sitting in the Anuenue Room at the Ritz, waiting for Wendy Winsberg to arrive and deliver the keynote speech. Actually, our jobs entail a whole lot of waiting for Wendy to announce something or other, so this is pretty much business as usual. If she had a million bucks for every speech she gave us, then . . . well, you do the math. That’s why I find it so curious that Patty was acting oddly about this particular invocation.
I specifically opted to sit at a table close to the bar, as I want ready access to ice to soothe my ravaged skin. Unfortunately, the younger staffers chose this table for its drinks-adjacency, so they’ve been swilling free liquor and yammering away for what feels like an eternity.
I just lost twenty minutes of my life to an in-depth rehash of every time Taylor Swift’s been dumped in the past five years. I figured I could listen, or I could poke out my eardrums with a shrimp fork. As I eye my utensils, I’m not confident I made the right choice.
Anyway, apparently the girls are still Team Jacob, despite their never, ever, ever getting back together. But after listening to my tablemates deconstruct failure after perpetual failure, I’m half tempted to get ahold of her manager and suggest we work one on one. With her pattern of consecutive, terrible breakups, it sounds like she may be the author of her own misfortune. I can help her.
(A giver, that’s what I am.)
Two seats over, Dr. Karen draws a breath, as clearly she’s ready to pontificate. Are the tsunami-warning bells chiming? Because we’re about to be swept out to sea on a tidal wave of bullshit! Quick! Run for higher ground! Grab a palm tree!
I’m hesitant to say I have a nemesis, because I’m a mental health professional who’s adept at processing and compartmentalizing negative feelings.
But if I did have a nemesis, it would be Dr. Karen.
She’s the polar opposite of me in everything from philosophy to looks. I’m in my early(ish) thirties, whereas she clearly crawled out of the primordial ooze. I’m selfless and humble; she’s practically tattooed her CV on her forehead. Like anyone cares she went to Harvard. Look at her all ropy and gnarled in her vintage pastel suit—and why is she wearing a hat? What is she, the Queen Mum?
“Well, I’m writing a book,” Dr. Karen declares. “I have the top literary agent and he’s desperate for me to finish my manuscript. He’s already calling my work the Next Big Thing.”
Ugh. I wonder if she had to buy an extra seat on the airplane to accommodate all of her carry-on smug-gage? Even though Deva advocates junk science like astrology and numerology, I have more respect for her than I do for Dr. Karen. And why is her book already being called the Next Big Thing? I’m sure I could write a book if I had even a moment of free time. Mine would absolutely be better than hers.
Dr. Karen’s the show’s other mental health professional, only she’s a licensed psychiatrist, meaning she can prescribe meds. And prescribe she does! Are you momentarily sad? Here’s an antidepressant! Are you the slightest bit unhappy with the numbers on the scale? Well, a shot of HCG is exactly the jump start you need! Have you ever so briefly lost your ability to focus? Amphetamines to the rescue! She pays no attention to behavior cues and heads straight for a chemical solution; it’s so counterintuitive to all that I practice.
“Ooh, exciting!” Mindy shrieks. Mindy shrieks a lot. You’ve never seen anyone so enthusiastic about minutiae. She’s only now finally shut up about the bagged nuts, dried fruit, and bottled water waiting for each of us in our hotel rooms. I can’t even fathom her reaction to the gratis minibottles of shampoo and mouthwash, but I suspect her Facebook followers have been briefed ad nauseam. “What’s your book about?”
Oh, sweetie—let’s not pretend you read.
Dr. Karen glances conspiratorially around the table. “It’s a collection of stories from my patients who’ve experienced side effects when taking a certain benzodiazepine.”
No one seems to understand what this means, so I offer, “It’s a sedative/hypnotic, like you’d find in your garden-variety sleeping pill.”
Which I would never advocate, even if I were able to write scripts. When my patients can’t sleep, I help them resolve the issues keeping them up at night. The last thing I’d do would be to substitute a little tablet for talk therapy.
Mind you, I’m well aware that prescription drugs have their place and serve important purposes. Certain pharmaceuticals are mission critical and no one’s going to cognitively process away their cancer or diabetes. But personally, I take umbrage at handing out psychotropic drugs like Halloween candy, especially in lieu of exploring other avenues of behavior modification.
“Yes, exactly, Reagan,” Dr. Karen says, surprised that I’m actually familiar with what she’s saying.
This is exasperating, as Pepperdine isn’t exactly clown college. (And it’s not like they hosted Circus of the Stars there, either.) “Naturally I’m familiar, what with being a doctor and all,” I reply curtly.
Then Dr. Karen literally pats my hand in an infuriatingly condescending manner. The way she reaches for me instantly reminds me of a praying mantis grabbing at a leaf. Why did it take me until now to make the comparison? Put that bug in vintage Dior, apply too much rouge, and I swear I couldn’t tell the difference between them.
“Of course you are, my dear,” she says. “Anyway, the book’s called The Thanwell Diaries and it recounts the bizarre behavior I’ve documented from patients taking that drug.”
“What’s Thanwell? Like Ambien?” Mindy’s equally bronzed buddy asks. What’s her name? Crystal? Jewel? Amber? Something gemstone inspired and vaguely white trash—that much I remember.
“Thanwell is like Ambien on crack,” I interject. “The drug is absorbed ten times more quickly and is prone to cause delusions and hallucinations. I’m at a loss to understand why the FDA hasn’t pulled this dreadful product. Those who take it report a high frequency of episodes where they engage in all kinds of risky behavior, like sleep driving, sleep eating, sleep shopping, etcetera. I worked with one gentleman who after ingesting Thanwell—which he took against my counsel—serenaded his entire condo complex. This incident was troubling for a number of reasons, namely because he can’t sing, it was four a.m. on a Tuesday, and he was completely nude, save for a pair of cowboy boots. He was so humiliated afterward that he put his place on the market, sold it at a loss, and moved out of town. He was almost ruined financially.”
Dr. Karen snorts in a most unbecoming fashion and slaps the table. “That’s hilarious! Give me his e-mail address! I’d love to include his story in my book. Oh, wait until you hear what this one lady did . . .”
Before Dr. Karen can launch into her story, I slip away from the table. Technically, she’s not violating patient confidentiality, yet I’ve no desire to encourage her spilling salacious details.
Besides, that story’s for my book someday.
Of course, if I’d listened to Boyd, I’d have dropped out to write and follow him on the thus-far-unpaid surfing circuit. He said with the way I devoured books and observed human behavior, he was sure I’d produce something amazing. Let’s see . . . a doctorate and guaranteed professional success, or one enormous crapshoot of which I’d never hear the end if I were to fail? No contest there.
I step out onto the lanai for a quick breath of air before the evening’s programming begins.
From behind me I hear, “Reagan Bishop, tear down this wall!”
I whip around to see Deva, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Instead of her usual dashiki or ikat caftan, today she’s all wrapped up in the traditional garb of boldly printed Hawaiian kapa cloth. Does she even own a pair of jeans? And what does laundry day look like at her house? I have to wonder. She’s also opted for a haku lei floral headpiece woven with orchids and banana leaves. She’s quite the contrast to me in my white J.Crew sundress with a dove gray cardigan and hair pulled up in a high bun.
Deva explains, “You said when growing up, people would always quote Ronald Reagan because of your first name. I thought ‘tear down this wall’ could be our thing.”
“Deva, this is not going to be our thing. Do you not recall the part earlier where I told you how much I hated that?”
Undaunted, Deva reaches up to scratch under the back of her headpiece. “Well, you were slurring pretty badly by that point, Reagan Bishop. My apologies for misunderstanding.”
To this day, I’m aggravated that my parents saddled me with this unfortunate moniker. For God’s sake, Geri was named after my mother’s idol, Geraldine Ferraro, the first woman to run for vice president. “Reagan” is a true anomaly, particularly given my parents’ political bent. Granted, I was born on the day Reagan took office in 1981, and while he was being sworn in, the Iranian hostages were released after 444 grueling days of captivity. The only explanation offered is that Ma was so overcome with hormones and morphine—mostly morphine—that naming me Reagan was a fait accompli. By the time she came to her senses, the birth certificate was a matter of public record.
I suspect this is the exact moment when I adopted my Just Say No view on prescription drugs.
Before I can elaborate, we notice Wendy entering the ballroom. Rather, we’re alerted to her entrance when the entire ballroom lets out a collective gasp. Twenty-five years in the business and she still has that impact on people. Deva and I quickly slip in at the back of the room and plant ourselves in the first open seats we can find.
I’ll admit it—I sometimes experience cutis anserina (goose bumps) when Wendy speaks, such is her charisma. As she steps onto the dais, the crowd switches from reverent silence to a cacophony of cheers that take three whole minutes to quell. Her presence is legendary, although not necessarily because Wendy’s considered beautiful. I’m not being snarky here—as she herself says, she’s a little too short, a little too lumpy, and a little too ethnic (read: Jewish) to be a cover girl, which is so ironic considering all the magazines she’s graced in the past three decades.
Wendy leans up to the microphone. “Hello, gorgeous people! How are you enjoying Mauiiiiiiiii?” She draws out the word “Maui” for a good five beats.
The crowd bursts into prolonged applause, which dies down once only everyone’s hands begin to ache.
“I want to thank you all for joining me on this journey.”
More applause.
“Not just to Maui, but in this journey we call life.”
Would it be ungrateful to point out that sometimes Wendy speaks in phrases most commonly found cross-stitched on pillows?
“And life is a journey, not a destination.”
So much applause.
(So much cliché.)
“This trip is my way of saying thank you for all your efforts, especially those of you who’ve been here from the beginning. Like you, Patty. You’re more than my executive producer—you’re my soul mate and my sister. Where would I be without you? Wait, don’t answer that,” she laughs. “Without you, I’d be back in Providence, covering city council meetings.”
The crowd continues to go wild, save for Patty. Seems like Patty should be basking in Wendy’s reflected light most of all, as they’ve been best friends ever since they met as cub reporters for the Providence Journal thirty years ago. Yet the look on Patty’s face is decidedly unreadable.
She’s probably just overwhelmed. Wendy has that effect on people. I’m glad she uses her power for good; otherwise she could be a Bond-level supervillain.
“And we’re doing fine work, necessary work, all of us, from assistants to producers. Every one of you is an equally vital member of the Wendy Winsberg family.”
I shift a bit when she says this. Is Mindy really as vital as I am? Look at her sitting there with her mouth all agape, lapping up every word Wendy says like it’s the gospel. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan, and Wendy’s helped orchestrate an awful lot of positive change. But she’s not the Second Coming.
As for Mindy’s worth being equal to mine, at least in an employment situation? She spills drinks; I change lives. On the continuum of what makes a difference, I suspect Mindy and I are on opposite ends of the bell curve. Sure, she serves a purpose and I’m grateful for all the coffee-shop runs, but let’s be real here.
“In fact, we’re all doing God’s work.”
Except probably Mindy.
Come on, it’s an almond milk latte and not the Miracle of Lourdes.
Perfect example of what I’m talking about with this one? A couple of weeks ago, I was finishing up with our last pushee. We were outlining a list of coping strategies she could employ when her mother started to overstep her boundaries. Craft services had just put out lunch and the studio crew was about to descend on the buffet like locusts. We’d worked through breakfast and I knew my pushee was hungry, so I asked Mindy to bring her a plate. What does she do? She literally brings an empty plate!
I just can’t with this one. I really just can’t.
Wendy then recaps our show’s success stories, with the aid of a massive video screen behind her, playing a montage of everyone from the bulimic teen ballerina to the families in crisis to the hoarding grandmother. She points proudly to the screen behind her. “This is what happens when we push.”
As she speaks, all the guests we’ve helped file out onstage, healthy, happy, and whole, and we all take to our feet. This is such a surprise! We didn’t expect to see these pushees again. Almost every face in the crowd is wet with tears, and I realize I’ve inadvertently reached for Deva’s hand.
What can I say? I’m not immune to having a moment.
Wendy’s voice is powerful and her words fill the room. “I sought the Lord’s guidance on how we can continue our important business. After much prayer, He showed me the solution.”
The audience begins to raise their arms in the air, as though to testify.
“He speaks through me!”
Okay, I was having a moment, but suddenly this is getting a little too cult-y for my liking. I feel like any minute now the waitstaff will roll in carts of Kool-Aid and tracksuits. Deva and I unclasp hands.
“I Need a Push has enriched my life, more so than all those years of hosting my own program. So I want you to hear this directly from me.”
Everyone continues to hoot, holler, and carry on, save for Patty, Deva and me. Deva and I catch each other’s eye. She mouths, What’s happening here, Reagan Bishop? and I raise my shoulders. Deva may be on an entirely different astral plane sometimes, but she’s astute enough to understand that joyous news is almost never uttered after the phrase “I want you to hear this directly from me.”
Consider: It’s rare that anyone will tell you, I want you to hear this directly from me. I love you and insist on making you my wife. Or I want you to hear this directly from me. Here’s a check for a gorillian dollars and you can retire!
The “hear it from me” is generally employed when trying to make the unpalatable more appetizing. It’s meant to cushion a blow, and said blow is generally delivered by whoever is instructing you to hear it from them in the first place. “Hear it from me” is far more likely to be followed by Your mother and I are separating, or My test came back positive.
Mind you, this isn’t always the case, but it is often enough that I’m a bit wary.
“I Need a Push is too important for a nascent cable network.”
This?
I can agree with this.
The crowd goes batshit crazy.
Wendy milks the following words for all they’ve got. “So . . . Weeee . . . Arrrrre . . . Headeeeeed . . . Toooooo . . . Networrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk!”
Oh, Wendy—you got me! I really didn’t expect you to deliver this kind of news! This is simply fantastic. Instead of languishing on some cable network no one’s even heard of, we’re headed to the major leagues! In your face, Geri!
The crowd is in such a frenzy that no one even notices when Patty stalks out of the room, except for Deva.
Deva leans in to say, “We should follow her, Reagan Bishop.”
So we do.
• • •
We’re able to track Patty because she’s left a bread-crumb trail for us. And by “bread crumb” I mean “a string of profanity so vivid and profound that the words hang in the air behind her.” Also, there’s a swath of tipped-over lounge chairs and side tables. We catch up with her out on the beach.
“I sense you’re troubled, Patty,” Deva begins.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she replies.
“Help me understand the source of your irritation,” I add.
“At the moment? You.” Patty stabs her pointer finger at me and then at Deva.
I tell Deva, “Classic transference.” Then I say to Patty, “Clearly you’re redirecting your negative feelings at us, instead of the source of your frustration. We’re here to facilitate. Please, allow us to do our jobs.”
Patty spits, “I thought her job was selling bongs.”
Burn! I can’t stop myself from snickering.
But Deva’s unfazed. “It’s true; I carry water pipes hand hewn by Nepalese craftsmen. In their culture, ganja has been used for centuries in religious festivals. Actually, one can find cannabis prevalent in almost all ancient cultures. The Chinese have been using it in their medicine for almost two millennia. In Africa, the Bashilenge used to greet one another by saying ‘Moio!’ which loosely interprets to mean ‘hemp.’”
“What you’re telling me is that your bong customers are all ancient Bashilenge and not, say, garden-variety frat boys,” Patty hisses.
“Should the men of Theta Chi be denied the pleasure of finding Nirvana simply due to having been born of privilege?” Deva counters.
I try another tack. “Patty, please, we’ve never seen you like this and we’re concerned.”
Also? Superinterested.
“Well, that’s ironic,” she says. “You should be worried about you.”
“I don’t follow,” I admit. Why would anyone worry about me? I’m outstanding, which is one of the affirmations I give myself every day.
Patty flops down on the sand, having run out of steam after toppling all the pool furniture Godzilla-style. Deva and I settle in on either side of her. She stares out at the horizon before finally saying, “We had a good thing going on Push. The best, really. We had the ability to be nimble—we could take the time we needed. We were accountable only to ourselves. Everything will change with the network in charge. Everything.”
I completely disagree. “By ‘everything’ don’t you mean we’ll finally be paid a competitive wage? Rumor has it I’ll be adding a zero to my paycheck! And we’ll have access to resources we’ve never had. Plus, we’ll reach an entirely new audience. What’s the downside?”
I mentally tally the upside—with more money, I could turn my building into a single-family and I wouldn’t have to lease the other apartments out to unenlightened frat boys. I could travel more. I could fork out enough cash to get a natural-looking/feeling boob job, and not just one of the quickie discount ones that are like two grapefruit halves under the epidermis. (Yes, Posh Spice, I mean you.)
Sure, I was worried for a minute when Wendy started with the hear-it-from-me business, but this is a huge opportunity. This change will absolutely raise my individual profile. Maybe I’ll finally write a book. Wouldn’t Geri love that? And if we’re headed to network TV, I presume this means we’ll be on at night instead of our current weekly midafternoon time slot, ergo we’d be eligible for a Primetime Emmy, which is far more impressive than sitting around at a banquet full of aging soap stars. Oh, the spackle on those women (and men!).
“Granted, there will be perks in terms of budgetary concerns, like, you and Deva will finally have a wardrobe allowance,” Patty admits.
Ha! Screw you, Ann Taylor Loft! Neiman Marcus, here I come! I start to give Deva a high five, but then think better of it. Decorum and all.
She continues, “But at what price come these benefits? Wendy and I debated this deal for months. I thought I’d finally convinced her not to sell, but the network execs got to her. Sure, she exacted promises to uphold the spirit of the show, but she also signed away all the rights.” She pulls up a palmful of sand, allowing the grains to slip between her fingers. “Dust in the wind, that’s what a network promise is. And deep down, I fear that Wendy knows it.”
“But you two are like sisters,” I argue. “I mean, she’s built her entire career on the concept of sisterhood. She’d never let you down.”
A shadow of something unrecognizable flashed across Patty’s face. “Wouldn’t she?”