"The network said no," Mike shrugged and leaned back in his black leather chair. He casually chewed on the tip of his pen and stared out the window of his television production company. "Oh, I have to pick up Lana from her dance class this afternoon. Can't forget that."
"How could they say no?" Jane yelled. "For the love for Christ, that's the FIFTH idea of mine they have shot down. What the hell is their problem?" Enraged, she grabbed a stuffed lemur from her friend's desk and attempted to tear its big-eyed head off. When that didn't work, Jane threw it at the wall.
"No need to take it out on Mr. Sprinkles," Mike said, scooping up his daughter's toy from the floor. He squeezed its fuzzy abdomen. "See? When you squeeze him, you get tinkly, feel-good music. In real life, his intestines would fly out his ass. Magical."
"Stop talking. Why in the hell do they think this show wouldn't work," Jane reached for a hank of her dirty blond hair and began twirling it in a crazed fashion. "Everything I do, they hate! What will it take for them to like me? I need a drink. Do you have vodka?"
"Darling. Sweetheart. Crazy bitch. I don't keep vodka in my studio and even if I did, we shouldn't drink before 10AM. Sort of puts an uncomfortable haze on the rest of the day. Now just calm the fuck down. The network didn't think that a show about dog walkers would be compelling enough to base an entire reality TV series upon," Mike told her and pitched Mr. Sprinkles at her hip. The lemur hit its mark and Jane teetered in her stillettos.
"How could they NOT find it compelling?" Jane spat. "Dog walking is a crazy culture. Those idiots down at the Life Orb Channel have no idea what goes on behind the scenes. Crazy owners. Puppy psychiatrists. Cat enemas. And there are plenty of cases where employers are sleeping with the dog walker. In fact, the dog walker is the new pool boy - they're screwing everybody. Hell, I've even screwed a dog walker. This concept writes itself."
Mike ran his fingers through his short, thinning red hair and rolled his eyes. "You screwed a dog walker?"
"Yes."
"Did you know he was a dog walker?"
"No. Sort of. Not at first."
"Did you continue screwing the dog walker once you discovered he walked dogs for a living?
"Only for a little while after," Jane ducked her head. "He was nice, he just had a lot of student loans he needed to pay off."
"English major?"
"I don't know, we never got to that point in the relationship," she said.
"The point where you talk about your past, you mean," Mike nodded. "You like to stay in the moment. Who cares where they're from or the outcome of their last herpes test, right?"
"I like keeping it casual."
"This story reminds me of another 'casual relationship' you had - the guy who slept in his car. Thomas? Tony? I forget his name - the one whose livingroom was in the passenger seat and bedroom in the back seat. The one who called you 'Mommy.'
"Shut up about the dog walker and the homeless dude. My concept would work, I swear," Jane insisted. "I can't believe you don't have any liquor in this place." She began rummaging through her black patent leather purse. "I'm so angry, I'm going to eat something. I have a skim milk cheese stick in here somewhere."
"Don't do that," Mike said.
"I have laxatives."
Mike got up from his chair and walked over to the neurotic woman. He pulled her to the nearby couch and sat the two down. "First, it's gross that you carry cheese in your purse. And it's low fat cheese, which isn't cheese at all. It's a stick of yellow ass. Now you need to bring your energy down about ten notches before you pop a breast implant."
Jane huffed and pushed her bangs out of her eyes, then stared at the nearby window sill, willing herself not to cry. A portrait of Mike, his wife, and his two kids stared back at her. It was a professional shot, taken on the shore, with everyone looking perfectly happy in black and white. Perfect smiles, perfect eyes, perfect poses. Sure it was all bullshit, Jane knew. But in that moment, all of Mike's family seemed to be lying on that Cape Cod beach and taunting her for her failures. Even the four year old with the missing front teeth. Whatever you skinny toothless bitch, Jane thought to herself. Wait till you grow up.
"Stop burning holes in my photos with your eyes," Mike said.
"You have a nice family," Jane pouted. "Damn you. Damn Olivia too. We all graduated college together. You opened this production business, got married, had kids. Olivia got married to that rich prick Steve, popped out a kid, and then made out huge in the divorce. I've done practically nothing with my life except for some walk-on roles and stints with temp agencies. What did Life Orb really say?"
"Life Orb says there isn't enought conflict with this idea," Mike answered. "They want big problems, big personalities for any reality television show they get behind. Your ideas - all of them - are too normal and nice."
Jane took out a tube of lip gloss from her purse and began applying it. "But the dog walkers... their world is pretty crazy, Mike." But even she didn't sound enthused anymore.
He nodded. "I'm sure it's crazy. Picking up poop in plastic bags. Or maybe not even picking up the poop. Fuck the system. Let the poop just sit there. Forget those shows where teen girls who don't know they're pregnant and end up having an impromptu water birth in the gym locker room toilet - it's all about dog walkers gone wild."
Jane half-heartedly punched her friend in the arm, then she dropped her head onto her lap. "I've got to get something going," she moaned from between her patellas. "Something's gotta work."
Mike reached over for a one-arm hug when Jane's cell rang. She reached into the pocket of her skinny jeans and wrestled it from the clutches of the skin tight denim.
"Hello?"
"JANE! It's Olivia, I'm getting married. In five days. Can you believe it?"
"Oh hey sweetie, hold on for just a minute..." Jane said, sitting up straight and shoving the phone against her left boob so Olivia didn't hear when she screamed 'fuck' at the top of her lungs. Mike hustled over to his desk and reached into the hidden mini fridge beneath it. Within seconds, a large bottle of Grey Goose was on his desk, ready for consumption.
"Orange juice is in the vending maching down the hall," he mouthed to Jane. "I have quarters."
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