Reality TV crew proves easy to fool ... for $5
The young British director for the reality TV series leaned over my shoulder and read the laptop screen on Doreen's counter.
"This isn't any of your business," I said, moving to block his view.
"This is perfect," the director said in a very British accent. He waved to a cameraman to hurry over. "What are you doing here, having an angry e-mail discussion with another hunter?'
"No," I said. "I'm writing about you guys and this ridiculous idea to shoot a reality program about the Hunting Club."
"But that isn't right," he said and waved to the cameraman to cease filming. "We're not the subject of the program. You are, and your friends. We can't shoot you writing about us. No one wants to see that. You need to send a vicious e-mail to that gentleman over there."
He pointed at Delbert P. Axelrod, who was busy tapping on the keys of another laptop, which the reality TV production company had set up on the round corner table that we usually used.
"You're right," I said. "I should send him a mean e-mail, because he's the reason y'all are bothering us." I clicked on Internet Explorer and searched the Web.
"When will you go hunting?" the director asked. "We need to film a stimulating hunt."
"Illegal," Doc answered. "There are no hunting seasons open right now."
The director frowned. "Right, then. Fishing. You should all go home, get your boats and launch them on yonder lake." He pointed in the general direction of town.
"See those trees bending in that 30-mile-an-hour wind?" Wrong Willie asked. "A boat would capsize out there."
"Excellent! Excitement! Drama! Rescue! Let's go to the lake!"
"Naaaw," Woodrow said. "You'll have to think of something else."
The director looked at the Hunting Club members scattered throughout the cafe. They were drinking coffee, eating eggs and watching gray clouds scud across the sky through the large windows.
"But you're doing nothing," he whined.
"That's what they always do," Doreen said from behind the counter. "They just sit around on Saturday mornings and do nothing."
"Not true," Woodrow argued. "Now that I'm retired, I sit around here on Fridays sometimes, too."
"I'll join you in June," Wrong Willie promised. They touched knuckles.
"This is insane," the director shouted. "You're all boring!"
"Not necessarily," the Cap'n said in a remarkably fake British accent. "In fact, we're an entirely interesting group of individuals."
"Are you making fun of me?" asked the British director.
"Not at all," came Doc's very British response.
"Why is he doing that?" Doreen asked.
"Because he thinks it'll get him more screen time," I said, still surfing the Net.
"Should I write this down?" a scriptwriter asked.
"Exactly why do you have a scriptwriter for a reality program?" Youngster asked.
"It makes things more interesting," the scriptwriter answered. "I give you pointers on what to say and lead you to more interesting activities or conversations."
"I need action!" the director screeched at the Hunting Club members, startling Jerry Wayne awake.
Doreen came around from behind the counter in a starched, clean skirt that would have been more at home at a cocktail party.
"What's that all about?" I asked her.
"Just trying to make a good impression," she said.
The cafe door opened, and a gentleman wearing white painter's clothes lowered a ladder to the floor. "Where do you want me to start?"
Doreen pointed toward the cafe's farthest end and watched the painter begin to set up.
When she saw me staring at her, she shrugged. "I just thought a new coat of paint might brighten things up on television."
"Don't these gentlemen ever get into arguments?" the director asked aloud. "Reality television needs conflict. We want personalities to spark issues that must be worked out. I need people to stomp away from the cafe and drive off in anger."
Ignoring him, Doreen clicked on the tile floors in high heels, refilling thick ceramic mugs while the painter climbed his ladder and the boys spoke in quiet conversation throughout the cafe.
"Instead, I have boredom, uninspired individuals and useless conversation. I've already invested too much time here to quit. No matter what, I must stay here for the entire month."
"I know how you feel," I said. "Depressing, ain't it?"
"So what happens next?" the director asked.
"We'll just wait until the wind dies down. If it doesn't, we'll go home and try to go fishing tomorrow. Tell me something. Why do people watch your reality program?"
"It's entertaining and makes them feel like their life is normal," he said. "Or so I've been told."
A young girl ran into the cafe, screeching at Delbert. "Your dog just ate my cat!"
Angered Club members jumped up and ran outside to help, each one slapping Delbert on the back of the head.
"But I don't have a dog!" he shouted and fell to the floor.
The director, writer, cameraman and sound man all jumped up and ran outside, equipment at the ready. "Action! Action! Roll tape!"
Watching the TV crew race outside, Doreen stood at the bar and gave me a look.
"Ate my cat?" she said. "How much did you have to pay that little girl?"
"Five bucks," I said, still clicking the computer keys. "Hey, I found it!"
"What?"
"A rental house on a tropical island far, far away ... until the television people are gone."
I clicked a few more keys and booked the trip.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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