My company has an empty warehouse building with office space, laboratory space and loads of just creepy, dusty space. It has been available to rent for the past few years but not surprisingly, a large factory space that doubles as a ghost playground isn’t exactly in demand.
We had all but forgotten about the “For Lease” sign out front when my boss got a call from a colleague who dabbles in the financial end of films and had suggested our property to a production company scouting for a major project. He came into our office with the news and an air of simultaneous smugness and excitement. The production company was bringing their lawyer and a rep from LA the next day to see the space and talk details. They said the space was perfect and that they would need to rent it for at least 6 months, set up makeup and hair stations and have access to phones and restrooms. It sounded legit.
My mind immediately began wandering and I jumped on the interweb to find out what was in talks or in process in Michigan. The only name I recognized was of course Superman/Batman. That production has Ben Affleck and Jesse Eisenberg. It was settled. Ben Affleck was going to be spending the next six months sharing a workspace with me. It had to be it. I was convinced.
I went home (after emailing a few close friends about the potential amazingness) and talked Jasmine’s ear off about how I was going to be over there every day, standing coyly near directors and actors spouting off clever witticisms until somebody inevitably exclaimed that I was brilliantly hilarious and whisked me off to LA to become an overnight success. A success in what? Anything. Everything. I would be the hot new in-demand makeup artist. The screenwriter who shoots to fame and fortune immediately. The quirky best friend in the next five Rom-Coms. Whatever. All I knew was that I was going to stumble into the opportunity of a lifetime without doing any real work for it.
I went on to describe a scenario in which I find myself in a selfie-sandwich between Ben and Jesse. It would explode off the screens of everyone’s Instagram account and I’d be flooded with jealous messages until I had to roll my eyes at my new best friend, Ben and laugh off the “haters”. We’d crack jokes, bang out a quick screenplay that has “Oscar” written all over it (literally, that’s all it says) and slowly fall in love over some Boston lager. We’d have a whirlwind romance that ends in a small beach ceremony. We wouldn’t want to make a big deal about it. Fame is overrated (when you’re famous). We’d have twin baby girls and the pregnancy would change my metabolism so that I can’t help but maintain an amazing physique while diving face first into piles of french fries.
When I came up for air, Jasmine was staring at me, mouth agape. I had a fantasy-blackout. The mere suggestion of the movie industry peeking into my mundane life had me married with children in a matter of minutes. To Ben Affleck. I don’t even particularly like Ben Affleck. I just assumed I would learn to love him over time, since we shared all that talent, fame and fortune. That’s why celebrities always inter-marry. We can’t communicate with civilians.
In reality, as it turns out, my life has no chance of changing overnight.
The production that is interested in renting our facility is not an A-list movie. It’s not a documentary, a Lifetime original or even a fetish-based porn. It’s a daytime television show of the worst kind. It’s Divorce Court. Divorce. Court. This is the lamest possible outcome for my last few days of fantasizing. It’s so lame that even as I was trying to convince myself to keep my hopes down, I never came close to considering the possibility of this level of lameness.
At the very least, it’ll be interesting in a Jerry Springer kind of way. I look forward to many a Tammy or Wanda screaming about child support and infidelity. And I’m sure you do too.