A.G. Trimes
Reality and Television

<< continued from Part 1

"He owns the place," explained Clark. He was perched on his stool, pointing at Kostas with a forkful of pancake.

"I have a stake. It's my aunt's. She let me buy in."

"No shit." The young man scratched his face. "You know, I always thought it was ironic. How, on that show-Don't Tell Daddy -that was it!" He laughed. "On Don't Tell Daddy your character loved swimming. Then on Race to the Bottom you lost 'cause you couldn't swim fast enough. Getting out of that lake, I mean. You were slow."

"I never thought of it that way. I guess I just recognized the two as different, reality TV and a sitcom."

The young man cocked his head to one side, deep in thought.

"Hey, it's your friend," Clark called, looking up at the television.

On a news channel stood Charlie, quivering, in the center of a manicured lawn. He lifted a forepaw then set it down gently, as if it might break. He ventured the other forepaw, a hindleg, and made progress toward the camera. From behind the dog approached the democratic presidential nominee. His blazer was unbuttoned and his tie fluttered over his white shirt.

The nominee grinned and bent to pet Charlie, who, half-blind, reportedly deaf, had thought he was alone. The old dog staggered forward. With great effort he turned his head as far as it could go, not far enough to meet the nominee's hand, and snapped his jaws. He peed.

The nominee leapt back, both hands in the air.

The footage cut to a press conference with the incumbent. "Oh, I saw the tape," the president confirmed, leaning on a podium. "And let me tell you, that dog is a judge of character. I've had the pleasure of meeting Charlie on a number of occasions and there was nothing like this-in fact, I've never heard of the dog so much as barking at anyone before this. When he's around me, my people? As playful as can be. He knows. You look in his eyes and he knows you." The president nodded while a reporter spoke off camera, then he interrupted, "It's a dog that's met generations of diplomats. All I'm saying is the Dems might want to reconsider their candidate. Maybe Charlie can help them find someone next week. Like I said, the dog knows. He finds someone on that show and maybe I'm in trouble."

The young man slipped off the stool next to Kostas and walked off to the bathrooms.

"You hear that, Clark? The kid didn't know the difference between playing a swimmer and being a swimmer."

Clark shrugged. He pointed back up to the television where analysts were dissecting the footage. "Old Charlie's going to be a reality star."

* * *

"I mean, I really wasn't cut out for reality TV. To thrive there, you have to have no shame. I just didn't fit that mold."

"I don't think that's entirely fair," said the woman. She leaned forward onto the laminate counter, looking past her husband at Kostas. "Yeah, Tilly, Corey. What was that other asshole's name? John, Jord."

"Jordan Grippe," said her husband. The two, not much younger than Kostas, had grown up watching the wholesome network sitcoms. Faithful astronomers, they tracked the stars through headlines, scandals, and into programming created for more mature audiences. They were the Target Demographic. They were connoisseurs.

"Yes, Grippe. Thank you, honey. All of them-shameless. Nice reminders that sometimes we can be wealthy, successful trash. No offense. I don't know if you keep up with any of them or what."

Kostas shook his head, liberating the couple.

"We like watching, living vicariously through their train wreck. And it's all condoned; it's on TV," explained the husband. "People pay millions to produce it. People yearn for us to watch."

Kostas had heard similar analyses before. He drank his coffee.

"Anyway," the wife resumed, "Lauretta was a sweetheart. I wouldn't say she fit the mold either. She did alright, though."

"That's a little different. She didn't have anything to be ashamed of-"

"Hey," the husband broke in, "did you and her have a thing?"

"Let Gus-Kostas, sorry-let Kostas finish his thought, babe. I want to hear his take."

"Thank you. Okay." Kostas rehearsed in his head. He drummed his fingers on the counter to build suspense. "You step onto the set of a scripted show, like Don't Tell Daddy, and you are your character. The actor leaves himself on the other side of the camera. The audience leaves him there, too, if the actor's doing a good job. Reality's a whole different beast; you're no longer an actor so much as you're a person, with a personal history, someone who the audience knows everything about." The couple nodded intently. The man was holding his burger halfway between his plate and his mouth, juices dripping from the patty onto his fries. "Everything any of us did on that set was seen through the lens of our personal histories. What if I've changed, or I behave in a way that doesn't match my history? Well, I signed away my rights and the network can edit the footage-it owns the footage-so it all links up. Now, some of my colleagues, like you suggested, didn't mind too much. They were still those same people who got cited for brandishing a firearm in a McDonald's, who got a DUI on a horse in the middle of Highland Park." Kostas liked to pause here and roll his eyes. He let the husband and wife laugh while he peeled a napkin from the dispenser. He blotted his forehead. "Personally, I hate fast food chains. I'm not much of one for Los Angeles either. Whatever, I'm not judging them. I've made mistakes, speeding in school zones, tossing glass bottles at-whatever." He long ago decided that these examples were relatable and, if he did not speak the harms suffered, acceptable. He felt moisture under his arms. The napkin in his hand was damp, deteriorating from his sweat. Little curls of paper pocked his space at the counter. "But I've learned from my mistakes, I've come down to earth. Hell, I'm here managing my diner now. Some people haven't learned. In other cases, like Lauretta's, there was nothing to learn; she had a moral compass, knew right from wrong. She's the sort of role model who I wish had won. Me, though? I wasn't ready to let a network paint me as someone that I'm not."

Kostas caught his breath. He took a second napkin and wiped up the scraps of the first.

* * *

The ambulance turned into the parking lot and Kostas sprinted outside. "He's in here," he called, propping open the double doors.

Synchronized, the EMTs leapt from the ambulance, retrieved a stretcher and hard plastic cases. Apparatuses glinted from their belts. The blue and red emergency lights twirled in the air and bounced off of the diner's siding. They moved fluidly, like acrobats, up the ADA-compliant ramp.

Clark was sprawled across a vinyl bench in the waiting area, breathing heavily. His cheeks and forehead were stippled with sweat. His gray hair was damp.

"The ambulance is here, Clark," announced Eleni. She stood over him, clutching a glass of ice water with both hands. "You sure you don't want anything to drink?"

Clark wheezed, his eyes wide open.

The EMTs entered. Kostas followed, explaining, "He complained of a tightness, a weight on his chest. I don't know if it was a heart attack or a seizure or a stroke."

"Well, did he seize?" asked one EMT. "Did he pass out?"

"Thank you. Let's just stick to what you observed," said the other. She asked Kostas questions while her and her partner set to work on Clark, loading him onto the stretcher. In minutes they were gone.

It was late on a weeknight and there weren't many customers at the diner.

"He was a good person. I hope he's okay," Kostas said, sitting at the counter. "Do we have to fill out paperwork? For insurance, I mean."

"He was-is-a good customer and he liked to listen to your stories." "What do you mean?"

"Does he donate to charities? Does he volunteer?" said Eleni. "I don't know these things. But he was friendly and tipped well."

"Really? The guy just had-something just happened to the guy and you're correcting me? I feel like we may need to file a claim."

Eleni shrugged. "I think we should speak accurately. Tragedy doesn't change what we know about a person. Do you want some?" She held up a bottle of wine.

Kostas nodded.

She poured and spoke. "You have a habit of putting people on pedestals. That girl from the show-"

"Is now the time? No."

>> click to read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

>> back to Issue 23, 2020