Page 4 of The Holiday Games

“Oh my God,” Ainsley mutters, her already pale face now ghostly white beneath her brown bangs. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

I sigh, trying to work up the will to step in and take care of this. I’m the creatorandproducer here. This show is my first big solo project with major financial backing, my chance to prove that Americans can make a tasteful reality show a la The Great British Bake Off instead of devolving into violence, scheming, and melodrama.

But Meredith and Hannah clearly didn’t get the memo, and all I can think as tiny finger sandwiches and scones begin to fly across the room, is “this can’t be my life.”

It just can’t.

I’m a writer. A comedy writer, no less. I spent three years with Sketch Night Live and even wrote a movie for one of their most popular characters before transitioning to a gig as head writer at the Sandy Saunders Skit Show. There, I honed my craft as a monologue and sketch creator, delighting television audiences with work that made people laugh and feel and think.

I never wanted it to end…

For a long time, it didn’t seem it would. Sandy was a titan of the comedy scene, who ran a tight ship. She didn’t drink or do drugs and maintained close ties with all the top comics in the country, ensuring an endless supply of famous guest stars who kept the audience tuning in every week.

Then, she had to go and have a thirty-something crisis and sleep with her sister’s stepson. Herstep-nephew. He’d only been her step-nephew for a few months and was twenty—legal, if justbarely—but it was too much for the public to take. The court of public opinion ripped Sandy limb from limb, leaving nothing but a few sequins from her iconic pantsuit and a clump of bleached blond hair.

That clump of hair is now happily retired to an island in the Caribbean, with its step-nephew, having a fabulous time. The pictures Sandy sends to our former co-worker group chat are filled with sun, sand, and lobsters she’s teaching to do underwater ballet.

Meanwhile, I spent six months pounding the pavement without a nibble from any of the comedy shows still in production. Times are hard in sketch entertainment and there just aren’t as many writing jobs as there used to be, even for veterans of the scene.

That’s how I found myself producing a season of Horny Housewives for the Realer than Real channel. The original producer had a heart attack—probably from the stress of listening to the horny housewives scream at each other for five seasons straight—and I stepped in to take over the reins. I’d never produced before, but my emergency savings was running out, I needed a job, and the Realer than Real people were desperate.

I expected I’d muddle through one season, save every penny, and be ready to look for another job again when I was inevitably fired.

But unfortunately…I did a fabulous job.

Turns out, I’m really good at getting candid confessions from horny housewives. So good, that I lost three years of my life to the mind-numbing drama.

If this show isn’t such a hit that my network or some other purveyor of reality television immediately buys it and orders more episodes, I’ll be back for a fourth season with the horndogs starting FebruaryFourteenth. (The housewives arealways especially frisky on Valentine’s Day and the network wants to take advantage of that to craft a banging episode—pun intended.)

If I have to go back, it will kill the last of the artist inside of me and snuff out what little sense of humor I have left.

If I have to go back…

I shake my head, banishing the thought. I can’t waste time staring into the void right now. I have a tasteful reality show to save. And it will betasteful,damn it, even if I have to babysit these contestants twenty-four seven to make sure they don’t do something stupid and crass.

“That’s enough!” I shout with enough volume to make Trevor, the boom mic operator, flinch and whip off his headphones. “Sorry, Trevor,” I say, lowering my voice slightly. But only slightly. I have Meredith and Hannah’s attention now, and I don’t want to lose it. “Meredith, Hannah, you’re both out.”

Meredith’s jaw drops. “But she’s the one who?—”

“You threw the first punch,” I cut in as I shift my glare Hannah’s way. “And you showed your true colors. We don’t tolerate verbal attacks or foul language on this set.”

Hannah mutters something about people not having a sense of humor anymore, to which Kara, our costume consultant calls out, “Calling someone a trashy ‘c- word’ with a nappy weave isn’t funny, girl. It’s mean,” making me proud of my crew.

The people working behind the scenes on Innkeeping with You: Holiday Games Edition are a diverse group, from every background and walk of life, but they all have three things in common—they work hard, they know my cranky side isn’t anything to be afraid of, and they’re kind.

Kindness is important. Even when I was writing raunchy jokes at some pop star’s expense back on the Sandy show, I did my best to keep my verbal punches playful, not hurtful.

I’m not about to spend another two weeks with garbage people, not even to save this show.

“Eric, escort Meredith back to the hotel to pack her things and get her on a flight out of LaGuardia this afternoon. Grace, do the same for Hannah, please, but book her out of JFK.” I divide my attention between the women as I add, “Since the two of you can’t act like adults, we’ll separate you like toddlers until you’re out of our city.”

“I’d better get my check or I’m going to share everything I know about your stupid show on my socials,” Hannah says as Grace, one of our junior production assistants, comes to stand beside her. “And I have six thousand followers!”

“Violate your non-disclosure agreement and we’ll sue you into the ground,” I say with a smile. I wave as Grace guides her out the door onto the quiet Chelsea street outside. “Goodbye, Hannah. Make better choices.”

“I’m sorry,” Meredith says, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Please don’t make me go. I can be good again. I promise. I just have a lot of unresolved anger. Mostly from my childhood, I think.”

“Then you should probably deal with that before it lands you in jail for assault,” I say in a gentler voice. “You’re lucky Hannah’s too focused on getting a check to think of pressing charges againstyou. Go home, and take care of yourself, okay? A check for the first three days of filming will be sent to the address on file.”

---