When You Think You’ve Hit Bottom, Look Down

I once explored all seven circles of show business hell, and consequently learned one of Hollywood’s primary lessons: Each time you feel you’ve reached the absolute lowest point of show-business humiliation, you can pretty much count on there being more to come.

Come journey with me, won’t you? Wear something light, though. It’s going to get hotter as we descend to each subterranean show-biz level.

Level One: The increasing popularity of TV reality shows takes up the on-air time slots formerly occupied by sitcoms. This, combined with producers’ increasing desire to hire writers directly out of the womb, makes it substantially more challenging for someone like me--who had been earning his living for years as a writer/producer on sitcom staffs--to find a job.

Level Two: One of the painful realities of being an adult is that just because there are no available jobs in your field, doesn’t mean there are no more monthly expenses. Hence--pressure, tension and stress. Got house payments, a wife and kids? Triple the stress.

Level Three: Flash-forward a few years. After exhausting all efforts to find script-writing work and exhausting all saved income, I register for copywriting work at several employment agencies. At least I’d be using my writing skills, it’s fairly steady work, and it would give me something more productive to do than calling every working producer I know to hear them say there’s nothing for me now, but feel free to call back in four months. Oh, the salary for copywriting work compared to what I’d been making on sitcom staffs? Don’t ask.

Level Four: Day one of my first job in the business world. At a video production company. Well, that’s sort of show business, I tell myself. I’m asked to sit at the front desk and answer phones. I get a call from the boss who is working from home, saying a videotape is going to be delivered. When it arrives, I’m to pop it into the VCR on the desk, turn on the TV and call him. Then, I’m to describe what’s on the video, as he needs the information for an important meeting later that morning.

Level Five: The video arrives. I pop it in, call the boss and start describing what’s on it. In the video, an attractive young woman is reading a book. The doorbell rings and she goes to answer it. It’s an attractive man delivering a package. Flirting ensues. Kissing ensues. Nudity ensues. Lovemaking ensues. Extensive lovemaking with appropriate sound effects. I’m beet-red, as other employees are now observing me describing all this on the phone to the boss, who’s asking detailed follow-up questions.

Level Six: Finally, just as the scene reaches its, er, climax, I say I can’t do this anymore. And just as I’m about to walk out on my first day on the job, a hidden camera crew appears. Turns out I’ve been had. By a reality show. Yes, one of the same reality shows occupying a time slot formerly occupied by the very sitcoms that once employed me. And the employment agency that sent me to work here? Why, naturally, they’d been hired by the reality show to find the most gullible man in California to be humiliated on national television.

Level Seven: One of this reality show’s producers, who comes out to greet me, looks familiar. As well he should, because, coincidentally, we had been fellow story editors and friends for two seasons on one of my sitcoms. I think he sensed my discomfort, because he was as nice and apologetic as possible. In fact, as I was slinking out the door, I distinctly heard him shout out after me, “Give me a call in four months. We may have something for you.”