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As we learned last time, not just writing happens in the writers’ room. A lot happens aside from the usual pitching and note-taking… like quickies. Yes, you heard me correctly… I had just finished typing “Fade Out” on the latest script when the writers broke for lunch. While they were going out to dine on eggplant parmesan and chicken a la king, I was staying in to dine on proper punctuation and spelling a la perfect. My then-boyfriend, Ty, who worked on set, always wanted to come visit me during lunch, but never could -- the writers were always around, I was working, or both. But not today.
I could proof this puppy and actually take a lunch, too. I call him on set. He says he’ll think of a run he has to do to get off set and come see me. Even though we worked together, since both our schedules were so hectic, we’d barely see each other at work. All of our communication was limited to a text here, a call there. He’d sometimes inter-office me stuff from the stage, which was very sweet – but that didn’t replace one-on-one contact, if you know what I mean. ;) We hadn’t had sex in over a week and we were young; we should be in our peek, right, not the opposite. A week may not be long for some people, but it seemed like lightyears to me; I have the hormones of a teenage boy. He came by the writers’ bungalow with a paper plate full of craft service just as I was taping a sign on the door to the bungalow: “Out to Lunch.” He asked how much time we had to eat. Five to fifteen minutes, I said. We sat in the writers’ room, using it as our dining room table of sorts, eating mini roast beef sandwiches, fried chicken, and other set food only a starving assistant could love. But I didn’t want to eat… We started making out… And before we knew it, we were having sex on the writers’ room table. (Yes, you could be typing on that very table now. Sorry.) Every now and again, I would wonder if someone could see us through the windows – or if this studio had cameras in our offices (guess it’s too late to worry about that now, huh?). But, ah well… We weren’t about to stop now… It was the hottest thing ever – until we heard the doorknob turning. Ffffffuck (not just literally anymore). He quickly jumped off of me and zippered up his jeans (as though he had been nearly caught a thousand times before) as I haphazardly buttoned up my shirt and matted down my hair. We both took our seats as before just as one of the writers walked in. “Ty,” she said. “… Hi.” She probably wondered what he was doing here; no one knew we were dating, as there was a big “No Inter-Show Dating” policy. “Hey,” he said back just as the walkie on his belt beeped. “Ty? You back from your run yet?” We all jumped back a bit at the imaginary, Charlie’s Angels-esque voice now talking to us. He grabbed it and said, “Just finished up. I’ll be right there.” At this point, almost all the writers were back, all eyeing Ty, but in a harmless, sing-song, sixth-grade way like, “Ariel has a boyfriend,” not “What the fuck is Ty doing here?” Ty is almost gone when the voice on the other end of the walkie says, “Tell Ariel we say hi.” Um… okay. A bit awkward. Do they know we’re dating, I wondered. I didn’t think so… By this point, the showrunner is ready to start writing again. Ty politely excuses himself and tries to get past him at the door just as “the voice” speaks again. “And Ty?” “Yeah,” he says. “Next time you fuck Ariel at lunch, turn your walkie off.” I don’t know who turned more red – me or Ty. The writer who had first walked in looked around, as though she was trying to guess where we did the dirty deed. I tried to avert eye contact – and looked down at my crookedly buttoned shirt, instead. Shit. Guilty as charged. “And hope you cleaned up after yourselves,” the voice said again, in addition to a bunch of guys laughing along with him. This was mortifying. So much for a hot quickie at lunch… I continued to not make eye contact with anyone as I felt them look from the walkie to us to the table… and then I saw it. A white drop of… something… on the table. Shit. Can this get any worse? And it can’t be what I think it can be… though I think it is. Just then, The Lactating Writer from last week comes in. Since my last blog, she’d gotten a talking to about not spilling her milk all over the office. They all look at her, then the white drop on the table. Then they look back at me. “Shit. Sorry guys,” she says as she grabs a Kleenex and wipes up the “spot.” Bless her heart. The other writers laugh among themselves, not wanting to tell her what she just did. Ty leaves. The showrunner starts talking about plot twists. And I go get the Lysol Wipes…
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