A Not So Model Home Read Online Free Page B

shot into their steps in order to secure a chair near where they figured Ian would sit—at the head of the table, naturally. Then, within seconds after entering the room, you could see the faces fall like so many shoddy apartment buildings in a Chinese earthquake. There were place cards on the table indicating where everyone should sit. Based on the slight mouth movements, you could tell there was a chorus of “shits” being uttered at frequencies only dogs could hear. Once everyone was seated, the show began. Once, that is, Ian took his seat. Everyone managed to flash a smile at Ian and score a point or two, depending on the whiteness of their teeth. The sets of choppers on some of the guys were so white they could have starred on episodes of Baywatch . My porcelain toilet should shine so brilliantly.
    Jeremy began, “I’d again like to welcome you all to the show. Let me tell you a little about the concept of the show and the arc we hope to follow.” This comment fell on a sea of blank stares. Jeremy, ever in a world of his own making, continued unabated, “But before we begin, Ian would like to have his spiritual advisor bless our undertaking. Ian?” he said, giving way to Ian with the wave of his hand.
    â€œThank you. As some of you know, I am a very, very spiritual man,” he said, holding up the string of black wooden beads he was wearing around his neck this morning as proof. “So I have asked my spiritual guru, the Sai Baba Shu Baba, to bless us as we begin this remarkable journey today. Several of the guys rolled their eyes, no doubt familiar with Ian’s whirlybird spiritual explorations that were pounced on as soon as they became fashionable, then discarded just as quickly as last season’s Dolce & Gabbana. Buddhism, Cabala, Scientology, Mayan. In one day, out the next.
    From behind a curtain emerged a man dressed in an orange Nehru-collared silky shirt with an enormous Afro. He looked like an Indian Phil Spector—without the guns. His face was henna-decorated with supposedly mystical symbols, one of which looked awfully close to a dollar symbol. He stood and raised his hands as if to welcome his gathered faithful. Ian actually got up from his chair where he held court in order to prostrate himself and kiss the guru’s Gucci loafers. (I noticed, since my ex had a pair just like them.) This was probably the first time that the people present had ever seen Ian humble himself.
    The guru or swami or whatever he was began talking in a foreign language, chuckled to himself several times, raised his arms up toward the ceiling a lot, then departed.
    The man who was sitting next to me whispered in my ear, “That little charade will cost Ian $5,000, plus travel expenses.”
    â€œI’m in the wrong business,” I whispered back.
    â€œI’m David.”
    â€œAmanda here,” I said, offering my hand to shake.
    Ian was trying hard to appear that he was at peace, closing his eyes and holding the palms of his hands skyward. “You may continue, Jeremy.”
    â€œThe show, the show . . .” Jeremy mused. “Think of a cross between The Real Housewives of Orange County and Top Chef ! It’s a slice-of-life reality show and a competitive show at the same time—a powerful hybrid. The show is what we in the industry call soft scripted. That means it’s not written by costly and temperamental members of the Writers Guild of America. Instead, we have a loose plan of where we want the arc of the show to go, and on each episode, we have a loose plan where we might suggest certain actions we would like each cast member to take based on what happened on the previous episode or earlier in a day of shooting!”
    I thought to myself, They’re going to make it up as they go along and convince everyone within earshot that what they’re doing is brilliant and spontaneous.
    Jeremy continued, “Each day, we’ll be shooting with