Sometimes, when I’ve been standing behind a camera for three hours, and our eighth guest answers the eighth question in a row about how when you give, you’re really getting back so much more, I begin to daydream.
In one swoop, I’m casting aside my ear piece to the tile floor and lunging for the set. My feet land on the twelve year old maroon and pink rug. The host and 90 year old guests are looking bewildered as I kamikaze everything in sight. I gnaw on a bit of fake bookshelf, shred the plastic fica into bits, and my final move?
“I AM SPARTACUS!!!!”
I scream as I hoist the giant, cartoonish, oil pastel painting that is the center piece above my head, and bust it into splinters over my finally-good-for-something knobby knees. By now I can hear the control room shuffling around in a panic, unhooking from headsets an hoisting themselves off of sunken in rolly chairs. Just as the heavy metal door begins to open, I turn to the set’s bay window where the painting stood, and leap through, only to discover that the cheesy backdrop of the green hill and the setting sun is REAL! I take off in a maniacal sprint up the hill, never to be seen again!
“Cut!” rings through the headpiece that is still on my ear. Just one more show to go.