Free Unscripted by Jayne Denker

Sinclair Joins Random Shit Productions!’”
Although I hated to burst their bubble, I wasn’t about to shout to the rooftops that this was how I was spending my free time, so I fixed him with a stern look. “Let’s keep this, um . . . under wraps for now, okay? I’m just helping you out unofficially. Now, I’m assuming you don’t have any stock options yet . . .” They looked at one another rather guiltily, as though they should have had some to offer. “So I’ll accept payment in coffee runs. Frequent coffee runs.”
They both breathed a sigh of relief. “Cool,” Evan smiled.
* * *
You know, there’s always a lot of talk about people who hit “rock bottom” before turning their lives around. Granted, it’s usually reserved for serious addicts, not someone like me who had experienced a mighty comedown in a professional sense, but it applied all the same. Random Shit Productions was my rock bottom.
Sure, when I had signed on with them I had been all sorts of arrogant, thinking I could teach these whippersnappers a thing or two about writing witty shorts that would get them on the map. I sneered at their fresh-from-the-curb-on-garbage-day furnishings. I rolled my eyes at their wide-eyed optimism. I looked down my nose at their (lack of a) business plan, misguided perception of the entertainment industry, and just about everything else.
But in the end, I had to admit that the whole thing had me beat. And it only took a few weeks. And half the time I didn’t even show up for “work,” just sent them ideas and suggestions . . . and, more often than I cared to admit, admonishments that they freakin’ get their act together or give up on the idea entirely. I had a bad habit of being a bit scoldy. And a bit of a control freak.
Maybe it was the vast divide between what these hipster frat boys saw as clever, humorous, and production-worthy and what I thought was worth their time, effort, and pixels. Or maybe it was the fact that when I’d offered to help them out, I had been more interested in filling my days than actually getting RSP off the ground. All I knew was the Grand Canyon came to mind when we tried brainstorming ideas. Our sessions went something like this:
One of them: “We can interview homeless people—”
Me: “No.”
Them: “But it’ll be funny—”
Me: “No.”
“Okay. We get a cat—”
“Oh no.”
“And we put vodka in its water bowl. It’ll be like Maru, right? But a drunk Maru!”
“No!”
“Jump out at people wearing a gorilla mask?”
“Bad idea.”
“And flash ’em.”
“Bad idea and illegal.”
“Secretly film our hot female neighbor.”
“Also illegal. And that’s a dude, by the way.”
And then the inevitable digression:
“Didja ever wonder if strippers get dizzy going around that pole?”
“Dude, I am so there!”
The boys together: “Vomiting strippers!”
Aaaand I was out.
Repeated scenes like this, albeit with slight variations (very slight), made me wonder not only what I had gotten myself into, but why I ever thought I would be able to communicate with a pair of individuals who were, at twenty-five years of age or so, nearly fifteen years younger than me. Even though Modern Women had a lot of younger fans, when I was one on one with twentysomethings, I found myself as confused as an octogenarian with a smartphone.
This wasn’t the first time I’d had this problem. Back when I was stupid about Alex, I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter that he was ten years younger than me. I told myself that he was different—insightful, sensitive, even mature for his years. Whatever it took, right? But I was lying to myself, and I knew it. The times we truly connected were rare. Our moment with the Hershey’s Kisses was one. Our moment at the first season’s wrap party was another.
As the first season drew to a close, I wasn’t sure we were going to be renewed, although the preliminary signs pointed to yes. When we got the official confirmation, I knew we