It Gets Worse Page 12

  After the fight, Lauren and I made up and went out to eat. That was our usual pattern. We would scream and yell, she would cry, I would tell her she’s not my mother, then we would go out to an Italian restaurant and order three bread baskets. Our fights were always long because we were both so stubborn. Sometimes we wouldn’t even come to a conclusion. We would just get tired and super hungry, give up, and get pizza. It was our routine, and we were both used to it. Only later did I realize it was just me that was used to it. At the time, I had no idea the long-lasting effects it’d have on our relationship. But we’ll get to that later.

  During dinner we reminisced about the last few years and how far we’d come. The fact that we were making a movie was blowing our minds. What was even more mind-blowing was the fact that Lauren wasn’t in an insane asylum for all the crazy shit I had made her do for me.

  LAUREN: Do you remember the time you made me buy one thousand condoms from the 99 cent store for that video shoot?

  ME: Oh ya. Just think, before you came along it was my mom who had to do all the prop shopping.

  LAUREN: That explains your twisted relationship.

  ME: Remember when you had to pick up that little-person actor from Hollywood Boulevard and bring him to my house?

  LAUREN: You just HAD to write a video that called for a little person who looked like 50 Cent, didn’t you?

  ME: Hey, I had no idea he was going to make you pick him up.

  LAUREN: When he got in my car he asked if he could pee in my empty coke bottle.

  ME: Ya, I miss that little guy. Where do you think he is?

  LAUREN: Literally dead.

  ME: Probs.

  The next two months of filming the movie were a blur. Then it was over. We had shot our first film, and it was amazing. I’d made so many awesome friends, and I had so many first experiences. First time directing a movie, first time in a starring role, first time living away from home, first time having a homeless person ask me if I was Jodie Foster (winter coats make me look very established), and last but not least, first time receiving confirmation that this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I knew after that experience that I wanted to make movies forever and I wanted to make them with Lauren. Unfortunately the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  Those first few months back in LA were extremely hard on me. Not only did I break up with my longtime girlfriend, but I was dealing with a lot of personal issues. Being in Pittsburgh had felt like a vacation even though I was working, and once I came home, reality set in and it set in hard. Life wasn’t a movie, it wasn’t a reality show, it was a long, complicated stage play, and there’s nothing I hate more than stage plays.

  When The Chair finally aired, my whole life changed. Not because I became super famous or anything, but because I saw what everyone else did when they looked at me: a sometimes intense, dark guy with a lot of issues. On YouTube I can edit myself, and I can show the audience what I want them to see. On a reality-TV set, they are filming you all the time and you have no control over how you appear on-screen. Even though Lauren had warned me about this early on, I failed to consider it while we were filming because I was so focused on making my first movie. I wish I had thought about it more, because the number of double-chin angles that showed up in the final cut was horrifying.

  One particular episode that was really hard to stomach was one in which Lauren and I got into a fight we didn’t realize was being filmed. It was a fight I had forgotten about. A fight that wasn’t unusual or out of the ordinary for us to have. But watching it made me sick.

  The fight started because Lauren was rushing me through something because we were running out of time. Instead of understanding that she was just trying to help me accomplish everything I wanted to in the time allotted, I snapped at her and it turned into World War III. Granted she wasn’t innocent either—there were probably much better ways for her to tell me to hurry up—but we were both in a high-stress environment. On the drive back to our apartment building in Pittsburgh she cried while she explained to me how much it hurt that I’d yelled at her in front of everyone. I felt like complete shit at the time, but it wasn’t until I watched it unfold on TV that I didn’t just feel like shit. I felt like shit AND throw up.

  The next day Lauren came over to my house to have a talk with me. I assumed maybe she wanted to talk about the episode because I know I did. But what she had to say was something I didn’t see coming.

  LAUREN: I got a job offer.

  ME: What?

  LAUREN: There’s a company that wants to hire me. And I think I want to take it.

  In that moment our whole time working together flashed before my eyes. The good times, the bad times, the times we both tried the Paleo diet. All of it was flashing by, and I couldn’t contain my tears. She wasn’t just my producer, she was my best friend. And the thought of losing her was too much to put into words.

  ME: But . . . why?

  LAUREN: I love you, Shane. But I need to move on. I can’t do it anymore. I want to have kids, go home at a decent hour every day. I really need a change.

  ME: But I thought you wanted to make movies with me forever.

  LAUREN: I did. But then we made one, and I realized it’s not where my heart is. I don’t want to live in a constant state of stress and worry about a million things at once. And all the fighting over the last few years has really worn me down.

  ME: But I thought we were over that? We always get over it, don’t we?

  LAUREN: You get over it, Shane. It still affects me. I’m not twentysomething anymore. I’m tired. You know I love you so much. It’s not just you. It’s everything. But before I take this job I want to know your feelings.

  My feelings were all over the place, but my main feeling was that I wanted her to be happy and that if this new job was what she needed to smile every day, then that’s what I wanted for her.

  ME: Take it.

  Her face froze in shock. She started to tear up.

  LAUREN: Really?

  ME: Ya. I just want you to be happy.

  I broke down in tears and she grabbed me for a hug.

  LAUREN: I don’t want you to hate me.

  ME: I could never hate you. You’re family to me.

  After about thirty minutes of hugging and crying she left and I sat on my couch and let it all sink i n. Being on a reality show changed my life in more ways than I could have imagined. Not only did I finally see what I looked like from behind (not good), I saw how I treated the people I was closest to when I was stressed, and it was something I wanted to change. I never try to be mean, but when I’m in work mode I have a habit of letting my passion explode out of my body like fireworks out of a cardboard tube. Losing Lauren made me realize it was time to change and time to start to get a handle on my emotions.

  To this day we are still friends, and who knows, maybe we will work together again at some point. But one thing is for sure, it won’t be on a reality show, because between my double chin and her fedora, it’s way too BAD and way too SAD for TV. Even for my DVR.

  The Tale of Big Lady Bertha

  About the Artist

  LAURA KEECH is a seventeen-year-old from Linden, Michigan, who has been practicing art all her life. She was born in Italy, lived in Moscow, Russia, for five years, then moved to the United States, where she began developing her talent. After Laura struggled for years to decide on a career to pursue, Shane’s recognition of her drawings helped her to decide to pursue a career in art. You can follow her art page on Instagram @lauras_arts.

  I’ve never been a car guy. When I was growing up I remember the men in my family all being obsessed with them. My dad would always have a beat-up car in the driveway with the hood lifted and rusty wires falling out all over the place. Sometimes I would try to act interested, but after about five minutes I would run out of car terms and just start babbling.

  ME: Ya, Dad, that engine looks like the . . . faggeterator is broken.

  DAD: Why are you out here?

 
; ME: You’re right. I’m gonna go inside and learn how to cross-stitch.

  DAD: That makes more sense.

  To this day when I’m buying a new car I don’t have many preferences. My only requirement is that it’s big enough to hold at least ten full Target bags but not big enough to help a friend move. That’s my nightmare. I Uber to all my friends’ houses because I’m terrified of them finding out I own a truck. The last thing I want is to spend a weekend helping one of my friends move their damp smelly mattress down a flight of stairs. I’d rather crochet a noose and hang myself with it.

  When I was a kid I remember all the boys on my street would play with Hot Wheels and have races with each other. I was more interested in knives and stabbing them into the ground to see how it felt to kill somebody. I found that grass is the most satisfying. Lots of layers to get through and a nice RIPPING sound when you pull it out. I think that explains why I didn’t have many friends.

  Our first family car I remember getting remotely excited about was a truck that my dad purchased when I was around seven. It was near the end of my parents’ marriage, and I’m pretty sure it was my dad’s midlife crisis on wheels. It was a bright red pickup truck with a huge shell over the back. When you opened up the back there was carpeting, a couch, and even a mini fridge. At the time I thought it was the coolest thing ever. A little hangout inside of a truck! How cool is that? It’s like a clubhouse on wheels! Now looking back, I realize he was probably planning his escape and wanted something mobile to live in. Wow.

  Anyways, on my sixteenth birthday it was time for me to get my license and my first car. Hopefully something with a couch. At that age my mom was getting on my nerves, so it was a relief to consider a getaway plan.

  It was eight in the morning and I had just woken up to the sound of my mom singing me a slightly altered version of the happy birthday song.

  MOM: Happy birthday to Shaney. He’s my little man-ey. He’s now turning sixteen. I can’t wait for him to have babies!

  My mom had started pushing for grandkids the second I hit puberty. I’m not sure why she wanted smaller versions of me. The jumbo size seemed like enough. As I walked out to the kitchen, my mom was making pancakes shaped like the number sixteen. She wasn’t the best cook, so they looked more like a cartoon wheelchair, but I wasn’t picky. If it was edible, I’d eat it. Even if it wasn’t edible, I would eat it. My favorite kind of pancakes are the ones that are drippy in the middle. I can’t believe I have never had my stomach pumped. What a tiny miracle. As I scarfed down my edible handicapped parking sign, my mom sat down and helped me prep for my driving test that I was going to be taking that day.

  MOM: Ok, what do you do if a streetlight goes out while you are driving up to it?

  ME: Freak out and wonder if the rapture is coming?

  MOM: No, that’s only if ALL the streetlights go out.

  ME: Right.

  MOM: You just treat the intersection as a four-way stop sign.

  ME: What if there’s no one around? Can I just go through it?

  MOM: Do the calories in a pack of Oreos still count if it’s midnight and no one sees you eat it?

  Damn it. From experience I knew they did. I was terrified of this driving test. I was a pretty good student in school, but for some reason the driving classes were really challenging for me. It might have been because I had an insane instructor. I remember on that first day of class, when he gave me our assignment for the day, I knew it wasn’t going to work out.

  INSTRUCTOR: Ok, so today you are going to drive me to Big Lots ’cause they got a sale on plates and cups, and then you are gonna drive me to my ex-girlfriend Rhonda’s house to pick up my last box of shit from her place. If I’m in there for longer than five minutes, assume some shit went down and start the car so we can get out fast. Got it?

  ME: Where do I get a bus pass?

  It was time for my driving test, and my mom and I pulled into the DMV parking lot while a Kelly Clarkson anthem blared from our CD player. No song was more perfect for this moment than “Breakaway.” I truly was going to spread my wings and learn how to fly. Hopefully I wouldn’t fly into oncoming traffic and kill me and my instructor. Although if I worked at the DMV, I might have wanted someone to fly me into traffic. I got up to the front desk and they assigned me to my person. She looked nice and nonthreatening, so I was excited. This was going to be a piece of cake! And then she opened her mouth.

  DMV WORKER: You got air-conditioning? My pits are dripping more than a turkey in a rotisserie cooker.

  As delicious as that metaphor sounded, I had a feeling she was going to be a nightmare. We got into my car and she pulled out her wallet. She opened it up, and there was a picture of her and three children.

  DMV WORKER: You see them? Those are my kids. My life is in your hands today. If you crash and take me into the fiery beyond, you aren’t just disappointing your family. You are destroying these children’s lives and leaving them in the custody of their piece of shit father who doesn’t even know their names. He calls one of them Eggplant ’cause he says that’s what her head looks like.

  I looked at the picture, and I knew exactly which girl he called Eggplant. Why would God do that to a child? Heartbreaking. We started the test and at first it was going pretty well. I actually wasn’t as nervous as I thought I would be. I made all the correct turns, did all the right motions, and even stopped for a cat that was running across the street. Lucky for me, my instructor was for sure a cat lady, so that got me some extra points. As we pulled back into the DMV parking lot she looked at me with the picture of her family in her hand.

  DMV WORKER: They thank you for not killing their momma.

  I looked at the picture of frowning vegetable-shaped children and gave it a thumbs-up. She handed me my test results, and I passed with flying colors. It was time for me to hit the road and take over the world, or at least take over the nearest drive-thru for some celebratory milk shakes.

  The next day it was time for me to pick out my first car. I had saved up for a while, and my mom was going to help me with the down payment. We didn’t really have enough for anything fancy, but I was ok with that. I’m not a fancy guy. As long as there was a way to play Kelly Clarkson as loud as humanly possible I would be satisfied. We went to a used-car lot and scoped out our choices. Most of the cars looked like they had been stepped on by the foot of God, but there was one car that looked almost decent. It was a beige deep-fried-colored four-door Chevy Malibu with only three dents in the hood instead of twelve, like the other options.

  MOM: You know what that looks like?

  ME: A big chicken nugget with a few nibbles in the hood.

  She looked it over again.

  MOM: Yes. Yes, it does. Interesting. But what I was going to say was . . . a WINNER!

  I agreed, and we gave each other a victory hug. My first car and it was all mine! Well, technically it was also my mom’s, since she helped me pay for it. And it was also anyone’s who had owned it before me and left their numerous stains in the backseat, but either way, I was excited. That afternoon after we left the dealership it was time for me to take my first ride with it alone. I got inside the car and just looked around for a few minutes. I soaked it all in and couldn’t believe I had my own car. It felt like just yesterday I had played with Hot Wheels, pretending there was a little me inside driving. Wait, that wasn’t my life. That was a normal boy’s. I had crocheted sweaters for our chinchilla.

  As I sat in my new ride I decided it was time to give it a gender and a name. I have a thing about naming inanimate objects. My bed at the time was named Nana, because lying on it was like snuggling into a big old-lady hug. My TV’s name was Freddie Prinze Jr. because it rarely worked. I even named my toilet Dr. Phil, because it was full of shit. So naming my car was a big deal, and it had a lot to live up to. I pressed my palms against the dashboard and tried to feel its personality. The car was definitely a she. The second I entered her I knew that she had a feminine vibe. There was a softness to her but
also a bitchiness that I liked. Her seats were comfortable but every once in a while a spring would pop up and stab me in the ass. I liked her sassiness. She was also large and in charge and wasn’t afraid to speak her truth. She was pretty loud with her squeaky breaks and old engine, so you always knew when she was coming. I started speaking to her to see if a name might just pop out.

  ME: Hey, beautiful. How are you feeling? Do you feel good? Are you ready to hit the town and make all the boys stare?

  Her engine purred like a kitten and vibrated my entire body.

  ME: How old are you? Are you an angsty teenager? Or are you a wise, older woman?

  She made a humming sound as her engine started to settle. She seemed relaxed. Comfortable. Ready to explore. As I looked around the interior I noticed all the tears and rips. She had gone through so much. She wasn’t a young un’; she was older and wise. Fender benders, family fights, drunken mistakes, and from one stain that caught my eye a possible child birth. This wasn’t any average woman. This was an elder. The name hit me, and I knew it was perfect for her.

  ME: I’m going to call you Big Lady Bertha.

  POP POP POP. Her engine let out a noise of excitement. I could tell she agreed with the name choice. It was time for Shane and Bertha to begin their new life together.

  That night I called my friends and told them the news that I had gotten a car, so we decided to all go out and have the time of our lives. I picked up my friends Tara, Kelley, and Katy for the first time. I felt like a pimp picking up my ladies. Except none of them wanted to have sex with me, and there’s no way a pimp would ever drive a car with a cupcake freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. As they climbed in, they looked around the car and freaked out.