We Interrupt this Transition

CHAPTER FOUR: Talent Management

“Hello. This is Dr. Pranav Vadekar’s office. How can I help you?” said the cheerful receptionist. 

“Yes, uh, this is a bit unusual, but is this the same Dr. Vanekar who used to work on the television shows ‘Surgery Makeover’ and ‘Plastic Surgery Disaster Repair Squad’?” 

The cheer in the receptionists’ voice immediately evaporated.

“It depends on who’s calling.”

“Oh, right. I’m Jimmy Howard, I’m working on a reality TV project with Garden Alpha that may involve plastic surgery. I was wondering if I could maybe ask Dr. Vadekar if he would be open to a consultation so that we could talk about his experiences on the previous shows? We have not yet been greenlit, so this would just be an information session.”

“If there’s a number that he can get back to you on, I’ll leave a message for him.”

“Yes. Oh, right.” Jimmy left his number. 

“And is there anything that you can tell me about the project that I can pass onto him?” 

“One second.” Jimmy went deep into the tank to think about that one. “I can’t tell you much, but you should know we’re reaching out to him because we are deeply scared of screwing this up and ruining someone’s life.”

That took the receptionist by surprise.

***

Dr. Pranav Vadekar invited Sam, Jimmy, and Sheri into his plush, old-school doctor’s office, filled with pictures of successful before and after photos, old wood-paneled bookcases with medical journals, and a large mahogany desk.

“So,” said the doctor. “Before we begin with the consultation, I need to know: Will I need a stiff drink before this is over?” 

Sheri and Sam said “Yes” in unison. 

Dr. Vadekar opened up one of the drawers of his desk, and pulled out a crystal brandy decanter and poured himself a shot. He then held it in his fingers for a while, not yet drinking it, letting it breathe.  

“So. I was afraid this day would finally come,” said Dr. Vadekar with the somber tone usually reserved for informing innocent townspeople that the unspeakable evil once sealed by seven wise men had broken its curse and was going to return for their children and livestock. “You’re bringing back surgery TV.” 

“It’s… not… about surgery. Not primarily,” said Sam. “But surgery… might be a big part of it.” 

“Oh?”

“I’m just going to rip off the bandaid, Sam,” said Sheri. “The show isn’t about people who want cosmetic procedures. It’s about… who would endure certain cosmetic procedures.”

Dr. Vadekar blinked. 

“For money,” added Sheri. 

Dr. Vadekar put down his glass.

“And you say that you want to make sure you do this ethically?”

The three of them nodded. 

Dr. Vadekar decided to increase the volume of brandy currently in the glass.

“Before you get too much into the details, how much research have you done into surgery TV?”

“Not as much as we should,” said Jimmy. “That’s why we’re hoping you can give us some insight.”

Pranav thought to himself, then sipped at the brandy. 

“Right. You have to understand. It was a different time. It was just after the September 11th attacks. And people… they didn’t want things that made them think. They wanted things that made them feel good, because it was a dark time for American culture.”

Sam looked over at Sheri and Jimmy. She was only twelve when the attacks happened, and they were in a completely different country, to boot. She wondered what it must have been like. 

“I remember back then. That’s when I got my biggest breaks, actually, as a game show host.” said Jimmy. “Right after nine-eleven. I guess I never made the connection.” 

Jimmy shrugged.

“People like game shows,” said Jimmy. “It’s always fun on a game show. And I knew how to make people feel good about themselves, knew how to lighten the mood, how to have fun, even when you don’t feel it yourself. I saw myself as making people happier for a few moments once a week. What’s wrong with that, really?” 

“Nothing,” said Dr. Vadekar, “nothing in moderation. But you know how when you get stressed out, your body craves high-calorie, high-sugar, high-fat comfort foods? It’s not healthy and can lead to problems down the road, but it makes you feel better in the moment?”

“That’s what happened in 2001 and for the few years following. A bad cultural diet. America didn’t want shows that made us think,” said the physician.

“That’s somewhat true in any time period,” said Sam, who was familiar with all the concepts that worked great in British television but failed miserably with American audiences because the shows were too ‘smart’. 

“But it was worse back then,” continued Dr. Vadekar. “We only wanted things that made us feel good. Reality TV… and game shows… made them feel good. Wish fulfillment. Become America’s next top ultramodel. Survive on a desert island. Race around the world. And then there’s the dark side: gathering around the outcast. Feeling superior to others. Look at that woman hoarding everything, or that poor fool on the Jerry Springer show.”

Sam nodded, thinking about the disaster that was the Jeremy Kyle show back in the UK.

“Surgery TV was like freebasing both at once. You felt superior to the less than conventionally attractive people who came in. And then an element of fantasy fulfillment at work - get surgery, look better, and poof, all your problems are solved. And because there was money to be made selling ads, production companies ran with it. ‘The Swan’. ‘Addicted to Beauty.’ ‘Extreme Makeover’. ‘I Want a Famous Face’. ‘Bridalplasty.’”

Dr. Vadekar closed his eyes, and sighed. 

“It’s - and I’m using this word, deliberately, as a medical professional - it’s bullshit of the most odious and noxious. Of course, TV creates the illusion that it solves the problems. You only have 45 minutes per episode, after all, so you create a happy ending in the editing room.”

Dr. Vadekar finished the brandy in the glass.

“And I was complicit, yes. ‘Surgery Makeover’ and ‘Plastic Surgery Disaster Repair Squad’? I should have never done it. I thought I was helping people. But these shows were never about helping people. It was about the drama. I had to keep fighting back against the show’s associate producers, wanting the most dramatic storylines played up at the expense of the patient.” 

“The only thing that I pride myself on,” said the doctor, “was that I demanded that my patients be treated with respect. That they not be pressured into getting operations they didn’t want. I heard some horror stories about contestants on these shows wanting a simple nose job and then being pressured to agree to be in the O-R for eight to ten hours. And though I regret taking part in it - I did some good work. There was this one girl who was shot in the face by a school shooter - and I was able to give her back her confidence.”

“See, that’s the thing, cosmetic surgery isn’t just supermodels and rich people trying to use money to fight the natural process of aging,” said Dr. Vadekar. “For people whose appearance is… perhaps shocking or alien, maybe to others, maybe to themselves… it can be a godsend.”

As one of those people whose own appearance was shocking and alien to herself and others, Sheri couldn’t help but feel a little pang of emotional pain, and she grabbed Sam’s hand for support, which surprised Sam a little bit.  

“So. That’s the baseline that I’m working from. That’s my overall overview of the entire sordid genre. Would I work again in television? Maybe. I don’t know. Depends on the project. Depends on what exactly you want to do, and how you want to approach it.” 

Sam looked to her left, to Jimmy, and then to her right, to Sheri. 

“Our project… It’s worse than you think,” said Jimmy.

Dr. Vadekar looked straight into Jimmy’s eyes.

“Tell me.”

***

“Hello, this is Daria Bryant. Who am I speaking to, please?” 

“Hello Ms. Bryant, this is Claudia Benson at WMX Management. We’re following up on a request from a Samuel Culver, said that you were his contact at Garden Alpha. Before we respond, we wanted to confirm that you are working with him?”

“Ah. First, Sam is short for ‘Samantha’.”

“Darn. Sorry.”

“Secondly, yes, I am Sam Culver’s contact at Garden Alpha. The brief you’ve gotten is legitimate.” 

A pause at the other end of the line. 

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.” 

“In that case, we may have someone you may want to consider for the position of host. Erin Cochran.”

“I’m not familiar with her.”

“She’s C-list. You’ll recognize her face, if not her name. She has over 15 acting credits, most on network. Mostly corpses.”

“Corpses?”

“Victims on shows like Crime Scene, and Jurisprudence & Process.” 

“Has she ever done any reality work?”

“She was on ‘The Vocalist’. Had a pretty deep run, too. Third place.” 

“It would have to be Sam’s call. And she’d have to come in for an audition.”

“Not a problem. We’ll make the arrangements.”

***

Dr. Vadekar looked over at the clock opposite his desk, after hearing Jimmy and Sam try their best to explain what they were proposing, with occasional interruptions from Sheri about how it might be a bad idea, but if they didn’t do it, someone with less scruples would.

He was looking at the clock, because, in fifteen seconds, he would no longer be on the clock as a professional medical consultant. 

“I’m afraid we have to wrap up at this point. But do please stay in the office, I do wish to continue this conversation,” said the doctor. 

“Okay?” asked Sam. 

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. 

Dr. Vadekar listened for the little chime that signaled it was five p.m. ‘Ting!’ the clock emitted. 

“Right,” said the doctor. “First. We are now no longer on the clock. Which means that I am no longer acting in a professional capacity. Because of that, feel free to call me Pranav.” 

“Secondly,” said Pranav, “now that I am no longer acting in a professional capacity, I can tell you that you are out of your fucking minds.” 

“I agree,” said Sheri. “Well, that’s it then. Thank you for your time, Doctor.” 

Shari started to get up, but Sam put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Doctor Vadekar…,” started Sam.

“Pranav.”

“Pranav. Everything, and I mean everything would be done on consenting adults. The only pressure on them would not be from medical professionals egging them on. We want them to drop out. We don’t want the drama. Or at least, not the kind of drama you may be thinking of.” 

“You want to perform gender disaffirming surgery on people!” 

“I think what Sam is getting at,” said Jimmy. “Is that we don’t want to. The point of the show, at least the way that Daria - she’s the director of unscripted programming at Garden Alpha - is to prove that cisgender people wouldn’t transition. Wouldn’t go through it. Not even for the proverbial ‘million dollars’. And that conversely, trans people need to.”

Pranav looked directly at Sheri. 

“So. Sheri, was it?”

Sheri nodded.

“Tell me what you think of this. What you genuinely, honestly think of this.”

Sheri bit her lip. 

(‘Tell me that you clocked me without telling me you clocked me’, thought Sheri.)

“Well,” said Sheri. “I’m worried that someone’s going to try to push themselves too far. That they’ll end up… letting Garden Alpha damage them beyond repair, because they can’t see past the dollar sign. Or they get too competitive. Or they just… aren’t bright enough to know when to stop. I’m terrified someone’s going to get seriously hurt.”

“Then why are you - you specifically - doing this?”

“Two reasons. The first is, I want to be there to talk to these contestants. To let them know that it is absolutely fine to walk away, that it’s just television, that it’s not real life, and that there are consequences. Everyone’s going to be pushing them to be content

, and someone needs to be there to remind them that they’re not content, they’re human beings.”

“And the second?” asked Pranav. 

“Because Daria - the director at Garden Alpha - is right. If we can show people what transitioning actually entails? People will be more informed. If we can show people the effects of dysphoria? What it means to feel wrong in your own body? Maybe it’ll engender some sympathy. Lord knows we need it.” 

Pranav leaned back, thinking about what Sheri said for a good long time. Longer than someone who was about to tell them to ‘fuck off out of my office’ would take. 

After a while, he wordlessly stepped out of his chair, headed to a bookshelf, and picked out a photo album, flipped through it, took out an 8x10 photo, looked at it a good long while, then placed it back in the photo album, and shut it with a snap, and put it back in his bookshelf.

“Let me tell you what I’m thinking right now,” said Pranav. “I’m thinking about a patient of mine from a few years back. Call her K.” 

“K was seventeen and a half years old. We only met one time. She came to me because she had all these questions about gender affirming surgery, and I was ‘the doctor from TV’. I told her there was little I could do, and couldn't even take her on as a patient, officially. But I gave her some advice - talk to an endocrinologist about HRT, talk to a psychologist about a diagnosis of gender dysphoria. And of course, I told her that I’d keep her doctor-patient confidentiality, especially from her parents.” 

“Three months later, her parents found out that she was transgender. Don’t know how. Doesn’t matter. What they did was send her to a ‘conversion’ quack. Tried to brainwash her into being a boy.” 

“I only found out they had done this because soon after that she had decided to take her own life, and I was interviewed by the police about her one visit here. I put the rest together myself.”

Pranav sat back down, slumped in his chair.

“I talked to their parents, once. Just once. They came here demanding what I had talked to K about, if I had any clue why she would have killed herself. I nearly punched them.”

“And then I saw the look in their eyes. Confusion. Ignorance. They didn’t have any idea that what they were doing was wrong. They thought they were helping their son, not dooming their daughter. They loved her. Or maybe they loved him. Either way, they just were doing what they thought was the right thing, because they didn’t know any better.”

Pranav tapped his fingers on the mahogany desk. 

“Would K still be alive if her parents knew what gender dysphoria was? What being trans is? I don’t know. I can’t know. But she was the first patient - albeit only a consult - that I ever lost.”

“So. Let’s get down to it. What is it, specifically, that you are asking of me?” asked the doctor, squinting intimidatingly at Sam. Truth be told, it was piercing, and Sam couldn’t look Pranav in the eyes as she spoke.

“We need a medical professional who can explain to the contestants all the effects that whatever treatments they agree to will have on their bodies. We need them to not pressure them into getting the treatments that they do not need or want.”

Sam took a deep breath before continuing. “But, if the contestant, after everything is fully explained to them, with fully informed consent - if they still wish to go through with the treatments, whether it’s because of the prize money, ego or maybe because they actually want it… then we need someone who would be willing to perform the procedures, or, vet the people who have the expertise to do so.”

Pranav sat, drumming his fingers again. 

“When do you need an answer?”

“We are hoping to have one by next Wednesday evening. We have to present what we’ve learned at the pitch meeting on Thursday morning, before we can get a final approval.” 

“I need to sleep on this. I need to talk to my colleagues. Hell, I think I need to talk to a therapist.” 

“Well, Sheri’s a therapist,” Jimmy pointed out. 

“Not helping, Jimmy,” said Sam. 

“Sorry.” 

“I think that’s our cue to see ourselves out,” said Sheri. 

“It is. You’ll have my answer as soon as I come up with one,” said the Doctor. 

After the trio left, Dr. Pranav took K’s picture out of the photo album, and poured himself another drink. 

***

Daryl Marsters, VP of Programming, knocked on Daria’s office door. 

“Hey Daryl. C’mon in. Just going over a candidate for host on ‘G.I.’” 

“Good to hear. Anyone I’d have heard of?” 

“Probably not. Some acting credits, contestant on the Vocalist, but… sadly if we’re going to go with a trans woman for a host, she may be our best option. I asked her to come in for an audition with Sam and Jimmy, and was just about to give them a call. So what’s up?”

“I was doing some research on prior art. See if anyone has done anything similar to ‘Gender Island’. And, uh…, you’re not going to like this…”

“I’m not?”

“Have you ever heard of a reality TV series called ‘There’s Something About Miriam?’”

“Can’t say I have.”

Daryl took a seat on Daria’s couch. 

“Six episode series. It was basically ‘The Bachelorette’ except that they were competing for a £10,000 reward over who could make the best impression on a model named Miriam Riviera. It premiered in 2004 on Sky 1 in the UK, and on Fox Reality in 2007 here in the U.S.” 

“Okay?” said Daria, confused.

“The ‘big reveal’ is that Miriam was a trans woman, of course,” said Daryl. “It was… one of those ‘gotcha’ shows exploiting unwitting contestants.”

Daria frowned. 

“And you’re worried that that’s what we’re doing.” 

“No, I know you, Daria,” said Daryl. “You wouldn’t let that happen. But I’m worried about two things. First, I’m worried that’s what we’re going to be seen as doing.” 

“Right. I get that.”

“The other is that… I know I was sold on the program before, but… I’ve been having second thoughts.”

“Understandable. So have I. So has Sam, so has Jimmy. Hell, they basically hired a consultant specifically to act as devil’s advocate, to make sure they weren’t crossing the line. So, what is it about ‘Miriam’ that has you so rattled?”

“The thing about ‘Miriam’ was that it… it was shock value. No, it was presented as horror - designed to elicit horror from the winning contestant. Not exactly a celebration of trans people’s lives.”

“No. No it wasn’t. But that’s not what we’re doing,” said Daria. 

“Aren’t we, though? I mean, aren’t we kind of setting up a…,” Daryl balked at the word.

“Were you going to say ‘setting up a trap’, Daryl?” asked Daria. 

“Very much caught myself before I did,” admitted Daryl. 

“No, we’re not setting up a trap. We’re not hiding anything from the contestants, at least not before they have to make any decisions about participating. We’re going to be open and honest the full way.”

“No horror?”

“I didn’t say that. But if there’s horror, it won’t be from shock value or titillation or any of that. The horror is that this is going to… show a mirror to the world of how… tough and brutal being trans is. Maybe by the only way possible - show people the audience - the straight, cisgender audience - would relate to, and give them the problems trans people face.”

“You know, someone had a similar idea in the very early 2000s,” said Daryl. “It was a network pitch back when I was an Associate Director of Unscripted Content at Fox Reality. They called it ‘The Closet’, and the idea was that they’d tell the contestants - all men - that they were going to a resort with all-gay contestants, except one of them was secretly a straight guy. The gay guys would win the money if they could identify the straight guy, the straight guy could win the money if he could fool the gay guys. Only, all of them thought they were the one straight guy.” 

Daria raised an eyebrow. 

“I take it the show never made it to air?” said Daria. 

“Almost did,” said Daryl. 

“What stopped it?”

“I did,” said Daryl. “I pointed out that if you get a bunch of straight guys to try to act gay, they’re going to enact the worst, most damaging stereotypes of gay people. Maybe because they don’t care, maybe because they don’t know any better. Worse still, what if someone feels they have to… do things… to prove that they’re actually gay. Like, there would be a lot of pressure to do sexual things that they don’t want to do. So I killed it.”

“I see.”

“Chandra… she wants to move ahead with the idea as soon as possible. She really feels a lot of pressure to book a hit. To book a ‘win’, and she’s willing to risk a lot to get it. And I can’t say that I blame her,” said Daryl. “I don’t know what it’s like to be black and a woman in a white, male dominated industry, though… I try to keep an open mind. Nor do I know what it’s like to be transgender, for that matter.”

“I see…” said Daria. “Hold on. Let me think about what I’m going to say next.”

Daryl nodded and waited. 

“I can’t tell you what it’s like to be black. Or gay.”

“Daria, you are gay.”

“Not the point. The point is… Let’s say that there was a drug that could make white people black. Maybe there is, I don’t know, and I’m not interested in doing the research. We take the same formula as ‘Gender Island’ and it wouldn’t work. Or if there was a pill to make straight men gay.”

“Liberachedex?” asked Daryl.

“Is that a real thing?”

“No, I’m fucking with you, Daria.”

“Right. Point is… the only reason why ‘Gender Island’ might work and those other shows wouldn’t? Gay people don’t suffer from being gay. And Black people don’t suffer from being black.”

Daryl frowned. “There are a lot of gay and black people who would argue very much that they do.”

“And they’d be right, but only because of other people. A gay person doesn’t suffer from being gay, they suffer because of homophobia. Sometimes greatly, through institutionalized homophobia. Same with Black people. They suffer from racism. Jews suffer from anti-semitism,” said Daria.

She continued. “Even being on the autistic spectrum, even that, being autistic never caused me any pain. Never caused me unhappiness. It’s interacting with other people in society. But being trans? That’s different. It’s different in a way that other people don’t understand - primarily because they look at racism, anti-semitism, anti-neurodiversity, and homophobia and they think that the worst we have to deal with is transphobia. And yeah, transphobia sucks, but… it wasn’t transphobia that made me think about suicide every day for years. It wasn’t transphobia that made me feel anxious and depressed all the time. Even when I was alone. My own body was killing me.”

“Damn. I’m sorry, Daria. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put that way,” said Daryl.

“A lot of people think that being trans is a mental illness. That it’s to be pathologized and treated like there’s something wrong with our brains. There’s nothing wrong with our brains. It’s what’s wrong with our bodies. Trans isn’t a mental illness, it’s a physical one and the treatment for it is transitioning,” said Daria. “But they’re never going to understand until we take supposedly ‘normal’ people and they start to understand what the unwanted changes to their bodies does to their minds. They need to see that. And god help me, this crazy idea of Sam’s? So far? That’s got the best chance of showing people what it’s like.” 

Daryl nodded. 

“I still have reservations. I suppose it’s all going to have to come down to the rescheduled pitch,” said Daryl. “But I also want you to know something. If this doesn’t get greenlit? It’ll be because I made a judgment call on the day, not because I thought this was a stupid idea. An idea can be absolutely brilliant - and still might not work.”

“I know,” said Daria. “It’s just… we pass on a lot of good ideas because they’re not right for the business, and sign up a lot of bad ones because we know they’ll work. This idea… it's good, and it’s profitable, and I don’t want to miss an opportunity like that. I don’t know how long it’s going to be before another one comes along.”  

***

“I have to say, Erin, I’m not sure you can really afford to pass on this. I’m not sure how long it’s going to be before another opportunity comes along for something with this much camera time,” said Claudia, to her client, on the phone. 

“I’ve already done reality TV,” said Erin, spreading guacamole on two bagel halves, walking barefoot in her studio apartment. 

“Yes, but you’ve never hosted reality TV,” countered Claudia. 

Erin transferred the fried eggs from the pan to the now guacamole covered bagels. 

“No, but I’ve seen what the host does, and it’s… ugh, ghastly. Just basically announce contestants names and stuff right before they’re set to perform, or explain the game, or whatever. They’re never the star, you know?” 

“Who hosts Survivor?” asked Claudia. 

“Jeff Probst,” said Erin. 

“Who hosts Amazing Race?”

“Phil Keoghan.”

“Who won Survivor last?”

“That’s not fair,” said Erin. “I don’t watch Survivor.”

“Name any contestant on the Amazing Race by first and last name.” 

“I remember the team names! Hashtag Team Fun?” 

“Everyone knows Pat Sajak and Vanna White, nobody knows of any contestant on Wheel of Fortune, ever. A hosting gig is a prime position. It sets you up to take on those big roles that you want. And it’s a speaking role in a recurring capacity. Do you know how hard it is to get a role like that? Especially for a trans woman whose name doesn’t rhyme with Shmevern Shmox?”

“Okay. I’ll bite. If this is such a big role, why are you sending me for it, rather than someone else?”

“Well, they want a trans woman host. You’re the only one on my roster.”

Erin rolled her eyes. 

“Of course they do. What is this, another ‘gotcha’ dating show? What’s the title? ‘Odd Man Out?’ ‘Woman with a willy?’ ‘Penis, penis, who’s got the penis?’” 

“‘Gender Island.’”

“Wow,” said Erin, dryly. “Sounds like a winner. Actually, that’s another really bad name for a show: ‘Sounds like a weiner’.” 

“Work is work, Erin. Look, I’m sending you the brief via e-mail. They are going to want to bring you in for an audition.” 

“Okay, but if this turns out to be another ridiculous fucked up exploit-the-tranny dating show, I’m going to burn some fucking bridges on my way out. And it will be visible from space.”

“Duly noted. But it may be a funeral pyre for your career. Sending you the details. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Claudia.” 

Erin hung up the phone, and headed over to the couch, handing one half of the avocado bagel to her wife, Julia, who was listening to Erin’s half of the conversation. 

“You’re taking the job if you get it, right? You always told me you’d love to host a game show.” said Julia, nuzzling up to Erin.

“Yeah,” admitted Erin. “If it keeps me from cleaning casino floors to make rent, there’s a lot I would do. I just don’t want this to be… I don’t know. Tawdry.”

“Really? I thought you liked tawdry.” 

“I do like tawdry. I love tawdry. But I love cheap and gaudy tawdry. I love tacky. I love garish. I love flashy. I love camp. I don’t like… Jerry Springer Show tawdry. Lowest common denominator tawdry. I like the way Dolly Parton looks cheap and like a million bucks at the same time. I don’t like the way that Kristi Noem can spend a million bucks on surgeries and still look ugly because she’s an ugly dog killing bitch on the inside.” 

“I can get that. So what’s the show?” asked Julia. 

“Something called ‘Gender Island’ that has to do with trans women.” Erin got out her phone and opened the email that Claudia sent her. “We can go over the details together. I’d love to know what you think.” 

As she opened up the PDF, and started reading it aloud, it wasn’t long before Julia asked Erin to pause. 

“Hold up, I think I know where this is going,” said Julia, “and if we’re going to continue reading this together, we’re going to need mimosas.”

Erin nodded in agreement. This was clearly not a gig to contemplate while sober. 

***

Julia dropped Erin off at the door to the Garden Alpha offices, and told her to break a leg. As a kiss on the cheek might smear the makeup that Erin and Julia had worked on for an hour that morning to get just right, Julia and Erin kissed the back of each other’s hands, and then Julia headed in. Claudia was at the door, waiting. 

“You ready for this, Erin?”

“Claudia, nobody is ready for this.” 

“If you get the gig, are you taking it?”

“Probably. So long as it’s not trash-tv,” shrugged Erin.

“Erin, you have been in so many cop-aganda shows playing the trans girl that gets murdered by the boyfriend, your standards for trash-tv are rather low.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s reality TV. Standards for that are rather low too.”

***

“Hello,” said Daria. “Glad you could make it. I’m Daria Bryant, I’m director of unscripted programming at Garden Alpha. Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Water?”

“That all sounds great,” said Erin, “But maybe after the initial audition? Especially if you’re going to be doing any screen tests? I’ve got my makeup just where I want it.” 

“Great. Do you mind if I just call you Erin? You can call me Daria. Garden Alpha’s culture is pretty informal.” 

“Sure thing, Daria. If I didn’t like the name, I wouldn’t have gone with it, after all,” Erin joshed. 

“Same,” said Daria.

Erin furrowed her brow, wondering what Daria meant by that. But she didn’t have time to ask, being led into a room with two women and two men, seated behind a table, with a camera set up on a tripod with a chair and a couch opposing each other. Host on the right, as per convention. 

Introductions were made all around, and so Erin met showrunner Sam, Sheri and Dr. Vadekar (who didn’t offer his first name, Erin noticed), the two advisors, and of course, Jimmy fucking Howard. 

Erin was instantly star-struck. This was Jimmy Howard! She had so many questions! Why do game show hosts have those weirdly long microphones? Did anyone ever shit themselves in fear when the shark attacked on ‘Shark Attack?’, or was that just a playground rumor? Do game show hosts all know each other, and if so, did Dick Clark really have a portrait in his attic that kept getting older and older while he stayed the same age? 

“Oh my god. Give me a moment, I’m about to squee.” 

“Squee?” asked Jimmy. 

Erin let out a joyful, high pitched noise and shook with excitement. It did indeed sound, onomatopoeically, like “squeeeeee”. 

“Sorry,” said Erin. “Though, uh, I don’t know why you need another host if…” 

Jimmy cut her off. “Ah, well, you’ve read the brief, right? Didn’t seem right for a cisgender man to host this. I’m directing.” 

Erin nodded. 

“So,” Jimmy said. “We’ve got two scripts that we sent to you, in the second one, I’ll be the contestant.” 

“I actually took a look at them, and I was wondering if you’d like me to stick strictly to the script, or if you’d like me to improv a bit.”

“I’d like to see a version of both, actually,” said Jimmy. 

“Then let’s rock the socks off the box!” said Erin. 

“Let’s get started, then,” smiled Jimmy.

The rest of the team sat behind the table, while Jimmy stood just offscreen with a little whiteboard slate. 

“Screen Test for Erin Cochran, game intro, take one.”

CLACK. 

Erin delivered her lines perfectly professionally.

“Hello. I’m Erin Cochran. We started an experiment six months ago, when we put out a call for men between the ages of eighteen and thirty to take part in a reality television competition. We narrowed it down to one hundred applicants before we told them exactly what we would be challenging those contestants to do: to change their gender identity, and begin the process of gender transition to female. Of those hundred contestants, only ten have agreed to take part in our experiment, and compete in a contest to see who can last the longest when their minds, bodies, and even very identities are on the line. This is ‘Gender Island.’”

“Cut,” said Jimmy. “Very good. Now, I’ll be a contestant. I’ve just dropped out of the running, and we’ll do the post-elimination interview.”

“Sounds good.”

Erin and Jimmy took their seats on the stage.

“Screen Test for Erin Cochran, elimination interview, take one.”

CLACK.

Erin crossed her legs at the knee, relaxed, and spoke to Jimmy. 

“So, Jimmy, it’s been two months, and you’ve decided to drop out of the running?”

Jimmy delivered his lines flatly.

“Yes. I thought I could hold out for the prize money, but I’m starting to really feel the effects of the hormones, and I’m worried that if I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to get back to normal,” said Jimmy, without emotion. 

“Well, according to our medical professionals, none of the changes you’ve experienced will be permanent at this point, and you’ll be able to get back to masculine normal in a month or so. So, Jimmy, do you have any regrets having done this?”

“Well, of course I do. I felt so wrong going around, calling myself Jessica, wearing women’s clothing and stuff. Honestly, I’m glad it’s over.”

“Well, it’s not entirely over. In order to claim your half-share of five thousand, two hundred dollars from the prize pool, there’s one last thing you have to do. Look into the camera over there.”

Erin pointed.

“I guess…,” said Jimmy. “I wasn’t man enough to be a woman. Cut!” 

Sheri, Daria, and Sam all looked at each other, while Dr. Vadakar sat in silence, his body language not impressed at all. 

“Right,” said Jimmy. “Now let’s get your take on the material. We’ll reset to position one.”

Erin nodded, and they reset to the first position. 

“This is a Screen Test for Erin Cochran, game intro, take two.” 

CLACK. 

“I’m Erin Cochran, and buckle up, because this one’s gonna be a ride,” said Erin, dramatically highlighting the words with flamboyant gestures. “Our mad science experiment asked men between the ages of eighteen and thirty the question: ‘Would you (she pointed to the camera) be willing to change your gender for a prize pool which could reach over a million dollars in cash?’ Unbelievably, some of them said ‘maybe’, poor bastards. We’ve brought them here, (she gestured around her) to our secluded ‘Gender Island.’ Here, they’ll go through everything trans women do - and even further. Not because they need to be, but to push themselves to their own limits, to test their psyche, and most of all, to win. (she stomped her foot.) How far will they be willing to go? Who’ll change everything they are just for some cash? Who will drop out, and will they drop out before they permanently alter their bodies and minds. In short, who among them can ‘Woman Up!’?” 

“Cut!” Jimmy was clearly impressed. 

Sam whispered to Daria. “‘Woman up!’ Fuuuuuck, I wish I had thought of that.”

“I know, right?” whispered Daria right back. “Much better title than ‘Gender Island.’”

“I liked that. I liked that a lot. A lot more personality than what we wrote for you. Okay. One more. I’ll be contestant Jimmy again,” said Jimmy. 

“Screen Test for Erin Cochran, elimination interview, take two.”

The first thing that Erin did was get up off the chair where she was seated, and headed over to sit next to Jimmy. 

“Jimmy. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You made it two months in. It must have been very tough.”

Jimmy delivered his lines flatly.

“Yes. I thought I could hold out for the prize money, but I’m starting to really feel the effects of the hormones, and I’m worried that if I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to get back to normal,” said Jimmy, without emotion. 

“Oh, there’s no such thing as ‘normal’ but I get what you mean. I know how you must be feeling. I’m gonna hug you now.”

“What?” said Jimmy, which was not scripted, but before he knew it, Erin had his arms around her. 

“You did great. You made five thousand, two hundred dollars from the prize pool, and you’ll be able to get back to masculine normal in a month or so.”

“Uh, yes,” said Jimmy, who was now forced to work without a script. “I guess so.”

“Tell me, what did you take away from your experience? How did it feel to be a woman, if only for a short time?”

“I, uh,” Jimmy cleared his throat and got into character. “I hated it. It made me feel all icky and wrong. I just kinda… want to go home. To be myself. Get some rest.” 

“Well, I’m proud of you for making it this far, but I think you’re making the right decision to drop out. We all have to be who we are, in the end, or drive ourselves to despair. There’s only one thing that you have to do.” 

“Right,” said Jimmy, who looked into the camera. “I wasn’t man enough to be a woman.”

Erin ruffled Jimmy’s hair and continued to hold him in a hug. 

“You’re going to be okay, you know. Everything’s going to be okay.” 

Jimmy felt really comfortable being reassured by Erin at that moment. Being told everything was okay. That he was alright. Not that it was real, but, Erin… Erin seemed very method, and that… that had an effect on him, he was sure of it. He hugged Erin back, and just swayed there. A tear started forming in his eye.

“Psst!” said Sam. “Jimmy.”

Jimmy looked over at Sam, who was making scissors gestures with her fingers, looking increasingly exasperated. 

“Oh right,” said Jimmy. “Cut!”