The star had just come down from his hotel room and was angry. All the other stars had already received their meals to their doors, but this angry star had not. He was fuming, and directed such anger towards me and the Executive Producer.
“I am fed up with this crap food,” he grumbled. “Either you have my food in front of me in one minute or I’m taking my passport and leaving this god forsaken place tonight. Then you’ll have no show. I’m the most important person on this show. Without me, you’re screwed!”
As a slave to the stars, I quickly made my way up into the dining room of the five-star hotel. He was not far behind me, on my heels. I still had yet to say a word to him personally, as I had been warned ahead of time to not speak directly with any of them.
We entered the dining room, and his first course was waiting. A salad, wrapped in plastic-wrap. He took one look at it, and flashed a scowl.
“How much do you want to bet that this salad is warm,” he spat out, challenging. “If this salad is warm, I’m out of here. I’m totally, seriously out of here.”
I watched him, along with two other Producers standing beside me. He walked over to the plate, picked it up, ripped a hole in the plastic and waved his finger throughout the salad. Pulling it back out, covered in dressing, he turned to us.
“Warm, what’d I tell you. Fucking warm.”
It was then that he threw the plate to the ground, smashing it into a thousand pieces.
“Get me something else. NOW.”
One Producer leapt to it like, oh I don’t know — a butler? I was left standing there with one other Producer as we pretended to be listening to our headphone walkies. Looking down, looking up — anywhere but in the eyes of our batty friend. He, however, began his own Rain Man-esque pacing.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he muttered. “I don’t want to be this person. You’re turning me into a person I’m not. I hate this person. Why are you making me become this person. I don’t want to be him, yet you continue to force me to be him.”
There was, what seemed to be a moment of revelation. Then —
“I’m gone. I’m out of here. Done. You guys can figure out how to finish this show without me.”
He went for the sliding glass door, then paused. The two Producers in the room with him were not looking at him, nor lunging after him to stop him. There was no “Waaaiiiiit!!!”, or no “Please! Don’t Go!” Just silence.
His hand, gripping the handle to the sliding glass door stopped. He looked around. Paused.
And then he sat back down like a nice little star and waited for his food.
(Ed. Note: Names have been removed to protect the batty.)