Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

She didn’t show up for our final walk-through on Friday. Per her Twitter feed, she had a “really important colonic” that took precedence. Now she’s here, unannounced, unscheduled.

And she’s brought a camera crew.

Vienna thrusts a piece of paper at me. “Sign.”

I take the document from her, more out of curiosity than courtesy. “What is it?” I squint but can’t make out the fine print.

Vienna blows an enormous bubble in my face, sucks it back in, and gives her gum a couple of aggressive chews before answering. “We’re, like, capturing how I’m a savvy business working executive woman. People want to see me perform jobs. 75I’m, like, a one-twopre-noor and everything, which is the oldest profession. My show’s gonna be all uplifting and shit. For poor people. Now let’s do this thing already!”

A guy in cargo shorts carrying a boom mike explains rather sheepishly, “That’s a consent and release form, pretty standard language. Can you please sign it? Please? We’re shooting Vienna’s new reality show, One Night in Vienna .” For a brief moment, I see something almost haunted in his eyes, but before I can ponder it, I mentally rewind what he just said and. . Hold up a minute.

What?

Then my memory clicks. I read something about this recently on PopSugar.com. I guess Vienna wants to one-up her frenemy Paris and do a business-oriented version of The Simple Life to prove that she’s no longer the coke-snorting, paparazzi-shoving, assistant-abusing diva the media’s made her out to be. I imagine that’s why she’s clad in a business suit.

Of course, most executives I know tend to wear a shirt/bra/ camisole/ something under their single-button blazer, but it’s possible I just don’t understand every nuance of haute couture. The September issue of Vogue can teach one only so much.

To confirm, I ask, “You want to film our walk-through?” The producer accompanying the sound guy nods.

“We need to show Vienna taking command in a professional environment,” the producer confirms. “When she speaks to you, try to defer to what she says. We want to put a positive spin on this.We’re out to show a whole new side of Vienna.”

According to Dlisted.com, her last few ventures ended badly. Turns out even the most avant-garde fashionista draws the line at carrying a cat-skin handbag. Rumor has it that Anna Wintour decreed Vienna’s signature perfume smelled like “hepatitis B and poor decisions.”

I’m still holding my consent form and processing what’s happening around me. If I sign this, does that mean they’ll use my image on-screen? I’m a bit ambivalent about this. On the one hand, no publicity is bad publicity; on the other, I’m not sure that particular axiom applies to publicity in conjunction with Vienna.

Vienna’s entourage includes a cameraman, a couple of guys carrying heavy lights, a makeup artist, two hairstylists, and a personal assistant, in addition to the aforementioned sheepish sound engineer and producer.

“What are you, like, waiting for?” Vienna snaps. Then she grabs her assistant, bends her over to create an ad hoc writing surface, and slaps my consent agreement on the center of the assistant’s back before thrusting a pen in my face. “Sign it.”

In the background, ten movers and six packers have gathered to watch the action unfold. A few are taking cell phone pictures, and who could blame them?

I hastily autograph the sheet while the first hairdresser tries to fluff Vienna’s coif. Vienna’s seemingly already satisfied with her do — a prim French roll adorned with feathers, sequins, and dangling crystals — and shoves her out of the way with the heel of her palm. Luckily, the stylist’s fall is cushioned by a battery of empty boxes no doubt destined to hold my wastepaper baskets.

Vienna waves her arm in the air as though roping some imaginary cattle and begins barking orders to various crew members. “Hey, fatty! Yo, retard! Smelly guy! You, dead tooth, come here and get me in profile. I’m ready for my close-up! And. . action!”

I guess that neatly explains the crew’s pained looks.

While Vienna and her posse move to the center of the living room, a packer notices the few remaining glass shards from last night’s altercation and attempts to retrieve them. “No, no, please!” I blurt. “We’re not taking that with us! Those are pieces of broken window.”

Vienna’s interest is suddenly piqued. “Wait, my window? You broke my window?”

“Um, didn’t you notice the enormous board where the center casement window used to be? We had a drive-by shooting here last night. Pretty scary, but don’t worry: We’re fine and insurance will cover the replacement costs, so, really—”

Vienna snaps her fingers behind her back and mouths, Make sure you’re getting this , to the camera operator. She lunges toward me and stands an inch from my face in classic reality-show confrontation mode. “ You broke my window? You bitch! You fucking fake-ass phony bitch! I’m going to sue you! I’m going to sue your fat ass off! You don’t get to break my window. You’re not seeing a dime of your security deposit. I mean, I could, like, buy and sell you! Yes! I’ll do that. I will do that ! Buy you! Sell you! Because you suck! You’re, like, a big ugly bag of Polish sausage stone-face slut!”

I’m a what ?

I mean, I understand the words she’s saying individually, but all together like that? Not so much.

Vienna continues her tirade, now with twenty percent more spittle and some intense neck rolling. Is she going to bust out the you-go-girl finger wag? And. . there it is! “I hate you, I hate this house, I hate work, I kind of love Britney, but you? You I hate and I hate your asshat-face.”

I look around at a roomful of stunned personnel. “I’m sorry. Is anyone else following this?”Vienna’s personal assistant points behind Vienna’s back and pantomimes inhaling an enormous rail of coke off the staircase. Her makeup artist sighs and quickly repacks all the lotions and potions she’s just unloaded, while the lighting gentleman snaps off the big box lights. Her producer has assumed a position best described as “face-palm.” I’ll bet when he envisioned Vienna “taking command in a professional environment,” it didn’t shake out like this.

Vienna’s not finished with her diatribe. She starts in on what I assume is her thesis statement.

“So fuck you, fuck your bathtub, fuck the Japs, fuck your grill, fuck your mother, and fuck your fucking fuckity fuck.Your dogs are cool. But fuck your cats and your fucky face.”

I wonder, am I supposed to be intimidated by her yelling? Cowed? If so, I’m going to make for terrible television. I mean, I’ve heard worse stuff coming out of Babcia’s mouth while wishing me a happy birthday. And really, I’m too busy for this nonsense, especially when Jake Ryan’s house is waiting for me. I’ve got to put a stop to this.

“Um, hi, listen, sorry to interrupt while you’re rolling,” I say, offering the producer an apologetic look. “Quick favor? Those guys over there?” I gesture toward the movers. “I’m paying them by the hour. So if it’s not too much trouble, could we either start the walk-through or finish up with the fucking fuckity fuck?”

A giggle escapes from the previously unscathed second hairstylist. And that’s all it takes.

In one deft motion, Vienna whips off her impossibly high sandal and hurls it in the direction of the laughter. Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, a triple-strapped Alexandre Birman python wedge produces more drag than, say, a baseball, so despite what I’m sure is Vienna’s extensive knowledge of all things aerodynamic, she ends up picking off Manny, the foreman of the moving crew. She clocks him right in the head, and Manny crumples and hits the ground with a thud.