Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (4 page)

“So, what happens now?” I ask incredulously.

“Go to this address tomorrow at eleven a.m.”

I reach over and take a Post-it note out of Neil’s hand.

“Oh, and don’t change your clothes. Don’t even shower. Come just like this.”

I begin to protest and Neil cuts me off. “
Just. Like. This.
Trust me.”

I relent, surrendering to the idea and to another night in these filthy clothes. The whole thing feels like it’s shaping up to be a disaster.

But hey, at least I’m not hosting
Extreme African Village.

4: Underdressed for Success

Universal City, California, 2006

As I drive to the SciFi offices the next morning, there are a few key things I don’t yet know. Most importantly, that Neil has already filmed a pilot presentation of this monster-hunting extravaganza. Though almost all of the footage from this deliciously awful pilot was disposed of in a top-secret NBC incinerator, I later learn that Neil himself acted as the host (naturally). The highlight of the piece was Neil’s interview with a bewildered South American farmer, conducted while an assistant producer in a full Chupacabra costume performed a reenactment in an adjacent chicken coop. SciFi wisely deemed that the initial concept undergo a little retooling.

Since the show needs a new host, the Channel insists on conducting a proper casting call. Neil went to bat for me while I was summiting Kilimanjaro, and the best he could do was to convince them to meet me, alongside three other hosts hand-selected from the general casting. I am the long shot and don’t even know it.

At this time, SciFi already has a huge reality hit on their hands with a show called
Ghost Hunters
. For those who aren’t familiar,
Ghost Hunters
centers around two Roto-Rooter plumbers turned professional paranormal investigators. (And people say there’s nothing original on television.) In the following years, the Channel will develop
Ghost Hunters International
,
Ghost Hunters Live
, and, most recently,
Ghost Hunters Academy
. (By the time this book goes to press, I’m sure they’ll be airing
Dancing with the Ghost Hunters
,
So You Think You Can Ghost Hunt
, and
The
Real Housewives of Ghost Hunters
.) But for now, in 2006, they’re just looking for a sister act to this flagship paranormal program to kick off the 10:00 p.m. hour.

I arrive nearly a half hour before my meeting. After parking, I ascend to the main plaza, craning my head up at the looming Universal Tower. The building is a slate-colored rhomboid block that looks about as inviting as a steel coffin.

It appears infinitely harder to climb than Kilimanjaro, and for the first time I’m starting to feel extremely nervous about all of this. In the austere lobby, I proceed to the security desk to check in. The guard looks up at me and furrows his brow. For a moment I’m unsure what to make of his expression, until I realize that he thinks I might be a vagrant. I’ve taken Neil’s advice and not changed any of my clothes from the day before. I was so tired from the flight that I even fell asleep with my boots on. Now I’m stinking to high hell and looking like a train hobo. He glances down at my feet, no doubt wondering if I’m going to pee on the lobby floor. I fork over my ID and he prints out a pass for me, clearly surprised to find me in the computer system. “Fourteenth floor,” he says warily.

The elevator opens, and I cautiously emerge into the SciFi offices. If I had any reservations about not showering and changing before, I now realize that I’ve made a full-blown mistake. The SciFi lobby is gleaming white, like a leftover set piece from
2001: A Space Odyssey.
You could do surgery in here, it’s so clean. Across from the front desk, a series of flat-screen televisions play commercials for the Channel. Everyone who appears in these spots is suspiciously more attractive than I am.

The secretary who sits across from these screens is named Alex. This is a woman you do not want to mess with. An unflappable sentry, she probably wouldn’t bat an eye if I walked up to her with a grenade in my hand. Over the next three years Alex will refuse to remember my name, even though I will be added to the roster of individuals continuously appearing on the monitors four feet from her face. Later, when executives joke about how I’m a “big star” on the Channel, I will raise a finger in protest. “When Alex learns my name, I’ve arrived at SciFi. Until then, I’m nobody.”

Today we meet for the first time. She looks up from behind a plastic tub of fireball candies and unceremoniously hands me a clipboard to sign in. As I write my name, I notice three other signatures. I peek into the waiting area at my competition. Three other candidates, all of whom are wearing nice suits. I haven’t had a chance to smell them yet, but I’m reasonably certain that they’ve showered, too.

The three guys regard me with a combination of amusement and pity. I pick up a copy of
Sci Fi
magazine and try to distract myself by delving into an in-depth profile piece on
MacGyver
star Richard Dean Anderson. I glance up to better take stock of the trio. Along with being well dressed, they all strike me as, well, a little like game-show hosts. I’m not exactly recovering my confidence, but I’m feeling marginally secure that these men do not represent the best and the brightest of American monster hunters. One by one, they are beckoned down the hall and out of this antiseptic space dock. They’re each gone for what feels like an eternity, and by the time I hear my name called I know just about everything there is to know about Richard Dean Anderson.

“Josh. They’re ready for you.”

I’m led into an office at the far end of the hall. As I enter, I’m horrified by how many people are crammed into this room. All of them look up at me, and aside from Neil, none of them are smiling. Though it’s impossible for me to determine everyone’s title, there’s no question as to who’s running the show. Mark Stern, the senior vice president of the Channel, is the only person who looks comfortable in here, a sure sign that this is his domain. I reach out to shake his hand, and he invites me to sit down. Stern is one of those people who really
look
at you when you speak to him. It’s as complimentary as it is unnerving—which is, I suspect, just how he likes it.

I’m getting a pretty good once-over from the whole group and feel compelled to break the ice. “Hi,” I manage. “Let me . . . start by apologizing for my appearance. I just got off a plane from Tanzania.” Smiles all around.

A perceptible sea change is underway. These people suddenly detect an authenticity to me. We talk for a few minutes; I recount my exploits on Kilimanjaro and discuss my interest in travel. I’m hoping that someone will bring up Richard Dean Anderson, but no such luck. I can’t really tell how the interview is going, so I just do my best to come off appropriately adventurous. Stern’s half smirk reveals that he can see right through my bullshit, but there’s a warmth there too. Under less formal circumstances I suspect we’d get along great. I also have a few nice exchanges with Rob Swartz, the affable development executive in charge of the project. At this point the only thing I know for sure is that these people no longer consider my dirty beard and tattered shirt the potential markings of a deranged serial killer.

After it’s all over, I shake hands with the network brass and walk out of the office. Neil sees me to the elevator and tells me that I did well. I step inside and put my hand up to hold the closing doors. “What’s this pilot called, anyway?”

“
Destination Truth
. Now go take a shower,” he says. “You stink.”

Adventures in Monster Hunting and Professional Ghostology

5: “We Found Something! “

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 2006

After my meeting with the Channel, things progress quickly. A call comes in a few days later with good news: I got the job. The Channel has ordered a second pilot, and I’m told that if things go well, I could end up with a series. Rather than reshoot the original pilot in South America, a decision is made to film in Southeast Asia, where recent sightings of a Bigfoot-like creature in the jungles of Malaysia have made headline news. For my part, I mostly nod and let plans unfold, all but certain that this entire enterprise will collapse long before I actually board a plane.

A crew is cobbled together, mostly comprising people already working for Neil’s company. Neil shuffles our itinerary no less than six times, and then, a few days before we’re set to depart, the crew convenes at my new apartment in Silver Lake to film the opening scenes of the show. I meet Eric, Neil’s hardworking and earnest young producer, who is clearly doing most of the heavy lifting while garnering none of the credit. Blake, our exhausted-looking tech manager, arrives, as does Marc Carter, Neil’s longtime friend and an experienced director of photography. Carter has a devil-may-care disposition and seems perpetually bemused by Neil. I suspect that he’s going to be a good ally on the road. The group is rounded out by Nick Scown, an editor-cum-field producer, who doesn’t seem particularly confident about any of this, which probably means that he’s the smartest guy in the room.

Once this motley crew assembles, Neil loosely directs a sequence where we pack gear and discuss the recent Malaysian sightings. All of this is being filmed in my living room, remember. I kick a stack of dirty laundry aside, Frisbee a Domino’s pizza box into the kitchen, and tack a world map on my wall in a desperate attempt to transform my tiny bungalow into Team Truth headquarters. MI-6 it is not, but there is an authenticity, I suppose; I do live here, after all. Before we start filming, I ask Neil what to wear on the show, whereupon he promptly rifles through my closet. He picks out a motorcycle jacket and jeans. It will not be until much later, in the heart of Malaysia, that I realize thick leather and denim are not sensible jungle attire. The living room shoot feels like something between an impromptu home movie and a student film, and I’m not confident that we’re actually going to make it out of Los Angeles, let alone the country. Surely, someone will intervene and put a stop to all of this, right?

Wrong.

Hours later I’m sitting in the dim cabin of a Singapore Airlines jumbo jet somewhere over the endless black Pacific. Even though the aircraft’s tracking map on the seat back in front of me indicates that we’re en route to Singapore, I’m still in a state of giddy denial as I gaze at the blanket of stars outside my window.

Odd as it might seem, night on board a 747 is one of my absolute favorite places on, or above, earth. I feel blissfully adrift up here and always have. When I was a child, my parents and I frequently flew to England to visit my grandparents. During the flight, my mother would lower our three tray tables and cover them with a blanket while I slipped down onto the floor of a makeshift cave. Enveloped by the darkness of 30,000 feet and cradled by the hum of those four massive Rolls-Royce engines, I would snuggle up and happily fall asleep.

Even as an adult, I’m struck by an implicit liberty to air travel that’s often overlooked on account of cramped quarters. In actuality, we aren’t constrained at all: we’ve broken free. In flight, we slip the heavy tether of responsibility and no longer belong to the world below. We are answerable to no one. Phones cease to ring, and our distractions are few. Even Time, that constant companion, loosens his grip around us. Entire days can be wound back or skipped over at these lofty heights, as we exist merely in a world of vapor. Adventures are both beginning and coming to a close up here as people from opposite ends of experience paradoxically move in one direction.

By now most of the plane’s passengers are asleep, so I’m surprised to see Neil stumbling past my seat toward the forward lavatory. Neil is what you might call a sleeping pill enthusiast. He usually pops a Xanax with a glass of full-bodied Cabernet on short flights, or an Ambien CR, which is, as he likes to say, “the Mercedes-Benz of sleeping pills.” However, on tonight’s long-haul trip he’s forgone his usual capsule cocktail for a double dose of a stronger pill that should come with a printed suggestion that users wear a diaper lest they soil themselves in a drug-induced stupor. The pill also prompts sleepwalking, a side effect that Neil is experiencing in full force as he marches down the aisle wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Though the plane is flying smoothly, Neil careens like a drunk in turbulence and manages to get himself into the bathroom, where he’ll probably fall back asleep.

With the cabin now still, I quietly unbuckle my seat belt to take a stroll, a customary habit of mine on overnight flights. I tiptoe past the center staircase in my socks and then down the aisle of the main cabin. I happen upon a flight attendant in one of the galleys who could easily double as a supermodel (those who have flown on Singapore know that their hiring policies haven’t evolved much since the 1960s). Recognizing that I can’t sleep, she pours me a glass of red wine, and I curl up in the jump seat next to the emergency exit. We talk for a while, sharing broken conversation and laughing quietly in the otherwise silent cabin. She asks me why I’m headed to Southeast Asia. “I’m not entirely sure,” I reply. “I’m looking for something.”

She flashes a confused smile.

In the morning, my crew and I touch down in Singapore’s eponymous capital city. The country is only 750 square miles, which makes it roughly half the size of Rhode Island. Its legendary reputation as a lawless pirate den stands in stark contrast to the strict modern government, sprawling air-conditioned mega malls, and gleaming skyscrapers. Orchard Road, once home to nutmeg and pepper plantations, is now lorded over by white-walled spas, expensive boutiques, and chic eateries. The sterility of present-day Singapore and its draconian legal system have made it something of a letdown to many an adventure traveler. (I myself am not a huge fan of any place that threatens to arrest and beat the shit out of me for spitting gum on the ground.) Still, if you’re in the market for a Gucci handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos, it’s just the spot.