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it to me. “Here’s the background information we’ve been able to put
together. It’s pretty extensive and will hopefully give you a place to start. Of
course, you can’t drink or do anything else that’ll jeopardize your stay. If you
get thrown out, the contract will be forfeit. Do you have any questions?”
    What the fuck is this guy talking about?
    “I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand. What’s
the assignment? Where am I going?”
    Bob gives me another tight smile, but this time
there’s an undercurrent of glee in it.
    “You’re going to rehab.”

Chapter 3
    Houston, We Have a
Problem
    S o, here I
am a day after my meeting with Bob, the Philip Seymour Hoffman look-alike,
sitting on the smallest airplane I’ve ever been on. Cocktail service begins in
five, and our flying time will be a total of forty-two minutes. We’ll be flying
at an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet, and yes, the flight will be this
bumpy the entire time. Now remember, folks, if the mask falls from the ceiling
because of a loss of cabin pressure, place it firmly over your mouth and breathe
normally. In case you weren’t aware, there’s no smoking on this flight.
    Now, let’s see. Is there anything I’ve
forgotten?
    Oh yeah . . . I’m on my way to
rehab.
    Turns out that besides being one of the editors of The Line, Bob is also the editor-in-chief of Gossip Central, an up-and-coming gossip magazine
in a world of up-and-coming gossip magazines. Its niche is obtaining extremely
inside scoop on celebrities. It made a name for itself when one of its reporters
posed as a nanny for a movie star who has a penchant for adopting children from
Third World countries. Apparently, a lot of people want to know what brand of
underwear she wears. By supplying such details, Gossip
Central ’s market share grew quickly, and its circulation now
surpasses the population of New Zealand. Or, at least, that’s what its website
says.
    Apparently, Bob had been trying to get something on
The Girl Next Door for years. The problem is that she doesn’t hang out with
anyone who isn’t quasi-famous, and that includes her hairdresser, makeup artist,
and publicist. After several fruitless attempts, the idea was shelved, and Gossip Central moved on to other, more accessible,
targets.
    And then, TGND went to rehab.
    No one was quite sure where the idea came from.
Someone (Bob told me there were several people taking credit) shouted it out
during the weekly editorial meeting, and the idea immediately caught fire. “We
should follow her into rehab.” “That’s perfect!” “Whoever came up with that
deserves a promotion!” “It was my idea.” “No, it was my idea!”
    Once Bob calmed everyone down, they spent a lot of
time discussing the thorny issue of who to send. It had to be someone who could
convincingly appear to need to be in rehab and also write a kick-ass article. It
couldn’t be anyone obviously connected with Gossip
Central, but it had to be someone they trusted. They racked their
brains before putting the idea on the back burner when TGND escaped from
rehab.
    You know the rest of the story. I showed up
half-drunk and disheveled for my interview. They loved my work before they met
me, but then they met me. TGND’s crack video surfaced, and she returned to
rehab. Bob had a moment of clarity: what if the writer actually needed to be in
rehab herself? Then she’d fit right in, and might even have a chance of striking
up a friendship with TGND. Now who did they know who fit that bill?
    So that’s why they called. Gossip Central wanted to hire me to go to rehab to spy on/befriend
TGND and write about it. They’d pay the cost of my stay ($1,000 a day) and $2 a
word. And if I did a good job (and dried out, he implied), they’d reconsider me
for the position at The Line, which still hadn’t
been filled.
    When I picked my jaw up off the floor, I agreed to
do it.
    Embarrassingly quickly.
    I wish I could say the decision was a