Literally, Genevieve Clare

The Time I Almost Died for Oprah

At my last PR job in Atlanta, I worked for two clients – a global airline and a pest control company.  Planes and bugs.  Way too many bugs.  I know, it’s shocking that I left to move to New York and drink wine for a living.

If we’ve ever met, you know that I worship on the altar of Oprah.  In terms of personal religion, it’s God and then juuust below him is Oprah.  So when I had the opportunity to work anywhere in the vicinity of my hero, I didn’t bat an eyelash.  Her show contacted my pest control client to identify a customer whose home was infested with cockroaches (seriously) so that they could film the conditions and then arrange for a total clean up.  I knew it was going to be a disgusting project, but I kept my eyes on the prize – OPRAH.  My job was to go to the site of the home, coordinate the film crew and make sure that no one said anything damaging on camera. 

My car was in the shop that week, so I had to borrow my dad’s huge BMW, a car that screamed “I am trying really hard to start a fight” in a very rough part of Atlanta.  As I drove down the street, people stood up out of their rocking chairs and glared down at me from their porches while I searched for the right house.  I stepped out of the car in my high heels, sunglasses and black pencil skirt (WHAT. What if I accidentally ended up on camera?), and realized that this was the dumbest possible entrance I could have made.

A large man sitting in a pick-up truck was blocking the driveway when I walked up to the house.

“Hey you. Blondie. Get over here.”

“Hi there! My name is Genna and I represent [redacted]. I’m here for the television shoot,” I squeaked, nervously grabbing my business card from my portfolio.

“Listen,” he said, and grabbed my arm to pull me closer to the truck. “I don’t give a fuck who you are. I own this house and that fucking bitch Oprah didn’t pay me a thing to use it for TV. And I’m not letting any one of you goddamn people near this place until somebody pays me.”

“Well, her team contacted the tenant directly, and I have all of the waivers right here. There is not a payment associated with filming, and we won’t be able to offer you any kind of compensation,” I said firmly.  “Also, please don’t use foul language in reference to Miss Winfrey again.”  

There are a lot of times in my professional career where I’ve crossed lines without any regret, but this wasn’t one of them.  

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” he said, choking down the rage in his words.  He reached over to the passenger seat and lifted up a coat to reveal a handgun.  “Is that your BMW over there?” he said, motioning the gun towards my dad’s car.   

I’m not going to lie, I peed a little bit in that pencil skirt.

“Sir, could you please put the gun down?  I’m sure we can work something out,” I said, my voice cracking with fear.  “I completely agree. Oprah is such a dumb bitch for not offering you anything. I mean, this is your fucking house!”

I wish I could say that I felt a twinge of guilt for betraying The Holy One, but instead, I ran down that street in my high heels as fast as I could, jumped in that BMW, rushed to an ATM and gave $400 to the crazy landlord with a gun so he wouldn’t kill me.

He left right as Oprah’s crew was pulling up.  The next two hours were spent filming inside the filthy house, where cockroaches covered the floors and ceilings.  There were even a few crawling on the baby’s crib.

The segment got cut in post-production and never aired.  But to this day, I’m still proud of the way I stood up for Oprah for nearly three seconds and then subsequently threw her under the bus as hard as I could.