As Seen on TV (8 page)

No work? “But how will I pay my share of the rent?”

“Sunny, honey, big picture, big picture.
Party Girls
will make you high profile. You’ll meet everyone in the city. In ten weeks, companies will be begging you to work for them because of your contacts. You’ll know everyone in the bar and television industry. I couldn’t come up with a better career move for you if I tried. I’m kind of in human resources, remember? I know these things. You can put the stipend toward one month of rent. So you don’t pay December rent. You’ll cover food. And furniture. Can’t you borrow money from your dad?”

I don’t borrow money from my dad. My mom had to beg my father for alimony. He made her defend every purchase she made for us for two years. My sister owes my father about thirty thousand dollars, and hates him and herself for it.

I don’t ever want to depend on anyone else for money. For anything.

But this is only ten weeks. I can depend on Steve for ten weeks, can’t I?

“Your father thinks it’s a terrific idea,” she says.

“He does?” Why do I have a feeling my father couldn’t care one way or the other?

“Of course. Why not? He called it an incredible introduction to the city. And he’s happy we’ll get the chance to know each other all over again. Sunny, it’ll be a blast. What’s not to like? And I’ll be there with you every step of the way. Howard hired me full-time to help with the girls.”

She’s absolutely right. Why not? “Okay,” I say, suddenly giddy. “Let me just call Steve and make sure it’s okay with him. He will be covering my rent.”

“Really? Awesome. Okay, I’m sorry to rush you, but I have to know now. I’ll call you back in five. Okay? You’d really be saving my ass.” She hangs up the phone.

I call Steve at the restaurant.

“Hi, it’s me. Carrie offered me a job on a reality TV show in New York. It only pays a thousand dollars, but I’ll make
amazing contacts. All I’d have to do is go to a bar once a week for a few hours and they’ll give us free food and free furniture and they’ll pay for my move. And it’s only ten weeks. But I have to tell them in five minutes. I’d be crazy not to, right?”

I hear the clatter of clanking pots in the background. He must be in the kitchen. “They’re going to give you free stuff just to be on television?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“But, Steve, I’ll need you to cover December’s rent.”

“I told you I could cover a few months.”

“You’re sure? You think I should do it?”

“Why not? Sounds like a blast.”

I pick up the ringing phone.

“And?” Carrie says.

“Why not.” Why not? It’s just one night a week for ten weeks. Not that a big a deal. Does anyone even watch TRS? It’ll be something funny to show my grandkids one day.

“Great. Great! Filming starts in eight days. Next Saturday.”

“Perfect. My last day of work is on Friday.” See, I am the goddess of timing.

“We’ll need you here a bit earlier than that,” she says. “To ensure you’ll be screen compatible. To buy you the right hair, clothes, publicity.”

Buy hair? Buy publicity? “When do you need me?”

She takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow morning at nine.”

Yikes.

I shake my head. “Tomorrow morning at nine?”

“It’ll be fab. TRS will pay for your flight out tonight. Let me e-mail the travel agent. There’s a seven-fifteen flight with American Airlines. Perfect. Pick up your ticket at Fort Lauderdale airport. Go to sleep as soon as you arrive tonight so you won’t have bags under your eyes in the morning. I’ll send a car to pick you up at 8:00 a.m. Wear something sexy and sophisticated. I’ll brief you in the car.”

I scan the many multicolored files on my desk and around my office. It’s like a paper rainbow in here. I was supposed to sort through them before I left to make sure everything is in order. And what about my e-mails? And my personal documents? “All right,” I say, and begin sifting. I’ll do what I can. The poor, poor MBA. “Do you know where Steve’s place is?”

“Who’s Steve?”

“My boyfriend, remember? He runs the restaurant? The reason I’m moving to New York?”

“Oh shit. Right. Steve. That’s where we dropped you off the other night after that woman choked, right? Listen, Sunny, I wouldn’t mention anything about Steve to the TRS people. You’re a wild, sexy, single girl, okay?”

“But—”

“There’s not much public interest in boring-pass-the-remote relationship types.”

Boring? I can barely keep up. “But when will I pack up my apartment? I have to be out by the fourteenth.”

“Don’t worry, everything will work out. All settled? See you tomorrow.” She hangs up.

I definitely need to take my phone contacts with me. Will anyone notice if I plunk the entire Rolodex in my purse? I write my new number and e-mail address on my pad of paper along with a note for the MBA: “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to train you. If you have any questions or concerns, please call me anytime. Good luck! Sunny.”

Liza throws open the door. “You know I don’t like when you keep your door closed for so long.”

“I…I just got the most horrible phone call,” I say, and try to appear misty-eyed and bewildered. “My grandmother…is sick again, very, very sick this time and I have to go to New York to take care of her.” Good thing I don’t believe in hell.

“That’s terrible,” she says, showing surprising compassion. “Is she going to die?”

What kind of question is that? You don’t ask if someone’s going to die. “She might,” I say, casting my eyes downward.

“But you’ll be back on Monday, right?”

“I don’t know if I can, unfortunately. She’s very sick.”

“Can’t someone else look after her?” Liza is beginning to look panicked. I hope she doesn’t go into labor. “I
need
you here next week.”

I widen my eyes, all innocent-girl like. “Well, since my mother is dead, there isn’t really anyone else. And if she does die, how horrible would it be if she was all alone without anyone to comfort her?” Yikes.

Liza still looks miffed. “When are you leaving?”

“I have to go home and pack a bag and attempt to make the seven o’clock flight. It’s all terribly sudden,” I say. At least that part is true.

“So that’s it? You’re leaving? This is your last day?”

I need to be at the airport for 5:30, which means I need to leave for the airport at 4:45, which means I need to be home by 3:30, at the latest—no, make that 2:30—to get organized. I’ll need to leave here at 2:00.

I look at my watch. “I’m going to have to say my goodbyes now, unfortunately.”

Liza turns white. She better not go into labor. I don’t have the time to take her to the hospital.

In the taxi on the way to the airport I call the
Miami Herald
to cancel my subscription (“Are you sure you don’t want to transfer it?”) and then quickly call my sister to tell her the news.

“Do you really want to be associated with the pimple on the ass of the history of media?” she asks.

“What?”

“Don’t you think being on a reality TV show is horrendously cheesy?”

“Don’t you think spending five hundred dollars on a new purse is horrendously cheesy?”

She ignores the dig. “What if you end up villainized like
Geri from
Survivor
or that Simon guy? You’re not going to pose for
Playboy,
are you? And look at the Real World people now. They’re always whining. I think they even had to start a twelve-step program or something.”

“It’s so not a big deal, Dana, it’s just for a few weeks.”

“How can you be part of something that encourages people to aspire to the lowest common denominator? That promotes 20-somethings as asinine, shallow and incompetent? That’s so not
you.
”

Asinine? Shallow? Incompetent? “The shows aren’t that bad,” I say, apprehension fermenting in my stomach like bad yogurt.

“Have you ever even watched one?”

“Of course.” Once or twice. I haven’t watched a lot of TV since I moved out of my father’s house.

“What about your privacy?”

“I’m only taped on Saturday nights. I can make nice to the cameras for five hours a week. It’s a job. And there are so many of these shows, the characters are swapped faster than coffee filters. No one will remember my name two weeks after the show.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Dana, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. I’ll meet people. I’ll make a life for myself in New York and not have to rely on Steve for a social life. I’ll get a ton of free stuff. I’ll make contacts. I thought you’d see this as a good thing.”

“Don’t complain to me when you become a public mockery and they’re doing skits about you on
Saturday Night Live.
”

“Thanks for the support.” I turn my phone off.

Is she right? Is this actually a big deal?

Oh. Right. She’s jealous. Of course she’s jealous. She’s been trying to make her mark in television for the past five years. And I get this offered to me on a silver platter. She would kill for an opportunity like this, and I’m not even taking it seriously. Maybe I should call her back and apologize.

Forget it. She didn’t have to be so rude.

We get stuck in traffic, of course we do, and the driver at
tempts to engage me in a discussion about a new sales tax, but I’m too worried about missing my flight and therefore my new job, to partake in conversation. I grumble and close my eyes.

Finally I’m fastened in my middle seat on the plane—you’d think they could have sprung for business class—and there’s no room overhead for my carry-on so I have to cram my suitcase under my feet.

Not the best start to my new adventure.

When I get to LaGuardia Airport, I wait thirty minutes for a taxi and then fall asleep on the drive to the apartment. Finally, finally, I’m here! Here I am! I’m going to see my Stevie, I think smiling. The doorman doesn’t remember me, of course not, so I have to remind him who I am, and once he nods, I drag my bags into the elevator, and then to Steve’s door.

He doesn’t know I’m coming. In the past year I’ve never surprised him with a visit. What better opportunity than this to be spontaneous? At least he finally had the right key made for me last weekend, if he’s not home.

As I unlock the door I have a terrible thought: What if he is home, but he’s with another woman? What if they’re having sex on the couch, clothes dripping all over the floor? I just left my job for him, bastard. What would I do? His loss, I decide. I’m going to be on TV. I’m going to be a TV star. I’m staying in New York. I’m taking this job even if he is a cheating bastard and I have to stay with my father until I can find my own place. Maybe I should have knocked so they have a chance to get dressed. But then I won’t be able to catch them in the act, and they could always deny it. Say she’s a friend or a waitress from the restaurant or something.

I swiftly push open the door and storm into the living room.

Sprawled on the couch is Steve, alone, his right hand resting down his jogging pants, like it always is when he forgets I’m there. The TV is blaring (why does he need it so loud?) and a bowl of popcorn is overflowing onto the coffee table.

“I was wondering where you were,” he says. He smiles and
I love him and he removes his hand from his pants and bear-hugs me.

“Surprise,” I say, feeling foolish. I press him back toward the couch and recount the events of the day.