As Seen on TV (9 page)

I
have never been a morning person. While most of my friends were up watching
Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends
and other Saturday morning cartoons, I was fast asleep and cozy under the covers until at least eleven. At my dorm in college, whenever I didn’t have a morning class and occasionally when I did, I was out cold until at least one.

My father predicted that once I started working and I had to wake up consistently at seven, my internal clock would readjust and I would spring Pop-Tart-like from bed on Saturday mornings before nine.

Wrong. When I’m alone, I still don’t wake up naturally before one on weekends. Luckily Steve shares my nocturnal sleeping pattern. On Saturday afternoons, after I’ve brushed my teeth and climbed back into bed, I fall asleep again and Steve and I slowly blink open our eyes around one. Sometimes I’ll wake him with a special morning surprise, and other times
I’ll wake up with his morning friend unintentionally stabbing me in the thigh. Then we’ll roll on top of each other and later we’ll flip on the television and watch the news. By the time we’ve showered and dressed it’s after three. Our biggest annoyance is finding a restaurant that still serves brunch.

When the alarm starts screaming at seven on Saturday morning, about four minutes after I finally managed to doze off, I furiously hit the snooze button. I spent all night trying to fall asleep. At first I was nervous about what I would wear, what I would say, how I would smile, and then I looked at the clock and began freaking out. I know what I look like after a night of no sleep, and this caused me even more stress, preventing me from falling back into la-la land. Then I began the ritual of glancing at the clock every few seconds, then I tried to force myself not to look at the clock every few seconds, then I tried not to think about looking at the clock every few seconds, and then, hallelujah, I must have finally fallen asleep, because the alarm was suddenly screaming.

Great. I’ve had seven minutes of sleep. Seven minutes in heaven? Isn’t that the name of that kissing game we used to play when we were kids?

I’m going to look like hell.

I drag myself out of bed, shower, pat my hair dry, put on some lipstick to even out my lips, and then squeeze into my black pants and black shirt. Sexy. Black. With my black shoes, I think I look like quite the sophisticate. I know they’re running shoes, but they’re my black Diesel running shoes. Carrie will like the label, right?

There is a stain on my black pants. You’d think that was impossible. How can a stain be visible on black pants? Nonetheless a mutated patch of black blares from my knee. I run to the kitchen and start scrubbing with a paper towel and dish soap. I took only one pair of pants with me to New York. My wardrobe consists of jeans, tops and two suits.

I think it worked. The stain appears to have disappeared. I wish I owned a blow-dryer. Will they fit in the microwave?

Steve opens the bedroom door and joins me in the kitchen.

I must look ridiculous. I’m wearing a shirt, socks and a thong, and my pants are in the microwave. “’Morning,” I say and smile.

He gives me his best what-you-talking-about-Willis look. “Sexy,” he says.

“Just getting ready,” I say.

He kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck,” he says and heads back to bed.

Ten minutes later I’m in the back seat of a black sedan beside a clipboard and coffee-bearing Carrie. I can’t see the driver’s face, only the back of a bald head.

“You can’t wear that,” she says, shaking her head.

“Why?”

“You can’t wear all black on camera unless you’re tanned, thin and blond. You’ll look washed-out and puffy.” She reaches into a leather bag and pulls out a blue V-neck. “Wear this. It’s Marc Jacobs.”

Who? Does she expect me to change in the car? She expects me to change in the car.

“Are you wearing sneakers?”

I look down at my feet. “No.”

“Take them off.”

“They’re my only black shoes.”

Carrie sighs. She pulls a pair of stiletto black pointy-toe boots out of her bag. “Here.”

I kick off my shoes and put on her boots. Ouch. My toes are squished. “These are too small. What size are they, five? I’m a seven.”

“So am I. Didn’t you ever hear the expression, ‘You have to suffer to be beautiful’?” She pulls out her makeup bag. “Why don’t you wear foundation?”

“Why do you wear it?”

She applies the beige liquid to my face. Then she covers me
with powder, then eyeliner, then three shades of eye shadow, then blush, then another coat of mascara. “Better,” she says, analyzing my face with more scrutiny than the school nurse sifting through a first grader’s hair for lice. “I’ll put your lipstick on after you have your coffee. Remember this. Listening?”

I nod and sip. I hold the coffee cup carefully over the middle hump. There is no time for additional spillage.

“If they give you water, do not drink it unless your mouth is absolute sandpaper. If you do, you will have to go to the bathroom and you will look fidgety on camera. Maintain eye contact with the host, or with that magic spot right above the camera lens. Do not look at the ceiling and do not look at the floor. Pretend the camera is a new man who you are desperately trying to get to fall in love with you. Do not blink excessively. Keep your posture. Don’t slouch. Imagine a hanger holding up your shoulders. Do whatever it takes to make yourself look animated. Facial expressions, hand gestures. If you do not animate yourself, you are not going to look interesting on television. You want to look in control, though, so remember, no fidgeting. No scratching, no twirling your hair, no twisting your rings around your fingers or earrings—” She sits up abruptly and gawks at my ears. “Why aren’t you wearing earrings?”

“I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have pierced ears?”

“I do, I just don’t wear jewelry.”

“Why do you have pierced ears, then? You need to wear earrings. The holes are going to close up if you don’t.” Her hands fly to her earlobes and she removes dangling silver drops from her own ears. “Put these on.”

Nasty. I’m feeling way too close to my father’s liquids right now. I put them on. My fingers smell like ear.

“Voice. Modulate. Don’t sound like an Arthur character, don’t sound like the professor on Ferris Bueller. Mo-du-late,” she articulates, flashing her hands for emphasis. “And don’t sound like you’re full of shit. You can lie if you want but sound sincere. Don’t mumble. Don’t swallow the ends of your sen
tence. Don’t be too loud. Don’t speak too softly either. E-nunci-ate. Let me hear you enunciate.”

“E-nun-ci-ate.” I say. In camp, Carrie was a color war captain. She forced us to sing a song about the merits of the yellow team, which she had written to the tune of Chicago’s “You’re the Inspiration.”

“Don’t let your mind wander,” she concludes.

“Got it. Go team.”

Carrie madly flips through the pages on her clipboard. “Are you taking this seriously? You have to take this seriously. It’s going to be a serious interview.”

How serious can this be? It’s a TV show about bars. I doubt there’s an IQ prerequisite. “They’re not going to ask me my opinions on global warfare.”

Carrie looks me in the eye, apparently staggered at my naivety. “Do you have any idea how many women want to be in your shoes?”

Instinctively, I glance down at my newly squashed toes.

“Do you?” she presses on. “Thousands. I waded through hundreds of resumes myself. You are lucky, darling, lucky.” She casts her head downward and sighs loudly, obviously saddened by my lack of reverence. “If you don’t respect the genre, it’s not going to respect you.”

I’m not even sure that means anything. This whole job is a joke. If they like me, they like me, if they don’t, who cares?

“They’re going to ask you a lot of questions. They’ll ask about your relationships, tidbits about your childhood, tiffs with your sister and your roommates—”

“I’ve never had a roommate.”

“They’ll want to know what you do for fun, how crazy of a party girl you are, if you drink too much. They’ll try to ferret out, very subtly, if you have any prejudices.”

“So I shouldn’t tell them about all my bisexual experiences?”

She points a manicured finger at me. “No, definitely tell them those.”

Um…I was kidding?

By the time we pull up in front of the TRS building, I feel as if I’m perched on the top of a ski hill, ready to go. Equipment—check. Attitude—check. Skills—check. I can do this. I’ve always been a comfortable public speaker; I won the annual public speaking contest in high school with my magic formula:

1. Pick one serious issue (divorce, abortion, suicide, anorexia).
   
2. Begin with confessional-style story. (When Marsha was thirteen her father told her he wouldn’t be living at the house anymore.)
   
3. Throw in statistics. (One in every two couples gets divorced.)
   
4. Add lighthearted jokes. (Marsha gets twice as many Christmas presents.)
   
5. Boomerang the speech back to the confessional-like story. (Marsha realized that her parents would lead happier, more fulfilled lives apart.)
   
6. Add a reconciliatory ending. (Marsha’s family wasn’t broken. It was just different.)
   

Voila! First place.

Inside the steel elevator Carrie pinches my cheeks. “You need more color. But you look great.”

You know that ski hill I mentioned? When I was ten, my father brought us to Vale and I broke my leg when I met up with a tree.

With each ascending floor my breathing becomes faster and shallower. I can do this. They want me. They asked for me. I certainly didn’t ask for them.

The elevator door opens into a plush white room. White walls, white couch, white furry carpet. I feel as if I’m in a cream cheese commercial. Pictures of their Emmy-award-winning TV shows, including
NYChase,
and
American Sunrise
line the walls.

I follow Carrie to the reception desk. “Sunny Lang and I are here for her
Party Girls
interview.”

Lang?

The receptionist nods toward the couch. “Victoria’s interview is running a bit late. Do you have her application pack?”

Victoria? Who is Victoria? Why do I have to wait for Victoria? Someone else is interviewing for the role? Who is this “Victoria”? I imagine her with red-cropped hair and a collared shirt, realizing that she is after my part. My part. Does she think she can out-Miranda me?

This will not do. This is my job, and no whiny little suck-up is going to steal it. I try to catch Carrie’s gaze.

Carrie doesn’t look up. Instead, she reaches to the back of her clipboard and pulls out a stack of files. “Sunny will bring her application in with her,” she says, and motions her chin toward the couch. “Let’s wait over there.”

Did she know other women were after my role? I sit down beside her. “How many people are auditioning?” I ask through a clenched jaw.

“I sent one yesterday,” she whispers back. “And other associates in my firm sent two this morning.”

I go into cardiac arrest. I’m competing for this job. I have slashed all ties with Panda for a measly
audition.
I am a wannabe. Is Dana right? There could be dozens, hundreds even, of sexy, serious women lurking around this building, preparing to be asked about their siblings and non-homophobic tendencies, hoping for their big break in cheese-town, and I am just as pathetic as they are.

Carrie hands me a stack of papers and a pen. “Sign the last page.”

I’m certainly not signing something I haven’t even read. I flip through the pages. “What is this?”

“Your application, your references, your background check, proof that you were never arrested, names of family members, interesting things about you…”

A hundred pages, all about me. “Where did you get this stuff?”

“Some from your dad. And you’d be surprised what’s available on the Net,” she says. “Don’t worry,” she adds in
a whisper. “No one cares about the background check. As your agent I’m the one responsible for making sure you’re clear. Once I approve you, you’re golden. I got your dad and Marcus to write two of your references.”

Marcus? The owner of Abina, my childhood sleep-away camp? “How did you get in touch with Marcus? And who are these other people?”

“I called him, and made up the others. No worries.” She pats my knee.

No worries. I need some Pepto-Bismol. “Anything I should know about myself before I go in?”

“Just be yourself. Your sexy, wild, single self. You’re articulate, you’re ambitious, you’re soulful, you don’t take shit from men, you practically raised yourself. I played up the dead mother thing. They loved that—every show needs a sob story. You’ll be wonderful, trust me. They’ll want you. I know what they need. I endorsed you over the girls I sent yesterday.”

The girls? As in plural? What happened to “I sent
one
yesterday”?

Twenty minutes later Victoria prances from the closed doors in a tight Chanel suit, high heels and cropped blond hair. I give her the evil eye. The receptionist lifts her head. “Ms. Lang?”

Carrie pokes me. “That’s your pseudonym. Langstein was too ethnic.”

“Everyone in New York is ethnic.”

“Trust me.”

“I sound like a stripper.”

“Good luck,” she says. “Remember, show them soul. And no drinking.”

I’m ushered down a stark, low-ceilinged white hallway, into a square, white-walled room. A man is half hidden by a large studio camera. Two other men and a woman are sitting on one side of a boardroom table. I recognize Howard. The door slams shut behind me. I feel as if I’m in the final scene in
Flashdance
when Jennifer Beals arrives at the academy in leg warmers and comes face-to-face with judges in suits.

She got them clapping and singing, didn’t she?

“Hi!” I say. My heels click-clack as I walk across the room. These things could take out someone’s balls with one swift kick. I place my application on the table.

Silence.