Читать книгу As Seen On Tv - Sarah Mlynowski - Страница 14

This is the history of my parents: Father is in business school. Mother is a nurse. Father is Jewish. Mother is Catholic. Father meets Mother in Brooklyn. Father and Mother fall in love. Mother gets pregnant. Father proposes marriage but insists Mother convert, otherwise Father’s children will not be Jewish. Being Jewish is very important to Father because it’s important to Father’s parents. Father’s father, Daniel, died five years ago and Father promised he would marry Jewish woman. Mother cares more about Father than she does about religion so she agrees. Mother’s parents do not agree. Mother’s parents are horrified that daughter is pregnant and converting and tells Mother to never return home again. Mother converts. Process is far more strenuous than Mother imagined. Mother marries Father anyway. Father gets offered high-paying consultant job in Fort Lauderdale. Mother and Father move to Florida. Mother has baby girl, names her Dana, after Father’s father. Mother wants to return to work but has difficulty finding new nursing job with baby at home. Father becomes increasingly distant. Father’s job requires much traveling. Mother tries to have another child. Gets pregnant. Miscarries. Gets pregnant again. Miscarries again. Gets depressed. Gets pregnant again. Carries to term. Mother sees baby as shining light in marriage and names baby Sunny. Sings “You Light Up My Life” to rock baby to sleep. Father leaves Mother for secretary. Mother’s older daughter doesn’t understand where Daddy is and sits on the porch stairs waiting for him to come home. Mother puts three-year-old back to bed and explains to ten-year-old again. Mother gets sick. Mother doesn’t tell children that she is sick, but instead calls her own parents who she hasn’t spoken to in ten years and begs them to come take care of them. Parents come. Grandmother and Grandfather move into Mother’s house until summer when Mother dies and children move into Father’s new house in Palm Beach.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Steve tells me.

My office door is still closed. “Whatever you say, Judy Blume.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” One at a time, I pull unused thumbtacks out of the corkboard walls, and then group them on my desk by color. Red, yellow, green, white.

“So you’ll look for a job here. It’ll be easy to find something once you’re in the city.”

I attempt to keep my voice at a consistent pitch, above the sinking level. “Everything is all screwed up. I didn’t want to move until I had a job. I don’t want to be the jobless girlfriend who has no life and sponges off her boyfriend, all right? How do you know I’m ever going to find a job?” I turn the thumbtacks around and stab them into the wooden desk.

“First of all, you’ll find a job. Second of all, you’re not sponging off me. I’m happy to cover the full rent until you find something. And second of all—”

“You already said second of all. You’re on third of all.”

“Third of all, you never thought you’d get the first job you applied for, anyway. And you only applied to jobs in the beverage industry. Can’t you apply for any new business job? And can’t you apply for manager positions, too? Not just assistant managers?”

“I wanted a job in an industry I’m familiar with. I don’t like not knowing what I’m doing. And I’m not ready to be a manager yet.”

“If you need to make some money, you can wait tables at the restaurant.”

I can’t get sucked up by his world. I need to have my own job, my own life. I can’t depend on him for everything. Is he not listening? “But I wasn’t planning on quitting until I had a job. You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” He sighs into the phone. “Sunny, I know you’re afraid you’ll end up like your mother. But you’re not her, okay?”

My head hurts. I close my eyes. “How did you know that was bugging me?”

“What do you mean how do I know? I know.”

“Carrie? Hi, it’s Sunny.”

“Sunny?”

“Sunny, Adam’s daughter?”

“Sunny! Hey! How are you? I am so busy here today. We’re having a major crisis. Major. Can I call you back? Why are you calling?”

Why am I calling? I rub the palms of my hands against my temples. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. The job that I thought I had fell through and I was wondering if you still had some temp work for me? You seem like you’re in a rush, though, so call me whenever you have a second.”

“Sure, Sunny, no problem. Let me ask around and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, okay? Gotta run! Crisis! ’Bye!” She hangs up.

She’s not calling back. Maybe my father has already dumped her and she’s going to make me wait by the phone as payback.

The bulletin board walls in the room start to contract, like the trash compactor scene in Star Wars. My breathing feels shallower, faster, harder.

When we moved in with my father, this happened to me whenever my dad tried to take us on vacation. On a flight to the Florida Keys, I pretended to be asleep on Dana’s lap, imagining air leaking from my mouth as if from the rim of a balloon. Leaving me shriveled and empty.

When I was seven, on a trip to Epcot Center, on the Spaceship Earth ride, as Dana, my dad, his new girlfriend and her twelve-year-old son journeyed “to the dawn of recorded time…” I began to slowly hyperventilate. When our seats rotated to reveal a vast star-filled night sky, I felt as if I was being buried alive. Rambling, I told my father I had to find a bathroom, now, and Dana took my hand and led me through the blackness, toward the red exit sign. As soon as we entered the lit corridor, I started crying. She pulled me into her and smoothed my hair until I felt calm.

When Dana was seventeen, on the morning of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, she knocked on my father’s door, still in her pajamas, and told my father she was not going to synagogue. She’d had enough. She didn’t believe in God, and what was the point in pretending she did? Moronic, she said. Religion was moronic, so why should she be a hypocrite?

Sitting in the kitchen, eating my cereal and milk, dressed in my new striped gray Rosh Hashanah suit and black pumps, I thought about how after my mother died, Dana used to tell me that she was watching us from above, making sure we were all right. But as I heard Dana stomp toward her room and slam her door, I realized that it had been something she had to say, because what else do you tell a six-year-old girl?

Headhunter. Why don’t I e-mail a headhunter? I’ll write up a polite cover letter, using Steve’s New York address.

By noon Liza has passed by my closed door, scowling, at least twenty times. I’m about to send off my cover letter to Great Jobs NY when my phone rings, annoying me.

“What?” Did I just say that?

“Sunny. It’s me. Omigod.”

Will Omigod one day make it into the Oxford English Dictionary as an expression of disbelief or amazement among generation Y women?

“Oh, hi, Carrie.” Maybe she found something? Be calm.

“Omigod. Guess what? You’re not going to believe this. Are you ready? Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down?”

No, I’m lined up vertically against the wall in a headstand. “Yes, I’m sitting.”

“Okay. Okay. One of the girls—not one of the two girls I found, but one of the girls my assistant Lauren discovered, my ex-assistant I should add—was arrested last night. Arrested! By the cops! I fired Lauren, of course. A bad judge of character has no future at Character. No future in this business at all. I can’t believe I hired her in the first place.”

“What girls?” I ask. What is she talking about? She’s sounding a bit pimpish. I change the screen of my computer to my To Do list in case Liza peeks in. No need to antagonize her for no reason.

“For Party Girls. The reality TV show. I told you about it, didn’t I? The camera follows four women on Saturday nights. And the unique part is that the show airs the next night because it’s ALR taping which is—”

“Right, Almost Live Reality. You told me.”

“Yes, Almost Live Reality and taping starts in eight days. Eight days! Eight days!”

Wow, I have good timing. I might be a timing goddess as well as deity of efficiency. Lauren got fired today. I need a job today. I am good. I can demean myself for a few months, while I make contacts and earn some cash. If it looks that bad on my resume, I don’t even have to put it on. I swivel my chair three hundred and sixty degrees, and smile. “I’ll take it,” I say.

Carrie squeals. “You will? You’re awesome! You’re going to be amazing. You’re going to be a TV star.”

What did she just say? Me? A what? “You mean a Character star, right?”

“Whatever you want to call it, honey. I’m going to make you famous.”

Famous? “Carrie, are you offering me a job at Character?”

She laughs a high-pitched, girly laugh. “I’m offering you a role on Party Girls.”

I drop the phone and then pick it up again. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll be great.”

“On TV. What do I know about TV?”

“You don’t need to know anything. That’s the point. It’s a reality show.”

I can’t be on TV. What would I do on television? “I don’t understand.”

Carrie is beginning to get impatient. “Sheena was arrested for shoplifting two thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise from Bloomingdale’s. She’ll be tied up in court for the next year. And we can’t have the show’s reputation tarnished before it even starts. And she was supposed to be the Miranda.”

“The what?”

“The responsible one. Remember my client Howard? At Eden’s? He had the Hawaiian shirt and the jealous wife. He called me at 3:00 a.m. last night and told me that Sheena was in jail and that I had to find a new girl, pronto. We need to have four girls. Four girls, Sunny, four girls. I’ve been frantically trying to find a replacement all morning. Howard nixed the runner-ups. All of them. He said, ‘If I didn’t hire them the first time I saw them, why should I hire them now?’ But isn’t that the point of runner-ups? Anyway, he said to find someone new. So I’ve been searching for a lawyer or an investment banker, someone sexy yet serious, but no one wants to take a sabbatical from work, and even if someone could, her management probably won’t allow her to moonlight in case the show’s material reflects negatively on the firm. But we need someone capable. And then you called. Didn’t you always want to be on television? Be like Barbara Walters?”

How did she remember that? “I don’t know—”

“Do you believe in fate? I believe in fate. I called Howard, after remembering that he already met you. I told him you were a career woman, moving to the city and wouldn’t you be perfect and do you know what he said? Bring her in for a screen test.”

“Really? Me?” Well, I never. He must have been impressed with my life-saving show at the restaurant. “He saw me do the Heimlich and thinks my life-saving skills will make me a good character?”

“Um…no. He left before that happened. He decided he didn’t like their table and they went to Nobu instead. But he thought you were cute.”

I’m oddly flattered. I catch my smiling reflection in the computer screen and attempt to make my smile TV appropriate. Am I showing too much teeth? How much teeth is too much teeth?

“Are you in?”

“I…um…” This is a bit psychotic. How can I be on TV? Who am I? Everyone has his or her own show, and who are they? But on Party Girls? The bubble gum of television?

Why not? It’s a job in New York. “I do need a job. I could certainly use the money.”

“Exactly. Although, I should tell you the show doesn’t pay much. But—”

“What’s the salary?” Isn’t that the whole point in being a star? That you get to be rich?

“There’s no salary per se. But there is a stipend of a thousand dollars. And there are a million perks. You’ll get a complete makeover. We’ll fix up that hair and the uneven skin. And we’ll definitely do something about those eyebrows.”

Those eyebrows?

“Plus,” Carrie continues, “because Party Girls is on TRS and TRS is owned by Metro United, you get tons of free stuff from everything Metro United owns. Including a thousand dollars a month clothing allowance at Stark’s, so twenty-five hundred in total for two and a half months. Isn’t that amazing? It’s amazing. And you’ll get fifty percent off any additional Stark’s purchases. They have everything there, Sunny. Everything. You can get a new couch. A sheepskin coat. Prada shoes. And since they pick up shipments around the country, I’m sure we can find a way for them to deliver your Florida furniture to your new Manhattan apartment. And Metro United, MU, also owns Gourmet Market. You haven’t tasted smoked turkey until you’ve bought some from their deli. You get a four-hundred-dollar expense account per month at any of their locations. And a free membership to Hardbody gym. There’s like one on every corner. They have spinning rooms, boxing rings and Pilates studios. They even have fantastic pools. Incredible, I know. Oh, and Metro United also owns Rooster Cosmetics. They make those fantastic facial-cleaning strips. And Purity tampons. You’ll get free Purity tampons. As many as you need. Sanitary products get expensive.”

My pubic region clenches at the very mention of a Purity tampon.

Free move? Clothing allowance? I could use that winter jacket. And Steve’s place could certainly use some new furniture. A lot of new furniture. A nice comfy bed, some lamps, blankets, candles…and a thousand dollars would pay for at least the first month of my rent…

What’s wrong with my eyebrows?

“It’s only ten weeks,” she continues. “Ten weeks. That’s it. Two and a half months of your time. And it only films once a week.”

That’s great. All that for only one night a week? I’ll have tons of time for a real job. “So I’m free the rest of the time?”

“Exactly. But Howard would prefer that his girls concentrate on the show and not work anywhere else. You’ll need to be free for press purposes. But you can certainly set up a job for after the show.”

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 attempts 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.