As Seen on TV

by Sarah Mlynowski

  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.

  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.

  part 2

  6

  My So-Called Life

  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?”