As Seen on TV

by Sarah Mlynowski

  He grunts.

  “You’re new to all this, you’ll see,” Erin says to me. “They couldn’t give a shit about us. We’re completely replaceable.”

  “One of us was already replaced,” Brittany says. “I think you’d better realize right here and now who your real friends are. You never know what can happen.”

  Real friends? I’ve known her for one week. “Excuse me for breaking up the team,” I say and spend the rest of the cab ride staring at the bumper of the taxi in front of us. I’m not straining my neck for them if they consider me a scab.

  When we pull up to the hotel, a porter comes to take our bags and we follow him through the brass door onto the lobby’s marble floor.

  Carrie scurries toward us, arms flying. “Hi, girls! All ready?” she asks and kisses us each on the cheek. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got four rooms. Are you excited?”

  We squish into the already crowded elevator. “Can you press twelve?” Carrie asks Brittany, since she’s closest to the number pad.

  Brittany’s hands are full, with bags she didn’t trust with the porter, but she bends down and tries to press it with her chin.

  Instead she hits eleven and twelve. “Oops. My chin is worse than Jay Leno’s.”

  “You don’t have a big chin,” Carrie says.

  “Yes, I do,” she answers. “There’s nothing I can do about it, so I’ve accepted it. What am I going to do, get chin liposuction?”

  “Erin would,” Michelle says, raising an eyebrow.

  Brittany squishes her massive chest. “Do you think I should get a breast reduction?”

  Erin smirks. “I think Michelle could take your leftovers.”

  “I’m told that after you’ve breast-fed they go down in size by themselves,” I offer.

  Brittany and Erin look at me as though I’ve just told a joke but omitted the punch line. I feel my cheeks grow hot. Was that a stupid thing to say?

  I suddenly feel uncomfortable in my own skin, like I’m too pale, and trying on too-tight bikinis that cause protruding stomach and hip flab. Who are these people? How did I end up in this claustrophobic elevator?

  The doors open at the eleventh floor and everyone giggles. I contemplate making a run for it. I think I’m going to be sick.

  The doors close.

  “Can someone explain to me why we’re at a hotel and not in our own apartments?” Michelle asks. “Aren’t we supposed to live in New York?”

  Carrie pats me on the shoulder again. “It’s because the budget only allows for two cameramen. They couldn’t be at all four of your apartments at once. This way they can film all of you getting ready at the same time, and they can hire one beautician and one hair stylist who works on you all. And I think M.U. owns the hotel.”

  The doors open again on the twelfth floor. We shuffle out. The hallway is a madhouse. Pete, Dirk, Tania, Howard and other people I don’t know are running back and forth between four rooms, two on each side of the hall, with cameras and clipboards.

  It looks like a scene in a movie about people making a movie.

  “Brittany and Erin,” Howard says, waving. “Your connecting rooms are here.” He points to the doors on his right. “Sunny and Miche have the connecting rooms on the other side. Good luck.”

  Carrie’s cell phone rings and she reaches in her purse to answer it.

  Howard is deep in discussion with Dirk.

  The four of us don’t move. What are we supposed to be doing?

  “Howard,” Michelle says. “This setup is adorable. But do you mind telling us what we should do?”

  Howard looks up, his face registering surprise that we’re all still standing there. “We’re starting with Erin in the shower—”

  Erin raises an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry,” Howard says, smiling brightly. “It’ll be classy naked. Artsy. I want a shot of you peeking out behind the curtain and saying hello to the camera.”

  I’d prefer not to have anyone anywhere near my shower, thanks. I don’t even like sharing my shower with Steve. Bathroom time is alone time. No matter how long we live together, I’m never going to be a pee-with-the-door-open type of girl.

  A cloud of confusion crosses Brittany’s face. “But, Howard, aren’t we supposed to pretend the camera isn’t there?”

  “Good point, sweetheart. Tell you what, just wave at the camera. Anyway, after Erin we’ll pop over to Miche, Sunny and finally to Brittany’s shower.”

  Sunny’s shower. My shower. IN THE SHOWER? All of America will get to shower with me before Steve does. I don’t think he’s going to like that. I don’t think I’m going to like it. Distressed, I ask, “What, uh, are the chances of that clip ending up in the final cut?”

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I have no idea what ends up in the show until we’re editing the show. We’re filming about nine hours of footage. We’re using twenty-two minutes, and the first five minutes has to be about you prepping, then chatting. If the viewer doesn’t get to know you, she won’t care.” The cheese ball places a hand on his heart. “If she doesn’t care, she won’t watch.”

  I give it another shot. “It’s just that I, uh, don’t think we should treat the audience like idiots. We’re supposed to be alone. This is a reality show. How are the viewers supposed to buy into the show’s authenticity if we’re waving at the camera? Is it supposed to be a postmodern interpretation?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about the technicalities, sweetheart.” He narrows his eyes. “But I get your point. No waving. Just smile sweetly when you poke your head out. Remember, at the beginning it’s important to make them care.”

  Brittany shoots me a dirty look, then slings her arms around Erin. “Of course, they’ll care about us, Howard. We’re awesome.”

  He shakes his head. “Sure, you’re awesome, babe, but remember that the viewers also care about scandal. About humiliation. They want to see you squirm. They want you to talk crap about each other. They want to see alliances and betrayals and backstabbers. Don’t be too nice.”

  We all laugh. Hah, hah.

  What bad things will they say about me? What am I going to say about them? Is it better if they say fake bad things, or real bad things?

  Howard continues. “Then we’ll have about ten seconds of you getting to the bar, in the cab, and then a few seconds of you entering the bar, and then of course the next fourteen minutes will be of you girls at the club. And we want to see you strutting your single selves. Flirt, pick up, dance, get phone numbers. You’re on the prowl.”

  “I don’t even know what club we’re going to,” Erin says.

  “Stirred,” Howard says.

  Groaning, Michelle takes a seat on the faded mint-green carpet, her back pressed up against the door. “One of my exes hangs out there. Can we not let him in?”

  “Sounds like good TV,” Erin says.

  Howard scowls. Why is he scowling? Won’t that make good TV? “The last few minutes,” he says, “will be of you girls on your way home, separately, commenting on the night. Of course, if any of you want to use the hotel rooms to entertain any new friends from the club, we’ve installed cameras beside the smoke detectors.” He winks at us. “And the rooms are all yours for the night. If you stay, don’t turn off the cameras.”

  Michelle starts laughing. “Hilarious. Reality porn?”

  Yeah, Steve would love that. Me bringing back a guy. Unless, of course, he’s the guy. He’s always hinting about wanting to film us in the act. I suppose we could “accidentally” meet at the bar and I could bring him to the hotel. I quickly dismiss the idea. Steve might have a few particular quirks, but I don’t think he’s ready to share them with the world.

  And neither am I. I can just imagine his mother Joy saying to me, “Oy vey, Sunny! You let him put it in your mouth? Is that even kosher?”

  No. Not going to happen.

  “I’m not asking you to have sex,” Howard says. “I’m only mentioning that sex makes great televi
sion. Remember. Hollywood ain’t all glitz and glamour.”

  Then it’s prostitution?

  “Why don’t you put cameras in our apartments?” Erin says, posing with her hand on her hip. “Then you could watch us twenty-four seven.”

  “Forget it,” Michelle says. “There’s no way you’re installing anything in my apartment. I didn’t sign up for full-time surveillance.”

  “I second the motion,” Brittany says.

  “That seems fair,” I say in my best aw-shucks-I-could-go-either-way voice intonation.

  “The budget on this show isn’t paying me to sift through hundreds of hours of footage of you guys flossing your teeth,” Howard says. “Saturday nights will be sufficient. Also, each of you will be wearing mikes the entire time while you’re out and they can’t be turned off.”

  “Even when we’re in the bathroom?” Brittany asks.

  “Even then,” Howard answers.

  “Nine hours of footage,” Michelle says. “For twenty-two minutes of film?”

  Howard nods. “Exactly.”

  “Hilarious,” she says.

  “And you’re going to mix and match the images with our comments and conversations?” I ask.

  “Yup,” Howard answers.

  Carrie closes her phone and returns to our huddle. “That was your father. He has to work late again.”

  Nice of him to wish me good luck.

  We open the doors to our rooms. Wow. Make that our suites.

  In my room a king-sized bed faces a television the size of a wall. Beyond the bed is a sitting room with a beige couch, a wooden table and two wooden chairs. Beyond that are French doors which look out onto a balcony. I bet there’s even a Jacuzzi. I love Jacuzzi baths. I open the bathroom door, and just as I suspected—a Jacuzzi. There is nothing I love more than sitting in a Jacuzzi with a book and a glass of wine. Those jets hit the spot. I wonder if I can sneak one in now.

  Forget it. They’d probably want to film it.

  Steve loves Jacuzzis, too. On the sixth-month anniversary of our first date, he rented us a room in a luxury hotel in South Beach. The room with a Jacuzzi cost an extra hundred dollars, but let’s just say we got our money’s worth. By the time we emerged from the water, our skin was so soft you could peel it off.

  This is the nicest hotel room I’ve ever been in and I can’t even share it with Steve.

  But I get to share it with the rest of the world.

  I move my bag from near the door where the porter left it, to on the bed. Will they want to film me taking my clothes out of the bag or out of the closet? Am I supposed to be dressing in the hotel or making it appear as though I’m staying in the hotel?

  Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?

  I decide to unpack my second pair of new black pants and my new purple shirt—I wanted to wear the red one again but Carrie wouldn’t let me.

  Maybe my boots will be more comfortable tonight now that I’ve worn them in?

  Am I supposed to get in the shower and wait for them to come and film me? But I have the key. How will they get in? Unless they have duplicate keys.

  I guess I’ll wait.

  I sit on the edge of the bed. I click on the television. I can order a movie. Why are half of the movies porn?

  A half hour later I’m lying across the white sheet—I don’t care how nice the hotel is, I’m not sitting on a germ-infested comforter—and am halfway into an episode of Friends when there’s a knock on my door.

  “One sec!” I yell and then remake the bed.

  I guess they don’t have keys. I open the door.

  Howard, Carrie and Pete crowd in.

  Carrie claps her hands. “Let’s get you naked!”

  My lungs seem to arrest at the word naked. And having my father’s girlfriend being the one to tell me doesn’t help matters. Naked. Naked. TV. Naked.

  I can’t just take off my clothes. I barely even know these people. “Um…how about I get undressed in the bathroom and then let you know when I’m ready?”

  Howard glares at his watch. “Hurry up.”

  After painfully removing my clothes as if I was peeling an onion, I fold them and put them in a pile in the corner. A few minutes later I’m in the shower, wetting my hair. “I’m ready,” I say. The shower curtain is beige and opaque, so no one will be able to see behind it. I hope. Unless they bring the camera into the shower, which they won’t. This isn’t porn. Are cameras even waterproof?

  Good thing it’s not a porn. My pubic hair is completely uneven. The non-waxed side keeps growing back. I hope the rumor that waxing makes your hair thinner isn’t true. Otherwise my pubic hair will be forever off-kilter.

  “Sunny? We’re coming in,” Howard says.

  Oh my. I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm the building hysteria, and the desire to rip the shower curtain off the pole and wrap it numerous times around my exposed body.

  Two shadows become visible through the curtain. I peek out. Pete’s leg is up on the toilet and he’s fiddling with the camera lens.

  “What should I do?” I ask, panic creeping into my voice.

  “Why don’t you soap up your hair and then stick your head out?” Pete says. “An action shot.”

  Who wants her first image on television to have soapy hair and no makeup? “I had more of a wet-haired sexy look in mind,” I suggest. One move and I flash the entire country and I’m worried about soapy hair?

  “We’ll do that, too,” Howard says. “If we end up using any of this at all, it will be only the most intriguing image. The best one.”

  The best for who? Me? I don’t even let Steve see me like this. I unscrew the lid to the hotel shampoo. It smells like strawberry pudding. Can they see me in here? They’re not looking, right?

  Soapy, I pop my head back out and force a smile at the camera. Got to make them care. Then I try to look like I’m not looking at the camera, but happen to be standing in the shower with my head peeping out from behind the curtain, while gripping the edge of the curtain for dear life. What am I doing here? Why aren’t I sitting behind a desk working on a PowerPoint presentation?

  The bathroom door is open and I can see their shadows entering and exiting the room.

  There’s no conditioner. I hate when hotels don’t provide conditioner. If I don’t use conditioner my hair will look like a big bird’s nest.

  “Um…can someone get me a conditioner?” I ask. “I didn’t bring and the shower doesn’t have.”

  “I have enough film,” Pete says. “I’m done.”

  I exhale the large breath that couldn’t have been helping my silhouette.

  “I’ll get you some,” Howard says.

  They leave the bathroom and a few minutes later, I see the outline of a shadow behind the curtain.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sunny,” Howard’s voice says.

  That was so creepy. I didn’t even hear him sneak in.

  “I borrowed Michelle’s conditioner for you. Where do you want me to put it?”

  “On the counter is perfect, thanks.”

  Where else would he put it? In the shower with me?

  Oh. Gross. Is he coming on to me? He’s stationed way too close to the curtain. “I’ll be out in five, thanks,” I say.

  He slithers back out the door.

  When I’m done, I hop out of the stall and quickly lock the bathroom door. I wrap myself in a towel and tie the top over my chest in a funky knot. When my mother used to dry me off after a bath, she always designed my shower towel on me in what she called my Oscar dress. Pink, fluffy, regal.

  I’m a pro. My towel dress looks quite sophisticated, if I do say so myself.

  I open the door. Pete is filming me.

  Tania looks up from her clipboard. “We’re going to film you blow-drying your hair. Then the stylist will come and do it for you. Then we’ll get you putting on your makeup and I’ll ask you a few questions, okay?”

  I nod and remove the blow-dryer from the wall. I whisk it over my head
while looking in the mirror. I feel the camera filming me.

  I flip my head over and blow-dry the underneath. A motion shot. I’m fun. I’m frivolous.

  I hope the towel doesn’t fall.

  “That looks great!” Pete yells over the sound of the dryer. “You can stop now!”

  I turn it off and flip back up. Pete and Tania are already gone, presumably to film one of the other girls in their state of preparation. I drop my towel and then…damn, damn, damn. The camera next to the smoke detector. Turn my back to the evil eye and attempt to cover my privates with my hands, while lunging for the terry-cloth bathrobe I spotted earlier in the cupboard.

  “Ready?” a voice from nowhere says. I look up to see a woman surrounded by numerous hair-styling tools and products standing in the sitting room.

  I just walked through the room naked, without even seeing her. “Sorry, I…uh…didn’t mean to change in front of you.” Or in front of the entire world, I think, looking up again at the smoke detector. I sit down in the empty chair.

  Thirty minutes later, my hair is styled and glossy and has that I-could-never-do-this-by-myself look.

  I open the door that connects my room to Michelle’s and hit a second door instead of her room. I bet all the girls are sitting around relaxing. I wonder if they’re talking about me. I knock. I hear giggles.

  “One sec,” she says. She opens the door, also in her bathrobe. Her hair is wild with red curls. “Come sit with us.”

  Her room is the same as mine, just reversed. A flushed-faced Howard is sitting on the couch.

  Does he sleaze up everyone? Something naughty going on here?

  He stands up. “Why don’t I get Pete and film you girls gossiping and having a drink?”

  “Sure,” says Michelle.

  Howard picks up the phone. “Room service? Girls, you want Cosmos?”

  Pete clips our lavaliere microphones to our collars, and hides the small, black, body-pack transmitters in our pockets.

  “Remember, girls,” Howard says. “I am a ghost. Nothing I say is going to make the cut. So repeat my questions into your answers. And speak in the present tense. We’ll use some of your comments with other images.”