As Seen on TV

by Sarah Mlynowski

Five doesn’t make it all the way in.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “It’s not working?”

  “Apparently glove leads to no love.” I laugh and he rolls off the condom and deposits it on the floor. “Wanna sixty-nine?”

  Groan. “Why don’t we have some bubbly first?”

  “That would be lubbly.”

  He pops the champagne, pours two glasses. We cuddle and turn on the TV.

  11

  Leave It to Beaver

  I try to ignore the camera, but it’s become my tail. Always up my behind.

  Solution: Need to get drunker.

  The problem so far on the taping of Episode Two is that Miche and I don’t know what to do with ourselves. Are we supposed to be hitting on guys? Dancing? Talking to strangers? Drinking? Howard complained that Miche and I didn’t flirt with enough guys last week. Excuse us for not wanting to appear trampy on television.

  Instead of whoring ourselves out like we’re supposed to, we’ve elected to perch ourselves on two stools, huddling over a small table and apple martinis. I’m not usually a fan of any type of chair with no back or arms, and at the moment I’m even less of a fan as I’m very nervous about slouching on television. I’m also feeling bloated and cranky and I wish I didn’t look like a Vegas showgirl. I’m wearing an ankle-length shimmering pale gold skirt and a tight, tarty, plunging, off-the-shoulder black camisole. The skirt is so tight that I needed to buy tummy control nylons. Choosing which ones to buy almost triggered a nervous breakdown. Nude stockings? Clear? Buff? Toeless? Body Control or Ultimate Shaping? Opaque, sheer, moisture enriched? Too many damn choices. I chose maximum control, sheer, toeless, nude for $27.99. Extravagant I know, but I can’t have them ripping in the middle of the episode. For this price I should be able to re-wear them. For this price I should be able to be buried in them.

  My mike is clipped to the left side of my shirt, the side that isn’t bare.

  The bar is called Salon. Last year it was a salon, this year it was converted into a bar. The bartenders are behind the hair-washing basins.

  Photos of eighties’ hair models are the décor.

  About seventy people are crowded into the small room. About thirty-five are blatantly staring at us. The remainder pretend to be unaware of us. Yeah, right. Pete and Dirk keep accidentally smashing them in the head, but what cameras?

  Miche and I are drinking apple martinis, listening to the hip-hop music and watching Brittany do shots with two guys. She’s wearing a cowboy hat. I’m not sure what the deal is, but why is cowboy clothing cool? I don’t get it. Dirk has his camera trained on her. Pete is filming us.

  “I can’t believe Brittany’s drinking again,” I say to Miche.

  “Why are you surprised? She’s a lush.”

  “Because when I saw her this afternoon, she went on and on about how embarrassed she was at her behavior last week. She said that she knows this show is a chance of a lifetime and she doesn’t want to blow it by making a fool of herself. And it doesn’t help that she has a low tolerance. But here she is getting drunk again.”

  “Did she thank you for taking care of her?”

  “Yeah.” I pause. Should I tell her not to drink again? Remind her of what happened last time? I like being the conscientious one in the group, but I don’t want to be the nag. “Where’s Erin?”

  “Grinding her crotch against some guy over there,” she says, pointing.

  “That’s not the same guy as last week?”

  “Nope. New night, new bar, new guy. Last week’s guy didn’t call her, so onto the next. Can you say walking STD?”

  A guy with way too much eyebrow leans against our table and leers at Miche. “Hello,” he says, wagging the bushy line over his eyes. “I just moved to New York and I don’t know my way around. Do you think you could give me directions to your apartment?”

  The two of us stare at him and burst out laughing. The camera is quivering, so I assume that Pete is laughing, too.

  “I don’t think so,” Miche says.

  Eyebrow Man shrugs and walks away.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “No idea.”

  A few minutes later a sandy-haired surfer dude hovers near our table and leans toward me. “Nice pants,” he says. “Do you think I could get in them?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Miche is laughing so hard, she practically spits up her drink. Pete is now shaking. He’s never going to be able to use this footage.

  What is going on? “Do you think you have a better chance of getting on television if you use bad pickup lines?” I ask the surfer hopeful.

  “Some woman with orange hair told us that if we hit on you with creative come-on lines, our drinks would be on the house.”

  Miche rolls her eyes. “Hilarious. We’re so pathetic that they have to send in ringers?”

  “Apparently. Have a seat,” I tell Surfer and point to an empty bar stool. He’s pretty hot, actually. He has a big, wide smile with two dimples. I bet dimples would make even a convicted serial killer look like a little sweet boy.

  He sits between Miche and me and immediately turns to Miche. “I’m Erik,” he says.

  “Michelle,” she says, smiling. She twirls a strand of red around her fingers.

  “Nice to meet you, Michelle.” He continues staring at Michelle, apparently lost in her curls.

  Um, hello? Didn’t he come to hit on me? Wasn’t it my pants he was trying to get into?

  He hasn’t introduced himself to me. He hasn’t even looked at me. Hello? Hello?

  Michelle must realize that I’m feeling snubbed. “Erik, this is my friend, Sunny.”

  “Hi,” he says, nodding quickly in my direction. He turns back to Miche. “Do you live in the city?”

  The two converse while I feel horribly awkward and wish I was home. It’s embarrassing enough when this happens when you’re with a girlfriend. It’s exponentially awkward when a camera’s bright light is glaring in your face.

  I see Carrie wandering around the bar, trying to look inconspicuous. When we were out for Thai food on Wednesday night, I had asked her if she knew what Miche’s father had died of. I suppose I could have asked Miche herself, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Hey, I lost a parent to cancer. You?

  “It was a huge scandal,” Carrie told me. “He was senior partner at the law firm Miles and Tore and had a heart attack when he was in bed, having an affair with the model Janna Mansen. Do you remember her? She was on the cover of Vogue a few times.”

  I shook my head. “That’s horrible. He had a heart attack in his fifties? That’s so young.”

  “Actually I think he was a bit older. Michelle’s mother was his second marriage.”

  I wondered if Miche’s older/now absent father was the factor in her fifteen-year-older ex I saw at Stirred last week.

  “You got Miche the job at Party Girls, right?” I asked Carrie.

  “Yeah. She did some commercials when she was a preteen. Character did the bookings. When I heard about the show, I pulled up her file. She’d been doing a little modeling during college, but nothing major. Did I tell you the gossip about the other girls?”

  “No.”

  “Brittany was molested by one of her mother’s boyfriends. Her parents are divorced. How gross is that?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw her interview tape.”

  “She said that?”

  Carrie nodded. “Girls say everything on audition tapes. It’s like confession. She said she ran away at least four times, before telling her mother.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “She came to me at the beginning of the year, wanting to be an actress. I don’t think she’s any good. I felt lucky she even got this.” She played with the rice on her plate. “I’m trying to think if I know any other goods.”

  “What’s Erin’s story?”

  Carrie shrugs. “I think she’s screwed up all on her own. Her parents are a little wh
ite-trashy. She grew up in some crappy suburb of Jersey. Her parents are still married. I think she’s an only child. Wants to be famous.”

  I wondered what the goods on me were.

  “Sunny,” Miche says, breaking me out of my reverie.

  “What?”

  “That guy is calling you. Do you know him?” She motions with her chin to a tall, dark-haired guy in a tight black shirt who is beckoning me over with his index finger.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. I hop off my stool and stride over to where he’s standing. I feel the camera follow along. “Yeah?”

  Pointing man smiles and drapes his muscled arm around my shoulders. “I made you come with one finger. Imagine what I could do with my whole hand.”

  I pray that Steve doesn’t hear that tomorrow.

  “Not sure. Jerk yourself off?” I disentangle myself from his groping arm and return to my stool. Humph.

  Michelle is bright red and flustered. Her fingers are working overtime on their twirling. “Erik, sweetie, will you be the biggest doll ever and go get me another apple martini?” She taps her empty glass.

  “Of course,” he says. “Sunny, can I get you another one, too?” How gallant. Yeah, whatever. You’re getting your drinks for free now, don’t look so smug.

  When he’s out of earshot, I lean toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  “You have a problem,” she says.

  “What problem?”

  She struggles to find the right words. Pete has the camera trained on our conversation. “A leakage problem.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Did I spill my drink on myself?” I look down at my lap. Great, just what I need. A big wet spot.

  “Not your drink.” She says. “It’s your—” She takes her index finger and taps purposefully on the table. Once, twice, three times.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She pulls a lip liner from her purse and opens a discarded matchbook on the table. She writes a few words on the flip-up cardboard and passes it to me.

  “BLED THROUGH SKIRT,” I read.

  I close the matchbox quickly. I might cry. I might laugh. I just got my period on national television. “Fuck,” I mouth. But I’m not supposed to get my period for another two weeks. How did that happen? Oh. The pills. It’s because I missed two of my pills. Fuck. Normally after I stop taking the last pill of the month, four days later, my period starts. The first pill I missed was on Tuesday and I must have tricked my body into thinking my period was supposed to start today. Why didn’t the Internet instructions mention the possibility of me getting my period? On national television? I would have worn a pad. Or at least not a skintight gold skirt.

  And as an added annoyance, Monday is Steve and my eleventh-month anniversary. What kind of anniversary has no sex?

  Not that we’ve been successful in the condom department.

  Must think. Must plan. Can’t get up. How can I get up? I can never stand up again? Does Pete realize what’s going on? He’s not shaking, which means he’s not laughing, but the camera is watching.

  “I don’t have anything,” I say.

  Miche looks into her purse. “I do.”

  “But I have to get there,” I say. I sound like I’m a Mafioso talking on my wiretapped phone.

  Miche’s forehead scrunches. She must be deep in concentration. “What? You’re cold? Do you want to try on my sweater?” She passes me a black cardigan that was under her purse.

  “Thanks,” I say. I tie the cardigan around my waist and let it fall off the stool behind me. I warily stand up. “I have to go to the ladies room,” I say.

  “Me, too.” Miche hops off the stool. “Go ahead,” she says, and follows me closely.

  Pete trails us across the room but along the way ditches us to follow Erin.

  “We lost him,” Miche says, pushing open the bathroom door.

  The bathroom is, thankfully, empty.

  “Ohmigod,” Miche says.

  We start laughing and are unable to stop. I hand her back her sweater, no seep-through blood, and try to get a glimpse of my butt in the mirror.

  There’s a red stain the size of a quarter on the back of my skirt.

  “Do you think I should write to some teen magazine? This has to go in one of those It Happened to Me columns.”

  Miche can’t speak, she’s laughing so hard.

  “What am I going to do? I can’t wear a cardigan for the rest of the night. I’m supposed to be trendy.”

  “First of all, take this.” She pulls a tampon from her purse. “Ooh. I have an idea.” She hands me the tampon. “Don’t go anywhere.” She retreats into the bar.

  Where am I going? I can’t leave the bathroom. I lock myself in one of the stalls. I slip off my shoes, take off my nylons, throw them into the mini garbage. So much for re-wearable.

  Miche returns. “Come out, I have a plan.”

  She’s holding a pair of scissors. “Take off your skirt.”

  “I can’t, I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

  “Hmm. Okay, pull it up then.”

  I pull up the skirt a few inches. “How high?”

  “So that the stain part is above your waist.”

  I inch the skirt up.

  “How do you feel about knee-length?” she asks and starts chopping the top foot of the shimmery material off.

  If I had paid for this with my own money I would be freaking out.

  “I hope this doesn’t unravel.” With the last incision, she removes the block of material. “Here you go. New and untarnished. It’s adorable.”

  The new, shorter skirt slips down my hips. “It’s too big. How can I make it stay up?”

  Holding the skirt scraps, she cuts off the soiled section and wraps the remaining material around my waist as a belt. “Voila!”

  Did she say knee-length? Crotch-length is a more apt description.

  In the mirror it looks like a real skirt. Kind of. “I have to admit, Betsey Johnson, I’m impressed.”

  “Ready to go back out there?”

  “Ready,” I say, and reapply my lipstick. I smile at myself in the mirror. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

  She shakes her head. “No way.”

  As we walk back to our table, Erik and Come-With-One-Finger Man, along with everyone else is staring at one of the hair-washing basins. A hair-washing basin where there’s a large crowd. A hair-washing basin on which Erin is dancing. A hair-washing basin on which Erin is dancing topless.

  And I was worried about people noticing me.

  After the taping, Michelle and I take a cab to Coffee Shop. My feet hurt and I need to sit. “Why is there a line at three in the morning?”

  “The waitresses are really hot,” Michelle explains.

  It’s true. All the waitresses have waiflike bodies, smooth hair, large breasts and are at least five foot nine. Weird. “It’s creepy. It’s like we’re in Barbie Twilight Zone.”

  Miche walks straight to the front of the line, speaks to the hostess and returns to the door, where I’m standing. “Come, we have a table.”

  I wonder if I would have gotten a table if I had gone up, instead. Does anyone recognize me?

  We’re brought to a booth. I’m planning on ordering Eggs Benedict when Miche orders a salad, dressing on the side and a tall glass of water. Hmm. I was feeling a bit bloated tonight.

  “I’ll have the same, please.”

  Miche pulls a sugar packet from the container and fiddles with it. “How’s your skirt holding up?”

  “Amazing. Thank you again. I can’t believe no one even noticed. If it weren’t for you, I’d be a national laughingstock. You should be a fashion designer.”

  The waitress places two glasses of water on our table, and I finish mine in one gulp.

  “Really? I’ve been thinking of applying to FIT. You know. After this is done.”

  “Yeah? You want to be a designer?”

  “Just a thought. I don’t know what I want to be. What I wa
nt to do. So what’s your roommate like?” she asks.

  The question comes so out of nowhere that I can’t think of an answer. The waitress interrupts with two plates of naked-looking lettuce.

  I drench it in the dressing and take a bite—so not greasy enough—and hope that Miche has forgotten her question.

  “So what’s your roommate like?”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “Roommates aren’t for me. I don’t think it’s natural to live with someone who you’re not sleeping with or related to. What’s yours like?”

  Handsome? Good in bed? “Nice.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a student.” Enough already. Next topic. “Why don’t you travel a bit? You can move anywhere you want. Paris, London, Sydney.”

  When did I become such a big talker? Before moving to New York, I hardly ever wanted to even travel around the country, never mind around the world. I had my one backpack adventure, but I preferred not to go too far from home.

  Michelle shakes her head. “Been there, done that. My parents used to ship me abroad every summer. I was bored out of my mind. Anywhere besides The City is a waste of time.”

  It’s funny how New Yorkers refer to New York as “The City” as if it’s the only one. “I guess it’s the best place to be if you want to make your mark,” I say.

  “Make your mark? On what?”

  On what? On something. “On the world. I want to do something worthwhile one day. You know. To be remembered.”

  “You’ll be remembered for Party Girls.”

  When I first met Michelle I pegged her as a person not concerned with the bigger issues, the scarier issues. One of those people who think fashion magazines, sitcoms and Party Girls are as deep as it gets. But ever since I found out about her father, I’ve been waiting for her to reveal another layer, to show me her wound.

  “I don’t want to be remembered,” she continues and pours a drop more salad dressing on her lettuce. “I just want to have fun. Omigod. Did I tell you some idiot’s pickup line tonight? He came up to me and asked, ‘Is your dad a terrorist?’ And when I looked at him like he was nuts, he said, ‘’Cause you’re the bomb.’ How inappropriate is that?”

  Why does her superficiality comfort more than horrify me?