by Laura Ruby
I realize that I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale. “Thanks.”
“I’m calling all the contestants to let them know the final results before we put them up on the web. After you guys worked so hard, you deserve that much.”
“I’m glad,” I manage, though my tongue is practically glued to the top of my mouth. This is it, this is it, my brain hums. We’re on our way.
“Eddy, I’m really sorry to say that while we loved it, our audiences didn’t take to it the way we would have hoped. Riot Grrl 16 finished outside the top five.”
“It…what?”
“You didn’t get the votes, Ed. Such a shame. Maybe the finale was just a little too complex. A little too over the top.”
Over the top? “But you said that Riot Grrl should be a spy.”
“Well, not exactly. We were just throwing things out there.” I hear papers shuffling. “I know this is really disappointing news. I understand it, Ed, I’ve been there myself. All I can say is that you got a ton of exposure and maybe there’ll be opportunities down the line.”
I force myself to croak: “You loved Riot Grrl 16. Is MTV still interested in the show? We could take it in a new direction.”
“The thing is, Eddy, my bosses feel that this has been done before.”
“What’s been done before?”
“The video diary format.”
“But Manny and Paul—”
“I’m afraid Manny and Paul are no longer with us,” she says, her voice crisp as a piece of paper. “They left to pursue other opportunities.”
“But when we first talked, you said we brought something fresh to the format.”
“And you did, you absolutely did,” she says. “But some of our new people think we need something even fresher than that. Truly fresh, if you know what I mean. Downright minty.”
My brain is now scrabbling around like a gerbil. “What if we came up with some other ideas? Brand-new ones? Minty ones.” I can’t believe I’m using adjectives normally used to describe gum.
“That’s the spirit, Ed! Just what I wanted to hear. Go ahead and pull some pitches together and give me a call. Who knows what could happen?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Great. I’ll do that. Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot!”
“Which show got the most votes?” Please be The Amazing Adventures of Emo Guy, please be something good.
“Bitchslap,” she says. “Our audience really loved the stunts.”
“Stunts,” I say. When did playing dodgeball with softballs become anything more than stupid?
“Just one more thing,” she says. “Do you have Joe Meyerhoff’s number? He didn’t give it to us.”
My brain stops scrabbling. My brain stands completely still. “Joe? Why do you need Joe’s number?”
“I want to talk to him about his little show that’s been running on YouTube, Your Bible Fix with Brother Dude? Is that a…a…” She trails off and there’s more shuffling paper sounds. “A Jumping Frenchmen of Maine production?”
“No,” I manage. “I’ve never seen it.”
“You absolutely have to catch it! Fabulous stuff. The execs went nuts for it. I mean, absolutely over the moon. I haven’t seen the execs so excited since Real Life: Amsterdam first aired. Joe is just so smart and likable and funny and engaging. And cute, too, if I don’t sound too much like an old lady saying that. Can’t take your eyes off him. We think it would be a great addition to our lineup. Religion is just so hot right now. Nothing hotter.”
I say, “Hot.”
“So, do you think you could give me his number? Eddy? Hello?”
Dr. Strangelove
I grab a beer from the fridge. If anyone in the universe deserves a beer, it’s me. I have to do something to relax. I have to work up some ideas for Erin Loder. I have to come up with something brilliant. I can’t believe they liked Joe’s stupid Bible show. I didn’t even realize he’d done it. I didn’t know it was already up and running. What else was he hiding?
Nothing, don’t think about it, don’t even think about it, I tell myself. Everything’s fine, everything’s good. So you lost the contest, so a troll ruined your goddamned life; Erin didn’t tell you no. You still have a shot. I grab a yellow legal pad and a pen and settle into the couch. Tippi Hedren sits on my shoulder combing my hair with her beak. I tap the pen on the pad. I take a sip of beer. I have to think about what’s hot.
A TEENAGE BOY IS BEING BULLIED AT SCHOOL. HE SLOWLY GETS OBSESSED WITH THE WORLD OF ANIME AND MANGA. HE DECIDES TO COMMIT SEPPUKU, BUT BEFORE HE CAN DO IT, HE IS VISITED BY THE JAPANESE GOD IZANAKI, WHO WANTS THE BOY TO RESCUE HIS WIFE FROM THE UNDERWORLD. FANTASY-ADVENTURE MEETS GRITTY REALISM.
I cross this out. I take a few more sips of beer.
A SHY, SMALL-TOWN GIRL IS DESPERATE TO BE A POP STAR. SHE TRIES OUT FOR AN AMERICAN IDOL–TYPE VARIETY SHOW ONLY TO BE SEDUCED BY THE SHOW’S MEGALOMANIACAL PRODUCER, A BRIT NAMED RICHARD SWALLOW. PROSPECTIVE TITLE FOR SHOW: SWALLOWTAIL.
I cross this out. I finish the beer. I get up and get another beer, making sure I bury the first beer bottle under the rest of the garbage in the can. I go back into the den. I drink the beer down first to make sure I’m really getting relaxed. But then I’m out of beer. I take another run to the kitchen and grab one more from the fridge.
Tippi Hedren says, “I thought you knew! I want to go through life jumping through fountains naked!”
I pet her with a finger. “That’s a new one.”
“Naked!” she squawks.
“You are naked,” I tell her. I go back to my perch in the family room and pick up my pen.
TWO BROTHERS LOSE THEIR MOTHER IN A MYSTERIOUS FIRE. THEY BELIEVE SHE’S DEAD UNTIL A BIZARRE LETTER ARRIVES IN THE MAIL, A LETTER FROM THEIR MOTHER. THE LETTER SAYS THAT SHE’S NOT DEAD BUT IN HIDING FOR HER SONS’ PROTECTION. SHE WARNS THEM NOT TO TRY TO FIND HER, BECAUSE IF THEY DO, THEY’LL ENDANGER HER LIFE AND THEIR OWN. THE TWO BOYS SET OUT TO FIND THEIR MOTHER USING THE ONLY CLUE SHE LEFT BEHIND, THE FAMILY BIBLE. ALSO, THEY HAVE AMAZING SUPERPOWERS, WHICH ARE REALLY REALLY AMAZING.
“Well, it might have been good enough in Rome, but it’s not good enough now,” says Tippi.
“Thanks. You’re a big help.”
“I have to get to San Francisco.”
I’m feeling a little dizzy. I flip open my laptop and read all the comments on Riot Grrl 16, which seem evenly split between love and hate. The Tin Man is holding court as always, orchestrating the haters into a symphony of “this sucks!” The top five will be announced in a few days and it kills me to imagine them all feasting triumphantly on Riot Grrl’s once-magnificent corpse. It kills me to think about the Tin Man at all, this faceless enemy who could be anybody, anywhere, anytime. This guy who would never say this crap to your face but thinks it’s okay to destroy your life at a distance.
Feeling truly ill, I flip over to YouTube and watch Joe’s show: Your Bible Fix with Brother Dude. He’s wearing a brown robe and yammering about the two different creation stories. After a minute I don’t want to watch anymore, but it’s like Erin said, you can’t take your eyes off Joe. He’s that good. And he’ll probably be famous for it, whether he wants to be or not. Asshole.
I flip over to the MySpace page. I’ve got lots of friend requests. I approve 999 ways 2 say no 2 a horndawg,! will kick your @$$, Principessa Peaches, G-Unit, and iNtErPlAnEt^^jAnEt^^. There are a zillion new comments, most of them “Thanks for the add!” or “I love your show!” or whatever. I friend them all. I need all the friends I can get. And then I see Sonya’s picture. The little icon next to her name is blinking, which means she’s online. I click on her profile and send a message.
Rear*Window13: Hey.
A few minutes go by. Maybe she’s not talking to me anymore. Maybe nobody’s talking to me anymore.
$ugar
Rear*Window13: Why not?
$ugar
Rear*Wind
ow13: Doesn’t mean I can’t talk to anyone else.
$ugar
Rear*Window13: So, how are you?
$ugar
Rear*Window13: You’re hard to forget.
$ugar
Rear*Window13: I never tease.
$ugar
Rear*Window13: Work.
$ugar
Rear*Window13: I always need a break.
After that, nothing. I type another message, but she’s gone. I stare at the screen. What was that about? And what did I just type?
I’m losing my mind. My eardrum is thumping. Why is my eardrum thumping?
Tippi wails: “I have to get to—”
“Tell me about it,” I say. I slap the laptop shut and gather up the beer bottles. I shove them all in the garbage bag, tie it up, and haul it to the big containers outside, Tippi squawking on my shoulder the whole way. Then I go back inside and put a new bag in the kitchen can. I put a jar of pickles behind the other beer bottles in the fridge so it looks like there are more bottles than there really are. Dad will never know.
I decide to watch a movie. I go back downstairs and scan the DVDs. Not sure what I’m in the mood for. Not Two Towers. Not Pulp Fiction. Not Dogma, Jaws, or Memento. Scorsese, maybe? A little Godfather? No. Miller’s Crossing, the Coen Brothers. I pull out the DVD and pop it into the player. I sit down and press Play just as the doorbell rings. Apparently nothing is supposed to go right today. I run up the stairs to get the door. I open it to find Sonya standing there.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I can’t believe she’s here. I didn’t think she’d take me seriously. Not really.
“Who’s that?” says Sonya, pointing at Tippi.
“I’m just an animal you caught,” says Tippi.
Sonya smiles at this. She’s wearing a tight red top and a black miniskirt that could have doubled as a headband. “Can I come in?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She brushes by me into the house. She’s put on perfume, or maybe deodorant. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it smells like cake.
“I was just going to watch a movie,” I say.
“That sounds good. What movie?”
“It’s called Miller’s Crossing.”
“Is that about trains?”
“What? No. No trains. It’s sort of a gangster movie. This guy is an advisor to the mob and—”
“I’ve got some time,” she says. Her lips are pink and shiny, her white teeth peeking between them. “I’ll watch it with you.”
“Oh. Great. Let me put Tippi upstairs.”
Tippi: “Are you still in the mood for killing?”
“What did she say?” says Sonya.
“Nothing.” I run upstairs and stuff poor Tippi in her cage. I plug my fingers in my ears so that I don’t hear her screaming and squawking as I walk out of the room and back down the stairs.
Sonya’s still hovering in the hallway. “Um,” I say. “Do you want something?”
She raises a brow and I realize how that sounds.
“I meant do you want something to eat? To drink? A soda?”
She shrugs. “I’m not a soda person. What else do you have?”
She follows me into the kitchen. I open the fridge. “I have the regular stuff. Juice. Water. There’s a wine cooler here, you can have that, though it’s probably from 1998.”
Sonya starts opening cabinets. “Oh, I was thinking of something more like this.” She pulls out a bottle of rum. “We could mix this with the Coke.”
I look at the bottle. “You don’t fool around.”
“I don’t?” She pushes me aside and gets two Cokes from the refrigerator. She has to bend over to reach for them. I understand Joe’s obsession with religion. I want to say Jesus. Lord almighty. Hallelujah.
Then she straightens. “Glasses?”
“What?”
“I need glasses for the drinks.”
“Oh,” I say. I get some clean glasses from the dishwasher. “Here.”
She mixes us the rum and Cokes and holds out a glass. This is not a good idea, especially not after the beer. But I take it anyway. What could it hurt? I’m not doing anything wrong. Lucinda’s hanging out with Joe, working on their “project.” I’ll just hang out with Sonya and watch a movie. What’s bad about a movie? Movies are good. Movies are art. I’m just trying to get inspired here.
I bring Sonya downstairs to the den. We sit on the couch. I even make sure there’s a little distance between us so Sonya doesn’t get any ideas. Who could say anything about it? Nobody.
I press Play.
The credits roll.
The movie opens.
I sip the rum and Coke. It tastes like something you might use to clean contact lenses.
After about a half hour, we press Pause and get another rum and Coke. The stairs seem to be tilting. I trip and hit my funny bone on the banister.
“Ow!” I say.
“Whoops!” says Sonya, hauling me upright. “Careful.”
The second drink is better, killing the vicious throbbing in my arm. We sit down on the couch again. Sonya sits closer this time, her thigh touching my leg. I stare at it, at the way the muscle goes on for miles and miles and disappears up into the folds of her skirt. Her arm is resting on that thigh, her hand cradling the drink. Fine brown hairs dust her skin. On the round knob of bone above her hand she has a freckle. Just one, round and brown and perfect, too perfect, like an imitation of a freckle. My eardrum is thumping again. My fingers twitch. I can hear Tippi shrieking all the way upstairs, but I can’t make out what she’s screaming. My fingertips crawl across Sonya’s thigh to her wrist.
“Your wrist is so small,” I say, or try to say, because my tongue has gotten thick.
“Really?” she says. “I never thought so.”
“It is. I can sss…circle it with my thumb and forefinger.”
She looks down at my hand touching her hand, then back up. On the screen behind her, a man is on his knees begging for his life.
Sonya puts her glass down on the table. “So what else can you do with your thumb and forefinger?”
Apocalypse Now
After Sonya’s gone, I clean up the evidence. Hide the rum bottle, scrub the glasses, throw the sheets in the wash, brush my teeth, brush them again. I pull Tippi from her cage so she stops screaming. My head feels like someone buried an ax in it. The audience would say it serves me right. I’m covered in a thin sticky layer of girl-who-isn’t-my-girlfriend. She told me that I could tape her if I wanted. Why would she say something like that? What if I had? I could paste it all over the internet. I could bounce it off satellites and send it to other galaxies. Aliens could rent it on pay-per-view a million years from now. Do you want that stuff around a million years from now? Like that girl, Audrey, Joe hung out with last year, the one whose picture was taken and sent everywhere. Does she know it will exist forever? That she can never erase or delete it no matter what she does?
I feel sick.
The alcohol sloshes around in my stomach and I have to sit down. I don’t know why, but I sit at the dining room table. It’s where my mom always sat to do bills and stuff. I don’t know how long I sit there. Awhile. My dad finds me still sitting there when he gets home. Tippi Hedren runs across the carpeting to greet him. Normally that makes me laugh, but I’m not laughing.
“Hey, Tippi,” Dad says.
“I’m queer for liars,” says Tippi.
“Really?” says Dad, holding out his arm so that she can crawl up to his shoulder. “What are you doing, Ed?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“I see that. But why?”
“No reason.”
“Uh-huh. Did you have someone over?”
“What? Why do you say that?”
“’Cause it smells like cake in here and I’m guessing that you didn’t bake one,” he says. He’s staring at me suspi
ciously, as if cake isn’t the only thing he smells. Beer. Rum. Deceit.
“Oh. No. Nobody was here.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Because I’m still not completely comfortable with you having girls over when I’m not around.”
I start to roll my eyes, but it sends bolts of pain back into my brain. “Okay, Dad.”
“I do like Lucinda, though. How is she?”
“She’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Fine,” I say.
“That’s not too enthusiastic.”
“What do you want me to say? That we’re getting married?”
“You’re in a mood,” he says.
I have to tell him something. “MTV isn’t taking Riot Grrl 16. I got the call today.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re sitting here.” He sits down at the table. “I’m sorry, Ed. I know you were really hoping for that to happen.”
“Thanks.”
“How did Rory and Joe take it?”
“I haven’t told them yet. I don’t know how I’m going to explain it.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says. “These kinds of things happen. You don’t plan for it.”
I could almost feel him fighting with himself not to say what he wants to say, the huge internal battle. An actor playing him would have to use every muscle in his face and jaw to portray it.
Dad loses, as usual. “This is one of the reasons why I think you should consider college.”
“Dad, you work for a TV show. You’re in the business. I don’t know why you keep telling me that I shouldn’t do it.”
“Because this business sucks the life out of you. The hours are impossible. It costs things you can’t even imagine. This business probably cost me your mother.”
“Her again.”
Great. Now I’ve wounded him. He’s doing that rapid-blinking thing, the thing that would look totally studied if I didn’t know him. “Yes, her again. You might not believe this, but I actually loved her.”
“Maybe she didn’t love you,” I say. “Maybe she didn’t love any of us. Did you ever think of that?”