by Laura Rock
The man gently helped Dale untangle and walked her to the cube. He held her hand as she slid inside.
“It’s over,” Derek yelled. A clay pot smashing reminded her of the tinkling piano interlude that accompanied the part of her act known as ‘the dance of three impossibilities.’ “You’re finished. Who ever heard of a dizzy contortionist?”
Dale moulded herself to the cube’s surface, angling her head downward. She felt fine. No spins, no spells.
Another pot crashed, then silence.
“Float on the surface of skewed perception,” the man said. “Don’t succumb to distraction’s undertow.”
Peace. Dale was the space available, no more, no less. The strictures of the cube fit perfectly.
“Give the performance of your life,” the man said, tracing her face lovingly. He put his hat on and walked to the door, then turned back. “One more thing. From now on, you are La Reine Anguille.”
“Queen Something,” Dale said, or tried to say—her lips were stuck to the cube, yet he heard.
“Eel.” The man tipped his brim and walked out, leaving her alone.
“Yes, La Reine Anguille,” she breathed. “Just right.”
Mother Makeover
Elaine watched Trevor Coleman watching his oversized TV on mute. He sat on his leather couch, a half-moon that anchored his company’s prime office space, nearly penthouse. The widescreen monitor cast flickering light into the room, which Trevor kept in perpetual dusk with sleek taupe blinds that moved at the push of a button, sealing the windows. Walls papered in grasscloth and thickly carpeted floors added to an atmosphere unusually hushed for New York. When Elaine first arrived six months ago, she felt she’d stepped into a jewellery box. Her second thought was that no one would hear her if she screamed.
She fixed coffee the way he liked it, black with sweetener, and he didn’t change position. He sat, legs sprawled, jaw locked. Not for the first time, she admired his ability to ignore everything but the current project. Focus, that’s what set Trevor apart from the rest of the jackals in reality TV. He told her most producers lacked discipline. Sometimes they got far enough to secure financing, attach a name director or star, maybe make a pilot, but more often they went hungry, while Trevor’s shows got made.
The monitor displayed a line of women on a sidewalk: standing, but not still. They paced, switched bags shoulder to shoulder, tilted hips, set arms akimbo, and raised them in mock supplication as the morning wore on. Many communed with phones, angling screens in the bright light as if sending signals with mirrors.
Viewed from the kitchenette where she was plunging the French press coffeemaker with practised control, the image seemed blurry, but when she blinked, individuals emerged. Every permutation of fat and thin, rich and not-rich, gay and straight; every race and age and fashion preference represented. A city of women, all talking. Even with the sound turned off, the buzz was obvious. Having a great time out there. How nice for them. Fuck crying, she wouldn’t.
Why so emotional, Hillmer? In her head she mimicked Trevor’s line about her supposedly flat-line affect, the level deadpan she deployed with him. He took it as a personal challenge to pry feelings from her. Which didn’t mean she didn’t have them. You going to miss me, is that it? The correct answer was no. She couldn’t admit to sadness over the internship’s ending next week. On the appointed day she’d simply disappear, no sodden farewells.
Across the room, the televised women mingled and snapped selfies. They wore numbered Coleman Productions badges. If she didn’t know better, she would have guessed rally, or parade. It was parade weather: floral May breeze, flags snapping overhead. By August the breeze would die, leaving garbage and dog shit in every nostril, the flags limp rags, but today—they couldn’t have ordered better conditions for an outdoor shoot.
At first she was lost, but when the camera panned the street, decorative grillwork covering lower windows on brownstones helped her identify the setting as the West Village, not far from the tiny walk-up she shared with three other film-school students. She searched the street for her parting gift, the big reveal minutes away. How Trevor would take it was an unscripted moment about to happen.
She approached the couch and waited while Trevor raised the remote control. The din was immediate: yakking New Yorkers accompanied by car horns, a fitting soundtrack. He set the remote on the massive glass coffee table, aligning it with a wireless microphone. She flattened his hand, wrapped his fingers around the mug, and squeezed before allowing him to support his own drink. Then, in the same mindful way her massage therapist maintained continuous contact, her hands leapfrogged from wrist to elbow to shoulder before landing briefly on his neck.
“How’s it going?” she whispered.
Trevor grunted. Slurping from the mug, wincing at the heat, he remained fixed on the screen.
She sat beside him and drummed her knees. Where was her surprise gift? Allowing Rachel this platform had seemed like a good idea, but tension ticked at the base of her skull. If she could escape this scene, if she could will her spirit to flee, leaving behind an empty body to keep him company on the couch, she’d do it.
The TV registered a hubbub as Manuel appeared. She stretched her neck, dropping first one ear to shoulder, then the other. None of the contestants could match Manuel’s looks—tall and thin, wearing low-rise jeans and a clingy shirt that dropped smoothly into the waistband. A wire headset crossed his clipped white-blond hair; he carried a microphone, and a bullhorn dangled from a strap around his other wrist. She brightened when the camera lingered over Manuel’s cowboy boots and surveyed nearby shoes for context. His footwear was ironic, of course, but what did that mean in a women’s reality show? Her hunch was that shoes could make or break it. He stepped his magnificent boots this way and that. Women followed, roiling the lineup.
Trevor grunted again, but at what? Manuel flashed a generalized smile of perfectly white, capped teeth, and everyone smiled back.
She had become accustomed to dealing with lower-echelon celebrities like Manuel Santiago. Having recently lost his gig interviewing owners of outlandish pets, he was available, and Trevor picked him up freelance. When she handed him the revised contract yesterday, he said, “So what did he do to me this time?” flipping pages to check Trevor’s strike-throughs. Then he found her note alerting him to Rachel’s presence and said, “Fine, I’ll take care of her. See you later—well, you’ll see me.”
“And our contestants,” she said.
“Yes, the mothers. Honour thy fabulous mother.”
“Right?”
As Manuel worked the crowd, everyone swivelled, orienting to his magnetism. Elaine visualized a caption: the beauty/power equation. Trevor, too, attracted admirers with his ever-tan skin, shaved head, and impeccable suits, but it didn’t translate on-camera. You had to feel it in person.
“Wow, incredible,” she said, noticing Manuel’s nipples clearly defined under his t-shirt, even the ring piercing the aureole of one nipple.
Trevor raised a hand. She wished she could retract the wow.
He leaned forward and spoke into the mic. “May twelfth. CP open call. Our newest and best reality project. At the end of the day, fifty gals will audition, out of the hundreds, no, thousands, waiting to dazzle America. Some spent the night on the sidewalk—that’s how committed they are.” He smirked. “Begin at the beginning, Manuel. Ask these ladies who they are.”
Manuel pressed his earpiece. The camera zoomed in on his hesitation.
“Manny looks like he misses whacked pets, Hillmer.” Trevor flicked her knee. “I expected more presence from him.”
She reached for his mug. If only he would call her by her first name, and maybe look at her. He was a casual toucher from the beginning, which startled her at first, but she’d accepted that in her boss and now touched back as if they were affectionate old friends, and this was totally normal.
; She doubted that Trevor could describe her. He didn’t seem to notice her toned legs or short, flippy skirts. He probably had no idea that she really needed her giant black-framed glasses to read his endless lists. He never commented on photos tacked to her bulletin board, shots of her roommates on the High Line and her parents back in Virginia. Down the hall he kept platoons of staffers, but just the two of them occupied his personal office, and one was invisible.
Trevor spoke into the mic. “Ask the worst thing they’ve done, something they’ve never told anyone.”
She refilled the mug and again sat next to him. She wouldn’t admit to her roommates that she served coffee. They’d scored placements with indie filmmakers; reality TV didn’t exist for them. But Trevor was a big name; she’d pay to be his audience. When he asked her opinion, she forgave him for things he hadn’t even done yet.
“So you think,” she said, to cover her shakiness, “the ‘most horrible thing’ will come out in some random interview? A stranger with a microphone, and they’re spilling dirt?”
“Wait for it.”
Manuel worked the line with his reporter face—open, ready to be amazed, instant best friend.
“He’s got presence,” she said. “Those old ladies, they’re eating him up.” She searched for a particular old lady.
“Stop it, Hillmer. Manny doesn’t go for girls, you know.” Trevor cleared his throat. “Maybe you didn’t know.”
Onscreen, Julie from Long Island: “I got so drunk I didn’t hear my toddler. She’s swimming in her own vomit, literally swimming in her bed, and I—” she grimaced. “‘Mommy, mommy,’ but no one came!” Julie mopped mascara streaks.
Julie’s teenaged daughter reached for the mic. “It’s okay,” she cooed. “See? No scars. I love you, Mom.”
“One night of drinking, who cares?” Trevor said.
Manuel moved on.
“The worst? Food stamps. Rough times, right?” said Halina, bird-like in filmy layers of dancewear. “My kids ate nothing but hot dogs for years. It was a form of child abuse, I admit it.”
“And?”
“And today we eat organic.” Halina chewed her fingernail. “A hundred miles.”
Trevor punched the cushion. “I’m sleeping here.”
Maureen’s exaggerating lips filled the screen. “We—you know, did it, while the kids were in our bedroom.”
“I’d sleep with her,” Trevor said, cocking an eyebrow at Elaine. “I would. What about you?”
“Ahh …”
“Any regrets?” Manuel said.
“Regret is a waste. You only go around once, right?” Maureen laughed heartily.
Her daughter, spiky-haired and pierced, stepped in front, scowling. “That’s not what you tell me.”
Trevor pointed. “She might be okay—energy between the characters, at least. Flag her.”
Elaine went to her desk. As she reached for her clipboard, she pressed her forehead into the fibre-covered wall as though burrowing. The comfort this scratching post provided mystified her, but it never failed. She marked Maureen’s number.
Manuel moved more rapidly. “Quick, your worst!”
Standing behind Trevor, Elaine said, “What’s the worst thing your mother ever did? Not that it’s any of my business, but I wondered what inspired you to create this show.”
The camera panned faces as Manuel repeated, “worst motherly move.” He began using the bullhorn, sending his lengthened, deepened voiceover through the crowd. Women stepped forward one by one.
“Threw her out when she said, ‘I hate you.’ Hate your own mother!”
“Stole her boyfriend.”
“Pressured her to be like her smarter, prettier older sister.”
Trevor shrugged. “Money, what else?” He fell silent. “Worst to me? Or worst in general?”
“Is there so much to choose from?” Elaine almost sobbed but managed a speculative “Hmm.” Poor Trevor. She should have hung up on Rachel.
A tanned bodybuilder in platform sandals and a mini-dress showcasing muscle pushed forward, saying, “Strict diet. She’s out of control.” She prodded her daughter, whose face reminded Elaine of oatmeal. A loose grey sweatsuit hid the girl’s figure.
“Them,” Trevor said, startling her.
“Why?”
“Beauty and the beast thing? Two different beasts.”
Sweat trickled past Manuel’s headset. The women jostled him. He chose a petite blonde in tennis whites, chewing gum. The handle of a racket protruded from her red, white, and blue tote bag. Her tennis bracelets sparkled when she smoothed her hair.
“Okay: How do you tell your kids you love them?” Manuel said. “Do you post Facebook status updates? Do you tweet your love?”
“Please, a mother’s love is too big for Twitter. I need more space.”
A blousy woman with a cloud of dark hair chimed in. “No, Manny-baby. You gotta love ’em where they live, and those kids live on their phones. Tweet, tweet, tweet is my advice.”
“Who are you, Dr. Phyllis? Butt out.” The tennis player snapped her gum. “Manuel, a lot of buttinskys came today. FYI, I’m the mom the American people will cheer for. And FYI again, I love your strange pet show so, so much!”
Manuel looked past both of them.
Trevor slumped. “Where are the insanely competitive stage mothers, the failed suicides, the junkie moms who’ll relapse for our entertainment? Where are cigarette marks on innocent heinies? I want Momzilla, Manny.”
“So what should I ask?”
“Ask them to brand themselves. Three words max. Be careful about the ones who’ve been to reality TV school—they’ll have a dramatic persona ready. I want real real.”
What brand of mother was Rachel? Tenacious. Needy. Calling over and over, but Trevor wouldn’t take the calls. Rachel filled Elaine in—ten years estranged from her only son, not a word spoken. There was still no sighting. Elaine wasn’t sure what Rachel looked like, but she’d recognize the voice instantly: New Jersey brash, gruff but also plaintive, wheedling.
Manuel turned circles, yelling into the bullhorn, “What KIND of mother are you? If you were a brand, what would it be? BLANK MOM, something Mom.”
“Maybe our concept needs work.” Trevor patted the cushion next to him.
She came around to sit, hugging her clipboard. “And the concept, our concept, is motherhood, but with an edge, right? The good and the bad. Reunions and real talk: Motherhood, Apple Pie, and Dirt.”
“Nah, I hate that. I changed it to Mother Makeover. So you get these horrific moms, each one a different problem. Something needs to change—”
“According to the kid?”
“Doesn’t matter. Someone sees trouble. We get them experts. Issues, tissues, they walk out all—”
“Perfect.”
“I don’t know perfect, but better.”
“Interventions—call it Group Therapy.”
“That’s been done. Also, it has to be heartwarming, an upward narrative arc to end each episode—like one of those angel shows or The Waltons.”
“What’s The Waltons?”
“Way to make me feel ancient, Hillmer. For real, you never saw it, even in syndication? You know”—Trevor switched to falsetto—“‘Good night, John Boy,’ good night whatever the other hicks were called.” His voice returned to normal. “Heartwarming.”
“Nope.” She jotted notes. “It shouldn’t be hard to find bad mothers. They’re everywhere. There should be a test before people can procreate.”
“Not too judgmental. How many kids you have?”
“Being a parent isn’t required to recognize bad parenting. Ever been trapped on an airplane with a screaming brat? That’s terrorism.” She coughed. “You have kids?”
“Two.”
“Really?”
“No, two hundr
ed. Really.”
“It’s just …” She studied the walls, an unrelieved swath of savannah. “Pictures?”
“Long story, Hillmer. We’re not close. Hey, I wonder if my ex-wife would go on the show. Now, she was a damaging mother.” Trevor gestured at the screen. “Watch.”
“Hippie Mom,” said a young woman carrying a naked baby. She pried her dreadlock from the baby’s fist. “Chill.”
“Barbie Mom,” said a model in a tiara and princess gown.
“Six-Pack Mom,” said the bodybuilder, dragging her lumpen daughter. “No pain, no gain Mom.”
“We’ve seen them already,” Trevor said. “Fame whores.”
“Rehab Mom,” whispered a pale, skinny woman. “In recovery.”
“Get her number,” Trevor said, but Elaine had already recorded it.
Jewish, Italian, and Jewish-Italian moms; Born-Again, Perfectionist, Chef moms, and more paraded past, until Trevor interrupted; Manuel made a time-out sign.
“Okay, we’ve got some maybes,” Trevor said. “Next, just saunter along, they saunter too. You’ll come to a small cross street: turn right. Everyone follows Manuel, the Pied Piper of Santiago. And then it’s game time.”
She frowned, flipping through her copy of the treatment.
“You give three gals this message. Say only the first twenty to the studio will be allowed to audition.”
“Not the ones—I thought fifty—you select?” she said.
Manuel turned his back to the camera and murmured, “Only twenty? How will that work?”
“I’ve got cameras hidden all along the route.”
“You’re the boss,” Manuel said.
“I thought we were checking them in and taking their tapes,” she said.
“All those tapes? No fucking way.”
“What are we doing?”
“He tells three friends; they tell three friends.” Trevor smiled for the first time that day. “Poof, viral.”
“What is this, The Amazing Race?” Elaine said. “Speed is what counts? Not personality or backstory or looks?”