by James, David
“Pray tell. What is it?” Regina asked, leaning forward to rest her head on her hand.
“It’s the same thing as the early 1970s.”
“The 1970s?”
“Yes, it was the rise of the ugly, of the unwashed masses rising up into popular culture.”
“You sound like a snob.”
“No, it’s not that. Remember how ugly everything was in the early 1970s? The cars, the clothes, the hair, TV shows, architecture—everything. It’s because the tastemakers were from the uneducated ranks.”
“You still sound like an elitist,” Regina commented.
“No, it’s not like that. Vivienne Westwood, the British clothing designer, said that it’s the role of art, of leaders, to set the pace, style, and manners by raising up the lower classes through good example.”
“I would think she would be the last person you’d use as your barometer for good taste.”
“Regina, you know what I mean. These reality shows reward acting out, bad, trendy clothes, selfishness, lack of consideration for others. It’s similar to the 1970s. But now, it’s vulgarity that’s setting the levels of taste and human interaction.”
“Look!” Regina exclaimed, turning away from my insightful observations of popular culture. “Jasmine just threw a cocktail in Heather’s face! Someone’s gonna get her earrings slapped clear off!”
“I rest my case,” I relented as my cell phone rang. It was Ian Forbes, owner of a huge hair-care empire and a former client of mine. Perhaps it was much-needed business now that the second Great Depression was upon us.
“Ian, how nice to hear from you. . . . Yes, business is really slow . . . and how’s yours? . . . No, not really . . . Well, that is a surprise. . . . I don’t really think so . . . No, no, really, it’s not my kind of thing. . . . How much? . . . Are you kidding me? . . . Are you sure? . . . Is this a joke? . . . No? . . . Okay . . . I’ll consider it. Thanks for thinking of me. Okay, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Bye.”
Regina broke away from the fight brewing on the TV. “What was that all about?”
“You won’t believe this, Regina, but I’ve just been invited to be on a reality show.”
“A reality show?” Alex asked. “Go for it.”
It was the next morning in the office and I had spilled the news to Alex, my ex-husband, soul mate, and still-business partner. We were married in Michigan years ago, moved here to Palm Springs, whereupon he confessed to me that he needed to be gay. I knew he was bisexual when I married him, but he was so handsome and exotic and from a family that wasn’t highly dysfunctional like mine was, I jumped at his proposal of marriage. As it turns out, he needed a man, so we divorced amicably and we’re still the best of friends. The trouble is, there’s that soul-mate thing, too, blurring the line between friend and ex-husband/wife. It’s complicated.
I was aghast.
“You heard me,” Alex repeated himself.
“Why? You’re the last person I would have predicted to say that.”
“Amanda, times are tough. Like me, you have investment properties you need to pay for, especially if you’re taking cuts in rent just to keep them rented. And you still have some things you want to do to your house.”
“Not too much. The house is almost finished.”
“You’ve been at it for years, darling,” Alex joked. “Your slow-as-molasses contractor finally moved out of the tent in your backyard last year.”
I sniffed pompously. “A work of art is never finished. . . until you run out of money, which is kinda what happened to me.”
“Well, then, go for it.”
“I’m still trying to digest this.”
“Listen, sweetie pie, besides making some money, you’ll get notoriety, which could help publicize your—our—business. Plus, the show could go big time, and there might be book deals, spin-offs, and on and on. You could be famous.”
“Alex, how could a show about a real-estate agent trying to sell a hairdresser’s big Spanish house go big time?”
“It’s a no-brainer. There’s a big-time hairdresser involved who’s vain, controlling, shallow, and prone to histrionics. And most likely, there will be good-looking men involved somewhere. The drama is a given.”
“So you think I should do this?”
“Absolutely.”
“You don’t think this whole thing could backfire? That I get on the show and I end up looking like a self-absorbed, slut-bitch Realtor? These shows are looking for drama, Alex. I can just see myself having an open house, with prospective buyers looking around the house, opening drawers and closets. Now that would make for riveting viewing. No, Alex, they’re going to want people yelling at each other, throwing things, driving cars over the cherished possessions of rival cast members. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“Okay, look on the bright side. Maybe someone will get murdered. If that doesn’t get people to tune in, I don’t know what will.”
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Copyright © 2010 by David Stukas
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7880-7