by Brett Paesel
Perfect, I think. Another writing job that requires no writing.
I cram my head full of information about Natalie for the next two days. I listen to her music, I research her on the Internet. I memorize the names of her husband and her children.
It occurs to me that I need some kick-ass piece of recording equipment so that I don’t miss a thing. I can’t ask the magazine how they record stuff because I don’t want them to know that I’ve never done this.
Pat says he’ll take care of it. The night before the interview he hands me a small metallic box with holes on one end of it that he got from RadioShack. He says that it’s a digital recorder and all I have to do is speak directly into it and it will record everything digitally. He seems to think that recording digitally, rather than on a tape, will reduce chances of something going wrong.
“So I have to speak into the end of this,” I say, holding the metal thing in front of my mouth like I’m a TV reporter. “And then I direct it over to her as she answers?”
“Ideally,” says Pat, looking at the back of the box it came in, “the closer you get the microphone to her, the better.”
“I think that’s going to make her feel self-conscious, Pat. I can’t stick this all up into her face. I pictured a tape-recorder thing that I put on the table between us. I need to look like a professional.”
“How does a professional look?”
“Like what you see on TV. A girl in a short skirt who puts a recording thing on a table and asks the star questions while the star gets a manicure.”
“It’ll be fine. Just stick it up like this,” he says, standing the metal thing on its end. “And lean into it to speak.”
Pat says this while bending his head down to the table, his mouth inches away from the digital box.
I can’t sleep that night. My neck seizes with anxiety. Why did I say I’d do this? I can barely speak to a stranger under normal circumstances. Now I have to speak to a famous stranger while thousands of dollars are being spent by the magazine to set up her fancy photo shoot.
The next day Pat and the boys drop me off at the gate of a Hollywood-mansion-for-hire. When I meet Natalie, I steady my voice as I introduce myself as the “journalist who’s writing your celebrity bio piece that’s for publication in the next publication of the magazine.” I sound like a six-year-old playing dress-up.
Stylists and manager types create a general hub as Natalie and I are ushered into a cool slate-gray room with a fountain. White towels and robes everywhere. It looks like a meditation/after your shower/pamper room.
We sit at a low concrete table.
I have no idea if Natalie thinks it unusual that I prop the silver recording device up on a bunch of towels, pointing it toward her neck. That’s as high as I can get it without disappearing behind the towel mountain. My too-short skirt cuts into my thighs as I peer at her over the mound. I barely hear her answers over my inner voice repeating the phrase “I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home” like the chug of a train.
Somehow the whole thing ends and I’m shaking hands with a crew of black-outfitted stylists as Natalie is whisked off for a mani/pedi.
When I get home, I discover that the recording of the interview is barely audible. Pat labors over the transcription as I curl into a tense knot on the bed. He says no sweat, he’ll retrieve as much as he can and just type xxxxxxxxxxxx when he can’t hear what’s being said on the tape. I get up from the bed occasionally to look over his shoulder, cringing as I see blocks of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.
When Pat hands me the whole transcription, I burst into tears:
BRETT: How do you feel now about the backlash you got from your fans concerning xxxxxxxxxxxx Bush xxxxxxxxxxxx. It must xxxxxxxxxxxx [Note from Pat: There’s something here that sounds like “France and what Democrats eat when it rains”—does that mean anything to you?] xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.
NATALIE: I’m glad you asked that. The thing you can’t ever say is that [twenty? renting? sent?] xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx which tells you why more xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx it’s a real problem.
BRETT: But that doesn’t mean you xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxx for what it’s worth?
NATALIE: You couldn’t be more xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx but that’s how much xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.
BRETT: I’m glad you said xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. It’s hard to find xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.
NATALIE: Some people say what the xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx country great xxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx sticky xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx you can tell by looking at them.
After screaming at Pat that it’s impossible to create something out of this gobbledygook—I’m going to be exposed as a faker, sued by the magazine, and vilified by a Dixie Chick—I manage to piece together something from my memory and from bits of transcription that reveal themselves like amateur sculpture from stone.
“Do you have any more?” asks the editor when he reads the shreds of my interview.
“That’s all I’ve got,” I say, my shoulders aching with the strain of possible discovery.
The editor breathes out audibly.
I grip the phone, sweat pooling in between my palm and the receiver.
“God, I wish you had more,” he says. “’Cause it’s so damned good.”
Maybe Pat’s right. Maybe I’m faking it no more than any other average Joe. I know only that as I fake my way through the outside world, the difference between that and the world I share with my family becomes cavernous as a geographical divide.
“What’s that?” says Spence, pointing to a thin gelatinous thing on the sidewalk.
As I look closer, the thing appears to move in a zillion different directions.
“I guess it’s ants eating a dead worm,” I say.
“How do you know the worm is dead?”
“I’m just guessing.”
“What’s it like to be dead?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been dead.”
“Aunt Jo is dead.”
“Yes. She’s dead.”
“Will I ever die?”
Can’t fake through this one.
“We all die,” I say, knowing that there is only the truth of it. “But you don’t have to worry about that for a really, really long time.”
Make me right, I say to myself. I say to God.
Make me true.
Kindergarten Fever
What I’m giving you here,” says Jerri Regan, handing a stack of papers to a mom, “is a timeline of things you need to do to get your kid into a school that you’re happy with.”
A group of us, parents from Carter Preschool, sit on foldout chairs in the living room of Jerri’s yellow house. I sip red wine as I watch each parent take a stapled set of papers and pass the rest on. Jerri smiles at the process. This year not only is she chairperson of the Yearbook Committee, but she is also chair of Purchasing (the committee that buys stuff for the school). She is also vice-chair of the Ways and Means Committee. And now she’s taken on the Kindergarten Committee chair. For someone like me, who likes to slide by with as few expectations heaped on her as possible, Jerri is a mystery. Why would a person go out of their way to grab responsibility for things no one will ever appreciate? It seems positively psychotic.
I hadn’t anticipated attending a “kindergarten strategy meeting,” as I’ve refused to involve myself in the citywide kindergarten panic that happens every year around this time. Most of the public schools in Los Angeles are spectacularly bad, so pa
rents of a certain socioeconomic level educate themselves about the system, figuring out ways to land their child in one of the few decent public schools peppered around the city. I’ve come to this meeting to listen, even though I’m resigned to Spence’s attending our local public school if only for kindergarten. I figure I owe it to Spence to be knowledgeable about this stuff. Also, someone said there’d be free wine and snacks.
I take a set of papers and pass the rest to Marie.
“I don’t need these,” she says, “I wrote them.”
Marie, our Membership chair emeritus, hasn’t been around this year, as her twins graduated from Carter Preschool last year. They now attend “Neighborhood School,” a popular magnet. Marie has come to the meeting to tell us how she got them in. She is our success story, a mom who worked the system and hit the kindergarten jackpot.
“First,” says Jerri, “I’d like to thank Marie for coming to the meeting and sharing her story about how she got the twins into a great kindergarten.”
Jerri gestures to Marie, who stands. We all clap. Marie looks like she’s dressed for the opera. A woman who is no stranger to surgical upkeep, her tennis-ball-shaped breasts look dangerously close to bouncing out of her dress.
“Thank you, everyone,” Marie says. “The papers you have in your hand are your lifeline to finding a great school. Don’t lose them.”
She looks out at us gravely.
She seems ready to continue, but Jerri cuts in, “We’ll be hearing from Marie soon.”
Marie frowns, yanks up her bodice on one side, and sits.
“Let’s all look at the first page,” says Jerri.
Everyone shifts as attention turns to the papers. I look at mine—a sort of chart. What a pain in the ass. I hate charts. Although I am a reasonably bright woman, I can’t understand charts or instruction booklets for anything. Hand me a manual and I simply shut down.
I look at the paper in my hand, a Rosetta stone of instructions for getting my son into kindergarten.
“This page shows the due dates for various applications. Now, everyone here has already filled out paperwork for their local school. That’s the first thing you do.”
What paperwork? I didn’t know this. I thought that a couple of weeks before school started, you showed up with a birth certificate and that would be that. Is it possible that Spence won’t get into any kindergarten at all? Is that legal? I can’t imagine that Spence would be denied kindergarten simply because I missed a deadline. On the other hand, I should allow for the possibility that this kindergarten panic is born out of a very real Bureaucratic Threat. It is wise for me to pause long enough to consider that other parents know more than I do, since this has often been the case. My jaw begins to feel tight as I listen to Jerri with determined concentration.
“While you were at your school,” Jerri continues, “you should have picked up one of these.” She holds up a booklet. “It’s a book called Choices, and it lists all the magnets in the city.”
I scramble in my backpack for a pen. Why wasn’t I better prepared? I fish around till I find an eyeliner. I slip off the cap and write “Choices” on the back of my papers in a crumbly black scrawl.
“Now, on the second page of the papers I gave you, you’ll find a list of the magnets that are in the book.”
Then why do I need the damn book? I think, tossing the eyeliner on the table and reaching for my glass of wine.
“Magnets are schools that you apply for. People with the highest number of points get in, then there’s a lottery. You get points in various ways.”
Points? I put down the glass and pick up the eyeliner again to scribble “Points.”
“You get points if you’re any race other than white.”
I look around at all the disappointed white faces in the room. Our one Hispanic dad giggles as he writes something down.
“You get points if you’re in a school district that’s overcrowded.”
I jot down “Overcrow—” before the tip of the eyeliner breaks off, splintering down to Jerri’s carpet. I know I should pick up the shards rather than let them get ground into her carpet. But I’m afraid I’ll miss a key point. I resolve to pick them up later.
“And you get ‘waiting list’ points,” says Jerri.
Marie pounds the table with her fist. “Those are the points you’re after, folks!”
The wine in my glass jiggles.
Jerri holds up her hand. “We’ll get to you in a minute, Marie.”
I look back at Marie, who appears to be chomping at the bit to get into this. She’s been bobbing up and down in her chair since the meeting started. Last year Marie’s passion for the Membership Committee at Carter Preschool shone in her eyes at every parent meeting. I imagine that coming back to the kindergarten meeting this year offers her an opportunity to relive her glory days.
I lean over and whisper to her, “Do you know if Darwin School is considered overcrowded?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Not technically,” she whispers back. “You don’t get any points for it, even though it’s crowded enough that kids have to share textbooks.”
I tense, imagining Spence sitting on a floor, sharing a tattered textbook with two unwashed children.
Jerri’s voice gets louder. “You get four points each time you don’t get into a magnet school. So apply to one this year. Even if you don’t get in, you’ll get four ‘waiting list’ points you can apply to the points you get the next year.”
“The twins got into Neighborhood School with only four points!” says Marie.
A murmur ripples through the group. I’m not following this whole waiting list conversation too well. How do people “wait” if their child is supposed to go to kindergarten that year?
Jerri talks above the buzz. “Hold on, folks. We’ll hear from Marie in a few seconds. Let’s get through the chart first.”
A mom stands up and asks Marie, “The twins got in with only four points?”
A father in the back yells, “No one gets in with just four points!”
Jerri watches the group turn toward Marie like a many-headed organism. It’s clear that Jerri has lost whatever tenuous command she had over the meeting. Marie is the star, and the slump of Jerri’s shoulders shows her resignation.
“All right,” says Jerri, her voice weary. “Why don’t we hear from Marie? She’s already been through the process.”
Jerri plops into an armchair. Someone hands her a glass of wine.
Marie jumps up.
The eyeliner is in my hand. At this point I, too, want to hear all about how the twins got in with only four points.
“I put the twins on the waiting list for Neighborhood School two years ago!” she says, her eyes shiny. “I put them on the list even though I knew I was going to keep them in preschool an extra year. That way they graduated with four points each in their pockets!”
“Let me get this straight,” says a mom. “The twins got in with just four points?”
“I’m here to tell you,” says Marie.
People start leaning over to each other, talking excitedly, flipping pages. Marie’s twins getting in with only four points seems to be such miraculous news that the parents can barely comprehend it. Awed as shepherds the night of the Nativity, they whisper repeatedly, “Four points.”
Someone yells, “I thought you had to have at least eight points to get into a magnet!”
I’ve never heard of these points until tonight, but the kinetic thrill in the room makes me want points. As many as I can get.
“I heard eight too. But it’s a myth. You can do it with four,” Marie says above the din. “Get on a waiting list and sit the year out!”
I screw the remaining tip of my eyeliner into position and write “Waiting list,” circling it several times. The renewed tip cracks apart on the paper again, sending more minuscule shards to Jerri’s carpet. I tuck my legs in.
“And Neighborhood School is fantastic,” says Marie. “The twins are flourishin
g. They’re working above grade level and they both play the flute already.”
Two moms clap.
“I’ve brought some handouts on the school,” says Marie.
She throws a stack of papers on the table. Parents get up from their seats, reaching across and over each other to grab one. I duck under the arms to snatch one before they disappear.
Marie’s voice rises above the melee. “Neighborhood School works on a constructivist model. The school says that it’s respect-based and completely child-centric.”
I throw the eyeliner into my backpack, grab Marie’s pen, and write down “Child-centric.” Though I’m a tad confused. I imagine all schools would say that they’re child-centric. What else would they say they center around? I can’t imagine a school saying that they’re “completely teacher-centric and shame-based.”
A mom’s hand shoots up.
Marie spots her, points at her, and yells to the group, “Here’s a question.”
The mother puts her hand down and mumbles something.
“I can’t hear you,” says Marie.
“Tell her to stand up,” says Jerri, pouring herself another glass of wine. “Everyone has to stand up when they speak.”
“Right,” says Marie.
The mother stands and says a little louder, “I’ve heard that the kids at Neighborhood School squeeze their own juice for lunch.”
Marie nods as the parents shift, emitting a low rumble.
Another hand pops up, Marie points.
The mother stands. “I heard that all the kids make quilts out of silk-screened pictures of their families!”
Another mom jumps up and blurts out, “A friend of mine’s boy goes to Neighborhood School and she says that he can order from a menu in German, Japanese, and Spanish.”
Jerri yells with a slight slur, “Wait for Marish to call on you!”
The offending mom’s face falls.
“I’m sorry,” she says, turning to Jerri. “It’s just so exciting.”
Marie raises her arms in the air like someone ordained. “Let’s all calm down. I can answer all your questions.”