I stifled a giggle when I heard him mangle Nell’s name. “If you were thinking with your brain instead of something else, you’d have gotten her name right, Rick,” I said to myself. At least I thought I said the words to myself. Guess who forgot she was miked? All of America and probably a few foreign countries just heard me insult our nation’s hottest movie star.
The audience applauded. I hadn’t expected that kind of reaction. It made me feel oddly empowered and considerably less nervous. On the other hand, I wasn’t in the “hot seat” yet.
“Hey, who said that?” When no one, including me, fessed up, Rick continued to cozy up to Nell. “So how do you say your name, sweet thing?”
“Anella Avignon,” Nell said charmingly. “Like the French nursery rhyme.” She began to sing. “Sur le pont d’Avignon—”
“Hey, cupcake, the only nursery rhyme I know is the one where the guy stuck in his thumb and—”
He was cut off by a paradiddle from the house band’s drummer.
“Moving right along . . . but I can’t wait to get to know you better,” Rick told Nell. “Next, we’ve got jazz musician Ellis Ellis DuPree. Tell me, brother, what instrument do you play?”
“Licorice stick,” replied the contestant. He reminded me of a character from the old Shaft movies. Very black and very laid-back and very baaad.
“Whoa there, are you telling me you like boys? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Jerry Seinfeld says.”
“A licorice stick is a clarinet,” DuPree drawled in a rich honeyed tone. “And they call me ‘Double-E’ DuPree, just in case you care to get on my good side.”
“Well, then, I’ll just catch you on the fly, Double-E.” Rick raised his fist to Double-E in the black power salute. I could feel America cringing.
Down the line Rick went, stopping at the next contestant, my dressing room–mate. “Well, don’t you look like the happy hooker,” he said, focusing on her breasts, which were practically spilling out of her top, thanks to a remarkably strong push-up bra.
“Thanks.” Candy snapped her gum and pumped Rick’s hand. “But I’m not a hooker, I’m a stripper. A former stripper, actually. Now I’m a fashion designer. I’m Candy Angela Fortunato—from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn—in case you couldn’t tell, and I have a line of stripwear out on the market—my very own personal creations—called ‘Snap Out of It!’ ”
“Well, Candy, maybe you can model some of your designs for us on the show.”
Candy simpered a little. “I’d be honored.”
“And who have we got here?” Rick approached an older, somewhat heavyset woman with short steel-gray hair and a tattoo on her forearm.
“Diz Larrabee,” the woman said in a voice that was no stranger to straight sour mash and unfiltered Camels.
“And ‘Diz’ is short for . . . ?”
“It’s short for nothing.” She bared her right arm and the camera operator zoomed in for a close up of a large tattoo. “This here’s my favorite bike. FXSTC Softail Custom.”
“I’m a Harley rider, too,” Rick said enthusiastically. “I’ve got three of them at my place in Malibu. Maybe sometime we can get together and talk bikes.”
Good grief, for the first time since Rick Byron had been on the air, he sounded sincere. He hadn’t even seemed genuine when he was flirting with Nell! Clearly, in his little discussion with Diz he was deviating from the prepared text.
He moved down the line to Jem. “Damn, woman! Anyone ever tell you that you look like Halle Berry?”
“All the time, Rick,” Jem answered cooly.
“Jemima Lawrence,” Rick read from his card. “A professor of communications at Chelsea-Clinton Community College. I’ve got two questions for you, Jemima: was the college named for the daughter of a former U.S. president, and will you make me stay after school?”
The audience laughed. It sounded forced. Or coerced.
“4-C, as we like to call it—”
“4C, like the bread crumbs?” Rick interrupted.
“Just like the bread crumbs, Rick,” Jem said, like ice on steel if you knew her as well as I do. “Chelsea, and Clinton—which used to be known as ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ and is still often referred to that way— are adjacent neighborhoods on the west side of Manhattan. The college is located right on the border of the two areas. Hence the name.”
“Hence. Big word,” Rick bantered.
“It’s only got one syllable and five letters,” I heard myself say.
The laughter from the studio audience sounded authentic this time.
“Moving right along now! We’ve got Allegra McGillicuddy, a Los Angeles native who is a feng shooey consultant? What is that, Allegra?”
Allegra looked like an illustration in a book I once owned of Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake. She was dressed in filmy garments of blue and green, her long, straight blonde hair parted in the middle and flowing all the way down her back. “It’s pronounced fung sh-way , Rick,” she replied in a tinkly, musical voice that reminded me of a set of windchimes my grand-parents used to have on their terrace. “It’s an Eastern system of arranging the objects in your home or office according to the energy they carry, so proper placement is absolutely essential to ensure the right kind of karma.”
“And people pay you to do this, Allegra?” Rick snickered.
“Why not? People pay you to act.” The words flew out of my mouth. The studio audience erupted.
“H-Hey, that’s a good one,” our host stammered.
Oops. I think that’s what Rob Dick meant about “going too far.” I was probably off base with that remark. I mean, if Rick Byron had been Anthony Hop-kins, then the quip wouldn’t have sliced so close to the bone, although in his defense I figured Rick couldn’t be nearly as untalented in person as he seemed from the tacky banter the show’s writers had crafted for him to say on the air. Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. In the right film roles, he was charming and occasionally even adorable. It shows how far a charismatic personality and good dialogue can take a person.
Rick gamely barrelled on. “Our next contestant is a personal injury lawyer who has made two unsuccessful runs for the California legislature. And he was first runner-up in the 1974 George Hamilton Malibu Tanning Classic, let’s meet Millard Milhaus!”
Millard had orange skin and looked like an iguana who had undergone reconstructive surgery to make him look almost human. His silver hair was slicked straight back giving his head the look of a Brilliantined ball bearing. His heavy gold cuff links glinted in the light. “I only lost my second bid by forty-five votes, I want you to know,” he said, looking straight into the camera. “It was the district’s most closely contested campaign in the last seventy-three years. If I had avoided that unfortunate incident on Hollywood Boulevard, I would have swept the election.”
Rick was clearly ready to move on. I was up next. I felt my heart begin to race.
“She said she was eighteen,” Millard continued, not letting go of the bone. “And that ‘she’ was a woman. How was I to know the scarf around her neck concealed—”
“Liz Pemberley!” Rick interrupted, effectively turning Millard into yesterday’s news. “You remind me of the pretty one on the old Charlie’s Angels series. What was her name?”
“Jaclyn Smith,” I said.
“Although you’re dressed like the smart one.”
“Kate Jackson. It must be the dark hair. I don’t think I look like either of them,” I said.
“So, Liz, what do you do? In real life?”
“What’s this, Rick?” I joked. “An out-of-body experience? I have no real life. I write advertising copy for a living. My job is to convince people to buy things they never thought they wanted or needed.”
“Ouch! I can just see our sponsors pulling the plug on their commercials as we speak. So, you’re the one who’s been giving me grief all night, Liz. You’re really busting my chops out here, ya know?”
I smiled at him. He really was very cute. It wasn’t his fault
that (a) he was no Einstein and that (b) the writers compounded the matter by making him seem like a cocky jerk on the air. “They’re nice chops, Rick,” I purred.
He winked at me and gestured a “gotcha” response with the stack of index cards. “We’ll talk later.” He moved down to the contestant on my right, a young blond in a Vero Beach bright yellow muscleman T-shirt. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . and especially the ladies,” Rick said, “meet Travis Peters. Travis, it says here that you’re a professional cabana boy at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Uh, yeah.” The kid made Rick Byron sound like George Bernard Shaw.
“Ever had any ambitions beyond that, Travis?”
“Uh, yeah. I would really like to be your body double in your movies.”
“Dream on, dude,” Rick said.
“Because, you know, I really think I could be good at that.”
“You think you can do what I do, Travis?” Rick turned to the studio audience. “He thinks he can do what I do.” There were derisive hoots from the house. “Yeah, right,” someone yelled. Rick looked back at the contestant. “Okay, Travis, tell you what. Stand up.”
“Huh?” The boy was as thick as two planks of wood.
“Get out of the chair, dude,” Rick coaxed. “C’mon, let’s see what you’re made of. Ladies and gentlemen, Travis Peters is going to host the show for the rest of the evening, while I just take his seat and have a little chat with Liz, here.”
Travis didn’t budge. He stared at Rick like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming pickup.
“See, folks, this job ain’t as easy as it looks!” The crowd rewarded Rick with a spontaneous burst of applause. “Now, we come to . . . Milo Plum. Milo, that’s a very interesting outfit.”
“My lover made it for me.”
“I thought everyone on this show was supposed to be uncommitted. Hey, where’s the producer?”
“He was my lover last week,” Milo corrected. “He sews fast.”
“It’s a wonderful suit. What do you call that color, Milo?”
“Mulberry. And the ascot is chartreuse.”
“What have you got in the bag? It’s wiggling.” Rick pointed to the Burberry plaid carryall on Milo’s lap.
“Oh, this is Basil,” Milo said airily, lifting a Chihuahua from the bag. “This is his Indian Chief outfit, but he has one for every member of the Village People.”
“Tell us about what you do, Milo.”
“What I do, Rick? Oh, you mean my profession. I run an alternative lifestyles bookshop and gift emporium on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. It’s called Phallus in Wonderland. You should stop in sometime. I’ll give you some almond and patchouli massage oil. I blend it myself.”
“I’m sure you do,” Rick said, and grinned at the audience. “Our next contestant, Jack Rafferty, is a restaurateur and entrepreneur from Miami Beach. Whaddya say, Jack? Can you tell us the name of the restaurant?”
“It’s called Tito’s Famous and it’s in South Beach. We’re known for our salsa—the music and the sauce. In fact they’re selling my sauce up here in New York now.” Jack glanced over at Milo. “It’s my own recipe, too.”
“So, Liz,” Rick said, startling me. Since I was no longer in the hot seat, I’d started to relax and let my guard down. “Liz, if Jack brought you his salsa, could you write an ad campaign for it? Or is it one of those products no one realizes they want or need until you tell ’em?” Needless to say, I didn’t like the question, nor did I appreciate being put on the spot.
“Yeah, Liz,” Jack chimed in.
I could have killed him. It was like being sandbagged by a tag team. I fanned myself with my hand. “Is it hot in here or is it Tito’s Famous South Beach Salsa?” I asked, attempting to muster as much confidence as possible.
Rick looked at me somewhat incredulously. “How did you know the name of his product?”
My turn to look like a deer in the headlights. Cover for me, Jack, I prayed.
“That’s a very good line, Liz. May I use it?” Jack asked.
“It’s yours, buddy.” Please, oh please, let me off the hook now.
“Gee, I’m sorry, we’ll have to pick this up another time; we’ve got two more contestants to meet,” Rick said, responding to Geneva’s hand signal to pick up the pace.
Thank you, God. And Geneva.
“Hey, there, pretty lady. Folks, meet Rosalie Rothbaum.”
Rosalie beamed at the audience. “Hiiiii,” she whined. “I’m from The Five Towns.”
Rick looked taken aback. “But Rosalie, you’re so thin. How can you be from five towns?”
“Haaanh, haaanh,” Rosalie laughed nasally. “You’re so funny. There are five towns that make up The Five Towns and of course you can only be from one of them, really, but we say we’re from The Five Towns because . . . ya know something, I don’t know why we say it. We just do.”
“And what do you do, Rosalie?”
“I’m a personal shopper at Nordstrom’s over in New Jersey. I help women put together ensembles— including accessories—and help guys pick out nice things for their wives or their mistresses or their secretaries.”
Rick grinned and shook his head, then, somewhat relieved, came to the last contestant. “And, last, but certainly not least in the heft department . . . I’m talking about your weight, buddy, is Chad Wilkins. Chad, it says here that you were an all-American quarterback from Boston University.”
“I sure was, Rick. But I got a rotator cuff injury, which played hell with my throwing arm and pretty much ended my career. What can I say? Now, I sell insurance.”
“Ever miss the old gridiron?”
“Every Sunday, guy.”
“Well, folks,” Rick said, walking across the stage. “You’ve met our fourteen contestants. And quite a diverse group they are. We’re going to take another break and when we come back, we’ll get a quick sentence or two from each of these guys and gals about one of the worst dates they ever had . . . and then, you, our studio audience, will decide who gets to stay and play for another week, and which single just didn’t have it so bad after all. So keep that dial right where it is! Back in three!”
And we were off the air for another commercial interruption. My next thought terrified me. I’d suddenly started to actually care about Bad Date. My adrenaline was pumping, I felt the little germs of ruthlessness begin to invade. I have no idea what Jem or Nell or Jack were thinking then, but sandwiched between the McDonald’s “You deserve a break today” slogan and Nike’s “Just do it,” Liz Pemberley, bitten by the competitive bug, decided to go for all the marbles.
12/
The First Round
“Welcome back to Bad Date,” Rick said, “as we head into the part of the show you’ve all been waiting for!” Rick bounded upstage to a device that was set atop a waist-high platform, similar to the apparatus they use on lottery telecasts, where little Ping-Pong balls spin around in a giant gumball machine. “Here’s how this works,” he explained. “On each of the balls currently spinning inside this machine is the name of one of our contestants. I’ll push this big red button and one of the balls will be spit out by the machine. I’ll read the ball and whichever contestant’s name is on it will come up here,” he added, bounding onto a spooky-looking black platform, “into the hot seat.” Rick gestured to a contraption that looked like a high-tech electric chair. It gave me the creeps. Dangling from the gray armrests were various wires attached to little metal cones. Behind the chair was a big screen that currently bore the words “Tell the Truth.”
Rick explained that the contestant would be seated in “what we like to call the ‘cone throne,’ ” where he or she would be hooked up to the electrodes that would record the veracity of his or her statements on the screen above the chair. He told the members of the studio audience that they were free to make notes on the scratch pads provided in front of their seats but that they would be unable to tabulate their votes electronically until every contestant had shared a sob st
ory.
“So, now,” he said, hopping back to the gumball machine, “let’s get ready to play Bad Date!” He pressed the big red button and the machine ejected a ball into the well. The house band played music that was intended to add tension to the atmosphere. It worked. “The first name up is . . . Luke Arrowcatcher! Step on up here, Luke.”
Luke ambled to the chair and slid his fingers into the cones, as we’d each been taught to do at our final audition for the show. He laconically shared a poignant story about a girl who refused a second date with him because he was too nonverbal for her. This was followed by Rosalie Rothbaum’s anecdote about the boyfriend who dumped her because she was too garrulous and kept interrupting him.
Then it was “Double-E” Du Pree’s turn in the chair. “I probably never should have done this,” he began, “but I wasn’t much more than a youth and I’d smoked a little weed, and there was this singer in a joint I was playing and she was fine. So I asked her out for a cup of coffee after the show, which in those days was a kind of euphemism for something else. I was driving this old beat-up blue Chevy to the only nice place in town to get a drink, and I pulled over to the side of the road because she was getting kind of . . . amorous. So I was thinking better now than later; and when she put her hand in my lap, I just kind of exploded, if you catch my drift, and she just laughed right in my face. She kept laughing and laughing, so I told that bitch to get out my car. I didn’t care where we was; she was gonna have a long walk home.” The crowd rewarded him with a big round of applause. By now, I figured they were supposed to clap for everybody.
“Anella Avignon!” Rick called and practically escorted Nell to the cone throne. “You can call me Nell,” she said, beaming at our host. Once hooked up to the electrodes, she made a big production number of crossing her legs. “A few years ago, I was taking an art class,” she began. “Life drawing. And there was this majorly cute guy in the class who stopped me one day as we were leaving and told me he wanted to paint me in the nude.”
The audience went wild. Some family entertainment, I thought. I could see that Nell, whatever she said, was going to be a crowd favorite.
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