“Huh?” Penelope asked, jumping out of her chair.
“Teeth whitening paste, please,” Trace said, staring straight ahead at himself in the mirror. “It’s in the drawer. Hand it to me. Now.”
“Oh, right. Gotcha,” Penelope said and started sifting through several drawers until she found the required paste in the drawer by Trace’s left knee.
As she was getting the paste out of the drawer, she felt his knee brush her ass.
“Hey!” Penelope exclaimed.
“Yes?” Trace asked, still staring at himself in the mirror. “My paste?”
She rolled her eyes but handed him the paste. Trace applied it to his teeth and, pulling his lips back into a skeletal grimace so the paste wouldn’t be wiped off, barked, “Apply the tanning cream to my scalp!”
“Tanning cream?” Penelope asked, looking around the spare makeup room. A small, nervous-looking middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair dressed in an absurdly bright orange sherbet–colored suit outside the makeup room averted her eyes and pretended to be very busy as Trace, settling into his director’s chair, leaned his head back and, still baring his cream-coated teeth, again demanded, “Tanning cream. Scalp. Now!” Turning toward the sherbet-colored suit, he ordered, “Berry! Get in here and show this girl how it’s done!”
Berry, who turned out to be Trace’s well-seasoned assistant, rushed over, grabbed a can of spray-on hair and some small rectangular sponges out of the drawer by Trace’s right knee, and placed them in front of Trace. Berry whispered into Penelope’s ear, “Spray it on him.”
“What?” Penelope said. “Spray hair on him?” This was too much. Surely, she couldn’t be serious? She was a fucking reporter, not a stylist—
“Shhh!” Berry, a nervous woman, said, not wanting to disturb Trace’s concentration. “Yes. Spot spray, pat down, and repeat until he has a full head of hair. And hurry up!”
“Oh,” Penelope said as the canister was thrust into one hand and a sponge in another. Apparently, Berry was serious. “Ew. Okay…”
Penelope picked up the “Can-O-Hair,” walked around to face Trace’s bald spots, which from a certain angle appeared to form a shape like Africa, picked one obvious expanse of hair-free scalp in the area that would have been Sudan or Egypt, and gingerly pressed the spray. A glob of dark brown, viscous fiber-like substance, the same color as Trace’s dyed hair, shot out and sat on the spot like a small hair pyramid.
Penelope choked as some of the loose fiber in the air shot up her nose.
“Mmmph, bleargh,” she said, gagging.
Trace’s eyes popped open. “Well, pat it down, woman! I don’t have all day.”
“Okay,” Penelope said, turning her face away and trying to breathe actual air. “Got it!” It was demeaning, but not as demeaning as going back to Cincinnati and living with her parents, so…
She grabbed a sponge and patted the “hair” down, fully covering the bald spots. “Not bad,” she said, surveying her follicular artwork, “not bad.”
After several applications of tanning cream, David finally came back from coffee duty and, ignoring Trace, loudly announced, “Penelope, scalp-covering duties are not in your job description—we have a makeup girl who comes in two times a week who takes care of that—and Trace is not supposed to wash it off every day unless it’s summertime. He has shower caps.” Turning toward Trace, David snapped, “Trace, that’s enough. Marge wants you on set. Now,” he said, turning back toward Penelope, “come with me and meet everyone else.”
Guiding her by the elbow, David steered Penelope into the newsroom and toward the other main news anchor, Kandace Karllsen, a pie-faced, plump, bottle blond of Swedish descent who described herself as a “real, expressive” newswoman “with heart.” This meant that when she talked she swished her hands in and out—using them as props to “drive her point home” while she fixated on “proper a-NUN-see-ay-SHUN”—and teared up during stories about puppies, babies, and firemen. In an attempt to make herself seem smarter than she actually was, she often made up words that sounded “bookschooled.”
“Oh, Hel-LO,” Kandace said looking Penelope up and down several times, taking in her Lipstick-donated outfit and black patent leather pumps from Candie’s that Penelope had picked up at Macy’s for thirty-five dollars on sale.
“A-DOR-able! Stick close to me (hand swish in) and you (hand swish out) will learn irreduceible amounts (hand swish in).”
Kandace came from CNN and was therefore, at least according to her, NY Access’s “number one star,” which didn’t go over well with the station’s other self-professed star, Trace Howard (he of the spray-painted bald spot). So Kandace and Trace ignored each other. Their egos were too big to acknowledge each other unless they absolutely had to. As Trace walked past Kandace, Penelope, and David, leaving the unmistakable smell of Drakkar Noir wafting in the air, Kandace, who had celebrated her “annual thirty-fifth birthday” for the past nine years, said rather loudly to his back, “That man is just irretrievably jealous that I used to be the sole anchor for the two a.m. newscast on CNN for over five years.”
Trace glowered, not breaking his stride. “That fat old meatball screwed the CNN bureau chief to get that job. And who watches at two a.m.? A mime outside of Yankee Stadium during the playoffs would get more viewers! Whereas, I am a powerful and attractive man!”
“And on with our tour!” David said, grabbing Penelope’s arm and rushing her away from a boiling Kandace to introduce her to the rest of the newsroom. First up was Laura Lopez—nee Spincer—the tall, athletic-looking, blond-haired, blue-eyed “entertainment girl” who was actually thirty-six.
“She plays up the Hispanic last name,” David whispered to Penelope as they approached Laura’s desk, “despite not having any actual Hispanic lineage. She acquired her Latino last name through her ex-husband, a Puerto Rican tax inspector. They were only married for six months when Laura discovered his penchant for young African-American men. Ouch! I know, right? So, she kicked him out, but kept his last name as she feels it gives her ‘a leg up in this cutthroat TV business.’”
Penelope and David, not noticing Laura listening to them, started to giggle.
“Fine, you go ahead and laugh now,” Laura snapped while David rolled his eyes, “but by 2011, Hispanics will be the largest demographic in the U.S. and they are going to want to watch one of their own, Laura Lo-PEZ!”
Penelope eyed Laura’s desk where she kept pictures of her idols—Natalie Morales, Geraldo Rivera, and Charo—framed in silver on her desk. She also had a “fame wall” to the left of her desk decorated with photos of her and the celebrities she had interviewed on junkets. There was a picture of Laura and Beth Blow—an unfortunate but appropriate last name as the twenty-one-year-old starlet of such movies as Moodracer, 23 Ways to Die, and Muff had been arrested with her mother last year in a Times Square hotel room doing lines of cocaine.
“She gets such a bad rap,” Laura said, catching Penelope looking at the photo. “That Beth is just such a sweet, down-to-earth girl—and unlike the others her age, she can actually act. We’re very close.” There were also photos of Laura and the thrice-married action star, Snake Marlin (“Just a doll—a real gentleman,” Laura cooed. “Is he grabbing your boob and flipping off the camera?” Penelope asked, peering closely at the picture, as David pinched her arm), and Laura and Ryan Jones, the manic-depressive comedic actor who had supposedly overcome a bad methamphetamine problem but nonetheless still tried to commit suicide two years ago (“So funny, not depressing at all!”), among dozens of others.
After fifteen more minutes of show and tell, David was finally able to drag Penelope away. “Be careful of the Lopez,” he warned, “as long as she thinks you’re useful and dispensable, she’ll be friendly, but if she ever feels threatened, she’ll turn on you in a second and eat you for lunch.”
David then introduced her to the station’s sportscaster, Mike “Heisman” Cutcher, nicknamed not after the trophy he certainly never won, but because
during his sportscasts, he was famous for calling out good plays while pulling a “Heisman Pose”—putting one hand that cupped an invisible football by his ear, while his other arm stretched straight out in front of him—then shouting, “Hey-OH, there’s the Heisman!” He used this signature move during any good play, even when it involved sports that were not football.
The next stop on David’s Meet NY Access tour was near a lone cubicle in the back that was shrouded in darkness as several lights had blown out. There sat the weatherman, the mono-named “Storm.” Storm usually kept to himself—and his weather charts, maps, and websites—in the far corner of the NY Access offices.
As Penelope and David walked by Storm’s desk, David whispered to Penelope, “We don’t really talk to Storm unless we actually have to. He listens to a lot of late-night talk radio.” Storm’s desk had a large picture of his idolized namesake, Strom Thurmond (his mother had been mildly dyslexic, which turned out to be a boon for his climate-centric career), and David warned her, “Stay away from him. He’s liberal only with sharing his latest conspiracy theories—which usually have to do with government-controlled weather-bending machines and alien anal probes that most likely do not exist except in the far corners of Storm’s mind.”
“Or bedroom?” Penelope mused.
“Touché,” David laughed.
Penelope was then introduced to Eric, the main cameraman, Stew, the sound guy, hordes of other assistant producers, and a particularly cute producer named Thomas, a tall man with sandy brown hair in a dark suit and glasses, who looked like a younger version of William Hurt in Broadcast News.
“So you’re the new inmate,” Thomas said, smiling. “David told me about you. Penelope Mercury, right? You came from the Telegraph.”
“Um, yeah,” Penelope said, a little flustered yet flattered.
“You did some really good street reporting over there. We picked up a lot of your stories. My favorite was the one about the guy in Queens who tried to get married to his dog. What was the headline again?”
“Bitchin’ Bride,” Penelope said, blushing. Nobody had ever mentioned specific stories she’d done before.
“Yes! Bitchin’ Bride—absolutely genius! Whatever happened to him?”
“I think he’s in Bellevue and the dog was put up for adoption.”
“Right, well, it was good work. Glad to have you on board. I hope you’ll stay longer than your predecessor.” Turning to David, Thomas asked, “David, how long did the last one work here? One, two months?”
“Something like that,” David said.
A voice called from the studio, “Thomas, we need you on set, now! Someone’s walked off with the evening news placard.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Penelope said, shaking his hand.
“You too,” Thomas said, smiling again. “Stick around for a while. It’s really not so bad.”
“He’s yummy,” Penelope whispered to David as Thomas walked off to deal with the crisis on set.
“Don’t get a crush just yet,” David warned. “He’s a great producer but keeps to himself. Never mixes work with pleasure.”
“What’s his story?” Penelope asked, even more interested now that Thomas was unattainable.
“Not sure, really,” David said. “He’s been here for like four years. Used to do documentaries in Pakistan or something intellectual like that. Not sure why he came back. Laura’s been trying to open that trap door for years with no luck.”
On the completion of David’s tour, he whispered, “Trace is fine—just stay away from his hands, they’re as bad as his knees. Kandace is a pain, but somewhat harmless. The others are okay. Well, not okay, but you know. Just keep your head down, do what they tell you to do, within reason of course, and above all, try and steer clear of Marge. She takes a little…getting used to. She’s bipolar, but she’s really not that bad. She’s been around for years and this place is pretty much her last stop—and she knows it.”
It was sage advice that Penelope took to heart, and that day she managed to stay out of Marge’s way, busying herself with Trace’s superficial demands and helping Eric set up the shots for the evening news, until just after the afternoon editorial meeting, in which everyone gathered in Marge’s office to talk about stories for the evening news and feature segments.
Penelope, who’d been trying to find Trace another bottle of spray-on hair (he’d used up the last bottle while trying to fluff up a patch on his chest—he was wearing his shirt open by two buttons that day), was fifteen minutes late to the meeting. That was not a good thing.
“Polly,” Marge said, as Penelope tried to sneak into the meeting, “since you obviously don’t understand how important these meetings are and clearly need to learn this business from the ground up, you will stay after and do the Rolodex.” A shudder ran through the office as Penelope’s new coworkers eyed her sympathetically.
Marge’s favorite punishment for office infractions was to have the offending party sit across from her at her desk and check every name, number, and address in her Rolodex, under her steely, watchful eye…starting with the Aarons. She would listen to the offender make the call say, “Excuse me, this is (fill in the blank) from Marge Gelb-Green’s office at New York Access and I am just confirming your address and telephone number…” Marge would wait until the punishee had hung up (or more likely, been hung up on) and then say, “I didn’t hear you get the maid’s cell phone number! The maid has a cell phone! Call back!”
To make amends for her tardiness, Penelope had been forced to do the Rolodex for more than five hours and only reached the Davisons in Marge’s long list of contacts by the time she was relieved for the day.
Back at Lipstick’s apartment, Penelope was just finishing up the tale of her peculiar day when her cell phone rang.
“Oy.” Penelope sighed. “My mom, I’ll call her later. She probably wants to know if I’m out on the street yet.”
Lipstick nodded. “Yeah. I’m still waiting for my parents to realize I meant it when I said I was living on my own. Although, I have to admit, I’m a little…terrified. This whole being-broke thing is scary.”
“Ha,” Penelope said, waving her hand in the air as if there were a fly. “Please, it’s a piece of cake. I’ve been broke my whole life—and look at me! I’m fiiine,” causing Neal to burst into laughter. Ignoring Neal, Penelope continued. “Just start taking the subway, don’t shop, borrow office supplies like pens, and soap, and toilet paper, and get to know Sam the deli man and Maddie at the coffee shop next door, Local. They’re both sympathetic food suppliers. Stick with me—you’ll be a pro at brokeness by the end of the week!”
“Oh my, ladies,” Neal snickered, “you two are priceless in your cluelessness. Penelope, perhaps you can give Lipstick some lessons on how to be poor, and Lipstick, perhaps you can warm up your sewing techniques by helping alter your old clothes for Penelope. Darling, this beautiful dress is at least two sizes too big.”
“Hey, I think it looks fabulous,” Penelope said. “Lipstick, I’d be happy to help more, but can we talk later? I have to wake up early for the morning ‘strategy’ meeting, and if I’m late, I have to do the Rolodex. Again.”
“Okay,” Lipstick said, clearing the paper plates and throwing them into the trash. “But do you want to do yoga with me in this girl Dana’s apartment on the top floor Wednesday night? My friend Sally Brindle invited me.”
“Sally Brindle?” Penelope asked. “What is that? Some kind of riding gear?”
“No, silly.” Lipstick laughed. “She’s my yoga teacher. And she gives private lessons to Dana in the building, like, twice a week.”
“So why does Dana want us there if she pays for private lessons?” Penelope asked, itching to light up a cigarette.
“Weeellll,” Lipstick said, “I don’t know if Dana so much wants us there as Sally does. Sally’s a little worried about her. She apparently hasn’t left the apartment for a year because she’s depressed or something, and Sally thinks company
would be good for her.”
“Is she that woman with the wiener dog?” Penelope asked.
“I don’t know,” Lipstick said. “Sally didn’t say anything about a dog, but please come; I don’t know her and it could be awkward. And it’s free!”
Penelope, concerned about Dana’s supposed agoraphobia, said, “Is she some weird reclusive freak who’s going to, like, start dressing like me and one day stealth-attack me with a stiletto, single-white-female style? I mean—seriously. From what I can tell, all she does is work fifteen hours a day and walk that crazy dog. I don’t think she’s ever come home drunk or said more than three words to anyone.”
“Well, maybe?” Lipstick said.
“Okay,” Penelope said, standing up and wiping her hands on her black dress. Lipstick winced. It was her old Dolce, after all. “Why not? I’m about as flexible as Rahm Emanuel but it could be fun—and ‘free’ is a broke girl’s favorite word. Knock on my door Wednesday. I’ll be home around six or seven.”
Penelope kissed Neal and Lipstick good-bye and entered her apartment just as her phone rang. It was her mother. Again.
“Penelope, it’s your mother,” Susan Rosenzweig Mercury announced.
“I know, Ma,” Penelope said. “Your name came up on my phone. Like it does every time you call.”
“Don’t be fresh!” Susan snapped. “So. How was your first day back at work? Did you apologize?”
“Ma.” Penelope sighed. “I told you. I’m not working at the Telegraph anymore. I’m at a local cable channel.”
“Oh!” Susan squealed. “TV, how glamorous—Jim! Jim, put that Bible down and get over here—my daughter’s gonna be on TV!”
“Well, not quite,” Penelope said, “I’m an assistant producer, which is basically a gofer.”
“Penelope Mercury,” Susan said. “Rule number thirty-seven, any job that pays is a good job. Did the check bounce? Do they beat you? What’s the problem?”
“No, Ma, no problem…I was just trying to tell you how my first day we—,” Penelope said, before her mother cut her off.
Mercury in Retrograde Page 11