The Fabulist

by Dawn L. Chiletz

  “What the f—”

  “Oh my God!” Carmen grabs her laptop from her bag and types so quickly, I think I see smoke coming from her fingers.

  “Sammy, this is our chance! We’re totally going!”

  I shift the food in my mouth so I can semi-speak. “Going where? Are you serious?”

  “Yes!” she shouts as she finishes typing and stops to scroll. “Auditions are next Saturday at the Hilton here in New York. Say you’ll do this with me? This could be our shot to finally be on TV.”

  I stare at her blankly for a moment, letting her words permeate my brain. “Carmen, I have no desire to be on TV, much less on a reality show. What the hell is a fabulist anyway?”

  “But—”

  “Carmen—”

  “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. What do we have to lose?”

  “You mean besides our dignity for all the world to see?”

  Carmen makes a few more clicks on the laptop before reading aloud, “According to Oxford Dictionaries online, a fabulist is a person who composes or relates fables; a liar, especially a person who invents elaborate, dishonest stories. Ooohh, this is right up your alley.”

  Carmen pulls out her planner and flips through the pages. “When we get picked, I’ll have to take a leave of absence from work. I wonder how much vacation time I have coming. Good thing I never take sick days.”

  “When we get picked? Who said I wanted to even audition?”

  “But you’ll do it, right? For me? Please say you’ll go.”

  I’ve never seen her so serious. She’s staring at me like my response will make or break her life.

  Carmen pauses, her expression shifts, and she smiles menacingly. She’s up to something. “Just think how much being on television will anger and embarrass your mom. How will she explain it to all her socialite friends?”

  She’s good. I’ll give her that. The chance to embarrass my mother has me rethinking my gut response. It’s not like I have anything to do, and I’ve never cared what people thought of me anyway. Before I can change my mind, I nod. “I’m in.”

  WE’VE BEEN STANDING in a line wrapped around the corner of the Hilton for the last three hours. During that time, I’ve managed to read five awesome chapters of Colleen Hoover’s Too Late on Wattpad in addition to filing and painting my nails. I’ve really let myself go lately. The couple behind us seems really nice; they’ve been talking to Carmen for the last hour. He’s a janitor for a high-rise company in the city and his wife is an English teacher. They’re both auditioning. He seems very observant. I bet people underestimate him all the time. I’ve decided to nickname him High-Rise, not only because that’s where he works but also because he’s unusually tall. It’s how I remember things about people. There’s a loudmouthed woman about twenty people ahead of us. Her hands dart all over the place while she cackles. I only see her when we turn a corner, but I hear her constantly. She’s BM, for Big Mouth.

  I feel a tug on the back of my sweater and turn to see Carmen smoothing me down. She wanted me to wear a skirt, but I wore jeans instead. I paired them with my employee-discounted, black knee-high boots and a sweater. She should be happy I’m not wearing my Cheeto sweats.

  “What?” I ask, facing her.

  She beams. “You look really cute. I’m so excited!”

  “You are? Gosh, maybe try smiling a bit then. It’s so hard to tell by that permanent scowl you have on your face.”

  Giggling, she turns back to High-Rise and his wife. “This is my friend, Samantha Wittaker. She’s been quiet because she’s really nervous. She gets quiet when she’s thinking, and she’s always thinking. Sammy, this is Tom and Kristann Moore.”

  I shake their hands; my nails are dry now. “I’m not half as excited as Carmen.” High-Rise eyes me skeptically, and I take greater interest in him.

  “Tell her two truths and a lie. She’s really good at this,” Carmen tells Kristann.

  “Okay.” Kristann thinks for a few minutes. “I once ate ten blueberry pies at a pie-eating contest, I originally studied to be a nurse, and I have a blog and am a self-published author.”

  I smile at her briefly and glance at High-Rise, who appears to be studying me. “The lie is the pie contest. My guess is you did participate, but either it wasn’t blueberry or the number of pies is wrong.”

  The line starts moving again.

  “Well, how in the world?” Kristann says as we all take a few steps forward.

  I shrug and turn briefly when BM lets out a loud cackle. She makes my skin crawl.

  “It was apple and six. I lost, by the way. How do you do it?”

  “Sometimes people look off in a particular direction when they’re telling the truth, almost like they’re looking at a memory. Some people do the same thing when they’re lying, so it can be hard to tell. But I’ve watched you long enough to know the difference.”

  “That’s very perceptive.”

  “Thanks, but it’s no biggie. I’ve just known a lot of liars.”

  “She’s being modest,” Carmen explains. I stop listening now that we’ve turned the last corner. We’re almost inside the building. I’m glad it’s March and warmer. It’s forty degrees, and it feels like spring. I can identify the people who aren’t from New York. They’re bundled up like Eskimos.

  Fifteen more steps and we’re in the lobby. There’s a table set up and the line splits into groups of ten behind a singular person at each table. After talking with the person, some people walk forward and others leave. I wonder what that’s all about.

  We’re in line three, which Carmen points out is her lucky number. After another thirty minutes, we get to the front.

  “Name, please?” the girl behind the table asks, eyeing Carmen.

  Carmen smiles brightly. “Hi. How are you? I bet this is the coolest job ever, huh? I’m so excited to be here.” She glances all around. “This hotel is just gorgeous. Is this a long day for you? You must be so tired.”

  “And… your name?” the girl repeats.

  Carmen laughs and places a hand over her chest. “Oh, sorry. Carmen Moran.”

  “More like Carmen moron,” the man to the left of us whispers to his buddy. I’m certain everyone hears. Some people don’t get that a whisper is a hush, not a quiet shout. Carmen glances over at them nervously before attempting to gauge the reaction of their words on the judgy girl behind the table.

  I can’t control myself. I grip his shoulder with my newly painted nails and spin him to face me. In typical fucker fashion, he looks me up and down, coming to a stop at my breasts. “Listen, ass-nugget, why don’t you mind your own fucking business? Do you think you’re the first person to use that line on her? You’re so fucking original.”

  I can tell by his dumbfounded expression, I’ve caught him off guard. Carmen reaches out to stop me but misses as I step up into his face. I’m only five foot six, even with my boots, and he’s got a solid six inches on me, but I’m a New Yorker, and I don’t take shit from anyone.

  “What are you, her personal pit bull?” he asks as he leans farther into my face.

  “Pit bulls won’t tear you to shreds the way I will. Why don’t you say another word to her? It’ll give me great pleasure to bite off your head and shove it up your stupid ass.”

  The girl behind the table chuckles lightly as Carmen attempts to apologize to her for me.

  “I’m not fucking sorry, Carmen. Don’t tell her I’m sorry.”

  “And what’s your name?” the judgy girl asks.

  “Sam. Samantha Wittaker.”

  “Carmen and Samantha, you’re through to the next round. Take these forms, fill them out, and present them to the person behind table five.”

  Carmen jumps up and down gleefully.

  “But you didn’t even talk to me. How did I get through?”

  Carmen nervously tugs me away.

  “I heard plenty,” she states with a laugh as she eyes the next person in line.

  “Oh fuck, Carmen. I’ve already branded u
s. They don’t care whether or not we’re intelligent; they just like that I started drama. This isn’t how I wanted it to be. Now I am sorry.”

  “I don’t care how we got through; I just care that we did. Thank you for being you.” Carmen laughs and pulls on my limp, downtrodden arm.

  She hands me a paper and pen and I sigh loudly. I see there are a few more tables to make it through and I promise myself I’ll watch my language. If I’m going to get on this show, it’s going to be because I’m smart, not because I pick fights.

  We sit down on the stone wall that surrounds the waterfall in the center of the hotel. I almost bite a nail as I fill out my job history. It’s like filling out a job application and I suddenly feel more serious about presenting myself in my best light. I really need a job. I really need this job.

  I scratch my head and straighten my hair as I list my responsibilities at my last position. Glancing up briefly, I focus on the side of a camera being walked toward the back table. It’s resting on the shoulders of a tall, muscular man with a detailed sleeve of tattoos. I instantly take notice. Tats are my weakness. My gaze wanders down the sleeve to jeans that cup his ass in all the right places. He’s definitely a man who knows good jeans. I can’t help but continue to stare. I haven’t seen his face yet, and I pray it’s as easy on the eyes as the rest of him.

  “Make sure you list my address as your address. What did you put for long-term goals?” Carmen asks. She follows the direction of my gaze to the hottie with the camera I can’t seem to stop staring at.

  Some guy in a suit snaps his fingers at him and he jumps. I’m instantly turned off. He lowers the camera to his side and holy Moses, his face matches his body. I’m teetering between being interested by his looks and turned off by his willingness to follow like a puppy. He bends to pick up a cord and his dark eyes lock with mine as I slowly lift my eyes away from his finely sculpted ass. He smirks briefly and follows the snappy-fingered man in the suit. Carmen turns away quickly, but I don’t.

  “Yeah, I’m checking you out,” I say out loud to no one. He glances back at me as he walks away and I almost think he heard me.

  “He’s cute. Do you like him? If he works here that would be a conflict, right? I mean we do want to be on the show. This is a job, remember?”

  Carmen’s words pull me out of my momentary lust. “You’re right, it is a job, and that’s more important. It’s just I haven’t had sex in like six months, and I’m feeling almost virginal again.”

  “Almost virginal?” Carmen laughs. “I know what virginal feels like. I’m almost twenty-eight and I’ve barely made it to third base.”

  “You’ll get there. You’re going to find the right guy, I promise you. Don’t give it away to a douche like I did, just to be done with it.”

  “I won’t. Maybe I should ask the directors if they want to make me into a reality show. They could call it Losing My Virginity, and guys could compete to be the one to pop my cherry.”

  “Why not call it Cherry-Poppers?”

  “Ooh, I like that even better!”

  My laughter ends abruptly when I notice High-Rise has made it through to the next round and is watching me. There’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable, and I realize he could be serious competition. I’m nothing if not competitive. I refocus on my application and new purpose hits me full force. It’s time to show these people what I’m made of.

  AFTER TURNING IN our applications and signing non-disclosure agreements, we’re told we aren’t allowed to discuss anything we see from now until after the show airs. An hour has passed since then, and we’re still waiting for the next step, which appears to be an interview. From here on, everything will be filmed. Carmen has been fidgeting the whole time. She really wants this and she’s a wreck. Although I’ve been trying to act like I don’t care, I have to admit this is probably the coolest thing I’ve ever done. We’re sitting with a group of twenty people and it’s eerily quiet. We are told to refrain from speaking and I can see it’s killing Carmen. They call name after name but never ours. I hate waiting.

  When it’s down to just the two of us, they call Carmen. I pat her on the back as she stands. I strain my neck to get a better view when the door opens. Changing seats in an attempt to peer inside, all I see is a leg as it quickly passes by. I say a silent prayer for her.

  After about thirty minutes, she exits smiling widely and biting her lip. I don’t have time to ask her any questions before my name is called. She squeezes my arm as a leggy blonde with purple streaks in her hair leads me down a hall into another room. The blonde disappears through a door on the back wall.

  It’s dark inside and I notice two chairs facing a camera. There’s a mirror opposite the chair, but it’s not as much reflective as it is black. As I enter, an older man with gentle eyes walks up to me and shakes my hand. It appears to be just me, the man, and a guy behind the camera.

  “Samantha Wittaker?”

  I nod.

  “My name is Herman Matthews. I’m a producer for the show and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you have a seat?”

  “Sure,” I reply as I take my place. Matthews, Matthews, Matthews, I repeat in my head. I can’t forget his name. The cameraman peers out from behind his lens and it’s the hottie from earlier. I can tell by his smirk he recognizes me. He’s even better looking close up, but I won’t let him distract me again.

  “So, Samantha, I know having a camera in your face can be a little unsettling, but focus on me and be as natural as possible.”

  “I’d prefer Sam, if that’s okay with you, and I’m not intimidated in the least.”

  He smiles. “Sam it is. So, Sam, I see on your application that you worked for Bingham’s Department Store for ten years. Has that been your only job?”

  I steady myself before speaking, placing my hands on my lap. “I began working for Bingham’s when I was seventeen. I started out stocking racks before becoming a cashier. I worked through college and was promoted to running the fragrance department, then shoes, then women’s. Bingham’s is known for high-end, quality merchandise and one of my duties was to make sure our regular clients were always given the best service I could provide. I took night classes to get my degree. When I graduated they made me assistant manager. So yes, it’s the only job I’ve ever had.”

  “And why did you leave?”

  “They hired a new CEO, and he decided to close stores in Indiana, Idaho, and Tennessee. They moved those managers to other stores and I was laid off. It was a seniority thing, so I heard. They might call me back, but in the meantime, here I am. If something better comes along then I guess it’s their loss.”

  “I see. Is your dream to run Bingham’s someday?”

  The question makes me uncomfortable. I have to remind myself to answer professionally, but I need to be honest. “I’d love to run Bingham’s, but only if I could run it my way and make a few changes. I’m not sure they’re open to that, unfortunately. Having worked there for most of my adult life, I see the struggles the employees have with not only making ends meet but also with some of our customer service policies.”

  I collect my thoughts. “I’m not sure running Bingham’s is really my dream. I’m still trying to figure out what that might be. Bingham’s was nothing but good to me, and I adore the people I worked with, but it’s hard to make changes or have a voice at that level. I think my dream is to work where I can meet new, interesting people and have an impact. If that’s with Bingham’s, then so be it, but I’m open to making a change.”

  “You said you’d like to make an impact. What does that mean to you?”

  I shift my position and lean in a little closer to him. I forgot the camera was there until I notice him shift along with me. I try to focus on Mr. Matthews and not the light glaring in my eyes.

  “Can I be frank?” I ask.

  “Of course.” His brows furrow slightly.

  “As an assistant manager, I dealt with all kinds of people. Some had so much money, it lea
ked from their pores. Others came in looking for something to steal so they could feed their family for the night. We threw away a ton of merchandise because of small imperfections. It was an insane amount of waste. But the policy was, if it’s damaged in any way, it goes in the trash. Do you know how many people we could have helped if we’d donated it instead? But the company was against it. They didn’t want their name brands on homeless people, and it kinda pissed me off.”

  Mr. Matthews clears his throat and chuckles lightly.

  “I mean it angers me.”

  He holds up his hand. “You seem very passionate, Sam.”

  “I can be, but don’t get me wrong. I may have a lot of ideas and opinions, but I understand there’s a time and place for everything. This certainly seems like a platform where I can speak my mind. If nothing else, maybe they’ll finally hear my thoughts and make some changes.”

  Mr. Matthews smiles, then leans forward on his forearms, clasping his hands. “What made you decide to audition?”

  Do I tell him it’s to get back at my mother? Is that really why I’m here? I go another direction. “I’ve always been a big fan of reality shows. TV in general, actually. Reality is fun to watch. It’s people being themselves, but not quite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think it’s real, to be honest. It usually seems a bit scripted. But it’s exciting and I always get pulled in. I like the idea of rooting for someone. Anyway, my friend Carmen, who was in here just before me, loves it even more than I do and begged me to audition with her. I’m glad I came. It seems like an amazing opportunity and I’m certainly not shy. Carmen is great, by the way. You’d be lucky to have her. I bet there’s never been anyone on any of your shows quite like her and I know your viewers would adore her.”

  “Speaking of Carmen, tell me about what happened in line today at the first screening.”

  I purse my lips and sigh. “I’d rather be judged from here on out, honestly.”