Authors: Sarah Mlynowski
As Seen on TV (16 page)
“Remember, girls,” Howard says. “I am a ghost. Nothing I say is going to make the cut. So repeat my questions into your answers. And speak in the present tense. We’ll use some of your comments with other images.”
Pete starts filming Michelle and me in bathrobes, sipping martinis. Here we go. I better not say anything dumb. I bet I say something dumb.
We silently sip our drinks.
So.
“I liked your boots the other day,” Michelle says. “I mean, I like your boots.”
“Thanks.” That sounded squeaky. “Yours, too.” Not that she’s wearing any boots at the moment. But she was in the past.
“Were they Kenneth Cole?” she asks. “Are they Kenneth Cole?”
I carefully nod. Don’t look at the camera. Don’t look at the camera. “I think so.”
“I’m
obsessed
with Kenneth Cole.”
Halfway through the drinks and the useless small talk, Howard says, “So what do you think about breast implants?”
I almost choke on my drink. We don’t answer.
“Would either of you get them?” Howard asks, pressing for information.
“I wouldn’t get breast implants,” I say, carefully incorporating his question into my answer. Did that work? Did my voice sound steady? My bathrobe won’t stay closed. Can they see inside? I can see inside. Great, I’m flashing America.
“What would you implant?” Michelle says to me, laughing and almost spilling her drink. “You have perfect boobs.”
I cross my legs and attempt to sit up straight so that the top of my robe stays flat. Steve loves my breasts, even if I do catch him once in a while ogling the even more endowed.
“Would you ever do it?” I ask Michelle.
She shakes her head vehemently. “Never. Ouch. I’m not cutting my chest open. Besides, I’m happy with my body. Some women are never happy with the way they look. It’s sad. I think that anyone who has cosmetic surgery has some serious self-esteem issues. And it’s a turnoff for guys. Men sense desperation when a woman starts cutting herself up or adding silicone.”
I’m impressed with her on-air self-confidence. No worries. She just goes.
I’m not sure I agree with her. Is a woman’s self-esteem even something a guy thinks about? I mean, picture a bombshell walking around in a low-cut blouse, her boobs a mile ahead of her chin. I sincerely doubt that the men who gape at her are thinking, I wonder how the poor dear is feeling.
Ooh. That was good. I should say that. It sounded quite clever. I think. It did. I open my mouth to speak—
“Besides,” Michelle continues, and my opportunity is missed. “They wouldn’t be
real.
Guys know these things.”
And her point is…?
We chat a bit longer and then Pete motions to me. “Time to do your makeup.”
Having a drink was a good idea. I’m far more relaxed. Wheee! This is almost fun. Pete and Tania follow me back to my room and into my bathroom. Good thing the fogged mirrors have cleared up. I pose behind the sink and counter, peering at my reflection.
The camera’s light is hot. Pete has returned to his station on the toilet. Tania stands outside the bathroom, by the open door. “Now, Sunny, answer as much as you want,” she says as I pat a dab of foundation on my cheek. “Talk and relax. Why did you move to New York?”
An easy one.
“I moved to New York because I wanted to experience a different atmosphere. I wanted to meet different people. New York is a cool city. I thought, why not?”
I sound fun.
“Do you date a lot?”
“I date a bit. I broke up with someone before I moved. Now I’m looking for a few good men.”
“Do you let men pick you up or do you pick them up?”
Another easy one. “If I’m interested in a man, I’m not afraid to talk to him.”
“Give us an example of when you tried to pick up a guy.”
Oh-oh. Pick up a guy, pick up a guy. Think adventure, fun, flirty. Ooh. I have a good one. “I was backpacking through Europe and we were in Nice. The friend that I was traveling with was shopping, and I was tanning—and trying to avoid being stabbed by one of the jagged rocks under my beach towel. Actually, it was also my shower towel—some jerk had swiped my
beach towel along with my Hard Rock Café Amsterdam T-shirt from my balcony in Brouge.”
No one cares about my towel. What had Carrie warned about rambling?
“Anyway, I spotted a buff blonde close to the shore, so I packed my bag, strolled ever-so-casually to where he was reading a magazine and he looked up and said hi. I was like wohoo!—he speaks English! I planted my towel beside him. As a conversation initiator, I asked him for the time while applying sunscreen as if I had just gotten to the beach. Two hours later we made plans to meet for dinner. Voila.”
Isn’t that a great pickup story?
“So what happened on the date?” Tania asks.
More? Um…“He met me in front of my hostel and we walked to Vieux Nice for a perfect, picturesque romantic dinner. We sat in the courtyard. First came the wine. We toasted, we drank, we refilled, we laughed. We had mussels. And then…”
Shit. I forgot where this story goes. Damn. Can I change my story? Is it funny?
“And then?”
What the hell. “During dinner I noticed he had a red mark on the upper corner of his lip. I figured he would just lick it off, but it lingered, ruining the entire fantasy. Like the way an anchovy spoils a Caesar salad. I hate anchovies. I tried to be, you know, seductive, and I dabbed at the spot with my napkin, but like a permanent marker it wouldn’t budge.” I can’t believe I’m telling this story. Why am I telling this story? It’s a gross story. Who tells gross stories on TV? If it’s stupid, they won’t put it in, right?
“What was it?”
“It wasn’t a tomato remnant. It was a cold sore.”
“Gross,” Tania says.
I am a horrible person for telling this story. How can I make fun of someone who gets cold sores, when I get them myself? I’m definitely throwing a stone from my glass house.
“I felt bad for him. It happens. But I felt less bad when dur
ing the walk back to the hostel, he dove in for a kiss. How nasty is that? Doesn’t he know they’re contagious? Isn’t that rude? I told him I didn’t kiss on the first date.”
“What did he do?” Tania asks.
“He pouted. Obviously not his best move since it emphasized his predicament.” I raise my eyebrows for effect.
Pete bursts out laughing and gives me a thumbs-up.
Go figure. I guess cold sores make good copy.
The four of us are standing outside the hotel. We are dressed, we are glam, we are made up, we are smiling, we are tipsy and we are fabulous.
The two cameras film us from across the street. Our lavalieres are clipped to our collars and concealed under our hair, and the transmitter is clipped and hidden in our pants, near the tag.
“Now pile into the back seat of the taxi,” Howard says.
We pile into the taxi. Michelle is kind of sitting on Brittany’s lap. Why would four people sit in the back seat of a taxi? Is this reality? Is this legal? The taxi drives a few feet and then stops.
Tania opens the taxi door. “Can we do that again? I want to get two of you climbing into the taxi from each door.”
We pile out.
“Filming,” Dirk says.
We pile back in.
“Let’s try it one more time,” Tania says. “A bit sexier.”
This is ridiculous. One clip of supposed real life takes thirty minutes of dry runs.
Pile out, pile in.
This time we are successful and the taxi speeds off. At the end of the block the cabbie slams on his brakes. Brittany, Michelle and I slam into the dividing wall. Erin slams into Michelle.
“Will you be careful,” Michelle says.
“What, you think I did that on purpose?” Erin says.
The taxi driver reverses back toward the crew. Pete opens
the front door and sticks his head in. “Girls, I need you to get back in one more time. I want Pete to film the drive from the inside.”
We groan and pile out again. Michelle says that she’s not sitting in the middle this time. Tania tells us we have to keep the same spots. “For continuity,” she explains. “Last time, I promise. Straight to the club now, I swear.”
Pete attaches a light to inside the cab’s roof and adjusts his camera.
“Filming,” he says.
We climb back in, close the doors and take off. At the light the taxi driver slams on his brakes again. Michelle jabs her elbow into Erin’s stomach.
“Sorry,” she says and shrugs. “Continuity.”
Y
ou just got home. Yes,
you.
You drop your plastic bag of take-out Japanese food, along with the mail (bills, bills and more bills) you’ve neglected to pick up all week onto the kitchen table. You shed your boots under the table, your jean jacket onto the carpet. What are the chances you remember to put those away later?
“Hello?” you say. “Anyone home?”
“I’m on the phone!” your roommate yells.
You change into your ripped-in-the-knee sweatpants and your high school ex-boyfriend’s frayed football T-shirt (so soft and worn-out, an essential element in your pajama roster), grab one of your roommate’s Diet Cokes (this time you’ll remember to buy her a new one, you swear) and plop yourself on the couch.
You had a date last night. It was a blind date, which normally isn’t your favorite but actually wasn’t as car-running-over-your-foot excruciating as you anticipated.
He was tall, on-time, asked questions about your job and paid for the meal. Four out of four ain’t bad.
Dinner for a blind date is always risky.
On your last dinner blind date the evil man left his cell phone on the table and then
took his calls.
Anyway, last night’s date was sweet and cute, and after a long dinner of too much wine you kissed him and then kissed him some more and then went back to his apartment and then…
…slept with him.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know you’re not supposed to sleep with a guy on the first date, but this time it’s different. Really. You swear, you’ve never done it before. He liked you, really liked you, you could tell. He looked deep into your eyes and laughed at all your jokes and asked questions, thoughtful questions about your ideas and opinions and philosophies…
He said he’d call this week and he will. You just know.
Smiling, you slouch on the couch. Something good had better be on.
You bite into your California roll. You wonder why it’s called a California roll. What do they call them in Japan? A Tokyo roll?
It’s 9:40. You press Power on the remote.
News. You’ve heard enough about death and destruction for one day. You flip the remote. A commercial. Flip. More news.
Flip.
Your television is filming a club. The windowless walls are covered in ceiling-to-floor murals of martini glasses. Each wall has its own bar. About a hundred twenty-something men and women in tight black outfits are either dancing in the center, relaxing in one of the sunken, black velvet couches or ordering drinks. Techno music is playing in the background.
“Let’s do some shots,” a platinum blonde says. Under her face, in white writing it says Erin. Four girls head over to one of the bars. The bartender is blond and muscular and is wearing a tight black short-sleeved shirt and what you assume to be his best sexy smile.
You can’t remember the last time you walked into a club, walked straight to a bar and got served right away.
“Four shots of tequila!” yells a chest-heavy brunette. The sign post says Brittany.
She doesn’t have to yell. She knows she’s wearing a mike, right?
“Make that eight,” Erin says.
The girls chitchat. Mr. Suave Bartender brings their shots.
Erin raises her glass. “Here’s to you, here’s to me, best of friends we’ll always be, and if by chance we disagree, well, BEEEEEEP you and here’s to me!”
They lick the salt, do the shots, suck the lime.
“Wohoo!” Brittany screams, raising her empty glass into the air. She’s really tall, towering over the other girls.
A black-haired girl, Sunny, begs for a glass of water. “My mouth feels like it just swallowed burning lava,” she gasps after downing the entire shot.
“Next one,” Erin says, handing out the remaining four.
“Another one? I’m going to be sick,” a gorgeous redhead, Michelle, says.
They lick the salt, down the shot, slam the glass on the bar and suck the lime. Three of the girls, anyway. Michelle stops halfway. “I can’t,” she whines. “It’s too vile.”
Two hot guys join them. One looks like Ethan Hawke and the other, next to Brittany, like a shrunken Michael Jordan.
Ethan leans against the bar and squeezes Erin’s shoulder. “You girls must be tired.”
“Why?” Erin asks.
“Because you’ve been running through my mind all night.”
Erin giggles and slithers up closer to him.
You can’t believe she just fell for that. That has to be the worst pickup line you’ve ever heard. Even you wouldn’t have fallen for that.
The image switches.
Ethan is pressed up against Erin, near a black painting of an olive. Her superimposed voice says: “I have problems meeting good guys. Most of them are just out for sex. Nothing feels worse than realizing you’ve just been used.” Ethan’s
hand is on her waist, slowly moving its way up, and they appear to be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears.
Silly, silly Erin. Picking up a guy at a bar is never going to work.
Michelle and Sunny are perched on bar stools, watching. Michelle’s hand is covering her mouth in gleeful shock. “I can’t believe what’s going on there. Omigod. His hand is on her behind. Look! Look!”
Sunny shakes her head and laughs. She sips from her martini. She doesn’t talk much.
Switch.
Ethan and Erin grope each other on the dance floor. Ew. Is that tongue? His tongue is in her mouth. He’s licking her mouth. Pull the camera away! There’s saliva everywhere.
Switch.
Thank you.
Brittany and little Michael are dirty dancing, but there’s no tongue. Boring.
Switch.
“Let’s dance,” Sunny says to Michelle. They slide off their bar stools and the camera follows them to the dance floor. Two creepy-looking men attempt to squirm their way into dancing with them, but Sunny and Michelle ignore them and box them out.
Sunny is doing a little hand-up-in-the-air, butt-grooving thing, but Michelle is really good. You wish you could gyrate like that. Sometimes, when you’re too drunk you think you can.
Switch.
You don’t believe it. Ethan’s hand is up Erin’s shirt. He is fully feeling her breast. And she’s letting him! Slut bag. He is feeling her breast on television. Does she have no shame? She’s not even that drunk. Romeo over here is never going to call her tomorrow. He’s only hooking up with her so all his friends will think he’s Mr. Stud.
You are so embarrassed for her.
Oh, God. Your blind date. He’s not like Romeo here, right? He will call. He will. Will he?
Gross. He’s sticking his hand down her pants. She has no shame. You would never go this far at a bar. You can’t watch. You close one eye. Why isn’t Brittany stopping her? Where is Brittany?
Switch.
Michael is buying her a shot. Make that two shots. Three. Slow down, Brittany! Yoohoo, Brittany! What is she doing? She just downed five shots. Does she think her stomach is made of steel?
She’s draped on Michael. “I…you…I’m on TV.” She starts laughing uncontrollably. She’s way too tall for this type of behavior. Tall girls shouldn’t drink so much. The fall to the floor will be so much longer.
She’s starting to teeter. She can’t even stand up properly. Michael tries to kiss her. What is he doing? Doesn’t he see how drunk she is? Gross.
Switch.
Sunny and Michelle are dancing but Sunny freezes and says to Michelle, “Brit just made a mad dash to the bathroom. I’m going to make sure she’s all right. Why don’t you go check on Erin before she gets herself pregnant?”
The television follows Sunny into the bathroom. Can they do that? Can they just follow her into the bathroom? What if there are other people in there? Shouldn’t they knock? You see the back of Brittany’s shoes peeping out from a stall.
Sunny knocks on the door. “Brit? You okay?”
The sound of puking reverberates through your speakers. Gross. Thanks for sharing, Brit! Do you really need to hear that? Good thing you already finished your sushi.
Sunny tries to open the door, but it’s locked. Silence. Then: “Do you want me to get you some water?”
Silence.
“Brit, you okay? Answer me or I’m breaking down the door.”
“Fine. Don’t feel too well. Water would be great. But not tap water. Too many pollutants.”
Now that’s interesting, you think. A lush who’s monitoring her chemical intake.
“I’ll be right back.”
Switch.
Michelle searches for Erin on the dance floor. She spots Sunny coming out of the bathroom and shrugs her shoulders. “Erin has pulled a Houdini,” Michelle says. “She disappeared.”
“She couldn’t have. You can’t disappear when the cameras are following you and you’re miked.”
“I don’t see her.”
“Let me get some water to Brit and then I’ll help you find Erin.”
Sunny’s awesome. Why don’t you have a friend like Sunny?
Michelle follows Sunny back into the bathroom. Sunny knocks on the stall. “I’m slipping a bottle of water under the door, ’kay?”
Switch.
Screen flips to a couch in the corner of the bar. Ethan is lying on top of Erin. Her shirt is hiked up around her neck and he’s dry-humping her. A crowd is gathered around them, observing.
Why do you get the feeling you’re at a sports match? The score: Erin, two oh, babys. Ethan, one small grunt. Erin’s definitely ahead. “Go, Erin, go!” Who said that? Disgusting.
What kind of perverts watch this stuff?
Is that the bartender taking bets?
Through a small crack in the crowd, Michelle and Sunny spot them. Michelle covers her mouth with her hand, as if in midyawn. Sunny’s mouth just drops.
Michelle says, “What a ho.”
“Maybe she’s drunk and doesn’t even realize what she’s doing?” Sunny asks. “We should stop her.”
“She hasn’t had that much to drink,” Michelle says, and starts laughing. “She is so dirty.”
“I want to make sure she realizes the consequences of her
actions,” Sunny says. “I don’t want her to be embarrassed tomorrow.” She tentatively pushes her way through the masses of people, toward the dueling duo. “Erin?” They ignore her. “Erin?” she says again, her voice a wee bit louder.
Erin’s eyes flutter open and she stops moving. Ethan stops on top of her. He turns to glare at the intruder who seems intent on ruining his porn debut.
“What?” Erin asks, rolling her eyes.
Commercial break.
“You have to come watch this!” you scream to your roommate. Her door is closed and she doesn’t answer. “Come here!” you scream again.
“What?” she asks, opening her door and sticking out her head out, the phone against her ear.
“The most ridiculous show is on. People are having sex and puking all over the place. It’s about single girls in New York!”
“I heard about that. What’s it called?”
You flip through the TV guide. “I think it’s called
Party Girls.
”