As Seen on TV (17 page)

(S
teve, Carrie, my father and I are sitting in the living room of my dad’s sprawling Park Avenue apartment watching the show. Carrie has ruled that there is to be no talking until after the show.)

On television, I’m squatting beside the humping duo. (Those are really great black pants I’m wearing.) “Um…want to come dance?” I ask Erin on the screen.

“I’m kind of busy right now,” Erin says, pulling Ethan tighter to her naked chest.

I cross my arms under my chest. “Are you sure you want to do this now?” I say.

“BEEEEP, Sunny, I’m fine,” Erin says, running her bloodred fingernails down Ethan’s back.

(“She said
fuck
in case anyone’s wondering,” I tell Steve, Carrie and my father.)

I look back at Michelle. Michelle rolls her eyes and beckons me to follow her. We head back to the bar and order Cosmos.

On screen, I lean against a bar stool. “I feel bad leaving her like that,” I say. “She doesn’t even know him.”

“She’s a big girl,” Michelle answers. She twirls her long, curly hair around her fingers, her face draining of color. “Uh-oh. My ex at six o’clock. That BEEEEP loser—”

I turn to look, but Michelle lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t look. I don’t want him to know I’m here.”

I take a sip of my drink, doing a damned good job of appearing nonchalant. “You’ve been spotted. He’s on his way.”

Switch.

The camera shows a dark-haired, thirty-something hottie in pressed slacks and a gray shirt, maneuvering his way through the crowd toward them.

Michelle starts giggling. “Is it too late to run?”

(“I don’t know what her problem is,” Carrie says. “He’s not that bad. A little old for her, though.” I don’t comment, but I’m not sure if she realizes how ridiculous that sounds, coming from her.)

The guy taps Michelle on the shoulder. “Miche?”

She turns around and feigns surprise. “Daniel! So nice to see you.” She kisses the air at the side of his cheek and smiles.

(“She’s a bit of a liar, huh?” Steve comments.)

“You look amazing,” Daniel says.

“Thanks. You, too. What are you up to?”

“Same old, same old. I’m still at Goldman. I just bought a place in the Hamptons.”

“Good for you.” Behind her back she yanks my hand. “Listen, we’re being called over to that side of the bar. Great running into you.” She kisses the air next to his other cheek, and still holding my hand pulls me to the dance floor.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

“Hilarious,” Michelle says. And dances to the music. “Just an ex.”

“What happened?”

“Didn’t work out. He became, like, my stalker.”

(“Stalker?” Steve laughs. “The guy looked normal. He’s even wearing pants, not jeans. And he’s clean-shaven.” I shush him.)

Michelle and I continue dancing. Suddenly Michelle points to the door. “Erin’s leaving.”

“What?” I ask. “She can’t just take off without us.”

“She just did.”

The screen fills with Erin’s hand in Ethan’s back pocket, as both climb the staircase that leads out of the bar. “I’m going to BEEEEEEP your brains out,” she whispers.

(“Did she not realize the mike picks up whispers?” I say, cracking up.)

“Do you think she’s taking him back to the room?” the televised-me asks.

Switch.

Erin undressing, Ethan sprawled on a double bed.

Erin is wearing nothing but a black thong and blurred nipples.

Switch.

Still at the bar, I say, “Michelle, I’m going to check on Brittany.”

“Don’t leave me. I don’t want to get stuck with Daniel.”

Michelle and I, holding hands, search for Brittany and find her on one of the sunken couches, mouth open, drooling slightly.

(“Brittany wasn’t that drunk,” I say magnanimously. “I swear she looks worse on TV!”)

Michelle starts laughing. “Has she passed out?”

“I think so,” I say. “I think we should take her home.”

“It’s only one-thirty,” Michelle says.

“I’m tired. You can stay. I’ll take her home.” I bend over and try to gently nudge her awake. “Brit? Wake up.”

Michelle prods her other shoulder. “I’ll go with you.”

Brittany groans.

Switch.

Brittany, practically comatose, has her arms around Michelle and me, and the three of us climb into a cab. (“You have no idea how much those breasts weigh,” I say to Steve. “Honestly, they’re like a thousand pounds each.”)

Switch.

Same position, me and Michelle dragging Brittany out of the hotel elevator, down the hallway.

“Check her purse for her room key,” I say.

Michelle opens Brittany’s purse and pulls out a room card.

I lean Brittany into a wall.

Michelle slides the key card into the slot on the lock. A red light flashes. She tries to open the door but it doesn’t budge.

Brittany groans. “I don’t feel well.”

“Are you going to be sick again?” Michelle says. “Turn your head. These are Dolce & Gabbana.” She gestures to her pants, then sticks the card in the slot a second time. It turns red again.

“You have to wait for the light to turn green,” I say.

Michelle tries again, but it’s still red.

“You hold her.” I dip the card into the slot and it turns green. The door opens easily.

“My head hurts,” Brittany wails.

We drop her facedown onto the mattress. I get a glass of water and the garbage pail from the bathroom and place them both beside the bed.

Michelle’s ear is pressed against the wall. “I hear moaning,” she says. “That’s Erin’s room.”

I leave Brittany’s side and lean against the wall, too.

Switch.

Erin’s room. Two human-sized lumps appear to be rolling under the covers. “What do you think they’re doing?” My superimposed voice (tee-hee, my voice is superimposed!) breaks into the moaning.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Michelle’s voice answers. “Playing Trivial Pursuit? Brit? You okay? I think she’s going to puke again. Turn your head, Brit! Oh, God, she missed. She better pay for dry cleaning.”

Switch.

Brittany’s room again. “It’s going to be a long night,” I say, looking up as if I’m addressing the ceiling.

The “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” dance version starts playing and the credits run on the left side of the screen.

I am the nicest girl on television. I am helpful, I am considerate, I am responsible. I love myself.

Steve squeezes my arm and kisses me on the cheek. We’re sitting on my father’s black suede couch, directly facing the TV. The apartment is about five times the size of mine and Steve’s, and the ceilings are twice as high. There might be an echo when I speak.

Even though my father’s been living here for years, the place reminds me of an unused expensive hotel room. Obviously pricey furniture, yet sparse and aloof. There are no blankets, no photos, no personal touches. No scrapes on the furniture either. My father’s entire body tensed up when Steve poured himself a glass a water (from the tap!) and then set it down on the glass table without a coaster.

“You were awesome,” Carrie says from the love seat beside us. My father’s arm is draped casually around her shoulder.

“You think?” I
was
awesome. I saved Brittany from dehydration. I attempted to save Erin from gonorrhea.

Did people watching think I was awesome? Or did they think the whole show was ridiculous? It was kind of ridiculous. Who cares about watching me and three other nobodies drink and dance? Who cares what we think, say or do?

I can’t decide if I’m providing entertainment or filling people’s minds with crap.

“Incredible,” Steve says, and kisses me again, this time on the lips. “You were hot. And you’re all mine.”

Getting a little possessive, are we? When those creepy guys tried to dance with us, his hand got a little tight on my knee.

“I wouldn’t want to be Erin’s father,” my dad says.

What, he so badly wants to be
my
father? “She must be pretty upset,” I say.

Carrie wags her finger at us and then picks up her glass for my father to refill. “She knew what she was doing.”

“I know, but they showed us making fun of her the entire time,” I say.

Leaning back, Steve is watching my father carefully. Whenever my father’s in the room, Steve always gets this intense look on his face, scrunching his eyebrows together as though my father is a puzzle he’s trying to crack.

Carrie gets up and dances around the living room. “It was fantastic. Incredible. Sex, booze, betrayal, friendship. I won’t be able to sleep tonight until the ratings come out.”

Ratings? Already? “But don’t shows like this take some time to build up a following?” I ask. “I mean, we can’t be expected to have good ratings from the get-go.”

Carrie shrugs. “If ratings suck, they’ll cancel the show.”

What? Cancel? Who said anything about canceling? They can cancel? After one episode? Okay, if it gets canceled, it’s not the end of the world. I got a bunch of free stuff out of it. I already received the thousand dollars. The whole thing was still a funny experience. I have the first episode on tape, so I can show it to my grandkids. Being the wanna-be reality TV starlet whose show was so awful no one could bear watching it more than once is a little embarrassing, but people who know me will think it’s funny. Of course the downside is that I’ll be in a bigger rush to find a job. But last week I sent out at least thirty resumes, and I already have an interview set up for next week, at a furniture company. Maybe something will pan out. “When do we know?”

“The first ratings come out tomorrow,” Carrie says. “Don’t freak. Nothing you can do now.”

I’m not freaking. But how can the ratings
not
be good? I was great. I was awesome. Howard could have screwed me during editing, by using my inane remarks about my fictitious ex-boyfriend—somewhere between the Cosmos and the taxi, I gave him details about my fake ex, who had supposedly propelled my move to New York. Howard could have also screwed me by including my absurdly awkward cold sore saga. Why did I think it important to blab on and on about cold sores? No one wants to hear about cold sores. What was I thinking?

I was great. I was awesome.

I was lucky.

I yawn and lay my head on Steve’s shoulder. “Do you want to go home soon?” he asks. “You must be exhausted.”

I nod. Last night, Howard wrapped up filming a little after three, finally unclipping our mikes from our shirts and turning off the cameras. My stomach started growling, because of the full night of activity and because I had barely eaten anything all day. Michelle laughed when she heard it and said I was lucky the mikes were off. She said she was starving, too, and we went downstairs and ordered food at the bar. I sneaked into the lobby to call Steve from a pay phone and tell him I’d be home in about an hour. I need to get a New York cell phone. Who uses a pay phone? I’m surprised they haven’t dismantled them already.

Steve was awake and picked up on the first ring. “How’d it go?”

“Good, I think. I’m not sure. It depends what they use.”

“It’s over?”

“I couldn’t call you otherwise. Imagine if one of the cameras taped it? I’d get booted off the show.”

“Come home soon. I miss you.”

Miss me? How can he miss me? I see him
all
the time.

We spend all morning together, and then every night together whenever he’s not working.

After the quick phone call, I returned to the bar just as my cheese and pepperoni pizza and Michelle’s fruit salad arrived. As I took my first bite, I saw Erin’s sketchy Ethan Hawke guy get out of the elevator and exit the building. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out he wouldn’t be hanging around for breakfast.

After our snack, we debated waking Brittany up to send her home, but we figured there was no point. “Next time we should just crash at the hotel,” Michelle said.

Steve would love that. “I can’t. My roommate would be worried about me,” I answered. “And I don’t think I would be able to sleep, knowing a camera was watching.”

“Like if you drooled in your sleep or something?”

When I finally got home, it was almost five. Steve was reading in bed. “Welcome home, Party Girl,” he said as I stripped—not in a turn-on manner but in an I’m-about-to-fall-asleep-on-my-face way—and fell into bed beside him. As he ran his fingers through my smoke-stained hair, I described the evening. He laughed and groaned at all the right parts until I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew it was morning.

“Ready to leave?” Steve asks now, a hopeful look in his eyes.

I take his hand, and we go.

“I don’t want you worrying if my dad likes you,” I say, later that night, when we’re in bed. I’m lying on my side, covers pulled up to my ear, arm pressed against Steve’s warm waist, fingers on his back.

His face is two inches from mine, and I can feel his breath on my forehead. He has a small scar on his chin, a half inch of a stubble-less white patch from a boyhood game of street hockey. Or was it when he slipped and hit himself on the kitchen counter? I don’t remember.

“I don’t worry,” he says.

“No? So why do you always have a funny look on your face when he’s with us?”

He’s lying on his left side, left arm bent under his head, right hand playing with my hair. “Just trying to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“How a man could leave his wife and two kids without feeling like a complete asshole for the rest of his life.”

My chest feels tight, like an iced-over lake about to crack. I’m allowed to call my father an asshole, but I haven’t decided yet if Steve is.

I decide to make a joke out of it. “What, you’re planning on leaving me with a bunch of kids and you want to come up with the best plan to remain guilt-free?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Close up, his eyes look less green and more like an Impressionist painting with distinct speckles of yellow and blue.

“I know,” I say, and roll over.

I pick up the phone on the first ring. It’s nine o’clock in the morning. I groan.