I have never been a morning person. While most of my friends were up watching Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends and other Saturday morning cartoons, I was fast asleep and cozy under the covers until at least eleven. At my dorm in college, whenever I didn’t have a morning class and occasionally when I did, I was out cold until at least one.
My father predicted that once I started working and I had to wake up consistently at seven, my internal clock would readjust and I would spring Pop-Tart-like from bed on Saturday mornings before nine.
Wrong. When I’m alone, I still don’t wake up naturally before one on weekends. Luckily Steve shares my nocturnal sleeping pattern. On Saturday afternoons, after I’ve brushed my teeth and climbed back into bed, I fall asleep again and Steve and I slowly blink open our eyes around one. Sometimes I’ll wake him with a special morning surprise, and other times I’ll wake up with his morning friend unintentionally stabbing me in the thigh. Then we’ll roll on top of each other and later we’ll flip on the television and watch the news. By the time we’ve showered and dressed it’s after three. Our biggest annoyance is finding a restaurant that still serves brunch.
When the alarm starts screaming at seven on Saturday morning, about four minutes after I finally managed to doze off, I furiously hit the snooze button. I spent all night trying to fall asleep. At first I was nervous about what I would wear, what I would say, how I would smile, and then I looked at the clock and began freaking out. I know what I look like after a night of no sleep, and this caused me even more stress, preventing me from falling back into la-la land. Then I began the ritual of glancing at the clock every few seconds, then I tried to force myself not to look at the clock every few seconds, then I tried not to think about looking at the clock every few seconds, and then, hallelujah, I must have finally fallen asleep, because the alarm was suddenly screaming.
Great. I’ve had seven minutes of sleep. Seven minutes in heaven? Isn’t that the name of that kissing game we used to play when we were kids?
I’m going to look like hell.
I drag myself out of bed, shower, pat my hair dry, put on some lipstick to even out my lips, and then squeeze into my black pants and black shirt. Sexy. Black. With my black shoes, I think I look like quite the sophisticate. I know they’re running shoes, but they’re my black Diesel running shoes. Carrie will like the label, right?
There is a stain on my black pants. You’d think that was impossible. How can a stain be visible on black pants? Nonetheless a mutated patch of black blares from my knee. I run to the kitchen and start scrubbing with a paper towel and dish soap. I took only one pair of pants with me to New York. My wardrobe consists of jeans, tops and two suits.
I think it worked. The stain appears to have disappeared. I wish I owned a blow-dryer. Will they fit in the microwave?
Steve opens the bedroom door and joins me in the kitchen.
I must look ridiculous. I’m wearing a shirt, socks and a thong, and my pants are in the microwave. “’Morning,” I say and smile.
He gives me his best what-you-talking-about-Willis look. “Sexy,” he says.
“Just getting ready,” I say.
He kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck,” he says and heads back to bed.
Ten minutes later I’m in the back seat of a black sedan beside a clipboard and coffee-bearing Carrie. I can’t see the driver’s face, only the back of a bald head.
“You can’t wear that,” she says, shaking her head.
“Why?”
“You can’t wear all black on camera unless you’re tanned, thin and blond. You’ll look washed-out and puffy.” She reaches into a leather bag and pulls out a blue V-neck. “Wear this. It’s Marc Jacobs.”
Who? Does she expect me to change in the car? She expects me to change in the car.
“Are you wearing sneakers?”
I look down at my feet. “No.”
“Take them off.”
“They’re my only black shoes.”
Carrie sighs. She pulls a pair of stiletto black pointy-toe boots out of her bag. “Here.”
I kick off my shoes and put on her boots. Ouch. My toes are squished. “These are too small. What size are they, five? I’m a seven.”
“So am I. Didn’t you ever hear the expression, ‘You have to suffer to be beautiful’?” She pulls out her makeup bag. “Why don’t you wear foundation?”
“Why do you wear it?”
She applies the beige liquid to my face. Then she covers me with powder, then eyeliner, then three shades of eye shadow, then blush, then another coat of mascara. “Better,” she says, analyzing my face with more scrutiny than the school nurse sifting through a first grader’s hair for lice. “I’ll put your lipstick on after you have your coffee. Remember this. Listening?”
I nod and sip. I hold the coffee cup carefully over the middle hump. There is no time for additional spillage.
“If they give you water, do not drink it unless your mouth is absolute sandpaper. If you do, you will have to go to the bathroom and you will look fidgety on camera. Maintain eye contact with the host, or with that magic spot right above the camera lens. Do not look at the ceiling and do not look at the floor. Pretend the camera is a new man who you are desperately trying to get to fall in love with you. Do not blink excessively. Keep your posture. Don’t slouch. Imagine a hanger holding up your shoulders. Do whatever it takes to make yourself look animated. Facial expressions, hand gestures. If you do not animate yourself, you are not going to look interesting on television. You want to look in control, though, so remember, no fidgeting. No scratching, no twirling your hair, no twisting your rings around your fingers or earrings—” She sits up abruptly and gawks at my ears. “Why aren’t you wearing earrings?”
“I don’t have any.”
“You don’t have pierced ears?”
“I do, I just don’t wear jewelry.”
“Why do you have pierced ears, then? You need to wear earrings. The holes are going to close up if you don’t.” Her hands fly to her earlobes and she removes dangling silver drops from her own ears. “Put these on.”
Nasty. I’m feeling way too close to my father’s liquids right now. I put them on. My fingers smell like ear.
“Voice. Modulate. Don’t sound like an Arthur character, don’t sound like the professor on Ferris Bueller. Mo-du-late,” she articulates, flashing her hands for emphasis. “And don’t sound like you’re full of shit. You can lie if you want but sound sincere. Don’t mumble. Don’t swallow the ends of your sentence. Don’t be too loud. Don’t speak too softly either. E-nunci-ate. Let me hear you enunciate.”
“E-nun-ci-ate.” I say. In camp, Carrie was a color war captain. She forced us to sing a song about the merits of the yellow team, which she had written to the tune of Chicago’s “You’re the Inspiration.”
“Don’t let your mind wander,” she concludes.
“Got it. Go team.”
Carrie madly flips through the pages on her clipboard. “Are you taking this seriously? You have to take this seriously. It’s going to be a serious interview.”
How serious can this be? It’s a TV show about bars. I doubt there’s an IQ prerequisite. “They’re not going to ask me my opinions on global warfare.”
Carrie looks me in the eye, apparently staggered at my naivety. “Do you have any idea how many women want to be in your shoes?”
Instinctively, I glance down at my newly squashed toes.
“Do you?” she presses on. “Thousands. I waded through hundreds of resumes myself. You are lucky, darling, lucky.” She casts her head downward and sighs loudly, obviously saddened by my lack of reverence. “If you don’t respect the genre, it’s not going to respect you.”
I’m not even sure that means anything. This whole job is a joke. If they like me, they like me, if they don’t, who cares?
“They’re going to ask you a lot of questions. They’ll ask about your relationships, tidbits about your childhood, tiffs with your sister and your roommates—”
“I’ve never had a roommate.”
“They’ll want to know what you do for fun, how crazy of a party girl you are, if you drink too much. They’ll try to ferret out, very subtly, if you have any prejudices.”
“So I shouldn’t tell them about all my bisexual experiences?”
She points a manicured finger at me. “No, definitely tell them those.”
Um…I was kidding?
By the time we pull up in front of the TRS building, I feel as if I’m perched on the top of a ski hill, ready to go. Equipment—check. Attitude—check. Skills—check. I can do this. I’ve always been a comfortable public speaker; I won the annual public speaking contest in high school with my magic formula:
Voila! First place.
Inside the steel elevator Carrie pinches my cheeks. “You need more color. But you look great.”
You know that ski hill I mentioned? When I was ten, my father brought us to Vale and I broke my leg when I met up with a tree.
With each ascending floor my breathing becomes faster and shallower. I can do this. They want me. They asked for me. I certainly didn’t ask for them.
The elevator door opens into a plush white room. White walls, white couch, white furry carpet. I feel as if I’m in a cream cheese commercial. Pictures of their Emmy-award-winning TV shows, including NYChase, and American Sunrise line the walls.
I follow Carrie to the reception desk. “Sunny Lang and I are here for her Party Girls interview.”
Lang?
The receptionist nods toward the couch. “Victoria’s interview is running a bit late. Do you have her application pack?”
Victoria? Who is Victoria? Why do I have to wait for Victoria? Someone else is interviewing for the role? Who is this “Victoria”? I imagine her with red-cropped hair and a collared shirt, realizing that she is after my part. My part. Does she think she can out-Miranda me?
This will not do. This is my job, and no whiny little suck-up is going to steal it. I try to catch Carrie’s gaze.
Carrie doesn’t look up. Instead, she reaches to the back of her clipboard and pulls out a stack of files. “Sunny will bring her application in with her,” she says, and motions her chin toward the couch. “Let’s wait over there.”
Did she know other women were after my role? I sit down beside her. “How many people are auditioning?” I ask through a clenched jaw.
“I sent one yesterday,” she whispers back. “And other associates in my firm sent two this morning.”
I go into cardiac arrest. I’m competing for this job. I have slashed all ties with Panda for a measly audition. I am a wannabe. Is Dana right? There could be dozens, hundreds even, of sexy, serious women lurking around this building, preparing to be asked about their siblings and non-homophobic tendencies, hoping for their big break in cheese-town, and I am just as pathetic as they are.
Carrie hands me a stack of papers and a pen. “Sign the last page.”
I’m certainly not signing something I haven’t even read. I flip through the pages. “What is this?”
“Your application, your references, your background check, proof that you were never arrested, names of family members, interesting things about you…”
A hundred pages, all about me. “Where did you get this stuff?”
“Some from your dad. And you’d be surprised what’s available on the Net,” she says. “Don’t worry,” she adds in a whisper. “No one cares about the background check. As your agent I’m the one responsible for making sure you’re clear. Once I approve you, you’re golden. I got your dad and Marcus to write two of your references.”
Marcus? The owner of Abina, my childhood sleep-away camp? “How did you get in touch with Marcus? And who are these other people?”
“I called him, and made up the others. No worries.” She pats my knee.
No worries. I need some Pepto-Bismol. “Anything I should know about myself before I go in?”
“Just be yourself. Your sexy, wild, single self. You’re articulate, you’re ambitious, you’re soulful, you don’t take shit from men, you practically raised yourself. I played up the dead mother thing. They loved that—every show needs a sob story. You’ll be wonderful, trust me. They’ll want you. I know what they need. I endorsed you over the girls I sent yesterday.”
The girls? As in plural? What happened to “I sent one yesterday”?
Twenty minutes later Victoria prances from the closed doors in a tight Chanel suit, high heels and cropped blond hair. I give her the evil eye. The receptionist lifts her head. “Ms. Lang?”
Carrie pokes me. “That’s your pseudonym. Langstein was too ethnic.”
“Everyone in New York is ethnic.”
“Trust me.”
“I sound like a stripper.”
“Good luck,” she says. “Remember, show them soul. And no drinking.”
I’m ushered down a stark, low-ceilinged white hallway, into a square, white-walled room. A man is half hidden by a large studio camera. Two other men and a woman are sitting on one side of a boardroom table. I recognize Howard. The door slams shut behind me. I feel as if I’m in the final scene in Flashdance when Jennifer Beals arrives at the academy in leg warmers and comes face-to-face with judges in suits.
She got them clapping and singing, didn’t she?
“Hi!” I say. My heels click-clack as I walk across the room. These things could take out someone’s balls with one swift kick. I place my application on the table.
Silence.
“Hello,” the man who is not Howard finally says. He rubs what remains of his gray hair and scans my application.
A polar bear-shaped man steers a large camera in my direction. The red light is on. I blink at the blazing flash and look away.
The gray-haired man moves his chair, and the squeak echoes through the room. He points to a pitcher of water in the center of the table. “Would you like something to drink?”
No water, no water. “No thank you,” I say.
I assume I am supposed to sit in the one empty chair facing the judges. As I sit, the camera follows me downward. Am I supposed to look into the camera or at the men? What were Carrie’s instructions again?
The room is quieter than a funeral. Howard is directly across from me, wearing a funky silver shirt, too far unbuttoned, revealing ghastly white skin and coarse black chest hair. The older, gray gentleman is sitting to his right, in front of the cameraman. A woman who looks like an older version of Kelly Osborne, same body size, same first season red-orange hair, same Cindy Lauper clothing, is grimacing on Howard’s left. Why the long face? She doesn’t like what she’s doing? She should try switching places with me. I like her hair. I like her outfit. I look down at my own Marc Jacobs cleavage-enhancing shirt.
Does she think I like this outfit?
Howard smiles and starts rubbing his hands together. “Nice to see you again, Sunny.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“I hear I missed quite a spectacle at Eden’s the other night.” He turns to the older Kelly. “A woman was choking and little Sunny here saved her life with the Heimlich.”
The Kelly’s scowl melts from her face and she appears almost interested. “Really? How’d you know what to do?”
“I was a lifeguard.”
The Kelly nods. “I’m Tania, the show’s story producer. I work with Howard to create character development and story arcs. That’s Pete,” she points to the cameraman. “You already met Howard, and beside him is Stan. He’s VP of programming at TRS. Story editors, sound editors, production assistants and interns will also be working on the show, but you don’t have to worry about them. Ready to start, sexy, wild, skinny thing? Let’s go.”
Sexy, wild, skinny thing? Are those the adjectives I want to be known as? Maybe I should tell them, sorry, pick Victoria, then bend into a four-legged crawling position and slither out the door and back out through the hallway.
Unless I want this. Do I want this? Am I no better than the Girls Gone Wild girls who flash their breasts so they can get a free T-shirt?
I need a job in New York. This is a job in New York.
I am so full of it.
I stop and breathe and smile. Why don’t I get the job first and analyze it to death afterward?
Stan pours himself a glass of water. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert.
They’ll start with easy questions, right? Name? Sunny Langstein. I mean, Lang. Birthplace? Florida. Siblings? One. Parents? Dead mother. No problem.
“Tell us, Sunny,” Tania says, reading a question off a paper in front of her. “About the most unusual way you’ve ever met a guy?”
Sunny Lang, I’m about to answer. No. That is not the right question.
I have a flashback to a business school case. The professor was prepping us for interviews with consulting firms. “How many gallons of ice cream are sold in the U.S. each year?” he asked.
At first the entire class panicked and screamed out politer versions of “How the Fuck Are We Supposed to Know?” The professor’s answer was that we weren’t expected to come up with the right answer—firms were more interested in seeing how we think.
You can assume that eighty percent of Americans eat ice cream. And there are about three hundred million people in the United States. That makes three hundred million consumers. But then are ice cream sales seasonal? Gender specific? Do southern states sell more ice cream than northern ones? Do—
“Sunny? Interesting way of meeting a guy?” Howard twirls a pen like a baton between his fingers.
I realize with horror that I have been twirling my hair. Automatically my hands drop into my lap. How come he gets to twirl and I don’t?
They don’t care about my answer, I remind myself. They care about my personality.
“I was rappelling in a South American rain forest. Suddenly, the rope that attached me to safety became unhitched from the treetop and I plummeted to the ground. Thank God, the man rappelling just beneath me held open his arms and caught me. When I looked into his wide green eyes, I knew that this man and I would have an exciting future. We dated for two years.”
Tania looks up, amazed. “That really happened?”
I snort. “I wish. No, of course not.” I am the sexy, obnoxious cynic. “No one meets someone like that in real life, unless your name is Jane and you’re stranded in a jungle. I met my previous boyfriend at a café. I’ve met all my boyfriends at cafés. If I wasn’t a caffeine addict I’d never get laid.”
Tania spits out the water in her mouth and laughs. I am the wild, sexy, witty, obnoxious cynic.
“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” Howard asks.
“Which time?” This emits another chuckle and I say, “I was seventeen. I got drunk and seduced my best friend’s younger brother. No morning-after regrets. Until I saw the pictures on the Internet, of course.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Stan says. More laughs.
“No.” I keep a straight face. “Yes. I don’t think anyone knew how to use the Internet for humiliation purposes back then.”
“What was the worst thing you ever did that you hid from your parents?” Tania asks.
“My mom died when I was six. When I was sixteen my dad moved back to NewYork and I lived in the house by myself. His only rules were no drugs or alcohol. There were stories all over the paper about parents suing other parents when their children died of alcohol poisoning at a guardianless house party. My father was terrified of getting sued. I had wild parties at my house every weekend. Lots of booze—”
All four of them lean toward me, wanting to know what I’m going to say next. They like me. They like me!
“—and everyone slept over. One Sunday morning I counted twelve crashers all over the house. Four on the living room couch, three in my sister Dana’s room, one in the bathroom—he passed out after drinking too much beer—and four in my room, including me, crammed in my single bed, two on each side, our legs and sheets tangled. No massive orgy or anything, we just stayed up, laughing. A week later, about ten minutes before my dad arrived for his monthly visit, I had an urge to check the DustBuster that was in his bedroom. It was one of those clear, see-all-the-dirt-inside ones, and when I picked it up, I realized that there was a hunk of hash in it. I don’t remember vacuuming it up, I don’t know why I suddenly had the urge to check it, I don’t even smoke hash, but there it was. I never got caught.”
Stan shakes his head, worried. “You lived on your own since you were sixteen?”
“Yes.” I wave away his concern. “It wasn’t as lonely as it sounds. I like my space.”
Howard scans over my application. “I see you have a business degree. Why was school so important to you?”
“Because I want to be successful. I’ve always had a job.”
“What kind of jobs did you do?”
“I lifeguarded in the summer. During high school I waitressed on weekends and after school. At college I worked at the student services center. I worked behind the counter the first year and then managed it for the next three.”
“But why did you need to work? Your father couldn’t support you?”
“I like my independence.”
“Why are you moving to New York?” Tania asks.
I hesitate and then answer, “Fresh start. I ended a relationship and I need a change. Rumor has it this is the city where anything is possible.” This is the truth. I ended a relationship. I ended many relationships before Steve. And it’s true I need a change, or I wouldn’t be here, right?
Tania looks down at her notes. “What was your best life experience?”
I guess saying that it was Steve asking me to move in with him would be counterproductive. I need something that spells excitement, spells adventurous, spells single…“Backpacking through Europe. I went with my best friend and we had the time of our lives.”
“What did you do?”
“What didn’t we do? We lived in London, swam naked in Nice, flirted in Florence.” I am the goddess of alliteration. “Drank ouzo in Corfuzo.”
Okay, so I’m no poet, but they laugh anyway. I have them in the palm of my hand.
“What was your worst life experience?” Howard asks and then sighs. “Your mom dying?”
No, slimeball, it was when My So-Called Life got canceled.
“Of course,” I say, and drop my voice a few notches for effect. “I was young, only six. I didn’t understand what was going on.”
My audience leans closer.
“Can you tell us about it?” Tania asks.
I don’t even need leg warmers to pull this off. “My mother spent so much time at the hospital that my grandparents had to come stay with us. My parents were already divorced at this point.”
Tania puts her hand to her lips. It’s all about the Double D.
“My sister and I used to crawl under the covers with my mom at the hospital, and we’d tickle her back. She loved having her back tickled. We used to spell out words and see if she could guess them.”
“Was it cancer?” Stan asks, clenching his coffee mug in his hand, but not taking a drink.
I nod. “Ovarian.”
“My wife’s girlfriend had that,” Howard says, and shakes his head. “It was terribly sad.”
“Did you know she was going to die?” Tania asks.
At first I think that Tania is addressing Howard, but then I remember that I’m the one being interviewed. I’m the one whose life is being laid out like a documentary. Opening up to strangers like this is a bit weird. It’s like kissing someone you just met.
“No,” I say slowly. “My father took me house shopping and kept asking me if I liked this, if I liked that, for my new room. I told him I already had a room at my mother’s house, so why do I need another one?”
Tania’s sob sounds like an elongated hiccup.
I’m a hit, all right. Lose my virginity or lose my mother—it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s all the same to them. They don’t want me, they want a soap opera star. Fine. I can do sob story.
“My mom’s condition was worsening,” I continue. “And my father decided it wasn’t appropriate for my sister and me to watch her die. So in June he shipped us off to the sleep-away camp in the Adirondacks he’d gone to as a kid, Camp Abina. I was six. The youngest kid in the Junior section, the youngest kid in the whole camp. I got a ton of attention, and I was asked to be the newcomball team’s mascot.”
Tania and Stan look perplexed, and in less than two seconds I come to my second grand realization: only Jewish girls at North American summer camps play newcomball.
“Newcomball is like volleyball, except you catch the ball and then throw it over the net. Anyway, the fourteen-and-over team, The Abina Bears, asked me to be their mascot when they played against Camp Walden. Obviously I was the envy of all the other Junior girls. The girls on the team had made me a little bear costume with furry ears and a tail. All I had to do was a little dance whenever the team scored a point.”
Their eyes are glossing over, I’m losing them, I can’t lose them. Time for the kill. “The morning of the game—I hadn’t slept the entire night, I was so excited—the camp owner came over to our bunk’s table in the dining hall and whispered something to my counselor and then she asked me if I could come outside. My sister was waiting for me on the balcony. She told me that my mom was really sick and that she wanted to say goodbye. And that our father was coming to get us. We went back to our cabins to pack up some of our stuff. Dana was crying and then I started crying, a little bit because Dana was crying—I hate when she cries—but mostly because I’d been waiting for the big game, the day when I got to be the star, and who would wear my costume?”
Suddenly I can’t stop myself. I want to tell them everything. These people care. These people love me and I love them.
“My father drove into camp, right up to our bunks in a rental truck. This was vaguely exciting since only the head staff was allowed cars in camp, and all the kids ran to their porches to see what was going on. We drove to the airport in complete silence and then the three of us flew home, and when the stewardess asked my dad if he wanted pretzels or raisin cookies, tears started streaming down his cheeks and he tried to cover them because he didn’t want us to see. We got to the hospital and my mom’s parents and her older brother were all there. She looked horrifically frightening, white and bloated. We held her hands and then she said goodbye. My dad took us out of the room and then she died. My sister and I sat shiva. That’s Jewish mourning. You have to sit on these horribly uncomfortable chairs for a week. We sat at my father’s new house. Over the summer all my things had been moved into my new room, at my father’s new house. After the seven days were up, my father decided to send my sister and I back to camp. My sister didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to do anything but lie facedown on her relocated bed. My father put me in charge of convincing her that I needed her to come with me.
“Everyone was really nice to us when we went back. I had a few sleeping problems. In the middle of the night, I would put my sneakers back on and sneak across the baseball field to Dana’s cabin and climb up to her top bunk, into her sleeping bag. At first my counselor told me I wasn’t allowed, but I kept doing it, anyway. Then she told me she didn’t want me wandering across the camp at night by myself, so she promised that every night, if I wasn’t asleep by the time she got back to the cabin—counselors’ curfew was at one-thirty—she would walk me over. Every night I was still awake. She would walk me over, and even if my sister was already asleep, I would climb into bed beside her.”
I stopped talking. How’s that for soul?
No one moves. Tania’s cheeks are stained with tears.
Now can I have a glass of water?