Never Too Real (10 page)

“No, dees is not right. Does he feel sorry for ju? We need to talk to de manager.” Her judgmental left brow rose, while her nails clicked on the table.

“Ma!” Cat sat upright. “It’s just wine!”

“Listen . . . I know how dis goes and how dees people are. And it is bery bery insulting to meeeee.”

“To me.”
Of course
.

When Cat would do impressions of her mother for her friends, her favorite part to enact was that stance: chest out and up, neck rolling, finger wagging, drawing out vowels. She barely needed to exaggerate to get folks rolling in laughter. But in this moment, Cat was far from laughter.
My Lord, everything with this woman, everything is a fight.

“It’s not insulting to me, Ma . . . Here.” Cat reached across the table and took her mother’s wineglass, making a big show out of pouring it into her own, which was already only a quarter full. “I’ll drink it. I’ll take it.” Eyes from the other tables glanced their way.

“Das disgusting.” Dolores crumpled the napkin in her lap and dropped it on the plate just as their lunch entrées arrived. She stared at her daughter, eyes full of vitriol. “Okay den, ju drink and ju eat . . . since it es all about ju.”

Another server had approached, balancing their flounders, just standing by, frozen in confusion, as Dolores raised herself up. And as curious parties watched, Cat’s mother stomped off. She stalked out the door and Cat thought,
At least she didn’t yell at the manager.

“I’m sorry, did you want both of these?” the server inquired in a hushed tone.

“Just one’s fine. And a dessert menu.” Cat offered a sour smile as her double glass of wine beckoned.
Oh yes, my friend. It’s you, me, buttery flounder, and some chocolate. Don’t know when I’ll be back here again.
She raised her glass to the people at the table on her left, who were still staring.

“
Salud!
” she said, then took a generous swig from the top.
Salud.

 

Sun rays blessed Cat’s hands and face as she busied herself around the apartment, getting ready to walk out the door. She was on a last-minute call with her agent before heading to tape another test show. If this worked, it would most likely blow past the usual protocol and the pilot phase, going into production right away. It was exactly what Cat was looking for: a basic talk show format à la
The View,
where she’d been a regular guest. Every network was seeking to recreate that former gold mine, though daytime TV in general was bleeding out across the board. Fewer people were watching television. All Cat cared about was landing an outlet that didn’t ask her to cover the business beat. It bored her to tears, and she had so much more to offer.

Earpiece in and cell in her pocket, Cat paced and talked. “Okay, so she likes my nerdy thing,” she said to her agent. “But are we sure about who else is going to be there?”

“You can expect maybe some other folks thrown in, but really, just be yourself—they love you already!” Guy was younger than she was, a Persian “Shah of Sunset” smooth-talker.
I like what he’s saying to me,
Cat thought,
but compliments are not guidance. I need more info going into this—it’s such a big deal. Damn it, I need someone with more experience.

“Okay, running to a cab.” She grabbed her keys. “I’ll ring you as soon as it’s done.” She barely registered his “Great. Let me know.”

Cat rushed out the door, heart pumping, scenarios running through her head. She made it to the studio in record time. Early was good.

A cute, barely-out-of-college intern greeted her at security. They made small talk as they walked down dusky hallways to small offices turned into mini-lounges, green rooms. The intern’s headset squawked as she gestured to Cat to enter a room with a number taped to the door. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s someone with you here—she must be in the restroom. Can I get you anything?” The intern held her clipboard tight.

“I’m good. Thanks.” Cat noted an empty chair and clothes draped over a mini couch. Mini water bottles, energy bars, and snacks were piled neatly in the corner of a desk.

“Oh, Cat!” A lithe brunette with cascading locks, false lashes, and a scorching blue dress warmly greeted her.

“Oh, my gosh. Hi, Lisa!” They gave each other a hug.
Thank God this is who I’m stuck with today,
Cat thought. Lisa had been a contributor to Cat’s network—and a very friendly one at that. Rare in this line of work, particularly for women. Unfortunately, she wasn’t particularly talented. At least not as talented as Cat. But she was thinner. And taller. And younger.
Ay
.

A noisy group approached them from down the hall. A familiar-looking silver-haired man passed through with suitcases, followed by a woman who left both Cat’s and Lisa’s jaws wide open. It was the most famous reality-show mom ever. Amy had a haircut with its own following and a farm’s worth of children due to fertility treatments. She had been on the cover of every tabloid for at least six months and had the highest ratings at her network.
Holy shit,
Cat thought.

“Oh my gawd.
She’s
here?” Lisa was on the same wavelength.

“This is crazy.” The producers had given Cat’s agent the impression that it would be her and maybe four other women trying out today, but surely this meant that they’d brought out the big guns. Ms. Reality Show was just the tip of the iceberg.

“Lisa, come with me.” The intern was calling Lisa to the set.

Cat was confused. How was this working? How many women were here? Her stomach roiled. This was completely unknown territory for her—a quasi-celebrity talk show with a bunch of tabloid folks. Had she ever felt so unsteady? She had to find out more.

Risking the intern missing her call—if they needed her, they’d find her—Cat made her way down the hallway. Through one open door she saw another woman, Sandy Fox, a comedian who had been a tabloid fixture in the ’80s and early ’90s. Cat was impressed and hoped she would be teamed up with her.

“Hi,” Cat said politely. Sandy said hello, smiling in return, and Cat was sincerely tempted to stop and chat, but she reminded herself she was on an intel mission so she had to move on. Next door to Sandy was the wife of the best-known black director in Hollywood.
Dios,
she was beautiful. And tall! Cat gave another friendly “Hi.” She got a wave.

Another intern stopped her tour of the hallway.

“Oh, Cat.” She looked at her clipboard. “We’ll need you for the next round. So if you could follow me, we’ll get you a touch-up.”

“Sure.” Cat passed more potential hosts along the way—many of them familiar, but none as big as Reality Amy.

Her thoughts raced:
How do I act? If Amy is here, they can’t be expecting me to act smart. But Matt told me to be myself. Well, “myself” is smart. The executive producer told him she loved how smart I am—that I reminded her of Charlie Rose, who she worked with years ago. And Sandy’s a smart comedian. Lisa’s very pretty, I get that. I’m the Latin flava’ with a few extra pounds. But I’m just not sure who to be here to get me the gig. You do you. Me do me
.

All the prep talk was now out the window. The confidence Cat had felt before she walked into the building was gone. As a makeup brush fluttered across her lids and her hair was run through a curling iron in an extra tight, makeshift makeup room, Cat was experiencing a feeling she hadn’t encountered in a while. She was feeling small, very small. She made superficial gab with the hair and makeup crew, as she always did. But inwardly, she was babbling above a pool of self-doubt.
Oh shit, what am I doing here? What am I going to do?

“Cat?”

A producer with a headset, battery packs hanging off her thick leather belt, had popped her head into the room.
She looks like someone reporting from a war zone.

“That’s me.” One more look in the mirror. It was Cat, but it wasn’t Cat. Professional hands made a big difference in the business. But for Cat it wasn’t just makeup versus no makeup. As a preteen, she had thick glasses, braces, and unruly mounds of “Indio” hair that required cans of spray and a crusted-over curling iron to tame. She knew there had to be some beauty trapped inside, though, as her mother was gifted with a screen Siren face. So once the braces were off, the contact lenses were in, and hair products caught up with her needs, Cat turned into the swan her imagination had wished and foretold. Now, years later, she was back to seeing mostly that nerdy, chubby twelve-year-old when she looked in the mirror—especially at times like these. Did she really want to be on a talk show with people she held in absolutely no esteem? Tabloid divas? And if not, why didn’t she just walk out?

Because you never say no in television.

Cat and the producer walked rapidly through halls strewn with wires. When they finally reached the set, it was bright and elaborate, as if the show was going into production that day.

The executive producer who had compared Cat to Charlie Rose sat in the audience seats, in the near-dark, along with several other producers in a row.
If this were a soliloquy, I’d nail it,
Cat thought. It was the last shot of confidence she would allow herself.

“Hi, Cat! Great to see you,” she heard from the seats. Cat smiled and waved, managing not to teeter too much in her faux-alligator, lilac platform heels. An inner rock ’n’ roll gal, Cat allowed herself the small rebellion of funky shoes in the cookie-cutter world of television news, where Crayola colors were preferred and sheath dresses that showcased your boobs and ass were on high rotation.

“Cat, you’re over here, to her left.” The stage manager pointed to her to sit down.

“Great. Hi. I’m Cat.” She shook hands as she passed the two other women who were on her panel. Reality-show mom was nowhere in sight.
Should I feel relieved?
Cat wondered. She was looking for comfort where she could find it.

A blond comedian sat to Cat’s far left—no one huge, but recognizable. Cat gave her an internal “Feh.” There was a former college-kid reality-show brunette who’d aged out into broadcasting. So perky and cute. And thin.
She’ll get this,
Cat thought. And to Cat’s right, an armchair psychologist, middle-aged but also fairly perky. Again, not a huge name.

When mics were under bra straps and behind behinds, one of the producers in the darkness spoke up.

“Cat, why don’t you start on the topic of men and women and their arguments about who does more at home when both work.”

The moment she opened her mouth, Cat knew she was going to fuck it up. She did. Afterward all she could remember was babbling on about clinical studies and gender roles and even Neanderthals—pronouncing the “th” with a hard “t.” They had told her to be herself, that it was who these folks wanted to see, right? Her smart self? But the presence of these new people, so different from the original crew her agent heard about, meant the show’s focus had changed in the past twenty-four hours. It had gone from smart women kvetching to an on-air version of
In Touch
magazine. Cat was fucked. Or so she thought.

“Okay,” one of the voices from the dark said to everyone eventually. “Thanks.”

The stage manager stepped forward.

“You and you, come with me.” The blond comedian and the psychologist were pulled off stage. They hadn’t done much better in response to Cat’s initial topic intro. But neither had Cat nor her perky panel-mate, who remained in their seats. Cat was surprised but tried to play it cool, clamping her jaw shut to keep it from opening up in surprise.

Wow,
she thought.
I’m still here. One more chance. Okay, woman. Rally!

Awkward silence followed as Cat’s two co-panelists were led away. It felt like Ultimate Fighting—yet the bruising was on egos only. Cat tried to regroup, her eyes darting to each movement on the set for clues as to how she’d done and who was coming to join her next.

Dun-dun-dunnn
. . . Cat heard in her head.
It’s her.

Reality-show-mom Amy had entered stage left. She refused to make eye contact or greet anyone except the producers sitting in the dark, and she was scowling.
Shit,
Cat thought.
She’s not going to be fun at all.

As if this weren’t enough, just behind Amy lumbered another middle-American celeb of sorts. Round, silver-haired Gloria Keene was a celebrity chef from the Deep South. Known for her love of butter, she was big beyond her waist size.

“Ooo-eeeee! Look at those shoes!” Gloria sounded so close to an actual pig farmer that Cat’s ears couldn’t stand it. Fuck all these surprises. It was too much. Freakin’ chaos up in here. How the grand-fuck-oh-la had she ended up on this stage with these people?

“Cat always rocks some major shoes,” remarked a producer in the audience.

“And they’re actually comfortable,” Cat said in an effort to stand her ground and just be, well, nice. But shit if she didn’t sound like a whisper. Like Alice after saying okay to “Eat me,” Cat felt herself shrinking. No longer did she feel five foot four (five eight in her heels), the glamorous TV personality with a serious bio and men leering at her online. The American Dream personified. She wasn’t even the coke-bottle-glasses-wearing, big-haired, metal-mouth girl she’d once been. Cat felt invisible.

Her black friends spoke of often experiencing the same dynamic. How some people make you feel invisible. That they own the space they take up in this world with entitlement and privilege, and they’re happy to remind you how much space
you
should be taking up. Less. Much, much less. Let me remind you, Cat. Let me remind you of your place, now, ya hear?

“Are you serious? Y’all can’t be serious, those heels!” Gloria—puffy face, poufy shirt, cotton candy hair, and blue eyeshadow— stood above her, pointing at Cat’s shoes. Meanwhile, she hadn’t greeted Cat yet, didn’t even say hello, and hadn’t even looked her in the eye. It’s as if Cat didn’t even exist.