Slipping down the hallways of our office, an entire floor about midway up in a famous skyscraper in Manhattan, I carried my notebook against my chest and eagerly made my way toward Corinne’s dressing room. I felt like a naive fan rushing off to try to get an autograph.
“Tabitha,” I heard from off to the side, stopping me in my tracks. I looked over and saw George Madison, the show’s creator and producer. He was an older man, even in demeanor, grey hair slicked back, kind of a slimy exterior and often overly serious and stoic, but definitely a man with a vision. I liked him. He was responsible for my success.
“George,” I said, stopping and turning toward him. “I was just about to go see Corinne and get her up to speed on things.”
“Terrific,” he said without cracking a smile. “I’m a little concerned with some of the sketches this week. I don’t see any home runs. You know that I prefer home runs.”
“Lotta bunts, huh?”
“Lotta bunts,” he said.
“Yeah, but see George,” I began, trying to convince him. “Often a bunt will get you on base, you know, if we want to continue this baseball metaphor.”
“Or the pitcher just might take a ball to the chin,” he said. I couldn’t help myself and thought about the innuendo in that statement. Too much time in the writers’ room.
“Okay,” I said, searching my brain for the appropriate response. “I promise we’ll get a lasting sketch in. Corinne is a huge star, people will love to see her be funny in something. The wheels are turning, George, the wheels are turning,” I said, twisting my finger around as I pointed at my head.
“I know you can do it,” he said. “Continue on.” George, still without a smile, sauntered off from me with his hands buried into the pockets of his very expensive dress slacks.
I breathed a sigh of review and then continued on toward Corinne’s dressing room.
Standing outside of the closed door, I put my ear up against it for a moment to listen in to see if Corinne was talking with anyone. Hearing nothing, I composed myself and gave three soft knocks. The tension was running through me. I was actually a bit mad at myself for feeling so nervous about talking to her. We had the President on the show one time and I wasn’t even near as nervous meeting him as I was being faced with Corinne Holmstrom. My teachers always told me my priorities were in the wrong place.
I heard the door unlock, the handle creak, and then it slowly opened up. Behind the door I saw her innocent smile first, face aglow with possibility and hope and just a hint of playfulness. Once she saw me, Corinne recognized me, even though we’d never seen each other before, and she grinned. She pulled the door open wider.
“Tabitha?” she said. Her blue eyes glimmered. Her beautiful blonde hair was pulled up in a bun and she was dressed down, more than I’d ever seen, wearing jeans and a hoodie.
“That’s me,” I said sheepishly. “And you’re most definitely Corinne Holmstrom.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” said Corinne. “Come on in.”
I entered the dressing room, a room I’d been in hundreds of times as I always met with our guest stars, and shut the door behind me. Corinne maneuvered away from me and toward the couch. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her butt, which looked nice and firm underneath the thin denim of her pants. I wanted to smack myself in the face to try to get a grip, but I knew that would probably look quite weird to her.
“All good I hope,” I said after much too long of a beat.
“What?” said Corinne, sitting, turning toward me. I took a seat in the chair across from the couch, a coffee table between us, my notebook in my lap.
“What you heard about me,” I said, attempting to clarify. “I waited too long to say that.” Corinne laughed softly. She was stunning, even when dressed down. Her complexion looked so pure. I mean, she just oozed celebrity.
“Well, they all talk you up around here,” she said. “They say you’re the funny one.”
“Aw shucks,” I said with a mock shyness. “I’m just a girl from the farm.”
“Well, it’s really nice to meet you, Tabitha,” said Corinne with an endearing smile.
“Tab,” I said.
“What?”
“Tab,” I repeated. “You can, you know, call me Tab. That’s what everyone calls me. They only call me Tabitha when they’re mad at me. It’s like I’m working with dozens of my mothers.”
“Okay,” said Corinne with a laugh. She pulled one leg up onto the couch and sat on it. “Well, Tab, I am so excited about doing This Saturday. It’s been a dream of mine since I was a little girl.”
“Did you get the sketches?” I asked. “They’re just drafts, we’re working them out and have a meeting later to tighten things up.”
“I did,” said Corinne. “Funny. I can already feel my heart racing. Live TV. Wow!”
“We’re still working on that cornerstone sketch, you know?” I said. “The one that people are going to talk about, millions of views on the internet. Do you have any ideas?”
“Me?” asked Corinne with genuine surprise. “You want me to pitch an idea?”
“Sure,” I said. “We always ask the guest if they want to do anything. You’re the star, after all. If there’s a recurring sketch you want to be a part of, we can make that happen. If you have a funny idea you’ve been holding on to, we can try to work with it. Hit me with it, C,” I said, trying to imitate a hip hop intonation. “Gimme the cheddar, Holmie.”
“Holmie?” repeated Corinne, her blue eyes wide, her smile growing. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You get it?” I said. “Your last name…”
“I get it,” she said, nodding with an irrepressible smile. “You’re hilarious, Tab.”
“People say that,” I said. “But I just feel like I’m in a coma or something and this is the imaginary world I’ve built up for myself.”
“Sometimes I feel like that, too,” said Corinne. “You may not know this about me, but I was always kind of a geek growing up. I was a theater geek in high school but as soon as I sprouted these tits,” she said, her eyes getting big, her hands spreading out in front of her breasts. “Well, it all sort of became easier.”
“That would have been nice,” I said. “I grew a hunchback and got half-chewed caramels lobbed in my hair. Funny how things work out.”
“Stop,” said Corinne, laughing louder.
“Okay,” I said, feeling like a deer in headlights. But I couldn’t stop. As I inspired laughter from Corinne, taking in her winning smile, her lucid eyes, her fair face, I couldn’t help but yearn for more of the positive reaction.
“So I do have an idea,” admitted Corinne, looking down with slight embarrassment. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course,” I said. “By all means. We could use the help.”
“All right,” said Corinne, smiling to herself and looking off as she considered her idea. “And look, if it’s not funny or you don’t want to do it, just tell me,” she said. “It won’t hurt my feelings.”
“You got it,” I said.
“So I’ve always wanted to sing on This Saturday,” she said. “Like, break into a funny song in a sketch.”
“You sing?” I said in surprise.
“Yeah,” said Corinne, her face growing in excitement. “I love to sing. So my idea is that I’m a waitress at a diner. You know how sometimes at diners they have weird names for specific foods?”
“Burn one with wax and flop two!” I called out, making a dumb face. Corinne giggled back into the couch and clapped.
“Exactly!” she said. “That’s totally it!”
“So you want to sing that?” I asked.
“Well, okay,” she continued. “So when I give the orders to the cook, I break into song with a couple of other waitresses,” said Corinne, going over the sketch in her head like she’d been thinking of it for a while. “But everybody else thinks it’s super crazy. The diners are freaked out by it. The cook, the manager. People think I’m nuts!”
“Yeah,” I said, getting excited, seeing her vision. “I could get on board with this.”
“Really?” she said. Corinne was full of wonder, brilliance emanating from her eyes.
“Yeah,” I repeated. “We could start out with legitimate diner speak, but it would just devolve into insanity. Poke two in the boob, yank on a bumpkin, and slobber a Satanist!” This really set Corinne off. She was cracking up and it made me furiously happy.
“Right!” she cried. “Oh God, that sounds like so much fun.”
“We’ll do it,” I affirmed. “Well, we’ll write it and rehearse it. George has the final say. Stuff gets cut on Saturday all the time. I’ll let him know it’s your sketch, though.”
“Wow,” said Corinne. I could tell that she was pleased. “I mean, that would just be so awesome.”
“The singing adds another level of complexity to it,” I said. “But yeah, totally doable. Funny idea and it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thanks Tab,” Corinne said in earnest. Our eyes caught on one another for a moment, gazing in silence, both of us with silly grins on our faces. The moment began to feel awkward to me, like it was a little too exciting, like there was something strange and alluring in the air. I broke from our shared stare and shook my head once.
“Um,” I murmured, knowing I had to say something to move the conversation along but unsure what exactly that should be after our charged little moment. “Are you, um, single?” I asked, suddenly regretting it. Why would I ask something like that? I mean, I know why I’d ask something like that and you know why I’d ask something like that, but it really didn’t make sense in regards to our conversation about the show. “The reason I ask—“
“I am,” said Corinne matter-of-factly with a reassuring smile.
“I mean, I ask because we’re working on the opening monologue for you,” I went on, trying to justify myself with a lie. I had to think fast. “It’ll be, like, the guys in the cast heard you were single and all come up to you with bouquets of flowers to try to win your affection but you turn them all down.” That wasn’t what we had planned for the monologue but it was actually a really good idea. It’s amazing when creativity just comes to you spur of the moment.
“I like it,” said Corinne.
“So you’re single?” I asked again, even though she’d already answered. Just to be sure, you know. “I don’t really keep up on the tabloids.”
“Yes,” she said. “And I try to stay out of the tabloids.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I can just see them now… ‘Holmstrom Goes Home With This Saturday Cast Member!’” I motioned in the air with my hand like I was calling out a headline.
“Right,” said Corinne through a laugh. “Couldn’t have that.”
“You wouldn’t like the guys around here anyway,” I said, waving nonchalantly. “They’re all damaged comedians with mommy issues.”
“Is that so?” she giggled. “What about you?”
“Me?” I was surprised that she had turned it on me.
“Yeah, you,” said Corinne. “Are you a damaged comedian with… daddy issues?”
“No,” I said. “I probably also have mommy issues like the rest.”
“You’re cute, Tab,” said Corinne. There was an odd fire burning in her eyes as we looked at each other. I’d seen that kind of fire before. It was desire. I wanted to test my pulse but I was sure that would look undeniably weird. I had promised myself for every New Year’s Resolution over the past who knows how many years that I would make an effort to be less weird.
“I—“ I said, stammering. “I mean, me? No, I mean… thanks?”
“I just like… funny women,” admitted Corinne with a sheepish smile. “It’s my weakness.”
“I, um… if I heard you correctly—“
“You did,” said Corinne curtly.
“Okay,” I said, feeling quite nervous now. I took my notebook from my lap, rolling it up, and half waved it across the coffee table at Corinne. “Good. Productive. I think we’re going to have a great show.”
“I think so, too,” purred Corinne. She was beginning to drip with flirtation. I think that she was so used to getting what she wanted that being assertive had become second nature to her.
“Nice,” I said, standing up now. Corinne watched me with a smile permanently etched on her face. “I’ll let you know about the sketch. And I’ll let production know you’re ready for a walk through. Cool?”
“Cool, Tab,” she said.
“Thanks Corinne,” I said, feeling in a hurry to get out of there. I don’t know why. Just excitement. Nerves. “Gotta get moving!”
“Goodbye,” I heard Corinne say as I anxiously rushed toward the door and let myself out.
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AN EXCERPT FROM: DORMITORY DEAREST
*
I NEVER THOUGHT college would be this weird. I mean, I was really excited about it leading up to the big move but I didn’t really know what to expect apart from what you see in movies. None of my close friends, of which I had few, went to the same college as me so it was like I was going off on this new adventure all by myself. Nobody knew me, I could reinvent myself if I wanted, I could be a totally new person and carve out a completely different path if I so chose. But once I got to school, I found that I simply couldn’t help but be me. Geeky, introverted, freaky me.
Nerdy Natasha. Lucky I ended up in the same small arts dorm with all the other nerdy outcasts and not in one of the huge student ghettos filled with roving bands of bleached bimbos looking for an easy target like me to sink their teeth into. No, as an English major I had been asked by some benevolent cosmic force if I would like to enroll in the residential college for Arts & Letters students and without even knowing much about the program I dutifully accepted. The program was called ALOHA, which stood for Arts & Letters Organized Housing Association, and it was a total lifesaver for a girl like me.
My dorm was quite small, being one of the oldest dorm buildings on campus, and was only three floors high as opposed to some of those much larger skyscraper dorms that peppered the huge campus of my midwestern farm school. It was like we had our own little sanctuary where we could just be us. All kinds were welcome but it was an overwhelmingly geeky atmosphere. I liked that. But, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t prepared for the level of geekiness. Much different than high school. These students had much more passion. More spunk.
The beauty about my dorm, Leopold Hall, was that the entire student population within its walls were ALOHA students. It really was like we were on some island. Some island for weirdos. Totally awesome.
So when I say that I never thought college would be this weird, I mean weird in a good way. Strangely exciting. Different. Filled with possibility and acceptance and with very limited, if any, judgment from peers. We were all just there doing our own thing. English majors and writers like myself, theater students, visual artists, the outcast art crew. It was a terrific amalgam of my university’s creative contingent and it was nothing like I had anticipated. Utopia, almost.
And the things that happened to me, well, I couldn’t have anticipated them either.
Each floor of Leopold Hall housed a different year of ALOHA students. So the freshmen like me were on the first floor, sophomores on the second, and juniors on the third. The third floor was much smaller than the other two floors and was all single rooms, rather than the doubles that the freshman and sophomores got. And generally that was fine because by the third year many students drifted away from ALOHA. I could see that it was a good program to start out in, to help you get adjusted to college life, but by the time you’re a junior you want to live off campus, spread your wings and all that. The way the years were laid out in the dorm worked out swimmingly. Girls on one side of each floor, boys on the other.
And my roommate, Whitney, was a blast.
“You know what’s awesome?” asked Whitney, sitting on the couch under our lofted beds wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, h
er dirty blonde hair twisted up tightly into a bun. Whitney was an outgoing theater major and I was happy to have been paired with her.
“What’s awesome?” I asked, sitting sideways in my desk chair, avoiding working on a paper for my English class.
“I felt like, in high school, most boys wouldn’t even give me the time of day,” she said, something I found hard to believe considering she was a pretty girl with an affable personality. “But here in ALOHA, all these boys are totally creaming themselves over me.” I couldn’t help but laugh at her.
“You’re a nut,” I said. Watching Whitney fuss with her hair, I couldn’t help but fuss with my own hair in mimic. While I was a natural redhead, freckled and all, I dyed my hair a more vibrant red because it made me feel fun. Following Whitney’s lead, I pushed my own hair up into a bun and tied it in place with a piece of elastic from around my wrist.
“What?” she said innocently, stifling a grin.
“I just don’t believe that you had trouble with boys,” I said. “You’re totally lying to me.”
“Well…” said Whitney, looking off sheepishly. “Maybe it’s just that I’m getting more attention here at college. It’s skewing my memory.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“I think I’m leaning toward Justin,” she mused, almost as though she were talking to herself. “He’s kinda beefy and brooding.”
“Eh,” I said in an unimpressed tone. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” said Whitney. “He’s cute. He’s got that James Dean thing going on. Tight white t-shirts,” she said, almost giggling.
“You’re so damn girly,” I said. Even though I said this is a bit of a derogatory way, I actually loved how girly Whitney was. She kind of balanced me out. And I knew that she knew I didn’t mean anything by it.
“And you could take some lessons!” retorted Whitney with a snort, crossing her arms. “If you don’t think Justin’s cute, who do you like over on the boys’ side?”
“The boys’ side?” I asked, feeling a little put on the spot and cornered. “I mean, I don’t know.”
Last Night at Camp Page 3
