As Seen on TV

by Sarah Mlynowski

  Dirk follows Michelle out of the bedroom. She’s also wearing an aerobic friendly outfit—jeans, sneakers and a zip-up sweater. “Hello, girls.” She heads to the Pullman kitchen behind the counter. “Who wants a shot of tequila?” She opens the fridge and takes out some shot glasses, limes and a salt-shaker. “For old times’ sake.”

  Is she crazy? I’m not shooting tequila before a potential marathon. And the shot glasses are supersized, at least three inches long.

  I shake my head. “I can’t do shots now. We’ll be plastered by the end of the night. Last week I thought I was going to puke after all that twirling.”

  Brittany looks deflated. “I’m not going to drink if you guys aren’t drinking.”

  Michelle catches my eye from across the room. “Trust me, Sunny. It’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me.”

  Something in her voice makes me hesitate and say, “Okay.”

  She fuddles around with the shot glasses and then carries the tray to the coffee table and places two glasses in front of me, two in front of Brittany.

  I pick up the shot and smell it. Smells fruity. Is it apple juice?

  We dab the salt, lick it and then down the first shot.

  Apple juice.

  Brittany purses her mouth and for a moment I’m sure I see her eyes roll back in her head.

  Michelle sucks on her lime. “Strong, huh?” She catches my eye and smiles. She must be thinking: If I don’t win, I hope you do. Let’s get Brittany kicked off tonight so that it’s one of us who wins next week.

  It makes sense. If I don’t win, I’d want Miche to. It would be too embarrassing to lose to a moron like “This is the opportunity of a lifetime” Brittany. And besides, I bet Miche doesn’t even want to move to L.A. She’d probably let me go.

  This is so wrong. But necessary.

  I smile back. “Ready for number two?”

  After the drinks, we all pile into the elevator.

  “Damn,” I say, pressing the doors open button. “I forgot my bathing suit inside.”

  “You guys go ahead and we’ll meet you downstairs,” Miche says, and I follow her back to her apartment.

  Once inside Miche heads to the bathroom. “I’ll be one sec,” she says.

  I pick up my sack where I left it beside Miche’s bed. Right next to it is a small black bag that Howard walked in with. He forgot his stuff, too?

  I pull on the zipper a bit. A little bit more. What does he have in here? A toothbrush. A clean pair of skivvies. Jeans and a sweater. A box of condoms?

  Why did he bring an overnight bag? Why did he forget his overnight bag at Miche’s?

  Oh.

  I can’t see a damn thing. They’ve put a blindfold over my eyes and I can’t even peek through the sides. There must be a lot of people here. I hear cheering. And jeering.

  This is completely humiliating. We have no idea where we are. They blindfolded us when we got in the car.

  I think I have a wedgie.

  Miche squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry.”

  Of course she’s not worrying. She knows where we are. Howard probably whispered it in her ear while they were having illicit sex.

  When she came out of the bathroom, I decided not to comment on my findings. If she wanted to tell me, she’d tell me, right? I can’t believe I confided to her about Steve and she lied to me. I feel totally deceived.

  “I’m worried,” I say now. Are we on a pirate ship? A dance boat? We’re going to have to walk the plank?

  “I wonder why they’re all laughing,” Brittany says, sounding anxious.

  Howard’s voice booms across the bar. “Welcome, everyone!” he says. “Can our helpers please remove the blindfolds?”

  The crowd screams, “TAKE IT OFF!”

  A man’s rough fingers are at the back of my head and my blindfold loosens.

  Blink, blink.

  The room looks like a sardine can of twenty-somethings. Where am I? A bar? It looks more like a warehouse.

  Across the thirty-foot ceiling a strobe light flashes, Roller Dee’s.

  Roller Dee’s? Why does that sound familiar?

  I’ve heard of this place…isn’t this the activity center Steve wanted to drag me to? The one with the miniature golf course? The one that’s famous for holding children’s birthday parties?

  What is it with Steve and kids anyway?

  In front of us is a huge rectangular table covered in shot glasses.

  Humph. They can’t be more creative than who can drink the most without puking?

  Howard is standing behind the table of drinks, caressing his microphone and leering into Dirk’s camera. “Tonight, we will eliminate the next contestant in the search for New York’s Ultimate Party Girl!”

  The crowd goes wild. Who are these people? Why are they such babies?

  And why is Steve so obsessed with wanting to have babies all of a sudden?

  “There will be three competitions,” Howard continues. “Each will have a first-place winner, a second-place winner and a third-place loser. First place scores two points, second place one point, and last place—nothing! At the end of the night, the individual with the least amount of points will be eliminated.”

  “YEAH! ELIMINATED! YEAH!”

  I think Steve wants me to get eliminated. So I don’t have the option of going to L.A. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking about babies. He’s wishing I was pregnant and therefore chained to him.

  I hear Howard’s voice again, and try to focus. “The first activity is tequila shots,” he says. “The Party Girl who drinks the most, wins.”

  I suppose I can handle three, maybe four shots, but how can I beat Brittany? That woman is like a sponge.

  What are the chances that these are filled with apple juice?

  “In the tradition of shooting tequila, each shot includes a special surprise for our adventurous Party Girls,” Howard says in a solemn voice.

  Special surprise? I hate special surprises.

  “A live mealworm!”

  Did he just use a prefix that ended in worm?

  The crowd screams, “WORM! WORM! WORM!”

  I look at Miche, assuming she’ll be just as disgusted as I am.

  She’s smiling. What, she likes eating worms? What does she know that I don’t know?

  “A what?” Brittany asks.

  Please don’t make me be first. Please don’t make me be first. Please don’t make me be first. Please don’t make—

  “And the first up is…” A drumroll echoes through the room. “…Sunny!”

  I knew it. Bastards.

  I tread carefully toward the table.

  “SUNNY! SUNNY!”

  I’m going to be sick.

  Howard steps around the table to stand beside me. When did I get a role on The Howard Brown Show, exactly?

  “Let’s see what you can do, Sunny.”

  Okay, don’t panic. I read up on this on the Net. Bug-eating. Entomophagy. I’ve been expecting this, right? It was on my list, right? Lots of people eat bugs voluntarily, even in the western world, right? There’s no need for me to be squeamish, right?

  Wrong.

  No, got to think positive! I can do this! Cultures have been doing this for centuries. And as a plus they’re low in fat and full of protein. An excellent addition to my diet.

  I gingerly select and lift one of the hundreds of shot glasses.

  Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

  I look.

  I see a tiny, half-inch, pale orange worm, flapping around in the liquid at the bottom of the glass.

  Instant nausea. Mustn’t look. I have to do this. Do I shoot it? Will it die in my stomach? What if it reproduces? I have to kill it first.

  The shot glass is getting closer to my lips.

  “SUNNY! SUNNY! SUNNY!”

  On the count of three. One…two…three.

  This time really on the count of three. Maybe I should count backward?

  Three…two
…one.

  I dump the shot in my mouth.

  “GO, SUNNY, GO!”

  Obviously, I should have figured out the logistics of my actions before going full force. How do I swallow the liquid while not swallowing the creature?

  I hold the liquor in my mouth and swish it around a bit. I think the worm just bit me.

  Crunch.

  “SUNNY! SUNNY! SUNNY!”

  Kind of nutty-tasting. A bit oily.

  Crunch, crunch.

  The burning tequila swarms my mouth.

  It’s time.

  Gulp.

  Fire! Fire! My throat is being consumed by an inferno!

  “Need water!” I croak.

  Howard passes me a glass of water and I swallow half of it. “How was it?” he asks.

  Must say something clever so audience likes me. “Tastes like…chicken?”

  “HA-HA!”

  Four shots later, when I can feel the tequila and the worm colony planning an insurrection, I call it quits.

  “KEEP GOING, SUNNY!”

  You try it, assholes. I shake my head no, while smiling at my people. If I’m drunk, I won’t be able to do the next stunt, now will I?

  It’s a good thing I’m not pregnant. You can’t drink when you’re pregnant. What has Steve done? Now I’m obsessing about being pregnant.

  I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill.

  But what if I was pregnant?

  “Next up is Brittany,” Howard announces.

  “BRITTANY! BRITTANY!”

  Brittany lifts her first shot toward the ceiling. And into her mouth. She swallows it whole.

  “She didn’t even chew,” I whisper to Miche.

  The worms couldn’t be good for the baby either.

  Jesus, what baby?

  Brittany does a second. And a third. Fourth. Fifth.

  Damn. She just booted me out of first place.

  Sixth. Seventh. Eighth.

  If she took one look at the revulsion on Miche’s face, she would have realized that she could have stopped after five.

  Moron.

  Ninth. Tenth.

  Show-off.

  Brittany burps. “All done.” Eyes glazed, she teeters backward, then stumbles back to where I’m standing.

  Miche steps up to the table.

  “MICHELLE! MICHELLE!”

  She breathes deeply and raises the shot glass to her lips. She drinks…

  …and then spits the liquid and the worm onto the floor.

  “Can’t do it,” she says, shrugging.

  Hmm. Did Howard let her go last on purpose? So she could see if I did it before taking her turn? And now she’s decided that since she can’t win this match she should keep her sober advantage?

  I notice Howard is smiling.

  “BOO! BOO!”

  The worm does a belly dance along the dance floor.

  After we’ve cleansed our mouths with water, Howard instructs us to change into our bathing suits.

  I cannot believe I have to wear a bathing suit on national television. What is this, reality Baywatch?

  As far as I can tell, there aren’t any cameras in the changing room, but I’m not about to take any chances. I pull my shirt as low as it goes and pull off my pants, then wiggle into my Calvin Klein suit before discarding my top.

  Miche and Brittany change into string bikinis. I knew I shouldn’t have let Steve talk me into something so nunnish. If I lose the male vote because of him next week, I’m going to be really pissed.

  If Brittany’s breasts had no support last week, in this green stringy thing, she should be flopping all over the place.

  Very smart choice, Brittany.

  The three of us march into a second room, all in a row, all sucking in our stomachs and pushing out our breasts.

  And that’s when I see it.

  They’ve got to be kidding. In front of me is a large rink. Like a wrestling rink.

  Wrestling wasn’t on my list. Why wasn’t wrestling on my list?

  Why is the rink red?

  Jell-O.

  The rink is filled with Jell-O.

  The crowd fills up the room. Howard prances around the outside of the rink, his arms flailing. “Welcome to the second challenge—the Jell-O wrestling event!”

  “JELL-O! JELL-O!”

  Brittany is giggling uncontrollably. “Jell-O? We’re getting dessert?”

  “We will have three matches,” Howard continues. “Each girl will get to fight each girl. One point will be awarded for every match won. To win, the contestant must hold down the other girl for ten seconds. First up are Brittany and Michelle.”

  “OH, YEAH!”

  Miche and a wobbling Brittany enter the rink, both giggling. Brittany waves to the crowd, then slips on the Jell-O and lands on her butt. She grabs the roped wall and tries to pick herself up again.

  Miche holds onto the rope for dear life.

  One of the male models jumps in to help Brittany get up. Brittany puts her arms around his neck and kisses him on the lips.

  She’s plastered.

  Howard screams, “On your mark, get set, go!”

  “OH, YEAH!”

  Miche timidly finds her footing in the Jell-O. Laughing, Brittany lunges at her, and they both tumble to the ground.

  Miche screams, “Watch it, moron!”

  “CATFIGHT CATFIGHT!”

  Miche is on top. Now Brittany’s on top. It’s a swirl of red (the Jell-O) and green (Brittany’s bikini). It looks like a melting candy cane.

  Maybe they’ll knock each other unconscious and I’ll win by default?

  Miche’s on top, straddling Brittany.

  “…FOUR…FIVE…SIX…SEVEN…EIGHT…NINE…TEN!”

  Howard rings a bell. “Michelle wins Round One!”

  Miche exits the rink but Brittany remains on her back.

  “Is she okay?” I wonder aloud.

  Miche winks. “She’s plastered. She’s moving in slow motion. You’ll kick her ass, don’t worry.”

  Brittany slowly sits up and slithers to the side of the rink.

  “Next up…Sunny and Brittany.”

  I climb barefoot over the rope. The smell of strawberry is overwhelming. The Jell-O squishes between my toes, like mud.

  Brittany is standing by the rope, her head reminding me of a bauble doll.

  “On your mark, get set, go!”

  Must let go of the rope.

  Don’t want to let go of the rope.

  I let go of the rope.

  Yikes. It’s slippery. I try to use my arms to establish balance. Why does that work, anyway?

  Time to get serious. I have to bring her down. She lunges toward me, sliding across the rink, looking like a cross-country skier on a psychedelic drug.

  Suddenly her arms are clutching my waist. I fall flat on my face and swallow a mouthful of Jell-O.

  Brittany is on my back, piggyback style, her breasts like lead weights pinning me to the ground. I’m breathing strawberry. I’m suffocating. I’m going to drown in a pool of Jell-O.

  “ONE…TWO…THREE…”

  No way am I letting her win, no way.

  In a brilliant judolike move, I use both my arms and knees to flip her off me and onto her back. Jell-O squirts on both sides of her like the splitting of the Red Sea.

  That was fantastic. Where did that come from? Has anyone ever done that before? They’re going to name that move The Sunny.

  Brittany’s face matches the color of her bikini. Lime green. “I don’t feel so good.”

  I jump on her stomach and pin her palms to the slimy ground.

  “KISS HER! KISS HER!”

  Why are men such pervs? Can’t they see I’m working here? “…FOUR…FIVE…SIX…SEVEN…EIGHT…NINE…TEN!”

  “A point for Sunny!” Howard shouts. “Final match, Sunny versus Michelle.”

  Oh, yeah! I rock! I stand up and punch my arm in the air.

  Brittany holds her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

&nbs
p; She’d better not throw up in the rink. I don’t want to wrestle in puke.

  The model returns to remove Brittany.

  I’m pumped. Bring on the competition! Maybe I can get a role in the next Karate Kid. What is it now? Karate Kid Part Forty?

  Miche climbs over the rope and into the rink. Her once beige suit is now smeared with red. She looks like she got body painted. That, or hit with a chain saw.

  “On your mark, get set, go!”

  We stroll to the center of the rink, laughing. Suddenly, an intense look clouds Miche’s face and she lunges at me, pinning me on my back.

  Where did that come from?

  I use my new judo move, The Sunny, and flip her so that she’s lying facedown. I pin her arms behind her back.

  “ONE…TWO…”

  She squirms away and then, oh my, she uses The Sunny against me!

  She’s sitting on my back, her knee jutting into my womb.

  “ONE…TWO…”

  Ow. When did she get so strong? If I was pregnant, she would have completely deformed my fetus. How does she know such a good hold? Why was I wasting my week on the Stairmaster when I obviously should have taken up wrestling? Or at least tried kickboxing more than once?

  “…FIVE…SIX…”

  I can’t get up. Why can’t I get up?

  I hate Jell-O. I am never having the stupid dessert again.

  “…NINE…TEN!”

  “Michelle wins!” Howard hollers, then winks at her. “First place Michelle, second place Sunny, third place Brittany. At this point all three girls are tied with two points each. Therefore the loser of the next event will be kicked off the show. And now it’s time for…The Big Ride.”

  What big ride?

  “BIG RIDE! BIG RIDE!”

  “Are you ready for the ride of your life?” Howard shrieks.

  We follow him into another room, where a crowd is already waiting, standing around a pool.

  We get to swim? I’m going to kick ass if we get to swim. Being a lifeguard is finally going to pay off.

  Suspended above the center of the Olympic-size pool are three plastic life-size bulls, like the kind I was too afraid, as a kid, to ride at the amusement park. And these are perched over water.

  As we enter, the mechanical bulls electronically move away from the center of the pool, off to the side. Why do I get the feeling we won’t be swimming laps?

  “Girls, for tonight’s final competition, please climb aboard the bulls. Your animals will begin thrashing. Every thirty seconds their speed will increase. Last one standing wins!”