Couple/Uncouple

Couple/Uncouple

By LuAnn Williamson

           “You, Girl,” I heard a sharp voice speaking in my direction. I looked up from the script I was carrying for the director of the latest TV show I was assigned to. I followed the sharp, carefully painted nail that was pointed straight at me. I followed an arm clad in an expensive power suit, in the requisite black. The face was petite with brown hair in a pixie cut. The face, belonging to Ms. Sullivan, Assistant to the Assistant Director of…of something or the other and the face was scowling.

         “What about her,” Ms. Sullivan turned to a woman struggling to keep up with her. I could tell the perky blond woman was unaccustomed to wearing high heels and carrying two trays of coffee drinks at the same time.

         The blond woman, young and probably on her first assignment, eyed me critically. I’d seen her around but did not know her name. The title of Production Assistant consisted of slave work for limited perks but it paid well and allowed me to wear jeans and t-shirts most days.

         “Take off that shirt,” Ms. Sullivan gestured with a wave of her fingers that could not mean anyone else but me.

         “I beg your pardon,” I tried to keep the shock and outrage out of my voice but didn’t entirely succeed.

         “Don’t be difficult,” she scolded. Like becoming semi-naked on the set was a common request. “I just want to get a look at your figure.”

         Because I didn’t suffer body image issues, I still don’t know why I was spared that concern, I pulled off my shirt. Not knowing what to do next, I held it loosely, dangling from my fingertips. I know I have a nice body, toned from years of dance lessons. This job was just a gap year thing, while I waited for placement in the dance classes I’d been planning to take.

         “Pull you hair up, like it’s piled on your head,” Blondie told me. “She’s got a nice neck, classic features.” This she said to Ms. Sullivan who was eyeing me like the last donut on the craft food cart. “Brunette is hot this year, just a touch of oriental features. That plays well to lots of demographics.”

         “What’s going on here?” I asked, “And can I put my shirt back on?”

         “No time to explain,” Ms. Sullivan said. “Walk and talk,” she snapped.

         “What about my script?” I waved the sheets of paper in my hand. “The stage manager wants it right away.”

         Impatiently, she pointed to another Assistant and told her to take it.

         “The couple who was supposed to be in the next episode got into a car wreck on the way into the studio. How cliché.” Ms. Sullivan was striding along towards wardrobe. “By the way, this is Sarah Jones, assistant to the art director.”

         “Happy to meet you,” I said without slowing down. Still walking, I motioned to her that I’d take one of the trays from her.

         “Thanks,” she said breathlessly.

         “Anyway, we can’t reach anyone else on our list to come in on such short notice. We need a couple and you’re it. Well, you’re half. It pays scale wages.

         Union scale, yes I had my Union card, obtained when I was a backup dancer for a new musician. I’m not going to drop any names. That would be a nice bit of extra money. I could sure use it.

         Just then, she spotted an electrician, or judging by his age, an apprentice high on a ladder, adjusting a spotlight.

         “You!” At least she didn’t call him “Boy.” “Come down here, NOW!” Her tone just strident and imperative enough that he scampered down. His Boss started to grumble, looked at her and apparently recognized her.

         “We need half of a couple,” Ms. Sullivan started. The Boss waved at his apprentice to go with us. “You can be the other half.” She waved a carefully manicured hand at me. Way to make a girl feel special. “We pay union scale.”

         “I’m not an actor. I’m a gaffer,” I looked at him while I could. He was cute: brown hair, cut short, curled around his face. I could tell by the way he moved his muscles were from hard work, not the gym. I guessed he had a construction background. He wore the tool belt as if it was part of his life, not part of a costume.

         We stopped at the door to the wardrobe department. Ms. Jones had begun to distribute drinks. She stopped long enough to grab a clip board and old fashioned paper sheets, with a pencil attached by a string. Paper? Really? I bit my tongue before I said anything. She handed us each one. On top was printed Bio Sheet. Below was a list of likes, dislikes, background, and other pertinent information. Great. How was I supposed to be a couple with a man who I didn’t even know his name?

         I tried on the barely-there swim suit for the almost required beach or pool scene. I was fitted with tight jeans that I could barely breathe in and a soft sweater that I knew was going to be ungodly hot under the studio lights. I was squeezed into an evening gown and a pair of high heels that the straps cut grooves into my feet as I walked.

         Someone walked me down to make up and sitting in the chair next to me was the man with whom, we were supposed to be reaching a cross roads of our relationship in the course of the show.

         “Hello New Boyfriend,” I said. “I supposed first things first, what’s your name?”

         “My real name?” he asked shyly.

         “Of course your real name,” I replied. I was having second thoughts about revealing my entire life on TV for the entire world to watch. When I was dancing, I was virtually anonymous, maybe a name printed in a program.

         “Um, Steve. Steven Alton Houston. Yes, I am distantly related to the founders of the city in Texas. But I haven’t been back in years, not since my Great Grandma died.”

         “Teresa, with no H. And I’m not related to much of anyone. My Mom’s hairdresser knew somebody who helped me get this job. Here, let’s exchange bios.  That should get us started.”

         He studied my sheet like he was studying for a test. I read his.

         “You like swimming?” he asked, “but you didn’t list surfing. I though everyone in California surfed.” I noticed his eyes were dark brown.

         “I was on the swim team in High School. I did well enough to make the team but nothing special.”

         “I doubt that,” his eyes twinkled.

         “Doubt what?”

         “That you’re nothing special.” His mouth had a teasing smile. I had an impulse to kiss it. But we weren’t even supposed to be talking as the make-up artists worked their magic.

         “Swimming, not really. Dance was, is, my true love.”

         “What about surfing? Ever been?”

         “A few times, on borrowed boards. All I can say is that I didn’t drown myself.”

         “I could teach you.” He paused. “I mean if you ever want to see me again.”

         I smiled my enigmatic smile. I’d spent hours practicing my smile in a mirror, vain little twerp I had been.

         “We can put that down as to how we met,” I suggested. “We met during a swimming competition.”

         We got into a rather spirited discussion about Star Wars verses Star Trek and who was the best Captain of the Enterprise.

         We decided that the thing that brought us to our crossroads, the reason for our appearing on the show, was that he wanted to keep competing in surfing and I wanted to move away to pursue dancing. Close enough to real life that we might just pull it off.

         My hair was pulled up into a fancy up-do to show off my neck. I wasn’t impressed. I had to keep myself from fidgeting with the long dangly and sparkly earrings all evening. Beautiful but fake, gem stone necklace and bracelets completed the look.

         Finally, the capes came off. I heard a small gasp as he saw me in the gown. That felt good.

         He noticed I was limping a bit. “What’s wrong?”

         “Damned shoes.” I pointed to where they were digging into my feet with every step.

         He sat me down on a wooden crate and unstrapped the offending items. He carried my shoes and I gleefully walked thru the studio bare foot, even if it was a no-no due to the many hazards of loose nails, bits of wire and other construction materials. I wondered where my own shoes were.

         They loaded us into limousines for our grand arrival. I noticed they put us together in the limo instead of loading the girls in one and men in the other. I suppose it was to give us more time to get our stories straight.

         We talked the entire ride there. The exterior shots were in a rented mansion high in the Hollywood Hills. Steve was funny and charming. He told me wonderful stories of growing up in a house with two sisters. Me, I’m an only child. That would make keeping that part of the story straight easier.

         They filmed us several times getting out of the limo. Together, all girls, one at a time, all the men. I got scolded because I didn’t know how to get out of a limo. My skirt rode up too far, I didn’t show enough leg; my head was too low, it wasn’t low enough. This was the first time I’d even ridden in one and the first time I’d ever gotten out, let alone on camera. Finally, the producers were more or less satisfied.

         We went through the introductions with the other contestant/participants. The director keep yelling “cut” then yelling at me with one criticism or another. I was almost ready to cry. The final cut shows me wiping away a tear. It wasn’t from something that the mean girl said. It was from frustration. But that doesn’t make for good TV.

         During a break, Steve got me a glass of wine, despite both of us being under aged. We chatted like we’d been old friends for a long time. I didn’t realize the cameras were still rolling. He was just telling me about a movie he’d seen. But it made for a good close up and it made the screen…for all of eight seconds. During the next break, we snuck away for a few moments. We didn’t know the hall ways had cameras. Our first kiss was televised for the world to watch. 

         By this time, I was tired and frustrated and wanting nothing more than to go home and get a hot bath before heading off to bed. But no, we were behind schedule so we kept working. Steve made jokes and kept me laughing. I kept trying to match him, joke for joke, playing off each other’s jokes.

         Finally, at ten thirty, they announced we were finished for the night. To celebrate, I kicked those stupid shoes off in a high arc that landed in the garden. If you guessed that incident made the screen, you guessed right.

         We were hustled into the limos, all girls in mine. I listened to the other women, trying to remember their names and stories.

         We had to be on set at an unholy hour of seven am. I was painted with water proof cosmetics, which I still managed to smudge. Doing it without thinking to the ire of the artists who had to keep touching me up. It also reinforced my desire to be a dancer, not an actress.

         First, the women were paraded in front of the men who relaxed on lounge chairs, just like an old fashioned beauty pageant. I’m glad I never participated in those things, despite my girlfriend’s urging when she wanted moral support.

         I had to keep both a scowl off my face and not blush at the same time. Thinking about my grocery list as I walked was the only thing that got me through the line.

         We were in the water in the next scene. Steve picked me up and threw me into the water. I knew what he was doing but he must’ve misjudged. I landed awkwardly with a big splat. Of course that made the blooper segment. 

         He gently helped me out of the water and to dry off, messing up my make up in the process. That bit of tenderness did not make it into the finished cut. Not enough drama. Somebody’s temper tantrum made more excitement.

         After shooting the same scene over and over and over again, we were finally released for lunch. Of course, were sent back in separate limos.

         We’d barely gotten out of the limo when Ms. Sullivan met us outside the studio door.

         “The initial screening results are in,” she told us. I didn’t find out till later that the reason she met us outside was there no cameras out there.

         “They love you.” I think that was about as much enthusiasm she could muster. She’d changed into a light blue suit but otherwise looked the same as always. “They, the test audiences, want you to work it out. So, what was your crossroad moment, the reason that you came here?”

         I stared at her for a long moment. She just looked at us expectantly.

         “We didn’t come here,” I finally said. “We were pulled from your staff.”

         “I thought this was a reality show,” Steve began, “Now you’re telling a made-up couple to work it out?”

         She drew her carefully arched eyebrows into a scowl that would drive a future cosmetic surgeon crazy or help to pay for his or her children’s college education...

         “Listen!” Her voice was more of a hiss. “This is Hollywood. Everything is pretend. Except the money that will be put in your bank account. You will work out your problems. You will propose. You will live happily ever after. Got it?” She turned and left. 

We starred at her rapidly retreating back for a few seconds.

We took a few minutes, standing outside the studio building, and worked out the solution that would get our characters, to the desired resolution.

“I just realized that’s what I thought about the situation, we were actors and the resolution to the problem of the characters has no relevance in real life.”

“None?” He took my hand. “I was hoping…once this whole thing is over…we could go out some time”

I squeezed his hand. “I think I’d like that. The real me. The real you. And absolutely no TV cameras.

On the TV show, called Couple/Uncouple, the character Steve proposed to Teresa. The Props Department had supplied a ring. It was a gaudy, flashy thing, so much not to my taste. I was happy to give it back.

That night, Steve, the apprentice electrician went to a movie with Teresa, the Production Assistant.

Will we live happy ever after like our TV alter egos? I don’t know. But he is cute and funny and comes with a heck of a story to tell our hypothetical grandchildren.