Dev’s a little bitter that he wasn’t put on the Mars team when it got started. He’s been one of NASA’s top astrophysicists for close to thirty years, so he should have been a shoo-in for the team. Somehow, a certain congressman’s son-in-law was given the last spot, so Dev wound up here in New York working at the Goddard Institute on a project that will likely not be completed in his lifetime. Or mine, possibly. People think marathons are long, but they’ve got nothing on space exploration.
I wait patiently for my boss to tell me exactly what this huge opportunity is. “You, my young friend, are going to be a guest on Wake Up America! next week.” Raising and lowering his eyebrows like an old-time comedian, he says, “Exciting, right?”
There are a lot of words I’d use to describe what he’s asking me to do — most of them are four letters and not considered polite. Exciting is not one of them. “Why not get Carla to do it?” I suggest.
Dev tilts his head in a you must be kidding sort of way. “We need someone with stage presence. Charisma!”
I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. “Have you ever heard anyone describe me as charismatic?”
“Me. Just now,” Dev says. “Remember the speech you gave at Clarissa Henderson’s retirement party? You had ’em rolling in the aisles.”
“That was because a bee landed on my hand and I screamed like a little girl for ten seconds straight.”
“Hmm … I don’t remember the bee, but I do remember the laughter.”
“So do I. That’s why I’m not going to do the show.” I glance out at the bullpen and say, “Pick someone else. Ewan would be great. He could do his C-3P0 impression. The audience will eat it up.”
Dev turns around and looks at the team. They’re all tapping away on their keyboards, looking totally engrossed in their work. Ewan picks up his nasal spray, parks it halfway up his nose and takes a whiff. Turning back to me, Dev says, “Him?”
“Maybe not, but also … not me.”
Dev makes a little clicking sound with his tongue. “Sorry, my friend. You’re the best-looking one of the bunch, and if there’s anything we know about regular humans, it’s that they’re far more likely to listen to good-looking people.”
Sliding my glasses back on, I contort my features, doing my best to look less attractive. “What about you? You’re good-looking-ish.”
“Tell that to my wife,” he answers with a wry grin. Then, shaking his head, he adds, “Can’t be me. The top brass wants young and hot. I’m over fifty and when I sit, you can see my love handles spilling over my belt. That doesn’t play well on television.”
My palms feel clammy at just the thought of appearing on television.
“If you go on the show, I’ll give you my ticket to Florida for the next launch.”
Oh, that bastard. He’s offering me the one thing he knows I want most in the world: the chance to go to the mothership — the Kennedy Space Center — and be part of the excitement of a launch. Only department heads get invited to those and it’s the most thrilling thing anyone in the astronomy world can do. Not only is there a tour of the facilities and front-row seats at the launch, but there are parties for days afterward. Wild ones — apparently with poker, booze, and hot women. Although that could just be an urban myth like Bigfoot or girls who love geeks.
I’m about to say no, when Dev stands. “Good. Glad that’s settled.”
“Dev, is there anyone else?” I ask, my stomach squeezing at the thought of going on live television.
“Nope. You’re my guy. And don’t worry because you’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll be better than fine. You’re going to be the next Neil Armstrong because you’re about to make one giant leap for nerd-kind.” With that, he walks out, leaving me to stew in my own juices.
They say that which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, but I’m guessing they didn't try to increase their adolescent popularity by running for junior class president. I still have nightmares about standing in front of an auditorium full of pubescent humans who jeered their way through my speech about my bad boy math club antics. Apparently, you can’t win over a crowd of high school kids with stories of that time you pretended you solved all four of Landau’s problems. Weird.
Anyway, as a thirty-one-year-old man, I’ve forgotten most of what I said, but the dawning awareness that I was committing social suicide is something that will always feel fresh.
I suppose the “what doesn’t kill you” people are referring to things like sore muscles from an extremely hard workout or perhaps going through a temporary-but-difficult time, such as your parents’ divorce. (I was seven when that happened —and as much as it sucked, it doesn’t accompany you everywhere you go for the rest of your life like a fear of public speaking does.)
Forget public speaking, I don’t even do small talk with strangers. In fact, I once sat beside a beautiful woman all the way from L.A. to Sydney, Australia, and didn’t say one word to her, even though she smiled at me several times throughout our twenty-two hours and twelve minutes together. Not one. I wasn’t even bothered by the awkward silence because for me, it was far more pleasurable than trying to come up with even one conversation starter.
Being on Wake Up America! is going to be like competing in the Olympics of small talk. And I’m going to come in dead last.
Three
Serafina
Everything I know about modeling I learned from watching America’s Next Top Model. Luckily, that should be enough to get me through hiring models for my upcoming television segment.
Yesterday, right after getting the call from Waltraut, Charley and I spent the day shopping in Herald Square. Turns out department stores practically bend over backwards to loan you whatever you want if you’ll mention their names on national television. I kind of wish I’d known that little tip when I was young and broke, not that anyone would have believed my claim that I’d be promoting them on television…
Since this week has been one of the hottest starts to July on record, we decided to go with twelve summery outfits. They vary wildly in style from each other, but I wanted to make the differences very obvious to viewers.
When we got home, buried under a mountain of bags, I called several local modeling agencies and set up auditions for models. I requested all kinds of women from a size two to a size twenty, all ethnicities, a variety of ages, and I even asked for short women, which in the modeling world means five feet, seven inches. Rude, I know.
Charley is currently sitting at my kitchen counter snacking on mixed nuts — typical Scorpio, craving salty over sweet. I sit down next to her and grab a donut. We Libras are the opposite. Give us a sugary treat any day and we’ll be your best friend.
“The models should start arriving in a few minutes. Are you excited?” I ask my young employee.
“I guess. Although I’m totally annoyed by what the mainstream thinks of as beautiful. The standard seems to be set to make normal women feel bad about themselves.”
After savoring the remnants of Bavarian cream in my mouth, I reply, “Yeah, but I’m the one picking the models. Don’t worry, I’m not going to exclude anyone. In fact, I was thinking I could use a fifteen-year-old goddess for the Scorpio outfit. What do you think, are you game?”