Twisted Sisters (20 page)

I unzip Bernie’s pants and with a very tentative hand, I reach in and
what is this bizarre force field I’m encountering
?

Oh, wait.

Long underwear. Heh. Forgot about the layers. But look at this! The long johns have
a flap, as do the briefs. So convenient! So modest! So much less chance of hypothermia!
It’s as though these bottoms were designed by men for me. I wish men wore bras—perhaps
then they could finally engineer a push-up model that doesn’t make me feel like I’m
wired for explosives.

Now that I’ve opened all the barn doors, shall I grasp or was that guy simply hanging
on because he was drunk? I wonder, do I just put my hands on my hips and freestyle?
I feel like if I don’t keep a modicum of control, this has the potential to go horribly
awry, like a monkey holding a fire hose. As much as I’d like to respect Bernie’s privacy,
I must look in order to aim properly. And I’m just about ready, so here we . . .

Clearly Bernie is not Jewish.

There’s a
child safety cap
on this thing.

How does that . . . do I push down and turn?

Technically I’ve only seen three completely naked men in my life, so I can’t say I’m
an expert on the male member. (Where is Geri when I need her?) But of the three I’ve
seen—Boyd, Sebastian, and the brazen homeless guy on the Red Line right before he
was arrested by the CTA police—none of them were walking around with their collectibles
still in their original wrappers.

This is surreal, kind of like spotting a DeLorean or a Betamax; although there was
certainly nothing wrong with those models, they’re definitely out of vogue now.

But if my education in biology is to be trusted, the customized trim should have no
impact on performance. So I grit my teeth and I assume the position.

Ready, aim, fire!

Or not.

Hmm. I suspect Bernie’s bladder may be agoraphobic, too.

Perhaps I just need some encouragement. I know, I’ll flush the urinal and then I’ll
be motivated by the sound of running water. Yes! Genius!

Okay, one, two, three, pull!

Not pull. Go. Go!

Ahh.

The relief I feel is instant, and I congratulate myself for having had the fore . . .
sight (ha! I am hilarious!) to keep a steady grip. Although why am I surprised that
I have the means and wherewithal to urinate like a proper man? I’m adept at almost
everything I try. Good for me!

My stream turns to a trickle and eventually peters out.

(Seriously? With the uproarious puns? I should do stand-up.)

(Get it? Because I can
stand up
to pee now!)

(I suspect I may be drunk.)

(I don’t hate it, but I am feeling compelled to hug strangers all of a sudden.)

My job is now to, what? Wipe? Blot? Suddenly I’m aggravated with how private Seb kept
his bathroom habits. Help a girl out here; what do I do? Wave it around until it dries?
Or if I do that, will poor Bernie end up on the news?

I surreptitiously glance to my left to see how my neighbor’s managing and I suddenly
realize I recognize those wrists.

I’m not sure if I want to die or stare.

I go with die, with stare coming in a close second.

He says to me, “Hey, Tom Selleck, you know what they say if you shake it more than
twice.”

Die. Definitely die.

I’m about to pray for the earth to open and swallow me whole when I realize I’m not
Reagan gawping at my boss/crush so much as I am a socially awkward systems analyst
named Bernie navigating a first-time experience. I meekly reply, “Go, Bears?”

As he washes his hands (bonus points for using soap) and dries them on a scratchy
paper towel, he assures me, “You’re doin’ great, pal, keep it up!” and it takes me
a second to realize he’s talking about the agoraphobia and not my newfound ability
to use the bathroom while standing up.

Which is probably better.

•   •   •

The Tuesday after the game, my team is gathered around the table in the conference
room, waiting for the stragglers so we can discuss our strategy for the newest guest.

According to the bio Rudy composed, Georgette’s in her midthirties and she’s currently
living at home with her parents. Although her folks are still fairly mobile, her oppressive
siblings are vehement about her not moving out. Georgette feels like she’s putting
her life on hold unnecessarily, but no one else supports the idea of her leaving.
Her married sisters insist because she’s the baby, it’s her duty to look after her
parents, and she feels trapped. She moved home briefly three years ago after living
in Asia, planning on leaving as soon as she found a job and bought a condo. However,
despite her lucrative work as an interpreter and desire to be on her own, she’s essentially
been bullied into staying ever since.

“I can’t imagine anything worse than living with my parents,” I say. Hoo-boy, I’m
extra-excited to swap with Georgette so I can tell off her awful siblings! I’m already
planning my/her parting speech. Believe me when I say I’ve already worked out the
litany of reasons why adult children should never live at home.

Mindy wrinkles her unlined brow. “Why? OMG, I love living at home! All my buds are
still in Winnetka with their fams, too. Plus, my mom does my laundry and lets me drive
her Beemer and my dad’s got major swag! He has a band with his friends and they practice
in the garage on the weekends. And he buys the best weed! The Sonoma Coma from Happy
Lil’ Trees in Vallejo won a bunch of awards. Home is awesome! I’m never leaving!”

As it would be unprofessional to stand up and shout,
What is wrong with you
and
your parents?
instead I reply, “Alrighty, I need a green tea, Mindy. Anyone else? Green tea? Coffee?
Something? My treat!”

Ruby and Faye place their orders, as do Deva and Jimbo, the show’s fitness guru. I’m
confident that not only will Mindy take forty-five minutes to walk to the corner coffee
shop; she’ll screw up all five orders, the hot beverages will be cold upon arrival
(and the cold hot), and she’ll keep my change.

Sonoma Coma? Perhaps.

But it’s a small price to pay to be rid of her incessant yammering for a while.

We’re supposed to be meeting with the entire team working on Georgette’s episode,
but neither Marco the hair guy nor Dora the Explorer/makeup artist is here yet. (Some
of Kassel’s monikers stuck even after he learned everyone’s names.) She texted saying
her train was late. This would be a credible story if her train from Wicker Park weren’t
late five days a week. Sometimes the Blue Line is dicey, but never to this extent.

To me? Punctuality is key and I’d fire her in a heartbeat if it were my decision.
Plus, I’m not sure Dora’s all that skilled. Every single damn guest gets the same
smoky eye and it doesn’t matter if the guest is fifteen or fifty. Frankly, I’m surprised
she didn’t smudge kohl all over Bernie, too.

“Who are we still missing?” Faye asks, not looking up from her knitting. Today she’s
working on a plush fisherman’s sweater, covered in a complicated system of cabling.
I keep letting her hold it up to me for perspective, in hopes that I’ll be the lucky
recipient.

“Has anyone heard from Marco?” I ask.

Everyone shrugs.

Ruby asks, “Hey, is Kassel supposed to sit in with us?” She’s perched forward in her
chair, careful not to press against the back of the seat, having gotten fresh ink
over the weekend to celebrate having bought her first condo. (Me? I bought a ficus
tree when I closed on my place.) Her right shoulder now sports an almost exact replica
of television’s most iconic judge with the caption “Only Judy Can Judge Me.” She said
her regret kicked in the minute the artist applied the final parenthesis and she’s
already shopping for laser removal. Luckily, our DBS ratings-based bonus will cover
the cost. When will everyone learn that skin is not a toy?

“I thought I saw him in the hall,” Jimbo says, “with some hot girl. She looks like
Jessica Rabbit. Rowr!”

Jealousy strikes me like a flash of lightning, even though I have no claims on Kassel,
nor is he yet aware of my intentions. But now that I’ve seen him a tiny bit naked
in the men’s room at Soldier Field, I feel a real intimacy between us. Granted, he
was a bit puzzled by Bernie’s inappropriate gaze, but he was so affable about the
whole thing that it wasn’t at all awkward.

Or much, anyway.

My point is, I’m positive he and I could be so much more than just colleagues. I mean,
clearly he’s fine with difficult people because he genuinely enjoyed being with my
family, going so far as to eat three servings of Aunt Helen’s atrocious pistachio-laden
Jell-O salad. Plus, he has that whole Boyd-with-a-briefcase thing, which is fairly
irresistible.

Kassel would fit nicely in my life. He’s quick and he’s funny and I believe he’d be
an excellent counter to my more serious nature. We have that whole Ross-and-Rachel
bantering thing, too. I imagine we’d be highly entertaining together. People would
want to invite us out to dinner—I’m sure of it. Plus, he’s won Emmys. If we were married,
then I would
legitimately
be able to display his awards on my mantel. While technically a win by default, it’s
still a win.

You know what? I need to express my interest in Kassel. I must make my newfound affection
more evident. I should mark my territory. Going forward, I plan to demonstrate that
he’s captured my interest.

As of today, I plan to be a flirt in all situations Kassel related. I shall ply him
with my feminine wiles.

As soon as I figure out what they are.

While I review various aspects of my own pulchritude—bonus points for my hair and
trim waistline—Dora the Explorer bursts in and throws off her backpack. “So sorry,
you guys! My train was late.”

I try to not roll my eyes.

I fail.

Deva notices and nods. She’s a stickler for punctuality, too, largely because of how
lateness impacts her ability to time travel. I didn’t ask for further explanation,
assuming one would make my head ache.

As she unloads her backpack, she asks, “You guys hear about Marco?”

“Is he okay?” Ruby asks, voice full of concern.

“Very okay!” Dora exclaims. “He quit! He’s been freelancing for the
Spider-Man, Part Femme
flick and Tabby loved him so much that she hired him to work full-time for her.”

“Way to go, Marco!” Jimbo pumps his fist. Jimbo pumps his fist a lot; it’s kind of
his home-run swing. Well, that and having a wardrobe comprised entirely of Adidas
track pants.

I’m not sure how I feel about Marco’s leaving the show. On the one hand, he did beautiful
work on our guests, and on the other, he was always hounding me to cut layers. “Oh,
Missy Doctor, why you want to look like Crystal Gayle?” Marco’s from Italy—how is
he even familiar with American country music? And by the way, can everyone just leave
my ’do alone? Besides, I’m more Megan Fox than Crystal Gayle, so let’s cease and desist
with the constant comparisons.

I find myself protectively clutching my ponytail, so I flip open my laptop in order
to do something else with my hands. “I guess we don’t need to wait for Kassel. Shall
we begin?”

As the rest of the team digs out tablets and notebooks, the conference room door swings
open. Kassel marches in and announces, “Good morning! I assume you’ve all heard about
Marco? Big news. Very big.”

Aha! Now is my time to shine! Time to harness my inner minx!

“I assume he didn’t flatten a cat?” I ask.

As soon as I say this, I realize I’m not quite bringing my A game to the flirting
area.

Truth be told, I’m not even sure how to
flirt
. What does flirting entail? Teasing? Enticing? Wearing off-the-shoulder shirts? The
tossing of one’s hair? Telling men,
I’m soooo drunk
? This merits further research.

I decide to try batting my eyelashes, having witnessed its efficacy when inhabiting
Tabitha.

Kassel frowns at me. “Something in your eye, Peace Corps?”

I immediately want to die but instead mutter something about a piece of fluff from
Faye’s knitting, which causes her to bristle.

Can anyone explain why dumb girls make flirting look so easy?

In terms of propagating the species, it would seem to me that men would be most attracted
to the kind of woman who was more adept at math and science than mascara application.
Who wants to breed with gals who consider watching TMZ tantamount to reading the paper?
It’s simple eugenics, people!

Sebastian always said he was attracted to my brilliant mind. Except we’re clearly
no longer together and Geri mentioned his current lady friend is a Hooters waitress,
which . . . really, Seb? I’m sure all the Hooters patrons are ogling this woman over
platters of wings, saying,
Check out the cerebral cortex on that one!

So disheartening.

Kassel stands at the head of the conference table. “
Push
’s loss is Tabitha’s gain. Well, we still have a job to do, and life goes on. So I’d
like you all to meet the newest member of Team
Push
.” He looks over to the open door and calls, “Come on in! Everyone? Meet Geri Bishop!”

Bad Dreams Are Made of This

This is a bad dream.

Clearly.

The Thanwell has obviously stayed in my body and I’m having detailed hallucinations,
all of which involve me having to deal with Geri in production meetings this week.

For example, in this chapter of my ongoing nightmare, here we are in Georgette’s makeover
session, ready to start dyeing or ombre-ing or feathering or whatever it is that’s
Geri’s claim to fame.

I’m so glad all of this is a figment of my imagination because otherwise I’d be furious
over how quickly the rest of the team has taken to her. Jimbo and Gary the second
cameraman have been arguing all week about whether Geri reminds them more of Jessica
Rabbit or Christina Hendricks.

Can I vote?

Because I pick neither.

The ladies are sucking up as well. Mindy happily and promptly delivers Geri’s proper
coffee order (a lardy mocha with extra whip) and Ruby’s been all over her, gabbing
about the bar scene in Bridgeport, as her place is on the south side. And Faye? Faye
thought the fisherman’s sweater she was knitting would be divine with Geri’s coloring,
so she gave it to her when she finished. Just like that! No thought, no deliberation,
no consideration for other members of the team who are really lean and could use the
added warmth of a fisherman’s sweater.

Et tu, Faye? Et tu?

It’s like the ham sandwich all over again.

And please don’t even start me on the chemistry between Geri and Kassel. Every time
I see them chatting, I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat.

Nightmare.

Absolutely no other explanation.

I’d seek Deva’s counsel, but she had to rush off for an emergency with a private client—something
about a youth serum?—and she’s currently en route to the Philippines to extract the
pollen created by bats drinking ultrarare jade-vine nectar. We’re about to wrap production
until after the holidays, so she’s not needed here, except by me. Fortunately, she
left the amulets. It’ll be tricky to do the swap without her today, but not impossible.

I tried to run my thoughts about Geri’s being hired past a couple of my friends, but
apparently I’m not interesting to Bethany, Caroline, or Rhonda when I’m not spilling
Hollywood secrets.

Fair-weather bitches.

In a moment of weakness, I even turned to Bryce and Trevor, but they kept pestering
me about when “G-spot” would be back in my “hizzouse.” From the way those two carry
on about her, you’d think she was their long-lost best friend and not just some girl
they met for ten minutes on my front stoop that one time she stopped over to gloat
after the Sox beat the Cubs in the Crosstown Classic.

Serves me right for even trying with those two.

For now, I’m journaling all my feelings. At some point I plan to pen a memoir about
the show, so taking notes helps me remember the specifics. Granted, I meant to fill
my Moleskine with tales of my successes, but most of what I’ve written is more along
the lines of
Die, Geri, die
.

I’m sure everyone’s opinion on Geri will change today when I give my soliloquy about
living at home as an adult via the Georgette swap. If what I say embarrasses Geri?
Then perhaps she shouldn’t be involved in such shameful basement business in the first
place.

Gary’s in here to film the whole haircut/color process, even though it’s not necessary.
We don’t need him capturing footage until the big reveal and confrontation later,
but he’s been buzzing around Geri like a fly to manure.

Technically, I’m not required to be in here, either, but I suspect every minute I’m
not with Geri, she’s gossiping about me, so I’m staying close. I’m ninety-nine percent
sure I heard her and Mindy saying something about Dr. Stick-Up-the-Ass, and my guess
is they weren’t comparing notes on a proctologist.

Georgette enters the room with Ruby. In my time with Georgette this week, I found
her to be articulate and intelligent, albeit reticent. In some respects, she resembles
me, with her long, straight, dark hair and ivory skin. I can’t imagine that Geri’s
going to improve on her look. I did my best to boost her confidence about speaking
with her family, but she’s so stuck that it would take dozens of sessions to break
through to her. Fortunately, I have my magic bullets in my pockets, so all will be
well upon the post-makeover conversation with her sisters.

“Hey, girl,” Geri calls. “C’mere! We’re going to have so much fun today! Sit! Sit!
Please! Your chariot awaits!” Geri gestures to the adjustable hairdressing chair here
in the makeup room and gives it a spin.

Fake! Fake, fake, fake!

Geri begins to muss Georgette’s thick locks. “So, sweetie, what are you thinking?
I have a few ideas in mind, but I want to hear what’d make you happy.”

Georgette bites her lip and gazes at herself in the mirror. “I need a change, but . . .”

“But change is superscary, amirite?”

Georgette cracks a smile. “Right.”

Geri fastens a cape at the nape of Georgette’s neck and then rubs her shoulders. “Don’t
worry, kiddo, we’re not doing anything that makes you uncomfortable. Today’ll be hard
enough without having to fret about your ’do, right?” Georgette nods. “So when you
envision your life after the show’s over, how do you see yourself? Where are you?
What’re you doing?”

Georgette’s voice catches. “I’m . . . not sure.”

“Even a little bit?”

“No.”

Ha! See? Massage her shoulders all you want, Geri; it’s not so easy to wrestle insight
out of this one.

“Tell me about the last time you remember being, like,
joyful
.”

Georgette appraises herself in the mirror for a moment before she finally says, “It’s
been a while. I guess . . . I was out with my colleagues in Changchun—it’s a city
in Jilin Province—and they were having a going-away party for me at Three Monkeys
because I was returning to the States. It was brutally hot and my friends and I were
sitting outside. So there I was in the middle of China, at a table with Aussies and
Afrikaners and Brits, watching locals dance to Latin music, eating kebabs, and drinking
Irish stout.”

Geri keeps pawing Georgette’s hair. “How’d that make you feel?”

I shift in my seat. Oh, come on! That’s a bullshit Psych 101 question and everyone
knows it!

Georgette replies, “I remember how surreal it all was, thinking every culture in the
entire universe had peacefully converged in this one spot. And then, almost like a
blessing from God, I could feel a coil of air on the back of my neck. In August? In
Changchun? There’s no wind; there’s no relief. The air’s as thick as soup, but for
this one moment, there was a breeze. I thought, ‘Magic truly exists.’”

Geri nods, acting like she’s all in tune with Georgette. Trust me, I’ve spoken with
Georgette at length and she didn’t offer up any of this neck-wind information. Mostly
it was all
blah, blah, blah, my sisters are mean
.

Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, lady.

“You’ve been growing out your hair ever since then?” Geri asks.

“I guess so, yes.”

“Kind of a metaphor for your world at the moment, isn’t it? All of this stuff is holding
you down.” Geri holds up a handful of silky locks and lets them spill down. “Life
was better when you felt a breeze on your neck.”

Ooh, thanks for that powerful allegorical insight, Professor Geri. When you’re done
narrating
The Rime of the Ancient Ponytail
, I look forward to attending your lecture on the History of the Hair Dryer.

An odd expression crosses Georgette’s patrician features. “My goodness, I never considered
that. But you’re spot-on.”

Geri shrugs. “I can re-create that style in two snips, if that’s what you want. Doesn’t
solve any of your other problems, but it’s a start, right? You know, my ma used to
read me this old Irish prayer for travelers that had a line in it about always having
the wind to your back and the sun on your face. So I was thinking, maybe if you’re
sitting on the studio’s couches with your sisters and you can feel a breeze on your
neck, you’ll be all,
I’m ready to reclaim what’s mine, bitches.
”

Argh, lies, lies, lies!

Geri hated books! And the only thing Ma ever read was Royko’s old columns!

What is Geri getting at? What’s she trying to prove? There’s an end game here, of
that I’m sure.

Georgette makes a grab for Geri’s scissors. “Do it. Now. Before I change my mind.”

Geri gingerly takes the shears from her. “You sure, hon?”

“No. But please do it anyway.”

“Ready?”

Georgette nods. Geri gathers Georgette’s hair in a low pony and snips off a solid
foot, which leaves me feeling like somehow
I’ve
been kicked in the stomach. How does that work?

Geri hands Georgette the bundle and she turns the tail over and over in her hands.
“The good news is that this is long enough to donate to Locks of Love. You’ve just
changed a life! You’re a hero!”

Why is she laying all of this on so thick?

“How’s it feel back there?” asks Geri, ruffling what’s left of her hair.

Georgette lets out a huge breath. “Like a weight off my shoulders, literally and figuratively.”

I glance around the room to monitor if anyone else is rolling their eyes.

Just me then?

“Awesome! I’m really proud of you. Now I’ll do your cut next, unless . . .” Geri trails
off.

“Unless?”

“Unless you’re in the mood for a little color.”

“Color’s kind of not my thing.”

“That’s absolutely cool, G.” Geri adjusts Georgette’s cape and begins to rearrange
items on the counter in front of the mirror. It’s a haircut, not an operating table—get
to it!

Geri strokes her own hair. “But maybe you hear me out on this? It’s kind of a cray-cray
idea, and you’re totally free to say no. You won’t hurt my feelings.” Geri leans in,
all conspiratorially. “Let me just tell you this from personal experience: anyone
who says blondes have more fun has clearly never been a redhead.” Then she does this
little shake that is absolutely mortifying to behold.

Gary inadvertently lets out a wolf whistle, Georgette beams, and I have a small coughing
fit. By way of apology, I murmur, “Must be the dry December air. I bet some green
tea would help.”

Geri asks Georgette, “You game?”

Gary zooms around to pan in on Geri’s mug. Why are we bothering with this nonsense?
Why film someone having her hair colored? That is literally (and figuratively) one
step beyond watching paint dry.

“I’ve always admired Debra Messing’s color,” Georgette timidly admits.

“Then that’s what we’ll do! One Grace Adler, coming up!” Geri confirms with a little
clap.

After mixing up some potions, Geri returns and begins to slap various bits of gel
on Georgette’s head with a pastry brush. Scintillating. Yet from the crowd gathered
around, you’d imagine she was splitting the atom.

I wave Mindy over to me. “I’d like a green tea.”

“Now?” she replies.

“No, next week.”

“Cool.” She begins to shuffle back to her seat.

“Of course I mean now!” I snap.

She gives me the whale eye and then makes a big show of taking everyone else’s order
before she leaves. Perhaps she can tell Daddy all about how bossy Dr. Reagan is when
the two of them are sparking up a doobie at the dinner table on the North Shore.

“What’s the plan with the fam?” Geri prods.

Don’t you worry about the plan, Geri. The plan is handled.

Georgette begins to pick at her cuticles. “I wish I knew. I’m so angry that I’m in
this position. I mean, Mom and Dad are okay. They’re not as sharp as they were and
they need some assistance, but I’m really struggling with my siblings forcing me to
take on the whole burden. Two of them live within five miles, and the rest are within
a half hour’s drive. I want to do my part, certainly, yet there are six of us! Shouldn’t
I only be responsible for a sixth of the care? It’s not fair and it’s been nonstop
for three years! Do you know what it’s like living at home as an adult? It’s not an
aphrodisiac, that’s for darned sure.”

“Preaching to the choir, sweetie,” Geri says. Of course she’s going to try to ingratiate
herself. Like she’s not toasting marshmallows and singing campfire songs with Ma and
Dad every night.

Geri continues, “My roommate got married last year and I couldn’t afford our apartment
on my own. So I was stuck going back home. Even though it was my choice, it’s still
weird sometimes. Sure, I’m saving tons of money for when I open my own salon—”

I’m sorry, your
what
? And since when do you have an ounce of business acumen? You know that sea monkeys
aren’t a solid investment, right, Geri?

“But it really puts a crimp in the ol’ dating life, right? Like, if I were seeing
someone? I’d have no place to bring a guy back
to
if we were to become serious. What, I’d be all,
Hey, Ma and Dad, you mind if I have hot animal sex down here in my basement?
Awkward.”

“I miss sex,” Georgette says. “Haven’t so much as had a drink with a man since I moved
back home.”

“That’s been three years?”

“Three long,
dry
years.”

Oh, please. Don’t give me your three-years business. Some of us were twenty-five-year-old
grad students before ever doing it the first time. And we turned out just fine.

Geri begins running a squeeze tube full of barbecue-sauce-colored goo in little rows
across Georgette’s scalp. “For what it’s worth, you’re pretty much going to be sex
on a stick when I’m done with you.”

“I’m not even sure I remember how to be social around a man at this point, let alone
seduce him.”

“I have faith in you. It’s like riding a bike—the minute you try again, it’s like
second nature.”

Yes, Geri, but what if you never learned to ride a bike in the first place? What then?