Charmed Thirds (9 page)

“Jeepers creepers!” Tyra squeaked. “Thank you!”

Tyra was an editorial assistant at
Mademoiselle
before it folded a few years ago. At the time, the editor in chief liked to host what she called “Educational Salons.” During these mandatory gatherings, the staff was enlightened and entertained by one of the editor in chief’s many close friends and associates. Tyra has co-opted this tradition for herself, only in the spirit of
True.

Inspired by the clip I’d given her, today’s guest of honor was none other than Shanny Silverberg, there to share her insights about bras and panties. This meeting clearly had been set up by Shanny’s clueless publicist, who must not have known that
True
was infamous for exposing quasi celebrities as poseurs.

Shanny explained how women were focusing more on what they were wearing
under
their clothes than on the clothes themselves. Thus, the of-the-moment, faux-antifashion fashion statement was to go out looking like you really didn’t care what you looked like when you went out. Even better was looking like you rescued your clothes from a trash can. Then, when you brought a guy back to your bedroom, as women like Shanny frequently do, you’d pleasantly surprise him with your freak-nasty skivvies.

Shanny was evidently putting this antifashion theory into practice with her sartorial selections: a gaudy
Golden Girls
tunic worn over black ribbed leggings, accessorized with pink aviator sunglasses, piles of Mardi Gras beads, and suede lace-up Pocahontas boots. The dressed-in-the-dark absurdity of the outfit was enhanced by the Balenciaga bag tossed carelessly on the floor at her feet.

Shanny hunched over in her chair as she talked, hiding her greatest inspirations—and her best assets. Without the benefit of a pro hair and makeup job, or megawatt illumination projected by a famous, millionaire boyfriend at her side, she looked waifish and wan. In between staffers’ sincere-sounding questions (“Do guys think girls in tighty whities are sexy?”) she shot furtive glances at her publicist as if to say, “Are we done yet? Please. Are we done yet?”

Shanny didn’t have anything more important or insightful or interesting to say than any of the other equally cute twentysomethings in the room. But Shanny had to perform these duties if she had any chance of getting the publicity she needed to be known as something more than celebrity arm candy, something more than a professional partygoer, something,
anything
fabulous that would keep the name
Shanny Silverberg
worthy of bold type. That desperate need for attention would be her undoing.

After the Educational Salon had ended, Tyra handed me a digital photo of Shanny that had been taken without her knowledge, from behind as she bent over to pick up her $2,500 handbag. The flimsy fabric of her leggings revealed a wedgie so deep Shanny could choke on it.

“Hit or Miss?” Tyra quizzed.

I had to make a split-second decision. I knew the right, the
only
answer would prove to Tyra whether I was
True
or not, because the Hit or Miss? page was the magazine’s most infamous feature. It consisted of pictures of people whose appearances were deconstructed by the
True
editors, then labeled a Hit or a Miss. Such determinations were not subjective, nor were they as obvious as you might think.

At
True,
the ultimate goal is “gameness.” Being game means that you’re brave enough to do
anything,
whether or not that thing is traditionally considered cool. For example: If you weigh in at a deuce and a half and are rocking a pair of gold lamé bike shorts with a total disregard for proper foundation garments and “I’m fat but fuck you” confidence,
that
is game. A Hit. But if you are one of the bizillion skinny girls wearing a velour Juicy sweat suit that is
so
cool,
so
trendy,
so
of the moment, you’re actually being
so
boring,
so
predictable,
so
passé, and, therefore, not game at all. A Miss.

Thus, being game is cool, but the reverse is usually untrue. By this maxim, anyone and anything is capable of achieving coolness, as long as you’re game when you’re doing it. When you live by someone else’s definition of cool, you are, in fact, anything but. This is when it gets
really
complicated. By putting out the Hit or Miss? page,
True
is pushing its own idiosyncratic notion of coolness, which contradicts the very self-determinative premise of coolness from which Hits are made.

It’s all very confusing, even for me, and I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Which is not game or a Hit or
True.

Ergo, a stuck-in-your-throat wedgie could have been a Hit if Shanny had pulled it off as a marketing strategy—an intentional reminder of the lingerie she was shilling. But that wasn’t the case.

“A Miss,” I finally decided.

“And why?” Tyra asked.

“Shanny can only hope to have a thought as profound as her visible panty line.”

Tyra smiled. “Well done,” she said, patting me on the head.

Knowing that she would be ripped apart in next month’s issue, I almost felt sorry for Shanny. Almost. Not enough to tell Marcus about it, anyway. I just knew he wouldn’t approve. And I didn’t want to feel bad about my big break.

the fourteenth

Last Thursday Tyra asked me if I had a fake ID.

“No,” I replied.

A few minutes later I was visited by
True
‘s art director, Smitty, a self-described “bitch” who makes the
Queer Eye
guys look butch.

“Hand over your license,” he said, holding out a perfectly manicured hand.

“Why?” I asked.

His eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Why? You dare to ask me why? Don’t ask why! Just do! Do!”

So I did.

The next day he returned it.

“Thanks,” I said.

He stood there, tapping his foot impatiently. “Aren’t you even going to look at it?”

I did. “It’s my license,” I said. “Thanks.”

“D.O.B.,” he said testily.

1-19-82.

A smile slithered across his face.

He handed over my real—1-19-84—ID. It was impossible to tell them apart. Impressive, because the NJ license is not an easy one to dupe.

“I know, honey; I’m an
artiste,”
he said.

Equipped with my new fake ID, I was sent on assignment for
True:
Go to a bar in midtown called Persuasions.

“The owners recognize how a surprising number of hedge-fund hotshots spent their formative years on the Jersey Shore, and long to recapture those days without having to resort to reverse bridge-and-tunneling,” Tyra explained as she rifled through a stack of papers on her desk. “I think it might make an interesting story, how tacky Jerseyness is spreading like a cancer, beyond the Jersey Shore, beyond Long Island, and into Manhattan.”

“I could tie it in with the guido idea I pitched you,” I said. “About how they’re taking back the name . . .”

“Mmmm . . . what?” she replied, barely looking up.

She had no idea what I was talking about.

“Uh . . . nothing,” I said, not wanting to remind her of my lackluster ideas.

This unexpected coup meant that I wouldn’t be going home for the weekend to see Marcus.

“This is your first professional assignment,” he said when I told him the news. “How can I be mad?”

I guess I wanted him to be a little bit mad.

“Besides,” he said, “it’s probably better anyway. My dad really needs my legs.”

“I need your legs, too,” I said. “And your arms and your back and your . . .” And I stopped there because phone sex is something I have never quite mastered.

So it was settled. I would go to Persuasions. But I didn’t want to go alone. Unfortunately, I didn’t know who I could possibly persuade (heh) to come with me on such short notice. There were only three girls I could imagine asking. Hope was in Tennessee. Bridget was in Pineville. Jane was in Boston. A few of my second-tier friends were in the city doing internships of their own, most located in the well-paid financial district, but I didn’t really feel like going with them.

“I’ll go with you!” my sister offered, when I made the mistake of sharing my dilemma over the phone.

“But who will take care of Marin?” I asked. “You don’t like babysitters . . .”

She sighed. “That’s something that Marcus and I discussed.”

“Something you and Marcus discussed,” I said through clenched teeth. “Isn’t that something you and your husband should discuss?”

Bethany pressed on, ignoring the slight against G-Money. “Children learn best by example. And Marin needs to learn that her mother has a life outside the home, so she will grow up to be more independent-minded—”

“Bethany,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear any more of Marcus’s words coming out of her mouth, “I’m just not sure Persuasions is appropriate for you . . .”

Actually, it was far more appropriate for her than it was for me. I needed a fake ID to get in. My sister, at eleven years my senior, hadn’t been carded since grunge was a pop cultural force to be reckoned with.

“Oh, I get it!” she said. “Now that I’m a mom I’m not allowed to have any fun. Well, let me tell you something, missy, moms need to have fun, too.”

“I can’t believe you used the word
missy.”

She gasped in horror. “See what happens when you talk to a one-year-old all day? PEE! POO! PEE! POO!”

“I surrender,” I said with a deliberate whine that I hoped might change her mind.

“Whoopee!” she cheered. “I’ll call the new sitter!”

Persuasions: A Cheesy Slice of Jersey in the Heart of Manhattan

 By Jessica Darling

Located on a particularly alcoholic stretch of midtown, Persuasions doesn’t look like a bar in Manhattan. Modeled after craptastic clubs on the Jersey Shore, Persuasions is a haven for Wall Street meatheads who can’t put their sunnin’ and funnin’ days behind them. (Oh, and girls who love them for their money.) Its unapologetic celebration of 1990s neon gave me a sense of neither-here-nor-there, jet-lagged disorientation.

At eleven years my senior, my sister, Bethany, was the perfect person to join me for an evening at Persuasions. It was a dead ringer for the Bamboo Bar, a club on the strip in Seaside Heights, New Jersey, that was the setting for the fateful Jägermeister-fueled introduction to her future husband back in the summer of 1993.

“Grant would love this place!” Bethany said.

She was so right in that assessment that I would not have been surprised to find my brother-in-law at the bar, buying kamikaze shots for a bunch of his old trader buddies.

“We aren’t spending a single dollar on drinks,” Bethany declared with the confidence of someone who has always relied on libations kindly proffered in the pursuit of pussy. So we set up shop near the bar: two babes in body-hugging black. In less than ten seconds, the first wave of guidos launched their libidinous attack: seven beefy guys wearing their gel helmets, ribbed sweaters, and shiny pants with pride. Oh! I could taste the Miller Lite already.

After a few minutes of mind-numbing Dow Jonesian conversation and a refill or two of their own drinks, they, as a unit, asked us, as a unit, to dance. This did not surprise me, as I had been observing their fellow guidos’ surround-and-conquer dance floor strategy. The females would dance amongst themselves in a tight circle, which was enveloped by a larger ring of guidos, creating a hump-and-bump huddle. We might have been able to overlook this unacceptable attempt at busting a move if one of these guidos had offered to buy our beers. But none of them did, so my sister and I declined. They quickly and indiscriminately moved on to the next cluster of females. And so it went with three more waves of cheapskates.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of thirst, I caved in and bought our own beers.

“To sisterhood!” Bethany sang, clinking our bottles together.

I didn’t have time to decide whether her toast was cute, corny, or a bit of both because “Pump Up the Jam” suddenly erupted from the speakers. This, according to Bethany, is a universally understood Jersey Shore signal that something monumental is about to begin. The throbbing base reverberated through the floor—I was literally buzzing with anticipation. Sure enough, the MC hit the stage. He was in his late thirties, a year-round-tan kind of guy glistening in such a way that if I’d gotten close enough, I’m sure I could’ve confirmed that coconut-scented suntan oil oozed from his pores instead of sweat.

He announced that it was time for Persuasions’ Third Annual Homemade Bikini Contest. Bethany and I giggled with girlie glee:
A fashion show! What fun.
Yes, we naively assumed that sewing machines would be somehow involved in the creation of the contestants’ swimwear. So I literally spewed my beer when Contestant #1, “Cricket,” took the stage wearing spoonfuls of creamy cake frosting on her nipples and her preternaturally waxed pube region. I knew contests like this existed (how could I
not
with the proliferation of
MTV
Spring Break specials and Girls Gone Wild videos?), but I never thought I would be in the audience.

We weren’t the only stunned ones. The guidos fell into a collective coma—as though their brains had to take a time-out to give their dicks the news: ATTENTION!
NAKED
CHICK
AT
TWELVE
O’CLOCK
. Once that communiqué had been delivered down below, they unleashed a horny hoot-and-holler uproar loud enough to drown out the music. Bethany and I just stood there with our mouths open, strangely fascinated by our unintentional entry into the world of misogyny as entertainment.

As this was no mere T&A competition, it was time for Q&A with Cricket.

Question: How did you come up with the idea for your bikini?

Answer: Cricket just celebrated her twenty-first birthday. The cake inspired her.

Question: What do you do for a living?

Answer: Cricket is a “dancer” taking classes at a community college in New Jersey.

The initial shock had worn off, so I took a better look at Cricket. Her dark blond hair was done up in pigtails that went well with her surprisingly innocent face. She had invested in teardrop-shaped breast implants—which gave her a nice D-cup rack without the tacky double-beach-ball effect. She accessorized the frosting with red patent leather do-me shoes paired with lacy little-girl anklets. Despite her lack of education, she was very shrewd, this Cricket. She knew the guidos wouldn’t be able to resist the whole good girl/bad girl thing. (Men love that saint/slut dichotomy, as evidenced by popular porn prototypes including, but not exclusive to, the naughty, naughty schoolgirl; the naughty, naughty librarian; and the naughty, naughty nurse.) She exited the stage to thunderous applause and chants of “Crick-et! Crick-et!”