Gloss. Jennifer Oko

went to the green room to steal some coffee. Technically, that pot was for the guests. But the mud they made for the staff was just plain offensive, and I’m sorry, I worked very hard and was entitled to something that was, at the very least, drinkable.

      The green room was not actually green. Green rooms hardly ever are. When I worked at Sunrise America, the walls were blue. Here, our walls were a soothing, creamy yellow. If Franklin, the middle-aged man who considered himself the patron of the room, a man steeped in petty authority and indulgently expensive colognes, wasn’t around, it was one of my favorite places to watch the show. The couch and chairs were upholstered in a soft, welcoming tweed, the monitors were tuned to every network, for comparison’s sake, and there was an abundant spread of fresh fruit, cheese and pastries.

      That day, a B-list movie star was holding court next to the latest reality game show reject, and I knew that Franklin wouldn’t dare say anything to me in front of them. And by the time the show was over, he would have forgotten my trespass.

      Or he would have if it weren’t for the fact that as I turned to exit, carrying my hot, filled-to-the-brim cup of much needed coffee, I walked right into—Oh!

      “Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” I said as I put down my foam cup and grabbed for some paper napkins.

      “Don’t worry. It’s just my shoe.”

      “No, but…” I bent down to mop up the brown liquid that was pooling at the front crease of this guy’s tan suede Wallabies.

      “It’s really okay.” And then he bent down just as I was looking up and…

      “Ow.” Shit. My head hit his chin.

      “S’okay.” And his tongue was bleeding.

      This was worse than misspelling a name. I had now ruined the tongue of a man who, I assumed, was supposed to be a guest on our show. A speaking guest.

      Franklin was already at the guest’s side, ice water in hand, ushering him to the couch, fawning over him as if he were a damaged little bird.

      I pulled myself up and started to apologize again.

      “Wheelly,” the guest said, tongue in cup, green eyes on me, “I wasn’t wooking either.”

      Luckily, the B-list star and the reality guest had been too wrapped up in the accolades of their publicity entourages to notice what was going on. And before Franklin could chew me out, a barely postpubescent production intern appeared to say the guest named Mark was needed in makeup.

      The tongueless guy stood up. “’At’s me.”

      “Let me show you where to go,” I said. “I promise it’s safe now.”

      He laughed and followed me down the hall.

      

      I was never a morning person. I liked to think the fact that the bulk of my career was spent in the trenches of morning television was inexplicable. I’d started out my career assuming that by this point (the moment I spilled the coffee on the show, I mean, not right now, sitting here scribbling behind bars), almost ten years into it, I would be producing world-changing investigative reports and documentary-length profiles of the interesting and important. But aside from the fact that there wasn’t much of an audience for such things, it turned out that getting a staff job at one of the few programs (most of them on public television) that did that sort of work required a kind of wake-up-and-smell-the-blood ambition I just didn’t have. As already alluded to, when I woke up, I couldn’t really do much until I smelled the coffee. And if you didn’t wake up smelling blood, the rumor was that the only other way of getting one of those jobs was by waking up and smelling some suit’s morning breath, if you know what I mean. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately) that opportunity hadn’t come my way. Instead, I had developed a talent for turning out perfectly toned feel-good feature stories for the top-ranked national morning show. Wake-up-and-start-your-day-inspired stories. Have-a-good-chuckle-in-the morning stories. Learn-how-to-improve-your-life-with-the-latest-soon-to-be-forgotten-exercise-trend stories. But sometimes, especially since the war, if I was lucky, I was able to sneak in an occasional learn-something-valuable-about-the-world-at-large story, and it was that sort of thing that kept me going. Like this day’s story, for example.

      “So, what do you do here?”

      “Huh?”

      “You work here, right?” said the man named Mark, tongue clearly improving, honey-brown hair being combed and teased. I was standing on the threshold of the fluorescent lit makeup room, waiting to escort him back to the green room once the face powder set, watching the artists work him up like a diva, slathering cover-up around his eyes as if looking like he was approaching his mid-thirties, which he did, was not entirely acceptable.

      “Oh. Yeah.” I twisted my ponytail around in my hand. My hair was long then, and I accidentally caught a strand in my mouth. I hated it when I did that.

      I pulled it out, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Sorry. No coffee yet, you know? My brain isn’t fully functional.”

      He laughed and playfully suggested I drink some off his shoe. Ha. Ha.

      “I usually don’t come to the studio,” I said, explaining that I only did tape pieces, suggesting by my tone that I was somehow above the 6:00 a.m. call, like I was showing off. Which I suppose I was.

      “So, why are you here today?”

      “I heard one of our guests needed some coffee.” He was looking at me via my reflection in the mirror, and I was deeply regretting hitting the snooze button earlier, not allowing myself enough time to put on any makeup. But, looking at my reddening cheeks, I knew I didn’t need any blush.

      He smiled. Cute dimples, I thought, which made me a little nervous. I glanced at my watch.

      “We should get going.”

      The stylist sprayed Mark’s (thick) hair one last time, trying unsuccessfully to tame a small cowlick on the right side of his head. He laughed (look at those dimples) and told her to leave it, that without it no one would know it was really him on TV.

      I brought him to the sound check, where a lavaliere microphone was clipped to his tie, and then I left him with another nubile production assistant so I could get to the control room in time to watch my piece.

      “Sorry again,” I said over my shoulder.

      “Don’t apologize,” he said. “I feel like I should buy you a coffee or something. I was the one who got in your way.”

      I emitted a shrill giggle (ugh!) and rushed down the hall. By the time I reached the control room, my cheeks were so flushed they hurt.

      “What’s wrong with you?” my friend Caitlin whispered as I sidled up next to her. Caitlin was another producer on the show, although she only did live bookings—politicians, pundits and their ilk. We’d worked together for years now, sharing late nights at work and many drinks at the corner bar afterward, and our friendship had long extended beyond the office. She was a friend I could call after a bad date or a bad haircut. I was a friend she would call for the same. Truth be told, for her the bad haircuts were pretty common. She had recently acquired an unflattering bob, streaked in brassy shades of red and yellow that seemed to change with each flicker of the monitor lights. She tried to tone it down by clipping it back with little baby barrettes, and the general visage was far from professional. Certainly, she looked odd as we stood in the control room, hovering in the back row where the segment producers waited to watch their pieces hit the airwaves. Apparently, I looked a little odd myself.

      “Annie?” She tried again. “Your cheeks are like a clown’s. What’s going on?”

      “Nothing,” I said, my voice still sort of shrill.

      “Whatever.” She let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. “Thanks for babysitting my guest. I got here late.”

      “Mark?”

      “Yeah. He goes on after your segment. Isn’t