As Seen On Tv. Sarah Mlynowski

else’s complete humiliation funny. Ex-boyfriends were there, background music was blasting, people were crying. I was surprised when I read an article reporting the show was incredibly popular.

      “They’re everywhere,” Carrie whispers, leaning in like a conspirator. “The networks are premiering dozens more this season. They love them—they don’t have to pay the writers or the actors. Even stodgy cable networks like TRS are launching them. These days it’s the only surefire way to get into the eighteen-to thirty-four market. In the past year we’ve casted for Freshman Year, The Model’s Life, Party Girls, and get this one—Call Girls. Yup. It’s a reality show about a Vegas whorehouse. Unreal, huh?”

      I shake my head, incredulous. Don’t individuals have enough problems without wanting to burden themselves with other people’s exaggerated ones? “How did you cast for that? Answer the Village Voice ads?”

      “You don’t want to know.” Our drinks and appetizers arrive and Carrie continues between bites of crab cake. “We’re swamped these days. You know what—if none of your interviews work out, we could definitely use a temp at Character.” She looks over at my father, as though seeking approval in the form of a nod or pat on the knee.

      My dad says, “That’s a great idea.”

      If Carrie were a Labrador, her tail would wag.

      Flipping through pictures of anorexic wanna-be actresses all day? Thanks, but no thanks.

      A tall brown-haired man wearing a Hawaiian-patterned shirt, black pants, shiny leather loafers, a square goatee and tiny John Lennon glasses approaches our table and lays his hands palms down on our table. “Carrie! What’s up?” he says, his glance glossing over my father and me.

      Carrie straightens up in her chair. “Howard, hello. You know my boyfriend, Adam.” He shakes my dad’s hand. “And this is his daughter, Sunny. Sunny, Howard Brown.”

      “It’s a pleasure,” he says to me. I lift my hand to shake his, and he kisses the back of it. His lips feel oily and he reminds me of a counselor I knew at Abina, Mark Ryman, who had thought he was the camp’s Danny Zukoe. He would buy the fifteen-year-old counselors-in-training shots of tequila to get them drunk enough to sit on his lap.

      Carrie looks around the room. “Who are you here with?”

      He rubs his hands together as if he’s trying to warm them up. “My wife. She’s getting us another table. I don’t like where they sat us.” He motions across the room at a blonde in a fur-collared white sweater.

      Carrie waves but the wife doesn’t wave back. “Tell her I say hello,” Carrie says.

      As soon as he walks away, Carrie hunches toward me and whispers, “That was the executive producer for the show Party Girls I was telling you about. His wife is a complete bitch. A jealous freak. She’s convinced he’s screwing half the women in New York.”

      “Why?”

      “Because he’s screwing half the women in New York.”

      “He has the slime vibe,” I say.

      “Yeah, but he’s a genius. He created the show, too. He’s even the one who sold the idea to TRS, which is miraculous, considering that the network is so conservative. Since I cast two of the girls for his show, he’s considering hiring me as a liaison. You know, to make sure they stay gorgeous and do their job.”

      “So what are these brilliant producers going to do next? Tape people going to the bathroom?” my dad asks, nipping back into the conversation at the word gorgeous. Maybe Carrie should start peppering her everyday conversation with sexy adjectives. Sizzling weather. Spicy clients.

      “You’re so funny, honey.” Carrie giggles a little-girl laugh.

      “What does a producer do exactly?” I ask. I’ve never understood what that job title entails.

      “Not much,” my father says.

      “Very funny, Adam, that’s not true. They plan everything, hire everyone, manage the money, make sure everything is on schedule, premiere the show.”

      Sounds like what I do, but with TV shows instead of carbonated fruit juices.

      “This concept is very original. It follows four girls at different bars on Saturday nights.”

      Aren’t there a million shows like that? “Very original,” I say.

      Carrie nods, either missing or ignoring my sarcasm. “The camera only follows the girls on Saturday nights. The unique part is that the show airs the next night. We call it ALR taping, Almost Live Reality. An incredibly quick taping-to-broadcasting turnaround.” Her voice switches into sell-mode. I imagine her shaking hands with prospective spicy clients, nodding profusely. “No one knows what’s going to happen next week, not even Howard. Also, this show is going to be far more accurate in terms of the scene than other Real TV shows. Usually these shows are taped in their entirety, then edited, then broadcasted. But even though a club is sizzling hot during the summer, it could easily be out by winter. With ALR, Party Girls will be a lot more immediate. Much more now. Much more real.”

      Much more ridiculous? How could anyone be real when she’s being stalked by a camera? I can’t even be natural taking a passport photo. “So how do you pick the girls who are on the show?” I ask.

      She rolls her eyes. “You would not believe the process. Applicants had to fill out forms and send in sample tapes, then we did a round of interviews, then we finally chose four girls.” Carrie looks over at my father to make sure he’s listening, but realizes that he’s busy watching the waitresses in their garden outfits. I can tell she’s contemplating what she can say to break him out of his two-timing reverie. Doesn’t she know it’s never going to happen? “Why four?” I ask.

      She seems to be searching her stock answers for an appropriate response. “Women are normally friends in groups of four.”

      I laugh. “And has that happened since Sex and the City became a huge success?” I don’t have HBO, but both Millie and Dana do and they’ve made me watch enough episodes. Not my life (the Mr. Bigs, the Cosmopolitans, the Manolo Blahnik obsession), but I still laughed. Is that show even on anymore? I take another sip of my martini.

      She searches for a stock answer for that, too, but appears to come up blank. She nods. “I suppose so. I need another drink,” she says, motioning to the waiter.

      Two martinis later, there’s a commotion behind me.

      Carrie strains her neck to see what’s going on. “Yikes, something is going down over there.” She points multiple fingers over my head. I turn to take a look.

      A blond woman in a tweed Newsboy cap is standing in front of her chair, clutching her neck. A flushed man beside her is frantically trying to convince her to drink a glass of water. “Take it! Karen? Kar? Are you choking?”

      I doubt the bluish tint to her face means no. She’s fine, thank you very much, and why don’t you sit down and finish your black beans and shrimp?

      Apparently, Carrie was right. The dish is to die for.

      Is it too late to change my order?

      Silence creeps through Eden’s like frost. Karen, the choking woman, motions to her neck and throws the water on the floor. The glass splinters around her.

      The man spears his eyes around the restaurant. “I need a doctor!” he yells. Our waiter howls. The hostess starts to cry.

      No one stands up.

      “Oh my. Oh my,” Carrie says. “She’s choking. She’s choking.” She giggles and her hands respond by waving. “Oh my. What do we do? Adam? What do we do?”

      Karen heaves silently, without emitting a single sound. Is she going to pass out? Is she going to die? Are we about to witness a woman die over a plate of shrimp?

      Way back when, in the days before Hotmail, DVDs and Britney Spears, to get my lifeguard