Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 124

Iphigenia smiles. “Oh! I’m a trendinator.”

“Trendinator?”

“Yeah. That’s somebody who’s totally ahead of the curve on trends. Like, we sort of predict what’s going to be hot next. Trendinators are sort of the top. God! I wish I had trademarked that phrase, because the merch is out of control. The handbags alone go for two fifty a pop.”

“Just because they say trendinator on them?”

“No! They don’t say anything at all on them! That’s the genius of it. It’s like, you’re so far ahead of the curve that all there is is blankness.”

Iphigenia’s feather sparkle pen with the One Love Kitty hovers over the page. She’s itching to categorize me.

“Audio boss,” I say.

“Cool! Hey, you wanna see the rest of the Party House? We’ve got a pool that shoots Rad XL Soda—‘The Soda for Our Generation’—out of a fountain in the back. It is so nuclear.” She sighs. “I’ve been trying to get ‘nuclear’ to catch on for ages—like, at least three weeks—but so far, all the feedback forms say it’s just not time for it yet. Sometimes I’m so far ahead of the curve that no one gets me.”

When we leave the office I’m officially signed up as a contestant for What’s Your Category? to film at three-thirty. Iphigenia takes me to meet the show people and I sign a form saying I won’t sue them for anything that happens to me as a result of being on their show. Ten feet away, Parker Day sits in his chair getting his hair and makeup done by a stylist while arguing with his agent on a cell phone that some poor schmuck assistant holds up to his ear. A bank of TVs above his head broadcasts live from the Party House, where Marisol inter views some shirtless jocks down by the pool before introducing a new video clip. Keith wasn’t lying about Marisol. She is seriously fine, with coffee-brown skin, hazel eyes, and long, curly black hair. I keep hoping I’ll see the guys and Balder in the crowd, but they cut to the video and there’s nothing to do but hook up with Gonzo again and try our luck together.

Gonzo is ten minutes late. “Dude,” he yells, running up to me all out of breath. “This place is amazing!”

“You’re late,” I say.

“Sorry,” Gonzo says, even though I can tell he’s not.

I fill him in about What’s Your Category?

“Awesome!” Gonzo says. “Look, this guy just gave me his card. He said I’d be perfect for a show they’ve got in development where a bunch of rich, spoiled kids live with kids who have abnormalities. It’s called Freaks Versus Fantastics.”

I snort. “Who’s the sadistic shithead who thought that up?”

“Dude—I could be on TV! They’ve already got this kid with flippers for hands. He hates Little People. He’d be my roommate. They said the potential for drama is off the charts.”

“Gonzo. Reality check. We’re not staying. We still have to find Dr. X.” I hold up my E-ticket meter. Fantasyland is losing color fast. “We’re only here long enough to score some cash and find Balder.”

Gonzo looks let down, and I feel like the ass**le who just told him Santa’s a front.

“Look, after that, if you wanna come back, that’s cool. In the meantime,” I say, showing him my contestant’s backstage pass, “we have access to the green room and free food. Let’s eat.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Of What Happens When I Take My Chances on TV

At three o’clock, the What’s Your Category? assistants come to the green room and escort me to makeup. Parker Day’s sitting in the chair getting a touch-up, a phone pressed to his ear. I can hear him making deals with this soda company, that shoe corporation, arguing with his agent, telling an assistant that he shouldn’t have to ask her to pick up his dry cleaning, she should just know. Our chairs are less than five feet from each other, and while the makeup lady does her thing, I keep stealing glances at Parker, trying to dissect what makes him a star. There’s the short brown hair with subtle blond tips. A worked-out body under a form-fitting vintage rocker tee. The year-round tan. The roughed-up jeans that probably cost more than I could make from twelve Buddha Burger shifts. No doubt about it, he’s a good-looking guy, but in a generic way, like some kind of human wallpaper you’ll want to change out for something else in a few years.

Once I’m camera-ready, the assistants lead me to my spot on the re-created beach stage complete with grass huts and tiki torches on the sides. The director downloads info about the camera, which I can’t take in because in front of me is a sea of people and my stomach is in free fall. Down in front, I see Gonzo giving me a thumbs-up and a nervous smile. Off to the side of the stage, Parker examines his notecards while a wardrobe lady steams the creases out of his jeans. The director calls for places. The cameraman gives us a three, two, one. The little light goes on and Parker Day walks out to a thunderous roar from the crowd. He works it, shaking hands and giving a big “Ho-oh!” into the mike, which everybody repeats to him.