Crazy For A Geek Girl: A Lesbian Romance Page 8

  If you think 30 minutes goes by fast when you’re just standing around, to say it’s quick when doing a cooking challenge is an understatement. I couldn’t imagine what any of the other chefs were thinking because I didn’t even have time to consider that there were other chefs. Once Pema called time, I looked up from my station, saw everyone just standing behind their dishes, some smiling, some frowning, the nervousness in the room palpable. This was all going to be much more difficult than I thought.

  And before I could even think another thought, Tim and Pema were standing in front of me with mild smiles on their faces.

  “Hello,” said Tim. “And you are?”

  “Emily,” I said, feeling my hands shake. “It’s amazing to meet you, Chef,” I said to Tim with a nod. “And you, Pema.”

  “What have you prepared for us, Emily?” asked Pema in an indolent tone.

  “I have prepared a Pacific snapper crudo with a caper, tomato, and pickled asparagus salad with a little bit of lime zest,” I said, finally feeling like I could let my breath out. Both Pema and Tim began picking at my dish, taking small bites.

  “A crudo, huh?” said Tim, his eyes looking up to me as he inspected my dish. “Do you think that’s playing it a little safe?”

  “Well, maybe,” I admitted. “But crudos always seem to win.” Tim gave me a little laugh.

  “Thank you, Emily,” said Pema with a smile. Neither of them let on how they felt about my dish at all.

  I knew I had done well. My crudo looked awesome. I was, in my mind, safe from elimination at the very least. All I could do was watch the rest of the chefs writhe when their turn to be judged came up.

  After Tim and Pema had tasted everyone’s dishes, they walked to the front and looked toward us. While the whole ordeal had taken less than an hour, I felt absolutely drained as I’m sure all the other chefs felt as well. It was a brand new experience having to compete like this and being face to face with your judges takes a lot out of you. It makes you question your own abilities. Like, am I good enough to be here? There were some pretty talented people in the room.

  “Chefs,” said Tim. “We asked you to give us a signature dish and we weren’t disappointed. There was a lot of skill, technique and ability shown here today. Pema, who were some of our favorites?”

  “Richard,” said Pema. Richard was a lanky guy with a bald head and big beard. As his name was called, he balled his hand into a fist and celebrated as another chef patted him on the back.

  “Richard,” said Tim. “We really loved your cucumber crab salad. The grapefruit really brightened it up and the uni elevated it. Who else, Pema?”

  “Emily,” said Pema.

  “What?” I blurted out. “Oh my God!” One of the chefs standing next to me, a guy named Jason, laughed, leaned in, and congratulated me.

  “Emily,” said Tim. “We worried you were playing it safe with your snapper crudo, but the taste was excellent, perfect presentation, we loved the hint of lime zest that just kicked it up a notch. It’s no wonder your restaurant has a Beard Award.”

  “Thank you, Chef,” I said, beaming.

  “And finally,” said Pema. “Raina.” I looked over across the room and saw Raina squeal with delight, her hands covering her mouth as she bent her knees just slightly. She had the cutest little excited face, such clear and fair skin. She was a doll.

  “Raina,” said Tim. “While everyone else highlighted a protein, you took a risk giving us roasted baby carrots with dates, brown butter, and pine nuts. It paid off. Just a superb dish. Really tasty.”

  “Great job everyone,” interjected Pema.

  “But we can only have one winner,” said Tim. “Pema?”

  “The chef who cooked our favorite dish was…” said Pema, her eyes surveying all three of us up for the win. The moment was pregnant with possibility. I felt myself quivering. “Raina,” Pema said evenly.

  Raina squealed again and the rest of the chefs applauded for her. She looked so amazingly happy. While I felt a bit let down that I didn’t win, I still knew that I wouldn’t be eliminated which was a relief. And seeing Raina’s excitement for her win was awesome. She seemed so unassuming, something naive in her face. It was cute.

  “Raina’s dish was risky,” said Tim. “But successful risk really pays off in this competition. If you think you can play it safe and skate through to the finale,” he said. “You’re in for a rude awakening.”

  “Congratulations Raina, you’ve won immunity for the next round,” said Pema, smiling over at Raina. “And now on to our least favorite dishes.”

  The rest of the chefs all reverted to fear. Nobody wanted to go home. The nervousness was evident.

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  AN EXCERPT FROM: SWEETHEART STARLET

  *

  “ARE WE READY to get started?” I asked, looking around the room through the lenses of my black plastic frames. I sat at the head of the table in our small conference room, a stack of papers in front of me, flipping a pen around in my fingers and occasionally chewing it. Sometimes I wondered how I got to this position. It happened really fast, much quicker than I ever imagined it would. Going from an improv and comedy performer in Chicago, then somehow waking up one day as head writer of This Saturday, a live sketch comedy television show in New York. It’s a lot of pressure, a lot of responsibility. You’ve got to not only always be funny, but you need to learn to wrangle other funny weirdos like yourself.

  I had a constant case of imposter syndrome. It all seemed like a dream that I was destined to soon wake up from. And the responsibility gave me buttloads of anxiety. But I was doing it. It was working out. Just breathe, Tab, just breathe.

  The other writers quieted down as I began our meeting. Looking down into my papers, still chewing on my pen, I began to think out loud.

  “So we’ve got Corinne Holmstrom on the show this week,” I said. “Blonde bombshell Hollywood actress. She’s got big boobs, so we should have a sketch that focuses on that.”

  “Is that all you think about, Tab?” asked Bernie. Bernie was a good friend of mine, a fellow writer who had come up with me in Chicago and made it to This Saturday just a few years after me. He was a bearded, balding, pudgy, almost stereotypically Jewish comedy writer and I absolutely loved him. “Your mind is suffused in tits.”

  “I think about tits a lot,” I said. “And I’m sure the rest of you can understand.”

  “I bet I think about them more than you, Tab,” said Wayne, one of the less orderly writers in our little collective.

  “You know what it’s like to be in the mind of a lesbian?” I asked. “I love tits and I’m not afraid to admit it.”

  “Yeah,” said Wayne. “But it’s the male prerogative to be obsessed with bountiful breasts because they signify a healthy woman with whom we can procreate. It’s etched into our DNA.”

  “Wayne, when was the last time you attempted procreation?” I said.

  “Does mating with a tissue count?” he said.

  “No, Wayne, no it doesn’t,” I said.

  “Then… I don’t remember,” said Wayne.

  “Can we just move on from Wayne’s personal problems?” asked Bernie.

  “Right,” I said. “So Corinne Holmstrom. What do you guys got?”

  “She’s in space,” said Gene, yet another piece in this puzzle of miscreants. “She’s an astronaut who’s used to getting her way because she’s so hot.”

  “Yes, and then…?” I prompted.

  “She’s got a geeky, less hot sidekick, like a super dweeb,” continued Gene. “And they meet these evil aliens who capture the girls, they want to probe them.”

  “Anally?” asked Wayne.

  “Is there any other way?” said Bernie.

  “Tabitha,” said Janet drolly, the only other woman on our writing staff, looking over to me and rolling her eyes. She was sarcastic to a fault and I always found her hilarious. “Can’t we just get Wayne a prostitute or something? It’s like the jizz has built up i
nside of him and poisoned his brain.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Janet,” I said, stifling a laugh. “But I’m afraid if we did that, it might hurt Wayne’s pride when he’s presented with that moment he’s built up in himself for his entire adult life, that first penetration with a woman, and all he can think about is asshole.”

  “Can we get back to my sketch?” said Gene.

  “I’ve had sex with a woman before,” protested Wayne.

  “Yes Gene, I apologize,” I said. “Continue.”

  “So the aliens want to probe the girls, and Corinne takes it upon herself to try to save them,” he said. “But the aliens don’t give a shit about her looks. They’re more interested in the metal in her geeky sidekick’s teeth. Braces.”

  “So the comedy is that Corinne is flabbergasted that they don’t want her?” I said. “Okay, that’s not bad,” I said, scribbling some notes down.

  This kind of conversation was very typical for our writing meetings. We were all a bunch of odd ducks, goofballs, outcasts, people whose brains were a bit askew and didn’t seem to function very well in normal discourse. We mostly talked about gross sex stuff interspersed with actual real writing work. It was all part of the process. Or at least, that’s what I liked to tell myself.

  “Maybe we could think of a sketch to get Corinne in a bikini,” mused Bernie. “It’ll be a mocking of those paparazzi photos that came out recently.”

  “Are you really mocking recent events, Bern,” I said. “Or do you just want to see Corinne Holmstrom up close in a bikini.”

  “Why not both?” he said with a grin and a shrug.

  “C’mon guys,” I said. “I know she’s hot and I know we’ve got to play that up in the sketches, but let’s tuck our little penises back for a bit and concentrate on funny.”

  “Good luck with these guys,” said Janet with yet another eye roll. “They can’t help but look down and constantly diddle themselves.”

  “It’s the source of my comedy,” said Wayne. “My power!”

  “Oh boy,” I said with a sigh. “I really don’t know how we get anything done around here. I know I say this every week, but you all realize that we have five days to put up a live show? There are tons of people counting on us. The cast, the viewers, the sponsors. Your paychecks depend on this.”

  “You’re harshing my mellow,” said Wayne.

  “That’s my job,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Tab,” said Gene. The other writers begrudgingly agreed.

  “Okay, I’ve got one,” said Bernie, clearing his throat, picking up his notepad, and looking into the pages. “Corinne is a talk show host,“ he began. “The funny is, um… she’s a former Hollywood starlet, past her prime, older, trying to flirt with the young hot Hollywood guys who are repulsed by her obvious come ons.”

  “Fine,” I said, writing down a brief synopsis of Bernie’s idea in my notes. “Let’s do this,” I went on, adding to Bernie’s idea. “We’ve got Tim, Kyle, and Wes on the cast who could pull that off. The first two guests on the show will be repulsed, but the third will be turned on by a sexy grandma coming on to him. How does that sound?” I said, looking up at Bernie over top of my thick-framed glasses.

  “That’s good,” said Bernie. “Fine with it.”

  “Guys?” I said, looking to the others.

  “Sure,” said Wayne, nodding along with the other writers.

  “Bernie, you flesh that one out since it’s your idea,” I said.

  “Got it, Tab,” he said.

  “Let’s only do, like, one sketch about how stupidly pretty Corinne is,” I said. “I think it’s too obvious and we won’t be able to sustain laugh after laugh on that one note.”

  “I agree,” said Janet. “We already went through this same shit when we had Dana Lin on,” she said. “All you guys did was drool over how hot she was and try to think of sketches based on that.”

  “Yeah!” I said, joining in with Janet’s criticism.

  “You’re guilty of that too,” accused Janet. “Remember the ‘Yellow Fever’ sketch? That was your idea.”

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “Yeah, I have a thing for Asian women. Was that sketch too racist?”

  “Yes,” all the writers said in unison.

  “It’s not racism, it’s satire!” I countered. “C’mon gang.” I looked around, trying to find support. “Gang?”

  “You’re lucky we voted to cut that one line,” said Bernie, shaking his head. “I’m sure it would have been blasted all over the internet the next day if we allowed that to air.”

  “I don’t think it would have made it past the censors,” said Gene. “Dude,” he said, putting his hands over his eyes.

  “So I’m not always the most PC,” I said. “I’m not perfect. I’m just like you. I’m an idiot!”

  “Did anyone record that on their phone?” said Wayne, his eyes darting around the room. “I would love to have Tab saying that as my ringer. I’m an idiot! I’m an idiot!”

  “Enough,” I said, crumpling down into my own arms on the conference table. “Every week we do this, every week we scramble to have enough sketches for broadcast.”

  “It’s only Monday,” said Gene. “We have the cast meeting later this afternoon. I’m sure they’ll have something for us.”

  “I love your optimism, Gene,” I said, my voice muted, face buried into my arms.

  “And Corinne is coming in tomorrow,” said Wayne. “Once she’s on set goofing around with us, we’ll come up with more. We always do.”

  “We always do,” I repeated. “Fine, okay,” I said, lifting back up and accepting the pressure, accepting the worry, accepting the uncertainty as all just part of the job. “Let’s order lunch. Thai?”

  “Of course you’d want Asian,” said Janet, giggling derisively to herself, holding her hand over her mouth.

  “Indian?” I corrected.

  “I think that’s still technically considered Asian,” said Wayne.

  “How about that taco food truck with the barbecued beef?” I said, exasperated.

  “Also Asian,” said Gene. “It’s Korean-inspired Mexican.”

  “Everybody get your own lunch,” I said, swiftly closing my binder, standing up from the conference room table, and walking toward the door.

  *

  The writers were right. Things solidified a bit more after the cast meeting and I went home that evening feeling better about myself and the show. I just needed to learn that this pressure happened to me every Monday morning when we had a clean slate and a new show to plan. And it always seemed to work itself out. We always had something to show on Saturday. Sometimes the sketches bombed, sometimes they blew up on the internet the next day. The rollercoaster ride came with the territory. I just had to figure out how to let it wash over me and be happy about the uncertainty.

  After the daily writing meeting the next morning, I had a meeting scheduled with Corinne. I’d never met her before, despite the fact that me and the New York celebrity scene were like pickles and cottage cheese, and I was actually quite excited. I had heard she was a funny woman, and sweet. On screen she was usually in serious or sexual roles, but off screen it was said that she was easy to laugh and quick to joke. I looked forward to that.

  And look, Corinne Holmstrom was hot. Really hot. She was busty and curvy, bright blonde hair, a dazzling face, big lips. This wasn’t my usual type, as I more often found myself dating mousey geeky girls like myself, but I couldn’t deny that I, like everyone else on the entire planet, was attracted to this young Hollywood starlet. Even after working almost every week for the past half dozen years with celebrities, I still found myself starstruck around a handful of them. Corinne was most certainly included.

  The realist part of me, however, reared her head and chastised, “Tab, this chick is not a lesbian. She dates men. You know this from the tabloids. Don’t make a fool out of yourself.” But that didn’t help to put a cork in the fantasies. I hadn’t been in a relationship for a while and it was s
tarting to make me go crazy inside.

  Slipping down the hallways of our office, an entire floor about midway up in a famous skyscraper in Manhattan, I carried my notebook against my chest and eagerly made my way toward Corinne’s dressing room. I felt like a naive fan rushing off to try to get an autograph.

  “Tabitha,” I heard from off to the side, stopping me in my tracks. I looked over and saw George Madison, the show’s creator and producer. He was an older man, even in demeanor, grey hair slicked back, kind of a slimy exterior and often overly serious and stoic, but definitely a man with a vision. I liked him. He was responsible for my success.

  “George,” I said, stopping and turning toward him. “I was just about to go see Corinne and get her up to speed on things.”

  “Terrific,” he said without cracking a smile. “I’m a little concerned with some of the sketches this week. I don’t see any home runs. You know that I prefer home runs.”

  “Lotta bunts, huh?”

  “Lotta bunts,” he said.

  “Yeah, but see George,” I began, trying to convince him. “Often a bunt will get you on base, you know, if we want to continue this baseball metaphor.”

  “Or the pitcher just might take a ball to the chin,” he said. I couldn’t help myself and thought about the innuendo in that statement. Too much time in the writers’ room.

  “Okay,” I said, searching my brain for the appropriate response. “I promise we’ll get a lasting sketch in. Corinne is a huge star, people will love to see her be funny in something. The wheels are turning, George, the wheels are turning,” I said, twisting my finger around as I pointed at my head.

  “I know you can do it,” he said. “Continue on.” George, still without a smile, sauntered off from me with his hands buried into the pockets of his very expensive dress slacks.

  I breathed a sigh of review and then continued on toward Corinne’s dressing room.