his head, he adds, “Can’t be me. The top brass wants young and hot. I’m over fifty and when I sit, you can see my love handles spilling over my belt. That doesn’t play well on television.”
My palms feel clammy at just the thought of appearing on television.
“If you go on the show, I’ll give you my ticket to Florida for the next launch.”
Oh, that bastard. He’s offering me the one thing he knows I want most in the world: the chance to go to the mothership — the Kennedy Space Center — and be part of the excitement of a launch. Only department heads get invited to those and it’s the most thrilling thing anyone in the astronomy world can do. Not only is there a tour of the facilities and front-row seats at the launch, but there are parties for days afterward. Wild ones — apparently with poker, booze, and hot women. Although that could just be an urban myth like Bigfoot or girls who love geeks.
I’m about to say no, when Dev stands. “Good. Glad that’s settled.”
“Dev, is there anyone else?” I ask, my stomach squeezing at the thought of going on live television.
“Nope. You’re my guy. And don’t worry because you’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll be better than fine. You’re going to be the next Neil Armstrong because you’re about to make one giant leap for nerd-kind.” With that, he walks out, leaving me to stew in my own juices.
They say that which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, but I’m guessing they didn't try to increase their adolescent popularity by running for junior class president. I still have nightmares about standing in front of an auditorium full of pubescent humans who jeered their way through my speech about my bad boy math club antics. Apparently, you can’t win over a crowd of high school kids with stories of that time you pretended you solved all four of Landau’s problems. Weird.
Anyway, as a thirty-one-year-old man, I’ve forgotten most of what I said, but the dawning awareness that I was committing social suicide is something that will always feel fresh.
I suppose the “what doesn’t kill you” people are referring to things like sore muscles from an extremely hard workout or perhaps going through a temporary-but-difficult time, such as your parents’ divorce. (I was seven when that happened —and as much as it sucked, it doesn’t accompany you everywhere you go for the rest of your life like a fear of public speaking does.)
Forget public speaking, I don’t even do small talk with strangers. In fact, I once sat beside a beautiful woman all the way from L.A. to Sydney, Australia, and didn’t say one word to her, even though she smiled at me several times throughout our twenty-two hours and twelve minutes together. Not one. I wasn’t even bothered by the awkward silence because for me, it was far more pleasurable than trying to come up with even one conversation starter.
Being on Wake Up America! is going to be like competing in the Olympics of small talk. And I’m going to come in dead last.
Three
Serafina
Everything I know about modeling I learned from watching America’s Next Top Model. Luckily, that should be enough to get me through hiring models for my upcoming television segment.
Yesterday, right after getting the call from Waltraut, Charley and I spent the day shopping in Herald Square. Turns out department stores practically bend over backwards to loan you whatever you want if you’ll mention their names on national television. I kind of wish I’d known that little tip when I was young and broke, not that anyone would have believed my claim that I’d be promoting them on television…
Since this week has been one of the hottest starts to July on record, we decided to go with twelve summery outfits. They vary wildly in style from each other, but I wanted to make the differences very obvious to viewers.
When we got home, buried under a mountain of bags, I called several local modeling agencies and set up auditions for models. I requested all kinds of women from a size two to a size twenty, all ethnicities, a variety of ages, and I even asked for short women, which in the modeling world means five feet, seven inches. Rude, I know.
Charley is currently sitting at my kitchen counter snacking on mixed nuts — typical Scorpio, craving salty over sweet. I sit down next to her and grab a donut. We Libras are the opposite.