No, I didn’t dream of a Playboy pictorial or my own line of lingerie, but just like Sienna, I had come to New York looking for something bigger than what I had left behind.
Mine was a tale as old as Dreiser and as new as Felicity: Small town girl moves to the big city to grab her slice of the pie and a little bit of glamour on the side. Her parents fear for her safety, she fears for her bank account, but most of all, she waits for her turn to come.
My life, I figured, could be divided into three rather distinct phases—BC, DC, and PC. Let me elaborate:
BC: As the letters imply, BC (Before college) was a dark, desolate time in my life’s history. It encompassed a period of small-town ennui mixed with a difficult blend of adolescent angst and general alienation from my fellow peer group, a perplexing herd who expressed a troubling contentment with pep rallies and jobs at the mall. Overall impression—melancholic.
DC: During college. Known to some close friends as the “Greg” years in honor of my omnipresent boyfriend of the time, this period was marked by a perceived sense of liberation and freedom, which, upon reflection, was neither. The smell of boiling ramen and patchouli incense are key indicators of the DC era. Overall impression—naively happy.
PC: Post-college years. Otherwise known as the Breakfast at Tiffany’s years or, more simply, as the present. PC is the time I’ve dreamed of my entire life, the moment when my life became my own, when everything was supposed to make sense. Yet somehow everything seemed more complicated than it ever had before. Overall impression—equal parts exciting and confusing with a sprinkle of adult-size fear for good measure.
A bit melodramatic? Perhaps. But then I’m convinced that just about everyone living in New York City feels they are currently starring in the movie of their own life, just a small step away from their own much-deserved “moment.”
My cell phone rang. Sal rolled his eyes.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hey, it’s Nick.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Why are you calling me?”
“Relax, darling. I’m finally getting around to picking up my canvases from your apartment and I can’t find a few of my things.”
Nick the painter. Long story short—we met at a gallery opening the previous summer. He wasn’t textbook good-looking, but he had a certain way about him that made the whole greater than its parts—does that make sense? Olive skin, crooked nose and the fullest, ripest lips. Plus, he spoke Italian and could whip up a pencil sketch of my likeness (only prettier!) in a matter of moments. What else could a girl want?
And it was summer, when life sort of slips into that hazy mode of possibility and the idea of skipping work to frolic in the park with your smoky artist boyfriend seems romantic, not irresponsible.
Of course, winter came, the haze evaporated, and, alas, Nick’s lips became horribly chapped. Love’s languor was definitely lost. I had gone from being the enchanted muse to the broke patron. That phase lasted several painful more months until we had broken up officially. Now it was summer again, and I was single once more.
“So, do you know where my bottle of gin is?” he asked.
“I bought that gin.”
“But you don’t drink gin, love.”
“Nick, I don’t intend to drink it. I intend to use it to ignite the fire I will set if you’re still in my apartment when I return. Cheers, darling.” I snapped my phone shut.
“Jesus, Lena, you don’t beat around the bush.” Sal grinned at me through a mouth full of Doritos.
Okay, where was I before Nick so rudely interrupted me? Speaking of men, I should make one thing very clear—I’m most certainly not some vapid princess waiting for my handsome Prince Charming to save me. Please. I’m fully aware that the only way I’m going to get my ruby slippers any time soon is with an AmEx card and a couple weeks of overtime. Five years on my own in this city has toughened my shell and significantly toned down any lingering Pollyanna reflexes. But a girl’s gotta dream, right?
Some days I imagine myself a boyish Annie Hall with my tweed pants and quirky hats, coyly befuddling and effortlessly stylish. Other days, I am the spunky young professional, the bright-eyed Mary Richards chasing her dream with a wink and a smile. And then, as you know, there are the parties with Marty, Joan and the rest.
“I hope you’re getting all this down on the shot list…between phone calls, I mean,” Nadine said to me in her distinctive half-joking-but-all-too-serious way that still manages to unnerve me after more than a year under her reign. Nadine (my “superior”) and I, we just didn’t quite “gel,” to use one of her favorite terms.
She had the unfortunate habit of viewing her job (and thus mine) as something on par with the pioneering work of Edward R. Murrow. “Do not underestimate the power of journalism, Lena. It’s our duty to tell the story, the whole story.” She would say these aphorisms with a hushed, reverent tone. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that our particular “news” program, an hour-long fluff parade called Face to Face, leaned more toward Entertainment Tonight than World News Tonight.
“You did finish asking her the preliminary questions, correct?” Nadine continued her inquisition. “You know we’ve got to prepare for the shopping segment.” She said this in a way that managed to simultaneously convey both doubt that I had finished as well as disregard for any work that I might have actually done. If I wasn’t so consumed by my unhealthy hatred of her, I might have marveled at the effort.
“Don’t worry, Nadine. I grilled her while she was getting waxed this morning,” I said as dryly as possible while hoping not to swerve accidentally over the line of contempt. Hiding my disgust had become a full-time job.
“That reminds me. Sienna’s in the tanning booth right now for a touch-up. Remember to make sure she’s out in ten minutes. Got it?” Nadine said, glancing down at her clipboard.
“Of course. We certainly wouldn’t want a burnt Sienna!”
Nadine looked at me, expressionless. “Whatever, Sharpe,” she said, and moved on to her next victim.
Believe me, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wanted to be Murphy Brown, not Mary Hart, dammit. But here I was, laboring at the task of crafting the story of Ms. Sienna Skye, attempting to inject heroic purpose into her work as…well, as whatever it is that she does.
Of course, telling the “story” of Sienna Skye is a mind-numbing affair to be sure, but despite her endless references to the powers of yogilates and her colonic therapist, there is a story there, nonetheless.
You see, everyone has a story. This I know for certain. The trick is to weed out all of the standard, boring parts that muddle up the narrative. Of course, you might find it all very interesting—the childhood crushes, the “hilarious” high-school pranks, the first car and the last deadbeat boyfriend. It’s your life, after all. Frankly, and I speak with some authority on the matter, no one else cares. Really. Better you realize that now, then on the winding-up side of a long-ass explanation of your last blind-date fiasco.
The trick is to find “the hook,” that little kernel of experience where your life and other people caring about it intersect. I suppose you could call me a “hooker,” which is actually a fitting alternate title for a TV producer, if I’ve ever heard one.
So, what’s my story then? That’s a question I don’t find so easy to answer. Of course, I could easily do the In Style version. That’s my job after all:
One might suspect the striking young woman seated before me to be an aspiring young model or perhaps the pretty young thing of some high-powered television executive. In fact, she’s Lena Sharpe and she is fast becoming a power player in the world of television all on her own. At this moment, however, she’s sitting with me in a charming café just down the street from her new Tribeca loft trying to decide between the egg-white omelette and the granola fruit plate. She