It’s shoot day for episode “Newlyweds Headed for Divorce!” and you’re doing one last check-in with your guests. Young stud husband is doing tequila shots in his dressing room. When you poke your head in, he hollers, Troy! Come celebrate the end of my marriage! Next, you check on “secret” girlfriend. She’s reading a People magazine, heels off, ankles crossed, the dirty bottoms of her feet visible. She bats her Tammy Fayes at you and flirts, What does a girl have to do around here for a Diet Coke?
Finally, you’re standing outside the wife’s room, seconds ticking by. From the moment she arrived at the studio this morning—hair teased and sprayed so nothing moved, the exact same way your mom wore hers—you’ve wanted to strangle her. Which is unusual for you. Even with the scummiest of guests, you’re usually holding back a chuckle, they’re so over-the-top ridiculous.
When you enter her room, wifey jumps to her feet and gets in your face. You said I could talk to my husband before the show! And you laugh, Lady, you’re trippin, why the fuck would I let you do that? She keeps hammering on you, though: You lied to me, can’t wait to tell your boss what a liar you are, maybe I should go straight to the local news, let everyone know that your show lies to its guests?
This lady doesn’t just do her hair like your mom, she is your mom. Too bad for her, your mom beat the wimpy, little kid out of you, and you could give two shits who she talks to. But you like where this is going; the iron is definitely hot. You glance at your watch; it’s ten minutes to air. Okay, you want to see your man? you smirk, Let’s go see your man.
But when the cameras swivel and the studio lights give off that burning hair smell you love, wifey—so feisty behind closed doors—makes boring doe eyes at her husband, and swallows his drunk-ass complaints like a throat. She even puts her palms together in fucking supplication. You feel your boss’s stare boring like lasers into the back of your head, so you say into your headset, Cue girlfriend, while you dig in your pants pocket for your roll of Tums. Twelve years ago, when you were a high school dropout, your boss said after interviewing you, I like you, you’re feral. But recently, you’re worried that you’re losing your edge. You hate, for example, that you can’t stop thinking about wifey’s ridiculous threat to tattle on you. Right then, girlfriend struts onstage, pulls husband in for a grindy, tonguey kiss, and the studio erupts into a glorious, deafening chaos. Come on bitch, you mutter, eyes trained on wifey, do your thing. Your ulcer starts to pulse when all she does is stare.
Over the headset your boss is losing patience, Troy, what the fuck is going on? You pop another Tums. The audience has reached peak state, swaying and pointing, pushing and jeering, while the husband verbally accosts his wife and his girlfriend paces restlessly behind him, like a lion in a cage. Normally, this kind of energy would get you off, but right now, all you hear is the chalky squeak of your molars grinding antacids to powder. Because wifey isn’t paying attention. And she still hasn’t moved.
You’re racking your brain on how you can turn this around when girlfriend drops her bombshell: I’m pregnant. That’s wifey’s final straw, because—Surprise, Surprise—she bolts offstage. You check your watch; twelve minutes, fucking hell, you needed twenty. But at least tears were streaming down wifey’s cheeks; hopefully, the camera caught that.
Over your headset, your boss is screaming, Get that cunt back on stage! So, you rush to her dressing room, giddy. She probably thinks she’s gonna rip you a new one. Too bad for her, your mom beat her to it. All those times your mom punished you for God knows what. Sometimes she was content with only screaming, Don’t be an asshole like your dad! Or, Why are all you guys such assholes? Her subtext unmistakable: since you’re a guy, you’re an asshole, too. Other times, she used the leather belt. Scarier than the belt, though, was when she’d storm out and lock you in the apartment: alone, terrified, and eventually ravenous. And sometimes, she didn’t come back until the next day.
The day after the episode airs, your boss pulls you aside; the wife killed herself last night. You must’ve turned white because he says, Don’t worry, our lawyers say there’s no way her kids can tie this to the show. But you’re not thinking about that; you’re remembering how you trashed her dressing room, informed her that unless she got her fat ass back on stage, the show wouldn’t pay for her return flight. And you spewed other things like a broken sewer line: You think you’re so tough, but you’re not. You’re pathetic, a man-hater. You don’t have kids yet, right? Do the world a favor: don’t breed! Because you’re GARBAGE! You knew you broke her when she started crying hysterically. But instead of feeling victorious, all your rage drained through your body like rainwater in a downspout. You felt dizzy. You walked out of there backward.
Back at your desk, you pour a whiskey from the bottle you keep in the bottom drawer. Your mom cried like that in her bedroom. She quieted when her door creaked open. When the bed springs squeaked from you clambering up, tissue box in hand. She flipped over so you couldn’t see her face. The only sounds were rain hitting the window and the soft shush of tissues when you pulled them from the box. You placed a tissue on the curve of her waist, and when she took it, you replaced it with another one. You had almost forgotten that until just now.