I nodded, so he went on. "You ever watch reality TV, Lou?" I shrugged. "You ever seen the cake shows?"
"Cake shows?" I repeated, puzzled.
In the world of laundry, one red sock can change everything.
I didn't know the sock was there; it was left by the person who used the machine before me, either by accident or as a joke. In any case, I didn't see it. I just shoved my white load into the machine, burying the red sock until later, when I dug it out of the wet, twisted mess of pink sheets, pink towels, and of course pink underwear.
I found the damn sock, and it wasn't one of mine. I carried it right past the Lost and Found bin and threw it in the trash, so no one else could be pranked.
It wasn't the first time I'd had an unpleasant surprise at the laundromat. Once I left with bleach burns on the seat of my jeans — the ones I was wearing! Another time, the drier melted flakes of a weird rubbery stuff all over my shirts and pants. It took hours to pick it all off.
But this time was different. This was the first time I got angry. As a matter of fact, I was furious.
I can live with pink sheets and towels. I can even deal with pink underwear. After all, nobody gets to see any of that stuff but me. So I didn't care about that. But there was one thing in my white load that absolutely has to be white. It's not an option, it's a requirement.
And that one thing is my gi, my karate uniform.
My gi! Yesterday it was brand new: stiff, crisp, and white. I'd only worn it once. Now, my pride and joy was a silly joke, and I had no other: As soon as I bought this new one, I tossed out my old raggedy suit, which meant that now the only thing I could possibly wear to karate class today was this pretty pink karate suit. In desperation, I turned to a woman in the next row of machines.
"Excuse me, do you think I can bleach this out?"
She drew a slow, hesitant breath. "You want to bleach it back to white?" I nodded. She shook her head. "You can try, but you'll probably end up ruining it. It might turn gray or yellow, and it'll probably get bleach burns. At least now, it's all one color."
"But I can't wear it like this!"
"Sorry, hon. The safest bet is to get a new one." Then, after a moment, she added, "And be more careful separating your colors."
I huffed at that, but didn't bother explaining that it wasn't my fault. I didn't have the time. I heaved everything, pink as it was, into one of the big, hot driers and sat down to wait. My feet danced in impatience, and I kept looking at my watch. A dozen times I calculated whether I could catch the bus to and from the martial-arts supply store, and still be on time for karate class.
A dozen times I admitted there was no way I could make it. And a dozen times I reminded myself that I won't get paid until Friday, and won't have money for a new gi until then.
I chewed my nails and fretted. I couldn't miss karate. Pink uniform or no, I *had* to be there. I love karate! It's my life! I've been taking classes since I was seven years old, and I practice every day. Every single day.
Unfortunately, I'm not very good at it. I can't understand it. If wanting was enough, if effort was enough, I'd be a tenth dan. That's the highest you can go. Instead, I only have a blue belt, in spite of twelve years of constant practice, and real passion and devotion. For some reason, I haven't been able to pass the test for brown belt. But I haven't given up! I'm sure that one day I'll have my breakthrough. Persistence is the key.
Of course, the other guys in class rib me. It's good-natured, and it doesn't hurt. It makes me stronger, standing up their stupid remarks and the humiliation of not being very good.
I tell myself, Sure, I'm not so great... yet. And that yet is what keeps me going.
So, a pink gi? Was that going to stop me? I should say not!
When I got to the locker room, just to show that I didn't care, I pulled my uniform slowly and dramatically from my bag. I didn't try to hide it. I didn't explain or act embarrassed — even though I felt like a complete jackass.
As soon as the other guys caught sight of it, they began hooting and making catcalls. I may as well have been wearing sexy lingerie, for all the noise they were making.
"Oooh, looking good, Lewis!" one laughed, and another said, "No, that's not Lewis, boys — that's Lois!"
I laughed with them at first, but when one of the guys cooed, "Oh my God, Lois, you look so pretty in pink!" I blushed to match my clothes, and they laughed all the more.
"Very funny," I said, hoping I sounded nonchalant, but my fingers fumbled badly as I tried to tie my belt.
It seemed to take ages before I was able to get out of the locker room and into the dojo. It was still a little early. Students were scattered around the room, warming up with kicks and stretches. None of them bothered to look at me. I began to feel better: being here was well worth the ribbing I'd taken.
Sensei stood in front, straight and tall, watching everyone. He frowned when he saw the color of my uniform, and he gestured for me to come. I trotted over and bowed to him. There was a stranger standing next to Sensei; a stranger dressed in street clothes. I realized that I'd never seen a man dressed in a jacket and tie in the dojo before. Sensei gestured at me and told the stranger, "This is one I told you about." To me, he said, "What's with the pink gi, Louie-chan? Are you trying to tell us something?" He gave a barking laugh, then told me, "Show this man your flying kicks." With that, he walked away, leaving me with the stranger.
"Hey there," the man in the tie said. "You're Lou, Louie? Lewis, right? I'm Jack. Jack Bernus. I hear you're the man for flying kicks. Is that right?"
"Yeah, I'm Lewis. And yes, I am pretty good at flying kicks."
Jack gestured at Sensei, who was now on the other side of the room. "Boss man says you're the best."
"Really?" I replied, genuinely surprised. "He never told me that."
"Well, he told me," Jack said, rubbing his hands together. "Can I see 'em?"
The fact is, no one in my dojo takes flying kicks seriously. And I mean no one, Sensei included. They all say the kicks are too complicated and take too much of a wind-up. It's easy to see them coming. They say that flying kicks are silly and impractical; that you could never use one in a competion, let alone in a fight.
What they don't say is that flying kicks are difficult to do. For all their scoffing, most people can't do them. They can't stay in the air long enough, or spin fast enough and hard enough. For some reason, as much as I suck at the rest of karate, I can do pretty much all the flying kicks, but I don't get any respect for it.
I showed the guy my tornado kick, which is one of the 540-degree kicks. I showed him the lazyboy, where you put your hands behind your head while you spin and kick in the air. I showed him the jacknife: a crescent kick with one leg and a heel kick with the other. Then I did a butterfly twist, where I pretty much lie down in the air and spin. I followed that with a flying back kick. Then I thought I'd throw in a Hong Kong Spin, but he stopped me.
"That's enough," he said. "You sold me. You're the flying-kick man. I've been driving all over the damn state trying to find somebody who could do one of those kicks, and you've got the whole frickin' MENU!"
I was more than pleased. In fact, I was over the moon! It was rare that I had a chance to show off. Having any kind of audience was a treat, and I'd never had such an enthusiastic one. So it didn't occur to me to ask *why* Mr. Bernus ("Call me Jack, please!") was looking for flying kicks until he asked if we could go have some coffee and talk.
Class was just beginning, and though I'd never missed a class — not even when I was sick — my curiosity (and my vanity) were just too much for me. I dashed back to the locker room, changed into my street clothes, and nearly fell over myself rushing to join Mr. Bernus — Jack — at the coffeeshop down the street.
I found Jack sitting at a table in the corner. Once again he complimented me on my kicks, and then he got down to business.
He leaned forward and in a low voice said, "What I'm going to tell you is in the strictest confidence, alright? You can't tell ANYONE: not your mother, not your girlfriend — or your boyfriend, as the case may be. No one. Nobody. Is that absolutely clear?"
I nodded, so he went on. "You ever watch reality TV, Lou?" I shrugged in reply. "You ever see the cake shows?"
"Cake shows?" I repeated, puzzled.
"Yeah, there are six of 'em right now, not counting the competition shows. The biggest ones right now are King of Cakes and Cake Mafia. Then you've got World War of Wedding Cakes, Wild Wedding Cakes, and Get Your Cake Off."
"For real?" I said. "I never heard of any of them."
"Yeah, they're real," Jack assured me, a little offended at my ignorance. "And they're big!"
"Okay," I said. "So why are you telling me? I'm not a baker. I don't know anything about cakes, except how to eat them."
Jack laughed. "Yeah, me too. But I'm launching a brand new show — a totally new concept. It's going to piggyback on the success of all the cake shows. The show is called Cakeboxer. Get it? It's like Kickboxer, except with cakes."
I scratched my head. "No," I said. "I don't get it."
"Okay," Jack said, laughing. "Get this: our show, each week, opens with somebody—" he gestured at me "—ordering a cake. A big cake, with layers, you know, like a wedding cake — tiers, you know? So the cake, it's like, high, you get it? Three or four tiers high, so it's like—" he held his hands apart to measure the distance "—three feet high. At least."
He chuckled to himself before continuing. "And THEN, when they go to deliver the cake, it's always a tense moment, right?"
"Why?"
"Because they've got this tall, fragile cake, and it's sitting on a board, right? And it's heavy. On these shows, they make super-elaborate cakes. So you figure like a wedding cake, but with all sorts of decorations, figures, flowers, colors... it's like a panorama or something. And the more complicated the cake gets, the heavier and more fragile it is. It takes two people — two strong guys — to carry the finished cake out of the bakery, set it in the back of a van, and drive it to... to wherever."
I was still confused. "I don't see where this is going."
"Look, Lou. The cake... it's easy to break. If the van hits a bump, if they brake too hard, if they take a turn too fast... if one of the guys trips or stumbles, if they tip the board ever so slightly, they could lose the cake. If anything falls off, if it gets even the tiniest ding, the whole cake is ruined. So the moment of highest tension is when they carry the cake to the van. Got it?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Okay: so two of them are struggling with this big, heavy, fragile cake... they're being super-careful, right? And then—" Jack began to laugh. His laughter built until he couldn't talk. I waited for him to stop. What else could I do? After half a minute, his laughter subsided to a chuckle, and he went on. "And then, out of nowhere, you come running in... you leap into the air... and you kick the cake to bits!" Then he was overcome with laughter.
I sat there in silence, watching him cry and hoot and wipe his eyes. My silence made him laugh all the harder. "Don't you think it's funny?" he wheezed. "You come running in," he repeated, "You leap into the air, and you kick the cake to pieces!"
I frowned and shook my head. "No," I told him. "It isn't funny! I mean... the poor cake people! Aren't they going to be angry? They went to all the trouble of making the cake—"
"Yes, yes," he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course they'll be angry! They'll go through the roof! And, oh! Won't they be surprised! and shocked! It will be hilarious!." He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "This is what people want! This is reality TV at its best: people going nuts... passion, heat, strong emotions." He looked at me, expecting me to understand, but instead I shrugged.
"I don't get it," I said, in an apologetic tone.
"Yes, I can see that!" he countered. "You don't get it, Lou; you don't even know how wrong you are. So, so, wrong. Listen to me: Yes, the 'cake people' will be angry. Yes, they will be upset. They will hate you for kicking their cake apart. But at the same time, for the same reasons, they will *love* you! The 'cake people' will love it! Because... think about it: What is it they want most of all?"
He waited for me to answer, but I drew a blank. So he answered his own question.
"They want to be on TV! That's what they want! And our stunt, our show, will put them there. Everybody will come to talk to them. Reporters will stick a camera in their faces and ask them how it feels to have their cake kicked apart. And it won't just be TV. It'll go viral. The scene where you kick apart their cake, where they start screaming, that moment will explode all over the internet. It's the best kind of publicity: and it's a kind that money can't buy!"
"Publicity for you or for them?" I asked.
"For both! It's a win-win-win!"
I shook my head. It still didn't make any sense.
"Anyway," he said, moving on, "Here's the thing. Even if I haven't managed to convince you, I have convinced one of the networks that it's a good idea. I gave them the pitch, and they gave me enough money to do the pilot. With the pilot, I'll get money to do more shows... hopefully an entire season."
"And you want *me* to be the one who kicks apart the cakes?"
After that, we talked for about forty minutes. He talked about SAG. He told me about scale and residuals, and soon (to my surprise) I found myself agreeing to do the Cakeboxer pilot.
"Great!" he said. "Great! There's just one little thing. It's a little thing. A little, little thing. I... I don't think it's going to be a problem... but there is just one little thing."
"So what is it?" I asked. "What is this little, little thing?"
"See... when I gave the pitch to the network... the people who put up the money for the pilot, you know — and hopefully the show... well, they expect the cakeboxer to be a chick." His voice dropped abruptly at the end of that sentence, so I didn't quite get what he said.
"What?" I asked, leaning forward.
He coughed, then quickly said, "The cakeboxer is supposed to be a girl."
I shrugged. "So? You tell them I'm a guy. What's the big deal?"
For once Jack was tongue-tied. He opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out. He made some gestures, but... he was obviously uncomfortable. There was something he couldn't bring himself to say. He gave me a pleading look.
Suddenly I understood. "No," I said. "I won't do it. No frikken way!"
"Listen, Lou..."
"No," I repeated, in a firm, decisive tone. "I am not going to dress like a girl!"
"Hang on," Jack said. "Just listen for a minute. Will you? Will you please listen for a minute? When I pitched this show, I had the girl: she was cute, petite... honestly she couldn't do the kicks half as well as you, but she was pretty damn... good. Hell, she was hot. Smoking hot. Dammit! She was my girlfriend, see? and that's where the problem came in. We had some... uh... some, uh... speedbumps in our... ah... relationship, and uh... and... well, the long and the short of it is, she walked. She walked out on me, and she walked out of Cakeboxer. The network knows that she's gone, and they've given me a little time to find a replacement. I already tried to pitch this other guy I found — and he was nowhere near as good as you, by the way — but they didn't even want to look at him. They told me flat out: it has to be a chick."
"Again," I repeated, "no frikken way!"
"Look," he said, "I understand your objections, but please hear me out. I know this is not your problem, but when I said that the network gave me a little time... well, today... tonight... now, basically, that time is up. If you won't do this, there won't be any Cakeboxer. Which, of course, is not your problem. So, anyway... what I want to say is this: When I saw you in that pink karate suit, and — wait! wait! — I'm sure it was just an accident. A laundry mishap. But you... you had the balls to put that thing on anyway. Am I right? You didn't care. You love karate. You weren't going to let a stupid red sock stand between you and your passion. Am I right? Something like that?"
"Yeah, something like that," I agreed.
"And look," he went on, gesturing at his paunch, "I'm obviously not a karate guy, but there's something I've picked up on while I was out looking for you. What I've seen is this: people don't respect the flying kicks. They can't do them, and yet they turn up their noses at them. Am I right?"
"Yes!" I agreed. "They're pretty hard to master, but—"
"—but you don't get any recognition for it."
"Exactly!"
"All right," Jack said, and he swirled the cold coffee in his cup as if it were a glass of fine wine. "But you know what? The irony of it is, that every karate place I visited — every... dojo, right? — when I asked about flying kicks, they'd scoff, but they wouldn't let me go until I saw *their* flying-kick guy. After this happened like five or six times, I got it. They were embarrassed about him, but as soon as somebody said, hey, flying kicks... guess what. All of a sudden, they were proud. This is our guy, they'd say."
I was quiet. Jack was exactly right. I didn't want to talk; I was afraid I might cry. All the work I'd done, all the practice, all the effort, for all those years, and the only thing I had to show for it was flying kicks.
Jack leaned in close, and in a low, serious, confidential tone, told me, "I have to tell you Lou — no matter how it goes with Cakeboxer, I don't care — but you have to know: none of the guys who do flying kicks, not one of them, could touch you. None of them were even close."
We talked for another half hour; a very emotional half hour. I didn't cry, but I sniffled and blew my nose a few times. Jack convinced me that I really was the best flying-kick guy he'd ever seen, and that if I wanted respect for what I could do, I needed to "stand up and represent."
And in the end, after wiping my eyes and blowing my nose one last time, I agreed that if I really wanted to be the flying-kick man, I had to be his cakeboxing girl.
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
After a bit of silence, Jack said, "Anyway, they're great people. I arranged for you to stay with them while we're shooting. I think you'll find it more convenient, and it will be a hell of a lot easier for you to stay in character."
He stopped in front of an old house on a street lined with old houses, and shut off the engine. My hands were folded in my lap and I was looking down, mulling over what Jack had said. I asked him, "In character means wearing a skirt?"
Everybody's had that dream: you know, the one where you're being chased, but for some reason your legs don't work... you can't run, or you run and run but you don't get anywhere. And then there's the dream where you're far from home and you're naked, or wearing your pajamas...
But how about this one: Have you ever had the dream where you're far from home, and you're wearing a dress — and not just a dress, but a wedding dress — and even though it's a wedding dress it's impossibly short... You look down, expecting your legs to be clad in beautiful white embroidered stockings... or even naked legs and bare feet, but instead discover that your legs are liberally smeared with white buttercream frosting. Stuck in the frosting are chunks of light yellow wedding cake and blue and red cake decorations. You're a mess, but you can't stop to clean yourself because someone is chasing you... you can hear them, and it isn't one person — it sounds like an angry mob. They're yelling and screaming, and dogs are barking. It's terrifying! You run and run. You're out of breath but you can't stop... and the frosting on your legs is slowing you down.
In the dream you see an alley that looks like the perfect place to hide. So you dash in there and press your back into a doorway. Finally you can try to catch your breath! Your breasts are heaving under the beaded bodice of the lovely white wedding dress... and you think that maybe you got away...
... until you happen to look at the ground and what do you see? A trail of footprints — your footprints — the perfect image of your pretty bare feet in cake frosting, as if Hansel and Gretel had a pastry bag instead of pocketfuls of crumbs...
And just then, one of the dogs, a big German Shepherd, appears at the head of the alley and looks straight at you. The big dog locks his eyes on yours, and you freeze.
In the dream, you can't move. All you can do is watch as he slowly moves his big-muscled body toward you. You realize for the first time what the word animal means — four legs, solid muscle, speed, power, danger... You wait, unable to draw a breath. His tongue hangs from his open mouth, and he is panting... You feel his hot breath on your thigh...
... then he dips his head and runs that big, long tongue of his up the length of your leg. He's licking the frosting off your legs in long, broad strokes, and you don't dare move a muscle. In fact, you just stop breathing entirely...
... and that's where you wake up.
You've had that dream, haven't you? No? No? No! Of course you haven't! I know you haven't. But I have. I've had that dream for three nights running.
When Jack told me, "If you really want to be the flying-kick man, you have to be my cakeboxing girl," it made sense. I mean, it made sense then. I guess you had to be there, but at the time it seemed to make perfect sense to me.
It still made sense the next day, when I signed the contracts. I was surprised by how many papers I had to sign. Jack told me, "Don't worry, it's boilerplate. It's all vanilla. Trust me, I know these docs. You can just sign 'em. It's gonna take forever if you read them, and you won't understand them anyway."
I trusted Jack, and I felt he was sincere, but one of the few things my father told me — something that I never forgot: "Never sign anything you haven't read." This was the first time I ever signed a contract, so I read every single word. Jack was clearly irritated, but I did it anyway. He kept trying to rush me, but I took my time and read it all.
That was Friday. I felt pretty good about the whole business until Monday morning.
I met Jack at his office. "Hey there, Lewis, how ya doing? Had breakfast yet? Can I get you anything?" I declined, but he poured himself a cup of coffee and helped himself to a glazed donut. "Today it gets real," he told me, as he munched on the donut. "I mean, it was real already: we've got the money, the crew is lined up for next Monday, but today we have to work on you: your look, your moves... we gotta see if the camera likes you. I'm sure you'll be fine; I have a good eye for that, but we need to do some test shots." He went on chatting until he finished his donut.
He brushed the flakes of sugar off his fingers and said, "But first, we have some paperwork." To make a long story short, he wanted me to sign the same pile of contracts I'd signed on Friday all over again — this time with a different name.
"Isn't that illegal?" I asked.
"No," he said, and a big smile appeared on his face. He pulled a single sheet of paper from a folder and laid it in front of me. "This makes it perfectly legal."
The sheet listed the contracts I'd signed Friday, but it said "This affirms that in the documents listed below, signed on [today's date], that Lois Larkspur is an alias for Lewis Kesterly, and used exclusively by him, blah blah blah blah blah, strictly for legitimate professional purposes and has not been used, is not now being used, and will not be used or allowed to be used for the purpose or furtherance of fraud, tax evasion, or any other illegal act."
I stared at that sheet for a long time. Jack sat quietly waiting. At long last I sighed and said, "I wish I could ask a lawyer about this."
"Sure," Jack said. "I'll call one for you if you like. But I can tell you that a lawyer drew that up, and consequently there's nothing wrong with it. All it does is say what it says."
"Lois Larkspur?" I asked.
"Yeah, that's you. Do you like it? Sorry I didn't get a chance to ask you first, but I had to move fast, and I had a lot of the paperwork ready on this name."
I frowned. "You had it ready? Why did you have it ready?"
Jack hesitated, as if he'd been caught... in what? A lie? No, but there was something embarrassing him.
"Emm, ah..., okay, this was going to be the name... the name, ah... that my... my ex was going to use, back when she was going to be the Cakeboxer. Her real name is kind of complicated, so..."
"Will she mind if I'm using it?"
"No," Jack said, deflating a little. "She won't give a fuh... she won't care. It was never her name. She never used it."
Despite my misgivings, I signed the sheet. Jack's assistant Denise immediately notarized it. She took her seal out of a small velvet-lined box, and with it she embossed the sheet. I thought that was pretty cool. Then I signed the pile of contracts all over again, but this time as "Lois Larkspur." I messed up the signature on three of the documents, but Denise didn't bat an eye. She just printed the pages again and put them in front of me. After I was done, she flipped through the entire stack to check that they'd all been signed correctly. She pulled out one "Lois Larkspur" that looked different from the others (I didn't have time to practice!). She printed that sheet out and had me sign it again, and then she checked them all a second time.
The whole time, Denise only said a handful of short sentences, like, "Sign this one here" or "You need to sign this one over again." Her detachment made a strange situation even stranger, but soon it was over and Jack came back in, rubbing his hands and smiling.
Anyway... that was when it started getting hazy. By "hazy" I mean sketchy, weird... I started having doubts about the whole thing.
After all, what could I do after being a cakeboxing girl? What sort of stepping stone was that? After putting on a skirt and kicking cakes apart, where could I go? What good could that possibly lead to? It seemed more like something I'd need to forget and deny, and hope no one ever found out.
I didn't have much time to dwell on my uneasy feelings. As soon as Denise was done checking my signatures, Jack hustled me out of the office and into his car. "I'm taking you to meet Jane and Marcus. They're in the business."
"What business?" I asked. I was thinking Monkey business.
Jack's eyes actually twinkled. "Show business. What other business is there?" He laughed a short bark of a laugh. "You'll love them. Just don't mention Hamlet or Shakespeare or anything remotely connected to Hamlet or Shakespeare."
"Why not?"
"Because Marcus will get right up in your face and unload To be and not to be..., Now is the winter of our discontent..., Is this a dagger I see before me?— he's got 'em all loaded, primed, and ready to go." Jack caught my blank look, and explained, "Shakespeare soliloquies." He shook his head. "Great if you're in the mood... but if you're not, and you've got a crazy, bug-eyed man, right in front of you, demanding your attention..." his voice trailed off.
After a bit of silence, Jack said, "Anyway, they're great people. I arranged for you to stay with them while we're shooting. I think you'll find it more convenient, and it will be a hell of a lot easier for you to stay in character."
He stopped in front of an old house on a street lined with old houses, and shut off the engine. My hands were folded in my lap and I was looking down, mulling over what Jack had said. I asked him, "In character means wearing a skirt?"
"Yeah," Jack confirmed. "Jane and Marcus are going to get you all dolled up, and work on your mannerisms, your walk, your voice... you know, things like that. We're going to start shooting a week from today, and you need to be passable by then."
"Jack," I said, and my voice twisted into a croak, "I don't think I can look like a girl. I don't want to make a fool of myself... especially in front of a camera, on TV."
Jack took a deep breath. He turned and looked at me with a serious face. He ran his eyes over me, down the length of my body, then back up again, scanning me up and down my body and settled on my face. He tilted his head and said, "I never said you'd be beautiful. I just said you need to be passable. Don't worry! We'll make you look good."
Jane and Marcus really were nice people, just as Jack had said. The only thing was that they were a bit... stagey. Marcus moved around the room with his head up and his chest high, as if he were performing to a matinee crowd. When he spoke, I always felt he was delivering lines. Jane was the more natural of the two, but she was constantly dropping names (of celebrities I'd never heard of) or referring to plays with outlandish names. The pair of them would break into song at almost any provocation — which was fine, except that they would direct their song at me, making (and holding!) eye contact all the way through to the end.
After Jack introduced me, he left. The moment the door closed behind him, Jane and Marcus, wasting no time, and dove right into my makeover.
They took pictures of me as I was then, as Lewis. They took all sorts of measurements, and Marcus jotted it all down in a small notebook.
Then they tried, the pair of them tried, to squeeze me into a corset. At first it was only weird. Then it became uncomfortable. As they made it tighter... and tighter, it began to hurt. At last, after Marcus gave one desperate tug, I actually screamed. Jane immediately loosened it and took it off me, saying, "Too much too soon," and settled for a stretchy garment that squeezed me, but in a way that seemed a lot more rational, particularly after the corset.
Next they tried different sizes of breast forms on me. I ended up being a 34C, which I found pretty unwieldy, although both Jane and Marcus agreed it gave me the best proportions.
"Your butt is kind of big for a guy," Jane commented (much to my embarrassment), "but it saves us from having to add anything down there."
Next came some tight white underwear to keep me all tucked in below. Over that, a pair of panties that made me blush just to look at, let alone wear. It was all covered by a girl's kilt and a black t-shirt. The kilt's tartan was very pale, closer to orange than to pink. They gave me a pair of white wedge sneakers that had three-inch heels and four straps across the front. If they weren't made of white canvas, you'd think they were ankle boots.
Jane washed my hair and styled it, then she did a quick pass with some light makeup.
Marcus popped his head in the door to ask, "Ready?"
Jane looked at my nails and hesitated. Then she looked at my face and picked up a few strands of my hair. She sighed and said, "There's a lot left to do, but this will have to be enough for now."
I looked at myself in the mirror, and Jack's word passable came to mind. "What's left to do?" I asked. "I think I look alright."
Jane twisted her lips in disagreement, then said, "If nobody looks too close or too long, I guess, but you're in serious need of a haircut, and we ought to color your hair. Your eyebrows are too bushy and we need to put some thought into what you need on your face. AND you're lucky that you aren't too hairy on your legs and arms, but we'll need to do some waxing."
"I guess that is a lot, then," I offered.
"And I've forgotten to mention your nails, which are horrible, and your teeth, which need whitening."
Marcus stepped into the room and picked up the theme: "...to say nothing of your posture, your facial expressions, the way you move, and the way you talk."
"Wow," I said, taken aback. "Is there anything good about me?"
"Yes, darling," Marcus said, patting my hand, "You're here."
It turned out that they'd hurried through the makeover so they could take me out to lunch. The idea was to throw me, ready or not, as much into life as possible.
"You're not going to learn anything sitting in a room with Janey and me," Marcus explained. "You've got to go out and make a complete ass of yourself. It's the only way to learn."
"I don't want to make a complete ass of myself!" I protested.
"Oh!" Marcus replied. "Then you're in the wrong line of work. Perhaps you should run for Congress instead."
Frowning, I gave me my most offended look. Marcus waved it off. "We don't have time to argue," he said. "I'm telling you now: you have to expect to make mistakes. Hopefully you will make your biggest mistakes this week instead of next week. But do you want to know something? Ordinary people, people who aren't actors, they make mistakes too. They get mortally embarrassed, too. But no one has ever died of embarrassment. You have to learn to carry on even when you're blushing the most glowing neon red. Remember, an actor needs three things: sincerity, humility, and a beautiful heart."
"How can I be sincere when I'm pretending to be something I'm not?"
"Sincere is the way you treat people. You have to mean what you say. When you tell people your name is Lois Larkspur, you have to own it. It's your name, and you want to share it. You're not telling people you're Lois so you can screw with them or cheat them."
"And what the heck is a beautiful heart?"
Marcus smiled. "In your case, I mean a heart like a Disney princess."
I spent the rest of the day interacting with people, all of them strangers. Marcus or Jane would choose a person, give me a "motivation" and send me off.
"Just think of it as improvisational theater," Jane told me.
What they did that day, and the rest of that week, was to throw me into life... in a skirt. They had me asking directions. They made me ask people what time it was. They sent me into stores to ask for items the stores were sure not to have. They sent me into restaurants to get and hold a table for ten during the lunch rush (and of course, there was no party of ten, there was only me!). They sent me into a shoe store where I had to try on literally two dozen shoes, look around for fifteen minutes more, then leave without buying a thing.
It was torture... but it was fun, too.
Sometimes they'd put a recorder in my purse. Sometimes they'd go in ahead of me and observe. Afterward, they'd debrief and critique me, and after three days, I began to get it: I began to separate myself from what I was doing. It was all an act, so I didn't need to feel embarrassed, and if I did, I had to make my embarrassment a part of the act.
At the same time, Jane and Marcus helped me start to get a real feeling for Lois Larkspur.
"Lois Larkspur isn't just a name," Marcus told me. "She's a person. A living, breathing girl."
"Who is she?"
"Yes!" Marcus declared. "Who is she?" He stared at me, as if waiting for my answer. I sat silent, in confused silence, until his look got more insistent. At that, I shrugged and shook my head, lifting up my empty hands to show I had no answer.
"Not good enough!" Marcus insisted. "Who is she?"
"I don't know who she is!" I shouted.
"She's you!" he retorted. Then he looked at my fake breasts and smiled. "She's you with some... improvements. Some additions." He grabbed a wooden chair, turned it around backwards, and sat down in front of me. "Lois Larkspur," he said quietly, holding his hands as if cradling... something. "Lois Larkspur," he repeated, "must be something concrete. She must be real. As real as you are. Are you a real person? You must make her just as real."
"How do I do that?"
"You build her. You build Lois out of pieces of you, out of the life you'd have if you'd been born a girl."
Janey called it building a character: working out, feeling out, who Lois is and what it means to be her. Marcus called it growing into the part, and I liked the process.
Everything was going great until Friday. On Friday morning, they sort of gave me the day off. They let me have the morning to myself: no assignments, no motivations. Just me and the world. I was free to wander, to explore, to enjoy myself. "You can do whatever you like," Marcus said, "but whatever you do, stop and reflect at times... take a mental photograph. Sit by yourself in the library if that's what you want to do, but see that it's you, Lois, in a skirt, with naked legs, and a pair of wobbling tits hanging off you." Jane socked him in the arm, but agreed, saying, "He's right, even if he says it badly."
"I understand," I told her, smiling.
They dropped me off in the downtown area of a nearby city — a place where I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. For safety's sake, I had my cell phone — in case I got into trouble, but I didn't think I'd need it.
I roamed and rambled, my heels clicking on the sidewalk, my skirt moving slightly in the breeze. I got a cup of coffee and a croissant and ate it on a bench. I chatted with a nice old man. I window shopped, and eventually I stopped in front of an odd little store. It was a novelty shop, a magic shop, a place where they sold idiotic practical jokes and magic tricks that didn't work. Their window display was dated and dusty and the window itself needed cleaning. They obviously hadn't touched the display for ages. At first, I had no idea why I'd stopped. I just stood there, staring at the bizarre items: the finger prisons, the decks of marked playing cards, the big magic rings, the wands that turn to flowers, and all the other crazy standards that don't fool anyone... They even had one of those silly buzzers that you wind up and put in your palm when you shake hands. I stood staring at it, wondering whether it ever startled even one single person, or made a person laugh... or even whether it did anything at all...
... until I realized why it caught my eye.
The whole dusty collection, all the goofy nonsense in that ancient window display reminded me of something. Well, not something... someone. One of my oldest friends is a guy named Ronson. Ronson is a great guy, he really is, but is an enormous pain in the neck. Ronson is addicted, fatally addicted, to practical jokes. They are always irritating and never funny, and often they are very very inconvenient. Once, at a friend's party, he covered all the toilets in clear plastic wrap. A couple of people pee'd on themselves or the walls, and left the party early and embarrassed. Another time he shut off the electricity in a friend's house and left a fake letter, supposedly from the electric company, saying that they were working in the street. These friends put up with cold water, no lights or TV, etc., for three whole days, until they called the electric company for an update.
Honestly, the only person who thinks that Ronson is funny is Ronson himself.
And then, not a half hour later, in one of life's weird little coincidences, who should call me, but Ronson himself?
"Hey, buddy," he said. "How're you doing?"
"I'm good," I said. "What are you up to?"
"Oh, nothing. I wanted to see what you're up to. Tell me, what are you wearing?"
I froze. I jerked my head up and looked all around me, my eyes darting everywhere, checking every corner, every window and doorway, every angle. Was he there? Could he see me? If he was, I couldn't spy him. "Why do ask?" I replied, in a guarded tone.
"Are you wearing anything... pink?" he asked.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing that kilt again, but as I said, it was more orange than pink. "Uh... no," I replied. "Why do you ask? Why would I be wearing pink?"
"Hey, I was hoping to run into you last week after you did your laundry. I shoved a red sock into one of the legs of your karate outfit. Did you find it? Or did you go pink?"
Did I go pink? I saw red. "You goddam son of a dog!" I shouted. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Hey, hey," he laughed. "No harm done, right? It's just a joke! No animals were harmed in the making of this prank. I just wish I could have been there when you pulled your lovely pink laundry out of the washer." He erupted in laughter. My jaw tightened in anger.
"Anyway, don't be mad," he continued. "I figured I was doing you a favor. I thought that pink would look good on you. I thought it might even get you going in another direction, if you catch my meaning—"
I abruptly hung up and turned off my phone. I was steaming! I could feel my face burning with anger. So that damn red sock wasn't an accident! It was that stupid Ronson and his stupid pranks. He knew when I'd be doing my laundry — I'm very regular in my habits. And he knew I'd be stuck with my pink karate uniform... and no time to get another.
I stopped in front of another shop window. This window was clean and dark, like a black mirror. I could see my reflection quite clearly: my short kilt, my big round breasts, my girlish haircut, the makeup, arched eyebrows, the nails...
"Ronson always tries to make me look like an idiot," I fumed, and then I stopped. I stared at my reflection and whispered, "Oh, no. Oh, no!" Was all of this Cakeboxer nonsense one of Ronson's pranks?
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
"Am I supposed to act all flustered and nervous and all that?"
"No," Jack replied. "No offense, but I don't think you're that good an actor. But not to worry, we've already given them the story... And they've been told that you're kind of a ditz."
I was so angry I could spit. Here I was far from home, dressed like a girl, hobbling around on three-inch wedges, bare legs in the cold. Ronson had really gone too far this time! Practical jokes are not "jokes" at all. They aren't funny. I've told him countless times, but he never listens, and the fact that people (people like me!) get angry and offended only seems to encourage him.
Still steaming, I called Jack. His assistant told me that Jack was on another call, so I asked her to have Jack call me as soon as he could. While I waited for him to call, I paced back and forth in front of the blacked-out storefront, looking at my reflection, muttering to myself, full of indignation, rehearsing all the outrage I wanted to pour out on Jack, Ronson, and everyone else involved in this travesty.
A few people walked by. They all gave me a wide berth and tried to avoid making eye contact. I must have looked quite insane.
Then, a young mother and her little girl came walking toward me. Everyone else had hurried past me, but the little girl was moving slowly, distracted by... well, distracted by everything. She kept stopping to touch things or talk about things, and kept saying, "Mommy, look at this!" Her mother kept prompting her to come along, and the girl would — for a few steps. Then she'd stop again, fascinated by something else. The girl was adorable, dressed in pink and white cable knits. She was only two feet high, and as she walked she shook her head to make the pom pom on her hat dance around. She looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Oh, look, Mommy! Look at the pretty lady!"
The mother replied with something non-commital and pushed the little girl past. She had seen the fierce look on my face, even if her child had missed it.
But that did it. That cute little girl made me smile. And as I smiled, my bad mood melted, and in the few moments before my cell phone rang, my wrath completely evaporated.
In spite of myself, I was happy now. It was a little irritating; I wanted to be angry, but couldn't. I smiled as talked with Jack, and now that I was calm, I wasn't quite as sure that Ronson was behind the whole Cakeboxer business.
Jack listened to me for a bit, then said, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Not a clue. I don't know any Ronson except the cigarette lighter, and I haven't seen one of those for ages. Believe me, I wouldn't waste my time on a prank. In fact, if it helps to convince you, I've got your first paycheck in my hand. Do you want it? Or do you think that's a prank, too?"
"Oh, no, I want it," I replied. "Please."
"Okay," he said, "I'm going to swing by now and leave it with Jane or Marcus. But first, you have to do something for me."
"What's that?"
"Say I believe."
"Oh, Jack, I'm sorry. I just lost my head for a minute."
"Say it."
I sighed. "Okay. I believe."
"Who is my Cakeboxing girl?"
"I am," I replied in a low tone, as if I was afraid someone would hear.
"What's that? I can't hear you. You must not want this check."
"I am," I repeated more loudly.
"You are what?"
I glanced around me. No one was there. "I am your Cakeboxing girl."
"That's good enough for now," he said, "but I'll tell Marcus you need to work on your acting."
The rest of the week was bootcamp. Marcus and Jane hardly gave me a moment to myself, and when they did, they either had me reading Brides magazine, or Brides Guide, or Martha Stewart Weddings (which I grudgingly found myself liking best), or watching recordings of bridal-themed reality shows.
"I don't want to rush you," Jane told me at one point, "but you need to pick out a dress."
"A dress for what?" I asked. "For kicking the cakes? I thought I was going to wear that kilt and black shirt."
"Top," Jane corrected. "Girls wear tops. I'm talking about your wedding dress, silly. That's the dress."
"Why? I'm not getting married."
Jane bit her tongue and looked at me. After a moment she said, "You need to make people believe that you're getting married. You have to play the part of a bride. And what do brides talk about? What do people ask them about?"
"Uh... the dress?"
"Oh, good guess!" she said, laughing. "And what else?"
I thought. "The honeymoon?"
"Maybe. So where are you going for your honeymoon?"
"Hawaii?"
"Okay. You don't sound very certain. You need to have in your head, very clearly, a few things." As she spoke, she counted with her fingers. "What does your dress look like? How much did it cost? What is your fiance like? Where did you meet? Where will you get married? How many people in the wedding party? Where is the reception? How many people are coming? What do your bridesmaids' dresses look like?"
"Oh my God!" I cried, "That's too much! I'll never keep all that straight!"
"Yes, you will," she replied. "You just need to believe it. And you need to be concrete. For instance, who is your fiance?"
I shrugged.
"Come on," she coaxed. "This isn't real. You're just building a character. I'm going to ask you again, and I want you to tell me the name of the first male friend who comes to mind. Who is your fiance?"
I started to open my mouth and say it, but stopped. Jane gave me a look.
"I'm sorry," I said. "The only name that comes to mind is Ronson."
"The practical joker?"
"Yes."
"Well, he's perfect!"
"No, he's not. He drives me crazy!"
"Is he good looking?"
"I guess... but he's a big pain in the butt."
"And yet, he's your friend." I nodded. "Where did you meet him?"
"In high school. Friend of a friend."
"Awww, high school sweethearts!" Jane cooed, laughing. I turned red. "Perfect!" she repeated. "Look, when people ask about your fiance, you describe Ronson... exactly the way he is."
Then Jane coached me through describing the church I attended as a kid. She asked me about my parents and Ronson's parents, and whether they got along. "Our parents are pretty wary of each other," I told Jane, who replied, "Perfect!"
She ended by telling me that she'd set up some appointments to look at dresses, but although we probably couldn't do it this week.
I had the dream again, with variations, almost every night. Sometimes the location was different: once I was running through the church, but mostly I found myself on streets of towns I'd never seen before. What I was wearing was always different, but always bridal: once I wore a huge gauzy veil and nothing underneath but a brilliantly white lace body suit, full of frills, thin white ribbons, and tiny white bows. Sometimes my hair was elborately put up. Other times cascades of curls spilled over my shoulders. What was the same every time was that angry people were chasing me, and that my legs and feet were speckled and smeared with bits of wedding cake. Just before I'd wake up, I'd fall, or run into a dead end, and cats or dogs — or one time, ferrets — would lick at the cake on my legs.
That's where I'd wake up with my heart pounding. After I'd catch my breath and my pulse stopped racing, I'd wonder what the dream meant. Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Did it mean I was doing something bad? Was I doing something wrong?
Jane and Marcus also had me practice cakeboxing. Not with cakes, though... just with boxes.
We didn't do it much, but we did it every day. I think it was the one part of my training that bored Marcus and Jane, and if Jack didn't insist, I'm pretty sure they would have skipped it altogether. Marcus and Jane would hold a plywood board between them, and I'd stack boxes on it to approximate a wedding cake. Then, I'd choose one of my flying kicks, and knock the boxes all over the backyard. If Jane and Marcus were impressed, they never showed it. They simply stood there while I gathered the boxes, stacked them, and kicked them down, over and over again. Once Marcus commented that, rather than aim for the lowest tier of the cake (as I had been doing), that striking the center of the cake was more likely to have the desired explosive effect.
But that was the extent of their involvement in the kicking part of things. They were much more interested in the development of my character: they worked on my gestures, the way I spoke, the things I'd say, and my facial expressions. They often quizzed me on my back story. It took me a long time to realized that they were more interested in how I responded than in what I said.
"You must believe!" Marcus shouted in frustration. "You have to care! If you're going to be an actor, you have to make it real! You need to feel it!"
I didn't see how I could cook up that sort of emotion on demand, and yet, on Friday, I had a breakthrough.
Jane and I were washing dishes, and she kept asking me about the reception — in fact, right there she interrupted and said, "You say *the* reception. It's not *the* reception, it's YOUR reception. You need to feel that it's yours." — But anyway, she was asking me who wouldn't sit with whom and how many tables and on and on. I was bored and tired, but I honestly tried to come up with good answers. Then she moved to the table settings, and finally she got onto the wedding dress. She wanted to know if I was attracted to one style over the others.
"Do you see yourself as a princess? Would you want a ball gown? A big skirt? A long train? Or would you go for a sexy, form-fitting mermaid, to bring out all your curves?"
I had an answer ready there, and was just about to tell her that I was going to go for a A-line, when I suddenly recalled a dress I'd seen in one of the magazines.
"Jane," I said, "I know this is crazy, and I could never really wear it, but I saw a picture of a dress..." I stopped washing and turned to face her. "It was a pale, pale blue, like a sky blue so light it almost looks white. And it's got a sweetheart neckline and the top is super-form-fitting—" here I blushed and swallowed hard "—and I know it's impossible..."
Jane waved my objections away and motioned for me to go on.
"So... it's got this..." I waved vaguely at my torso "... ruching? am I saying that right? where it's all gathered and wrapped and... and just so cool. Then the skirt is chiffon flounces, all the way to the ground. It looks like water... like a waterfall or... I don't know what. But it's beautiful."
Jane nodded, then a smile appeared on her face. I couldn't help but smile back.
"See?" she said. "You're excited. You're feeling the part. With that emotion, you could wear a pair of dirty overalls and people would still know you're about to be a bride."
On Monday, we started shooting the pilot. Our first target was Cake Mafia, which features an Italian-American bakery that — at least on TV — is a highly volatile environment, full of yelling, misunderstandings, drama, and hot tempers.
The wardrobe mistress put me in a dangerously short beige pleated skirt, a tight black top with puffy shoulders, and a pair of black leather boots criss-crossed with straps. To top it off, she gave me a white beret. The hair person set my hair in tiny curls, and I have to say: I looked pretty damn good.
I did have reservations about the boots at first. Even though the heels were only two inches, they didn't feel that stable. "I'm not sure I can do my kicks in these," I said. "I'm going to have to practice."
The wardrobe mistress shook her head. "You won't do any kicking until Sunday, when they deliver the cake. I've got a pair of sneakers for that." She held up a pair of cute pink sneakers. "Better? Will that work?"
I smiled and nodded.
When I emerged from hair, makeup, and wardrobe, my energy was high. I'd never had so many people fussing over me, trying to make me look good. I felt like a star, radiating light and happiness.
The first person I ran into, was Jack. It was no surprise; he had obviously been waiting for me. Before he opened his mouth, I started peppering him with questions.
"Hey, Jack! I was wondering... aren't the bakers going to wonder why I'm ordering my cake a week before the wedding? Don't most brides order their cake weeks or months ahead?"
"Uh, yeah...," he replied. "The story is, a friend of yours was going to make the cake, and then she flaked out."
"Oh! So am I supposed to act all flustered and nervous and all that?"
"No," Jack replied. "No offense, but I don't think you're that good an actor. But not to worry, we've already given them the story. And they've been told that you're kind of a ditz."
I frowned. "What do you mean, they've been told? I thought we were going to prank them."
"We are, but don't you think they'd wonder about the cameras following you? ... and the retakes and all?"
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I was going to ask you about that, too."
"We've told them that you're in a new reality show about brides who are not... um... not very... well, not very organized, let's say."
"Hmmph," I said, feeling a little offended. "Does this supposed show have a name?"
"Yes. We told them it's Weddings That Almost Weren't."
I told him it wasn't a very catchy title, but he just shrugged.
I frowned, digesting this news. I could see how it let me off the hook for almost anything, but still I felt a little offended. Then I remembered another question I had. "Hey, will our camera guys go into the bakery? Will we see them working on the cake?"
"No," Jack said. "They won't let us. There isn't room. We will have a lot of cameras in the alley when you kick the cake, but for all the stuff inside the bakery, we have a deal where they'll give us their dailies. The ones about you and your cake, anyway. You know, if they talk about you or work on your cake."
The two of us fell silent, and for the first time I realized that something was bothering Jack. In fact, he'd been looking uncomfortable the whole time. As I watched, he wrung his hands, and it struck me that he'd done the same thing several times during our conversation.
"Is everything okay, Jack?" I asked.
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Everything's great. I always get nervous before we start shooting. Once things get going, the butterflies will pass."
"Okay," I said, and the two of us returned to our awkward silence, until Jack cleared his throat.
"So, uh, are you comfortable?" he asked me.
"Yes," I replied, smiling. "The boots took a little getting used to. I mean, the heels, you know. But I've been practicing the kicks all week, so I think I'm good."
Jack laughed nervously. "That's, uh, great, but it wasn't what I meant. I was talking about the skirt, the tits, the whole... you know, the whole girl thing."
"Oh, that! Maybe last Monday I had a moment... but Jane and Marcus had me so focused on making it work... I dunno, I kind of forgot. I forget. And I found it's actually easier to do the kicks if you're not wearing pants."
Jack's eyes widened. "You forget? You forget that you're all dolled up? and that you've got those two mamambas hanging off your chest?"
I shrugged. "I don't feel very girly."
"Well, you look pretty girly. Don't be surprised if the guys on the crew start hitting on you."
"Seriously?"
Jack looked down, and the uncomfortable look returned to his face. Was I making him nervous? But then he reached into his pocket and took out a little box.
"Listen," he said in a small, quiet voice. "There's one more... thing you need, before you go order the cake." As he opened the tiny box, I saw that it held a ring, and when the sunlight caught the stone, I realized it was an engagement ring.
"This is real," he croaked, "so don't lose it." His face reddened as he slipped it over my knuckle. I could barely hear him as he said, "This is the ring I was going to give my girlfriend. The one who was the original Cakeboxer."
"It's beautiful!" I said. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out. But it really was incredible. Unreal. I'd never seen a diamond before. At least, not this close. Looking into that perfect crystalline surface was like looking into another world. I had no idea diamonds could be that extraordinary.
"Yeah," Jack said, and he nearly deflated as he said it. He gripped my hand hard and shook it tight. "Don't lose it!" he repeated, and head down, like a beaten dog, he turned and walked away.
As he disappeared, a girl with a headset and a clipboard approached me. "Oh, good, you got the ring!" she observed. "Look, when you get in that bakery, you've got to remember what you want to do in there. What is it?"
"Order the cake," I replied.
"NO!" she shouted. "You want to show off the ring! Whatever you do, wherever you go, you want people to see THE RING. You point at something, you use your left hand like this—" and she pointed her left hand, tilting it so the ring finger was up. "When you're at the counter, you rest your LEFT hand on the counter... but, like, unconsciously, see?" And she mimed resting her left hand on something. "You hand somebody something, you use your left hand and you turn your hand this way, see?"
She ran through a few more notice-my-ring scenarios. "You have to remember, you want EVERYONE to see the ring, so you're OBVIOUS, okay? Really in-your-face. You're like this—" and she made a vacant expression while she held her hand to her face. "Remember, hon, this is one thing that's impossible to overdo. In fact, it's all about overdoing it."
"Okay," I replied. I practiced a few arm poses and vacant looks until she laughed and said, "You've got it."
At the bakery, there were three young women behind the counter. I was quite sure they'd heard the ditz story, because all three had a barely-hidden smirk.
In spite of that, they were very nice. Without any prompting, they oohed over my ring, told me what a pretty bride I'd be, and wanted to hear the story about my friend who was supposed to make my cake, but didn't. I didn't tell it very well, and we did five takes before the director was satisfied. (Yes, they do retakes on reality shows!)
No one seemed to mind, though. Everyone took the retakes as a matter of course.
But what really stopped me dead was when they asked what sort of cake I wanted.
"Uh... tiers," was all I could say. In all my preparation, no one had coached me about what sort of cake I wanted, and all I could think was make it high so it's easy to kick. So I said, "Make it high."
The women smirked at that. They asked how much I wanted to spend, and I didn't know that, either. I had to fumble through the wad of money Jack had given me. He had cautioned me that some of it wasn't real (it was stage money), so in my fumbling I had to separate the real from the fake. After what seemed like five minutes I gave them an answer that seemed to please them, and they pulled out a binder filled with pictures of cakes.
They kept asking me questions, trying to draw out some sort of fanciful theme or dream. In the end, I picked a five-tier white cake decorated with white ropes and flowers and a big white bow. They assured me it was all edible. I asked them to not put the little couple on top. I don't know why I did, but they shrugged and agreed.
The rest of the week was pretty quiet. We shot some scenes in the neighborhood around the bakery. Wednesday we drove to a dojo in a nearby city where I put on my pink gi and practiced my kicks for the camera.
Thursday I went back to the bakery to ask if I could taste the cake they were making for me. It all seemed spontaneous, but it was arranged by the two producers. The bakers made a tiny cake for me and decorated it. I sat at a little table and ate it, surrounded by chubby bakers. I could feel their eyes on my legs and breasts. I never *really* understood the term sexual tension before that experience.
At long last, Saturday came: the day I'd kick the cake. I couldn't wait. The wardrobe mistress dressed me in a shiny, short red skirt that moved with the slightest bit of air. I was glad I wouldn't be wearing it long, because it covered so little and moved so easily, it was almost worse than no skirt at all.
I also wore a drapey, white long-sleeved top and the pink sneakers I mentioned earlier. My hair was tied with two long red ribbons. I felt like a girl in a sexy Japanese comic.
It was pretty damn uncomfortable. I'd never dressed in such an overtly sexual way before, and it was embarrassing, exhilerating, and frightening. It was worse than being naked: although all my private parts were covered, I felt completely exposed and more intensely vulnerable than I ever felt in my life.
Jack seemed to sense what I was feeling, so he said, "I want to show you something that might take your mind off what you're wearing."
"Or not wearing," I added.
He led me to a white SUV, and the two of us sat in back. It was a very luxurious vehicle. The seats were as comfortable as arm chairs, and there were small TV screens in the seat backs. Everything was new and clean and slick. "This is nice, Jack," I began to say, "but I don't think—" Jack shook his head. "It's not the car. It's this," and he tapped on the little screen in front of me. "Run it," he said. "I don't know how to run it," I replied, confused. "I wasn't talking to you," he explained, and the screen suddenly came to life. I recognized the Cake Mafia bakery, and the three women behind the counter. "I know them," I said, and then a young woman entered the bakery. She was wearing a white beret... it took a moment for me to recognize myself. Do I really look that good? I thought. And then Do I really look that bad? and then something happened to make me forget both questions.
I was watching the scene when I ordered the cake. At the time I thought those girls were so nice. I was nervous, and they were very encouraging. They made me smile and feel good. I remembered how happy I felt when I walked out.
But that's not what really happened. Those three, who I thought were so nice — well, they were laughing at me the entire time! Whenever I turned my head, the one I couldn't see would shake her head, roll her eyes, make rude gestures, or laugh silently. As I fumbled with my money, they made faces at each other and mouthed, "Do you believe this one?"
When I didn't know what kind of cake I wanted, one of them put her hands on her head and dropped her jaw. Another one mimed knocking on the back of my head, as if to show it was hollow.
"I didn't see any of this when it happened," I commented.
"Oh, no, of course not," Jack said. "They were careful to do it all behind your back."
"They make me look like a complete, empty-headed jackass!" I exclaimed. "They act like I'm stupid!"
Jack raised his eyebrows and nodded. "It gets worse," and he pointed me back to the little screen.
After I left the store, one ran to the window, and the moment I was safely out of sight, the three of them started hooting and laughing and exclaiming over everything I'd done.
"Did you believe that girl?" one shouted, wiping her eyes.
"When she pulled out that wad of money, I nearly fell over," another said. "It looked like she'd never seen money before. How can you NOT KNOW how much money you've got?"
"What I can't believe is that she had NO IDEA what kind of cake she wanted. NO IDEA! What kind of cake was her friend going to make for her? I can't imagine."
"A pile of Twinkies on a plate." They all laughed. One wiped tears from her eyes.
"I've never seen anything like that!"
They dissected every single detail they thought they knew about me: the way I walk, the way I talk, my lack of planning...
"No way that girl's ready to get married," one commented. "She needs to go back to nursery school."
"God bless the poor schmuck that's marrying her!"
"Some guy's gonna have his hands full with that one. She doesn't know whether she's coming or going!"
"And what is this show she's on? How I Effed Up My Wedding?"
They howled and screamed with laughter. Jack gestured with his head, and the screen went dead.
"Oh!" I growled. "I am so MAD! They were so MEAN and FAKE! Didn't they know they were on camera? What jerks! What a-holes! And I thought they were so nice! Ha!" I shouted, "Oh, those effing bees!" My blood was hot. I was boiling mad. I shouted, I fumed, I balled my hands into fists and clenched my teeth.
"Yeah, they're not very nice," Jack agreed as the car came to a halt. "But hey, look: here's where you kick their cake apart." He pointed across the street to an alley, where a Cake Mafia van was parked, its rear doors open wide. "I'd suggest you get down there, in front of the van, and wait for them to come out that door with the cake. As soon as you see them, zip around, line up with the cake, and do your magic. Okay? You ready?"
"Yeah!" I replied fiercely, "I'm ready. I'll going to kick the hell out of that cake."
Jack stopped me as I reached for the door handle, and said, "After, we'll be around the corner that way, okay? After you kick the cake, take off. Turn right out of the alley and right at that corner, and that's where we'll be. Right, right. Okay?"
I nodded, and jumped out. I was mad. I was really mad. Any reservations I had about kicking the bakers' hard work apart were gone. The way I felt, they could line up every cake they had in the whole damn place, and I'd gladly kick them all to pieces.
I took my place in front of the bakers' van and waited. I watched Jack's white SUV, my getaway car, roll out of sight and away. Glancing around, I saw cameras mounted here and there, and then I tried to ignore them. I wanted to focus on the cake, on the kick, on the moment of truth.
It didn't take long to arrive. The door burst open with a bang, and two fat bakers came lumbering out, moving slowly, talking the entire time, telling each other in scolding tones to be careful. I ran around the van, and suddenly my heart started pounding like a rapid-fire hammer in my chest. Behind the bakers, still inside, was a cameraman. There was another down the alley. I'd have to pass him to get out.
I stood alongside the bakers, and seeing me, they stopped too. I lined myself up with the cake. It was taller than I expected, and prettier.
"Hey," one said slowly. "I know you. This is your cake. What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be getting married? Like right now?"
I didn't say a word. I just wound up, threw myself in the air, and did a flying back kick. I could feel it: I'd judged the distance perfectly, and my foot sank halfway into the cake.
"What the frikkin' fah—" one of the bakers shouted. "Quit that!"
The kick was flawless, but the cake was still standing. The only difference was a foot-shaped depression in one side. It wasn't what I expected. I thought the cake would be more solid. I figured the tiers would fly apart, like the boxes I practiced on, and the whole thing would just... explode! Instead, I only mushed it. Sure, I ruined the cake, but the idea was to send cake flying.
The bakers weren't moving yet, and the cameramen just kept filming. While the bakers were still frozen in surprise, I figured I had time to fire off another kick. As quickly as I could, I lept into a spinning hook kick, and this time I lifted pretty far off the ground. It was an excellent kick. My butt was as high as the bakers' heads, and my heel plowed right through the cake.
Again, this time the cake didn't come apart. It didn't explode into pieces or fall off the board. It just collapsed, and it collapsed toward me, falling on my leg as it cut through the cake. When I put my foot back on the ground, my left foot, the one I'd done the kicks with, it slid. My sneaker was covered in white cream frosting, and my leg, all the way up to my knee, was smeared with frosting, bits of cake, and fragments of decorations.
While I was looking down at myself, puzzled and surprised, the two bakers, as one, let go of the board. It landed flat on the ground, with the cake on top, and it made a loud, menacing crash. Some more cake bits and frosting splattered on me. "Get her!" one of the bakers growled, "Get her!"
I took off running.
It was hard going, what with one frosted foot. I couldn't get much traction on my left side. The cake kept my foot slipping back. So I took to hopping and skipping and jumping on one leg. Sometimes I'd put my left foot down, trying to wipe the frosting off. Unbelievably, I got to the end of the alley before the bakers got their fat fingers on me. Turn right; turn right, Jack had said. So I turned right.
The two bakers were pretty out of shape, but they were closing in. I took off toward the corner, going as quickly as I could, trying every few steps to smear some cake off my shoe. In spite of running on one leg and trying to clean my shoe, I managed to reach the corner a few yards ahead of the bakers. They were huffing and puffing and coming up slow, but they kept on coming. For them, running was not much faster than walking, and neither of them could walk very quickly. But they were determined, I could see it in their faces. But now I was safe. The white SUV would be here... right here...
... but it wasn't. There was no sign of Jack or anyone from Cakeboxer. I swore, I hesitated, but only for a moment. I couldn't let the angry bakers catch me, so I took off hobbling, hopping, skipping as fast as I could, and midway in the block I spotted an alley, so I took it. I figured it would meet up with the bakers' alley, and I could circle the half-block again. But just as I turned into the alley, one of the bakers rounded the corner. He'd seen me take the alley!
Still, even if he hadn't seen me, I was leaving a pretty easy-to-follow trail of frosting and fondant behind me. They weren't exactly footprints, but every time I put my foot down, I'd make a creamy white mark.
And then, guess what: the alley turned out to be a dead end. There was a fence at the end, and the fence had no opening.
I looked behind me. The bakers hadn't reached the alley yet. I still had hope. I could scale the fence... or...
I spotted a door in a building, and that door was ajar. Normally I wouldn't dare, but I didn't want to find out what the bakers had in mind. Sure, they weren't butchers — they didn't have knives — but they were bigger than me, and they had plenty of friends. They wouldn't have any trouble rolling me in flour and stuffing me into one of their ovens, if they felt like it.
I hopped over to the door, pushed my way inside, and shut the door behind me. There wasn't any way to secure it, to keep it shut, so I leaned against it while I waited for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness.
A short flight of metal stairs led down to a dirty, industrial-looking space. Beggars can't be choosers, I told myself, and hopped down the stairs as quietly as I could. When I reached the bottom, a man stepped out of a doorway and asked, "Who are you? And what's your business here?"
"Some men are chasing me," I said, panting a little, and I'm sure I looked and sounded scared. He looked at the door, then down at my leg. "What happened there?" he asked.
"I guess I stepped into a cake," I quipped, laughing weakly.
"Must have been one deep cake," he replied, and said, "Well, come on, we can hide you and get that leg cleaned up." And with that, he literally swept me off my feet and carried me down a dark, dirty hallway. He kicked open a door and brought me into a room.
"This is the break room," he said as he set me in a chair. I looked around me.
The room was clean, if windowless. There was a small, outdated television set, a card table and some folding chairs, a small fridge, and a sink. The only decoration was a plastic fern that sat atop a small, unpopulated bookcase. It had that dry, musty, basement smell.
The man pulled one of the folding chairs near me, but not too close. He pointed down at my left foot. "Is there a shoe under all that frosting?"
I laughed and said yes.
He laid a piece of newspaper on the ground under my foot. "Well, let's wash that shoe off and then see about the rest of it," he said, and without so much as a by-your-leave he gently but firmly took hold of my leg and pulled my sneaker off. He dropped it on the paper, then pulled my sock off and dropped it next to the sneaker.
He smiled at me, and I smiled back. Honestly I was scared as hell, but so far he hadn't hurt me or given any indication that he would. In fact, he seemed pretty friendly and helpful.
The man glanced at the frosting on his fingers, and looking me in the eye, he gave his hand a big lick. And I mean a big lick. He ran his tongue all the way from the tip of his thumb down and then up his index finger, all the way to the tip. I laughed nervously, because that was creepy. Then he did the same on his other hand.
"Have you tasted it yet?" he asked me in a soft voice.
"Uh, no," I said. "I, uh, haven't had a chance."
"Here's your chance," he said, gesturing at my leg. "It's pretty good."
"Uh... I think I'll pass," I said.
He shrugged and smiled. "Suit yourself. I think we've got some towels here, clean ones. If not, there's plenty of paper towels." He rummaged in a cabinet, and came back holding a roll of paper towels. I was just thinking how it would be easier to run, now that I was rid of the slippery sneaker, and what a good idea it would be to start running right about now — when he knelt down in front of me, on one knee.
"What pretty feet you have," he said, as he took my heel in his hand.
"Please don't," I said. "I think I'd better go."
"Don't worry," he said, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I just want to clean you up."
"I can clean myself up—" I began to say, but I'd hardly gotten the words out of my mouth when he bent down and ran his tongue slowly up my leg, starting at my ankle, licking up the frosting and kissing up the bits of cake, all the while sending an electric alarm through the core of me.
"HEY!" I shouted, "DOWN, BOY!" and I pulled back my arm, cocking it for good hard blow to his head.
"Whoa!" a familiar voice shouted. "No, Lois! Stop!"
It was the girl from Cakeboxer, the one with the headphones and the clipboard. She seemed to pop out of nowhere, and the man at my feet didn't seem surprised at all to see her. "Whoa! Whoa!" the girl called to me. "Don't hit him! He's just an actor."
The man himself looked up at me, startled — and seemingly hurt (!) — by the blow I was ready to strike. "Hey, now, I just did what they told me to... it was supposed to be funny!"
I swore quite graphically, and suddenly Jack and a handful of others were there as well, all from Cakeboxer.
It was a setup, Jack explained, to spice up the pilot. "We figured if we moved the SUV, you'd end up in the alley."
"What if I didn't?" I countered. "What if the butchers — I mean the bakers — got their hands on me?"
"But they didn't!" Jack crowed. "I knew you'd come through. There was a challenge, and you rose to it!"
"Hmmph!"
"We were ready," the girl with the clipboard told me. "We wouldn't have let them hurt you."
Jack patted me on the back. "You handled it like a champ!" he exclaimed. "It was great! Just great! Putting the reality in reality TV! That's what I'm talking about!"
One of the crew pointed out to me where the cameras were hidden, but I couldn't see them.
"I think we can call it a wrap, folks," Jack announced, rubbing his hands happily. "The second team is getting reactions from the bakery people, and with that, we're done. AND we'll end with a freeze of you, Lois, getting ready to smack Tom in the head..." He lifted his arm back in imitation of me, he started laughing.
"Great," I said. "Is every episode going to be like this?"
"Oh, no," Jack said. "Every episode will be different. We're not going to repeat some gimmick. We'll have new surprises every week. It will be GREAT!"
"Mmm," I said. "We'll see. But in the meantime..." I looked down at Tom, who was looking, without any trace of shame or guilt, right up my skirt. "Yes?" he asked in a musical voice.
"You can let go of my foot now."
"Are you sure?" he replied, his eyes twinkling.
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way