I Hate Everyone, Except You(12)

When I arrived at that first callback, there were several men in the reception area outside the studio awaiting their turn to enter. The TV was playing episodes of What Not to Wear, which I had still not seen. (There was no video on demand back in those days, Fanny. We were savages.) So I sat and watched the show.

And I hated it.

Good Lord, was it awful! I thought, If this is the kind of program they want to make, I am the absolute wrong person for it. The way Stacy and Wayne, the guy they were replacing, spoke to the women on the show felt so mean-spirited and judgmental. Sure, at the time I got a kick out of criticizing people’s clothes, but I didn’t actually care what they were wearing and I certainly didn’t want anyone to feel like shit about herself for it. That might not make sense, but I truly thought I could crack a few jokes, help women shop for cute stuff, and send them on their way. Buh-bye! What Not to Wear and I didn’t seem like a perfect match.

As I sat on the edge of my folding chair, my inner dialogue went something like this:

“Let’s go, dipshit.”

“No. We’re staying.”

“Shut up and get your ass out of this chair now.”

“Nope. We promised the Universe we would stay.”

“We lied.”

“It wasn’t a lie. We said we’d follow the Universe’s guidance, no questions asked!”

“Fuck that. I’m outta here.”

And so I got up from my chair, fully intending to leave and that’s when the casting agent opened the door and called my name.

“Clinton Kelly?” she said.

And I replied, “That’s me.”

And she said, “Come on in.”

And so I did. Interestingly, my mood changed the second I entered the casting room, from uncertainty to complete certainty that this was the most surreal experience I had had in forever. This was all happening so fast. Could this be the change I was looking for? Did anyone really think I was right for this job? Did I think I was right for this job?

About seven people sat in a line behind two rectangular tables that had been pushed together. Executives from the network (TLC), the production company (BBC), a camera operator, and Stacy London, whom I didn’t even recognize from the video I had been watching in the waiting area because she was so casually dressed and wearing little, if any, makeup.

“Oh, hi,” I said, when I realized it was her. “It’s you.” I waved and she waved back and smiled a big smile.

Someone asked me to take a seat, in a chair facing them all like a firing squad. They asked me a bunch of questions, most of which I can’t remember now. I do recall being asked which celebrity’s style I admired, and I responded with the truth, that I really didn’t care about celebrity style, because celebrities had stylists. It doesn’t count when someone else is picking out your clothes.

I also remember that my mouth was really dry. Could it have been nerves? I don’t recall being nervous.

“Can I have some water?” I asked, and started laughing.

“You want water?” a British woman named Abigail responded, as if nobody had ever asked her for water before.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m all dry.” My tongue seemed two sizes too big for my own mouth, which struck me as hysterical.

Everyone in the room laughed awkwardly and looked at me as though I were some sort of dry-mouthed lizard. Then someone had the idea of seating Stacy next to me and pointing a camera at the two of us as we flipped through entertainment magazines, ragging on some people and complimenting others. I really liked her. I had never met her before this day, and yet we chatted like two old friends for about half an hour, while everyone else in the room watched and laughed.

At one point I realized my hand was resting on Stacy’s thigh. You might not know me as well as you think you do, Fanny. At the time, touching a relative stranger was very uncharacteristic of me.

I said, “I’m so sorry.” And Stacy looked at me, puzzled.

“For what?” she asked.

“My hand is on your leg.”

“Oh, God,” she said. “I don’t care.” Then I felt kind of silly for bringing it up. But in some ways, I’m glad I did. I had forgotten about “me” for a moment and become “us.”

I left that audition and by the next morning received a call to come back two days later, which was a Sunday, Father’s Day, actually. I had been planning to go out to Long Island to visit my dad, so I called him and asked if it would be okay if he took a rain check. When I told him my reason for cancelling, he said, “Do what you gotta do, son. And knock ’em dead.”

That audition would prove to be my final one. It was a miniversion of the show. They had whittled the field of what I was told were thousands of men down to two: me and someone else I never had the chance to meet. When I didn’t hear from anyone for two weeks, I assumed they had chosen the other guy. And I was a little disappointed, but not devastated. Maybe because I never really wanted the job. The disappointment was more about having to figure out what the hell to do with my life. But TLC called me and offered me a five-year contract—their option to renew every year, not mine. I accepted, and that was that.

So, Fanny, does it sound like Fate muscled her way into a reality show casting? Or was it Destiny? Or perhaps it was Faith herself! My own Faith in the Universe, or some other higher power. I asked for a change, and it landed smack-dab in the middle of my flat-front-trousered lap. Fate, Faith, Destiny, Coincidence—who cares. The past is past, as they say. And I’m just plugging along in the present, the only way I know how, in a sense of amused wonderment at it all. Ever since I made a concerted effort to give up trying to determine why things happen, I’ve been a bit freer to experience things when they happen. Oh, here I go with that armchair philosophy again. Pay no attention to the musings of an old man like me.