1990s, Los Angeles, California

By Melissa Berman

“I hate her.” It went off in my head like an answering machine on the third ring the minute she walked in the studio.

It’s 7:45 a.m. Monday morning. I’m downing my fifth cup of coffee after getting up at the crack of dawn to fly to LA and record a radio commercial for my advertising agency.

So I’m sitting and sipping and here comes this skinny, pretty blonde woman with a Christie Brinkley smile and an “I just threw it together, but doesn’t it look great?” outfit. She flips her wispy little bangs away from her eyes, extends her hand, and introduces herself.

“Hi, I’m Veronica. It’s so nice to met you.” Did I mention that she was skinny?

“Yes, great - sorry to drag you in so early,” I smiled, thinking to myself,”She’s dumb - I know it - she probably has a hard time spelling her own name.”

She glides into position behind the microphone and the engineer closes her in the recording booth. At least now there’s a glass window and a door separating us. I mean, I wouldn’t want to catch any of her bimbo germs - they might tarnish my natural bohemian charm or damage my sophisticated intellect.

I press the “talk back” button to make sure she can at least hear me - Lord knows she probably doesn’t understand much. She’s one step ahead of me.

“Excuse me, can you hear me?” her perfectly trained voice comes piping out from her glass house.

“Uh, yes, what’s the problem?” again I smile.

“Well, are you sure you want to say ‘is now on sale’? I think it should be ‘are now on sale.’”

My smile widens, practically wrapping itself around my ears. “Well silly me, thanks so much for catching that, Veronica.”

I pick up my coffee and realize it’s ice cold, which means the steam I’m feeling is coming from somewhere inside my body. Suddenly I feel a large pimple begin to erupt on my face. Veronica has probably never felt that before. Bob, the engineer, suggests that we ‘put one down’ and work from here. This is how we always do it. Record a take. Figure out how much the timing is off and then keep recording until we get it right. Once the time is down, I start working with the quality of the read.

I tell him to go ahead and roll and I leave the room to get some hot coffee and a few quick drags off a cigarette. For some reason I don’t want Veronica to see me smoking.

When I return, a mere 90 seconds later, she is out of the booth, sitting on the couch laughing with Bob and, you guessed it, smoking a cigarette. “I hope this doesn’t bother you” she apologizes and reaches to extinguish her smoke.

“Oh, no, not at all, I just didn’t think anyone in California smoked,” I joke.

“They don’t, but I’m form New York and there are some things you just can’t leave back there.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say as I pick up a script, trying to avoid the chitchat. Christ, she’s even from New York, like me. I can’t even pull the righteous California Karma number on her.

I don’t care, I still don’t like her. She’s not for real. She’s an actress. A blonde actress. And right now she’s just acting the part she thinks I’ll like. Well, it’s not going to work.

Let’s see how good she really is. “OK, let’s listen back, Bob,” I command, stopwatch in hand as I assume my producer’s stance.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” he says. “I think we nailed it on the second take. Veronica had the timing perfect every time. This read is right on.”

“Great. Let’s listen.” I turn my head and swallow my sarcasm with a big gulp of coffee. Sure enough, the second take is perfect. I should really lighten up. Veronica can’t help it if she’s perfect. It’s not her fault. Why am I being such a bitch? I should be filled with admiration, not resentment. Shit, she did the damn spot on the second take, I should be grateful, I can spend the rest of the day on the beach.

Just as I’m about to call it a wrap, she opens up those choirlike vocal chords. “You know what,” she announces, “I think I can do a better one.” And with that she’s off, back behind the mike to demonstrate some more of her magic. Of course, she’s right and she proceeds to top her own perfection.

At this point I give in. I like her. I have to, there’s not much there to dislike. Bob finishes up the spot, laying in the music track and doing the mix while Veronica and I sit and chat.

She tells me about her travels (she’s been all around the world) and we talk about LA and New York and bagels and sushi and what jerks men are and how cute her jacket is and the coolness of my earrings. When all is said and done, the whole encounter is actually quite nice.

She smiles and leaves. I smile and immediately check my teeth for lipstick. It’s over, I’ve rubbed elbows with perfection, with everything I wish I was. I’m afraid to go to the bathroom because I know when I look in the mirror I won’t see Veronica. So I go directly to my car and head for the beach.

The sun feels great as I cruise with the top down in my Mustang rent-a-car. I crank up some dance music and, driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, I gaze through my sunglasses at the living movie set they call Los Angeles. Los Angeles, where everything is made to seem so appealing, so larger than life, so ideal.

I pull up to the beach parking lot and there are five Veronicas playing volleyball. Another movie set - “Summer Dreamland” or “Beach Blanket Fantasy” - it’s happening right before my eyes. I spread out my stolen hotel towel, lay down, and slide my shorts off to reveal my pasty northern complexion. Forget the sunscreen - I need a tan.

I pull out my book, a true piece of literature, not some trashy novel, and before I’ve reread the paragraph where I left off I’m asleep, baking in the warmth of unreality. My jealousy for Veronica melts away while I sleep and when I awake I can’t wait to get to the airport and back to my own very real life.

It isn’t until a few months later that I see Veronica again. Actually, it isn’t a physical encounter, but this time my vision of her is more vivid than the first moment I met her. I am on the phone with her agent.

“I want to book Veronica for this spot I’m doing next week,” I tell him.

“Well, I’m really sorry, but she won’t be available,” he informs me.

“Oh shit. I really like working with her.” It really is the truth.

“Well I know she liked you a lot so I guess I can tell you. You see, Veronica is going to be away for a while. She’s back East in rehab - she has sort of a problem - an alcohol problem.”

“Oh wow, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say and I hang up.

“Hey did you get Miss Perfect for the spot? I decided I definitely should be at the recording.” My partner David comes in my office shortly after my phone call. I’ve told him the whole Veronica story and he’s convinced he’s found his future wife.

“What? Uh, no, she, uh, she’s got something big going on back East,” I tell him.

“Bummer, guess we’re not big time enough for her.” “Yeah I guess not.”

That night David and I were out having a beer and dreaming up new and creative ways to sell soap. “What’s up with you?” he asks. “This is great, we get Richard Lewis doing his neurotic thing about cleanliness. It’ll be hilarious. Why aren’t you laughing?”

“I’m laughing, I’m laughing. It’s just that I heard some disturbing news today.” I tell him about Veronica’s problem. “I guess I just thought she was perfect,” I confess. “Yeah, well, that’s the problem with perfect people,” David explains. “They’re only perfect until they become real.”

Writer, filmmaker, intrepid traveler and Gemini, Melissa Berman seeks to find the common truths in the stories we live, tell, and dream about. She also has two really cool dogs.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, December 13th, 2006 | Email This Post

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