​TV bride, (A 2016 Carrie McCray Memorial Literary Award winner for fiction):
TV Bride
Veronica Abrams

Our soul connection and thirty-five years of marriage were reduced to the two most superficial words in the English language. “Happy holidays,” I said as I looked into pale blue eyes that seemed to say, Please don’t let me be alone this Christmas.

I tried. I tried to be a good TV Bride. I recited my lines just like any good actress-wife. I fulfilled my contract. We had a good run, decent internet reviews, the whole cast and crew.

How do we ever know why we do the things we do? How do you know it’s free-will when we’re already programmed by ten million cheering viewers?

We spent all our younger years feeling imprisoned by work, day-dreaming of freedom, what the future brings, and retirement. And we spend all of our retirement lost in nostalgia for our youth and daily routine activities, just glued to the internet and TV. Googling ourselves, rewinding our best performances, reading online reviews, addicted to hearing our own scrutiny. In some ways, this was what everybody wanted, enough internet photos and streaming videos archived of their career and life to watch until they died.

There we sat at the table in our flat on the fifteenth floor in the Newdoor Complex. Carl was helping Michael adjust his skinny black tie, and Tena was applying my waterproof twenty-four hour eyeliner off-camera.
We had a brand new mini sienna glass table they had rush ordered us, because one viewer in Wisconsin, had posted on our internet feed, that the old one was starting to chip a little at the sides and it was making me somehow look a little, ya know, frumpy? It had been product placed in the room, stage right, where I poured Michael’s morning coffee and delivered my lines right on time,

“Good morning, Michael.”

“Good morning beautiful,” he said with a perfect response time, kissing me on the forehead. He had gelled blonde hair with idyllic little waves and powder blue eyes, but I could never tell if they were real or just contact lenses.
I placed his eggs Benedict with a side of grits and julienne fries down on the table setting. They polished me up by dressing me in the black pleather pants and a silken heather V-neck sweater, not to mention, the perfect push-up bra.

Carl held up the cue card and I continued with my lines, “Can’t wait to go to Key Largo darling, our jet leaves at five.” We both knew this was a lie, we weren’t really going to an exotic island. If we were lucky it would probably just be some bayside beach off the side of a power plant or strip mall that would be framed and combined with CGI to give the illusion to those who viewed our video and images, that we were somewhere beautiful.

“Me too, sugar. Damn you look hot,” he said sipping his coffee, kinky little silver cuff links and crisp skinny black Minoshini tie working with the accent lighting. It was all just advertising. Artificial lies. And It wasn’t real. Michael didn’t mean it. He was just playing his part, reciting the script to our life.

“Cut,” said Carl, “Michael, can you slap her on the ass or something? Our internet feed has been trending lately, saying you and some of the other actor husbands have been too nice. Can we get a little more passion? Make it a little bit more feisty?”
Michael clenched his teeth for a moment and we all felt the tension rise—for a second there we wondered if maybe he didn’t take his medication. Cause he suddenly seemed really irritable, a little too angsty for primetime. But he quickly caught himself, remembering his livelihood was dependent on this and then he complied, looking me in the eye, “Me too, honey,” like he really loved me this time.

“Damn you look hot,” and his hand slapped against my ass in those pleather pants, just like our director advised.
Sometimes I wished I could get a new director, a new life. But I loved Michael, even though I only knew his persona and he only knew mine.

This is what happened when the government and media combined. For the last fifty years, middle class America had all been casted into TV life, scripted “reality TV” to entertain the upper class socialites. We still had the service people, the people who did maintenance, took out the trash, un-clogged the toilets. But we were the “middle class,” the TV casted caste. Our job was to entertain, and the upper class were the critics, who shaped us to their liking, wrote our lines, compiled them online, decided if we needed any changes, Botox or editing for the upcoming season, revised our persona and created new archetypes. A lot of it was generated through an online algorithm, crowd-sourced, based on our internet comments, 24/7 online feed, reviews, and likes.
“Cream and sugar, honeyboo?” the phrase that enticed millions. My tagline. How you can search me online.
“Just cream.” He recited, each morning, each time. They liked me asking him that, I resented it. Resented them. But never Michael. If I couldn’t love him, my run would be over. No one ever failed to remind me in between product recalls, run-throughs, or stage setups that I was in fact—nothing. Or how I was always just a step away from having the red carpet ripped from under me, of being cast into the service class, making five-dollars-an-hour shirts and ties to wear for actor-husbands and actress-wives just like Michael and I. And all our directors never failed to warn us to never question the system, or any form of authority.
It works best the way it does now.

The middle class used to work Monday-Friday. Nine-to-fives. Mostly in desk jobs, e-mailing, video conferencing, searching online, social media messaging. But the work/life balance had become so antiquated. Real relationships had been getting obsolete. The people wasted both most of their work day and time off just whittling away their lives, posting pics of cats sneezing, praying that their ass would go viral, and Googling themselves online. I wouldn’t know what that was like. I was born during the New Reality plan. The plan was exactly what we thought we wanted, to be broadcasted as reality TV stars 24/7, ranked, viewed, validated, and quantified by the upper class values, no more nine-to-fives. The upper class had been upset since they didn’t see enough people looking like themselves in the media, not to mention individual home-made YouTube videos were really boring and predictable. His plan included a new preamble that the, the people, the elite people, would get to write scripts for common people as we competed for performance-based salaries based on subscription fees.They’d help make us bold and beautiful like them, real performers, re-skill us with technique, suspense, and action, the way entertainment used to be. And we the people, we were relieved to have more structure in our lives. Less performance anxiety. We wouldn’t have to guess anymore what our viewers lusted after or desired. We could please them exactly the way they wanted. And know exactly what was required of us to make our ass go viral. It was so clear and formulaic that we were honestly thankful.

That evening, when we arrived on our next filming location, The Cove Hotel, I clapped my hands three times to turn on the light in the furnished warehouse near the sweatshop factories off I-75, on screen it would appear as a beautiful oasis. And I guess it was lovely, and I guess I should be happy. But what difference did it make. Nothing was real. Not my husband. Not my lines. Not even my life.

Michael smelled like Summer Dream Amber Mist and the linens were black and silken heather. Silken heather was really in this season. There was no escaping it. I forced myself to like it, the way everyone did, the way we had to when there was a monopoly on fashion and products. We really didn’t have any other option. These were our rations. We had to be thankful.

“Now, stop wasting time. C’mon over here and pour me some of this sparkling wine.” Michael smirked and smiled, just like all the girls wanted.

I poured it, right there outside our set, that mimicked an oceanside first-class five-star all expense paid resort, the kind the wealthy would really stay at. But it was really just blue screens and props. We were just actor models. Lab rats. Their guinea pigs. To showcase and product test the real items they would actually buy. Would we go in the heart shaped Jacuzzi next? Make love in the sand? Re-new our wedding vows? Would they force us into having children? Then convince us it’s what we wanted. Some of our viewers wanted jokes, more humor. If they wanted action, we’d do it. I never knew how my character would change each season. What would they have us do to appease them? It was all unknown, this front, this perfect intimate moment that could never actually be mine.

In his blues eyes I saw him say, Someday we'll write our own lines. Someday we'll do what we really want. But it was always hard to tell for sure, if any thoughts were even real, when everything was already crowd-sourced. I never knew and never asked. I would have to wait till we made it to sixty-seven. If we could just get to that 40th season, by law we could legally retire from TV life. Then if we wanted to, we could start using our own lines and really be together. Get married for real. Try to start our real life.
I loved myself too sometimes, when the critics loved me, “After this we'll go for a moonlit dive,” I said, thrust out of my daydream and following my stage direction as my character stripped down to a bikini and ran outside towards the Atlantic ocean. This was what they wanted, my free spirit side. But damn it was freezing. Fifty-five degrees. And they were sending me out in a polka dot bikini! Didn’t they care that I’d come down with a bit of a cold? Couldn’t they see me sneezing? We all knew I couldn’t use one of my “un-film” days now, no matter how shitty I felt, not on our vacation romance.

“Cut, Madison,” said Larry, “C’mon what is this? You seem tired, Madison. You know that ain’t good for vacation Primetime. Do we need a commercial break already?” He sipped his coffee.

“No, I’m fine. Sorry Larry. Sorry Michael,” I shivered. “Yeah sure, let’s take five.”

I went to the bathroom, to regroup. If I had a fever they might let me off easy. But that wouldn’t change my already declining user profile.  I could already see those kids laughing at me, making Madison Zaparoe memes of me fleeing the “Florida keys” sad and blowing my nose,  looking as together as last year’s microwave dinner.

“Madison,” Michael quietly knocked on the bathroom door. “You alright?”

My heart rate picked up. What was he doing? We were breaking our legal work agreement. This was how seasons ended.
I quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me and cracked the door open. To think, this was considered infidelity. Talking to the “real” him and not his scripted version. What had our norms become? For once, we were not acting. He kept to himself on the other side of the bathroom, like a complete stranger, this husband. And I was a stranger to myself.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” I whispered. That was the truth, wasn’t it? “I’m just not up to swimming in the Ocean tonight. It’s too cold, y’know? It’s the middle of January.” Even uncensored I wasn’t saying how I really felt, what I really meant, Let’s run away together.
​
Michael looked at me, half in fright and half full of awe and wonder. He slowly and quietly reached down and pulled something out of his front drawstring pants pocket. A little plastic baggy with a pill in it. He smiled and unwrapped it. My knees shook, I was dizzy, and sweating. We were risking everything. I knew it. He knew it. And he watched me as I swallowed it in one gulp. We looked into each other’s eyes and tried to cherish it. Over the sound of my own breathing, and heart pounding, I could hear Larry, stepping on the wooden floor above me, getting antsy. This was all just a fleeting high. It would never last. What good was it? He could never really have “me”.

“I know what we’ll do,” he whispered, like he wanted to wrap his arms around me and be the real him. Without the pretense, without the crowd sourced stage direction. “Follow my lead.” His eyes pierced like silver bullets. He quickly turned his back, brushing against me ever so slightly and he fled the bathroom. Was this it? Our big escape? And if we ran away together, would we actually even like each other?

But it was too late. They had caught us. Carl goose-stepped us and sucker punched us with his dark brown eyes. Tena crossed her arms and bit her lip, amused at our potential demise, her stupid perfect brown bob, an empty shell conglomerate, a copycat of every fashion adviser and set designer. This could be her big career moment, depending on how she choose to frame us.

“What’s going on here guys?” Carl had such perfect vocal tambour, the proud other half of the firing squad. He was acting the bad guy, only he wasn’t acting.

“You both know this is a violation,” Tena said.

Michael and I stood with our backs against the wall like a police lineup in the old movies. An Identity Parade. I could already hear the critics. I could imagine all the images of myself online, people adding brand new scarlet letter twibbons unto me.
I sighed and tried to take a deep breath. Stay calm. I tried to practice what my vocal coach always showed me—never show fear, or doubt, nobody wants a flimsy insecure female lead. Not on primetime. But standing there in my polka dot bikini, they knew they had me. Tears not caused by actor eye irritants, without dabbing vapor rub or menthol below your eye, or other stage tricks, were now falling.

“It’s my fault guys. I made Michael come in,” I lied, “He was just giving me some cold medication. I swear. He hardly said a word to me.”

​ Michael looked up at me with glazed eyes. Like he loved me. Like he was sick of this daily grind. This robotic automated life. But the scariest thought of all, if we really did it, ran away from the camera and lights was this—could we really not live a dictated life? Wouldn’t we still be acting in another role? How would we ever know? Be sure that was our destined real life?
So we don’t run away. We don’t do anything. We take the mark against our contract, our second official strike. And then we get back in line, all set up, hair and eye makeup fixed, with our cue cards, and we smile and stand in the limelight.

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​Peak Experience
​Veronica Abrams
 
Tied to this oxygen supply, nearly attached at the hip, electronic appendages glowing and blue lit. Processed food wrappers and bottles encircled around from last night.
 
Still so high above the clouds, and dizzy I haven't come down, like my vestibular or mesolimbic system's malfunctioning.
 
Suddenly I feel a draft creep in, all the distance now between us, as something breaks loose on this connection and we start descending.

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