This is the second part of our exploration of That Time Merit Was In a Band. This story held the kernel of Merit’s character, and a lot of campy laughs, as well as appearances by some names you’ll recognize from the CV world.
Enjoy Part 2 in its campy awfulness!
# # #
Twenty minutes later, I was still standing half-dressed in front of my closet. What to wear while performing was a difficult decision. Too much material, and I looked bookish. Too much skin, and I wouldn’t be able show my face in class on Monday morning. (Some of my students found it amusing to attend our shows for the novelty.) My gaze fell on a half-naked hanger in the middle of the closet. It was the “black, slinky thing,” a gauzy, strapless top that I could wear with jeans and heels. Hair down and contacts in, and I’d be a club diva. Hair up and glasses on, my favorite Takamine guitar in front of me, and I looked like an indie princess.
“Thank God for adaptable, black, slinky things,” I said, pulling it off the hanger.
I changed quickly, freshened my makeup and hair—leaving it down—and padded back downstairs, heels in hand. Perfect timing—a knock sounded at the door.
“Who is it?” I called out, dropping the heels on the couch. It wasn’t that I needed to ask, but for security purposes, it seems wise.
“Let me in, you crone!”
“Hello, Mal,” I said, pulling the door open. Mallory Henry, a vision in blue, rushed in the front door, arms loaded with clothes.
“I couldn’t decide what to wear,” she cried, dumping the pile on the floor. She stood in the middle of my living room, naked but for the bra and plaid men’s boxers she was wearing, her straight, electric-blue hair piled into a messy lump on her head. It wasn’t so much the lack of clothes that surprised me, but the fact that she’d come to me with her dilemma. If I erred toward Marc Jacobs, Mallory erred toward stilettos and vinyl. I wasn’t sure I could help.
I glanced at the pile of clothes—tweed, houndstooth, sweaters and skirts in neutral colors. Very Working Girl, very un-Mallory.
“Um, Mal? What happened to your clothes?”
She understood my confusion. “It’s an audition, K. I mean, there’s all this pressure, and I don’t know what to wear.” Mallory, always ready to make an overly dramatic point, threw herself into the pile.
“Just suffocate me now, Kate. Just do it.” She covered her eyes with one hand and flung a tasteful, black, a-line skirt in my general direction. “This is what we’ve been reduced to Kate! Us! Fidelity!”