Notes From the Underwire: Adventures From My Awkward and Lovely Life by Quinn Cummings Read Free Book Online Page A

“Oh, that should be fun,” giving it no more weight than a field trip to the planetarium. Unfortunately, everyone else in my life thought it would be best to take me aside, look deeply into my eyes, and explain in portentous tones, “This is a very big deal.” Nobody actually added “So don’t screw up!” At least not out loud. But, really, we all knewthe fate of this interview was in my grubby hands, right next to my flayed cuticles. As the day loomed, I mutated from a pleasantly excited nine-year-old into an overcaffeinated Yorkshire terrier. Some genius told me millions of people would be watching. Had someone drawn my blood that day, it would have registered as a mixture of adrenaline and jet fuel.
    The afternoon of the show, I was in the makeup room having what I would now describe as a teensy, weensy, preadolescent anxiety attack when the publicity woman breezed in. She hugged me, careful not to get too close to my lip gloss, and said warmly, “Just be yourself. Be funny. It’ll be fine.” What I learned within the next hour is that when I’m nervous, being told to be funny acts upon me as a Bic lighter acts upon a plume of hair spray. During the interview, I was aware of the heat of the stage lights, the thudding of my heart, and the constant yapping of some unbearably obnoxious individual with a taste for insult comedy. Gradually, I grew to suspect that the voice was mine. Anyone watching the show would have thought “My God, she’s the hellspawn of Don Rickles and Joan Rivers, only less appealing. I’m taking extra birth-control measures tonight!”
    I finished my segment, walked offstage, fell into my mother’s arms, and cried. I cried as we walked backstage. I cried in the car. I cried as I did my homework. I cried as I scoured off the makeup. I cried and choked as I brushed my teeth. I cried as I went to sleep. What was supposed to be America’s first glimpse of my real personality had only established that the title of World’s Most Odious Child Ever was now a lock. I’m in no position to say whether or not under normal conditions I was a kid you’d want to spend time with, but what I had become on that night, on that show, was some weird drag-queenversion of myself. And I couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t as bad as it was because for weeks afterward, people would approach me and say, “I saw you on Carson!” Then, realizing they had to complete the thought, would flail around a bit and add something like “Wow!” My appearance had been the talk-show version of a massive tire fire. Am I exaggerating? I was told later that Mr. Carson refused to invite children to The Tonight Show after my segment. It’s hard not to take that personally.
    In a matter of months, I learned that if I talked to other people and they wrote down my words I’d probably sound like an idiot; if I spoke for myself, I’d make people want to punch me. Now cripplingly self-conscious, whenever I was interviewed I’d blather mindless platitudes with an occasional inappropriate pronouncement thrown in for flavor.
    INTERVIEWER : So, how do you like acting?
    QUINN : I like acting very much. It’s fun. I like to have fun. Fun is nice.
    INTERVIEWER : But don’t you feel as if you are missing out on your childhood?
    QUINN : No, because I am having fun. Which is nice. I like fun, especially when it’s nice.
    INTERVIEWER : Oh…kay.
    Agonizing silence.
    QUINN : If I eat shellfish, I vomit.
    After The Goodbye Girl , I joined a television show that had already been on the air for two years. By then, every other actor onthe show had told the publicity people they’d rather perform their own hemorrhoidectomy than do another interview, which is why I was frequently drafted to talk to reporters. The problem was that entertainment reporters sent out to interview children usually bear resentment so palpable it leaves a stain on the carpet:
    I’m the entertainment reporter from the Regional-Standard-Eagle-Picayune, a very