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

important paper known in the tristate area for its coverage of the weather. There are three movies coming out this weekend; I might have interviewed the hot ingénue and maybe talked her into sex. I might have interviewed the famous old British actor and gotten drunk with him and heard stories about him banging Jacqueline Bisset. But, no, I was assigned to interview a child on a TV show. If I’m not getting laid or drunk, remind me again why I took those journalism classes at community college.
    This led to a string of frustrated reporters hoping and praying for me to say something—anything—stupid and inflammatory to justify their expense report. These weren’t the most subtle of predators. Oddly enough, many of them were named Skip.
    In most of these interviews I’d be sitting on my couch at home, while my mother was sitting nearby.
    SKIP : So…you have a dog?
    QUINN : Yeah. This one.
    Quinn points to the dog that has crawled on the couch between them.
    SKIP : Okay, yeah. And you like dogs?
    QUINN : Sure.
    The phone rings. Quinn’s mother leaves the room to answer it. The reporter waits until he can hear her on the phone, leans in over the dog, and speaks quickly.
    SKIP : How much money do you make?
    QUINN : I don’t know.
    SKIP : Of course you do. What do you make a week?
    QUINN : My mom hasn’t told me.
    In fact, she hadn’t. Brilliantly sensing it would prevent me from ever having to lie or accidentally slipping up, she didn’t tell me until I was eighteen. This added to Skip’s frustration.
    SKIP : This is a nice house. Do you parents spend all your money? I bet your parents spend all your money.
    QUINN : Of course they don’t.
    SKIP : If you don’t know how much money you make, how do you know they’re not spending it?
    QUINN : I…they wouldn’t do that.
    SKIP : God, you’re so naïve. I have an idea. Let’s take a look at your mother’s checkbook. If she’s innocent, there’s no harm in that, right? Where’s her checkbook?
    Then there were the reporters who would keep rephrasing the question until I gave them something not entirely unlike what they were already planning to write:
    SKIP : You work with Kristy McNichol.
    QUINN : Yes.
    We both wait for something to occur to one of us.
    SKIP : Bet that’s hard. She’s so famous and loved by everyone and you’re…well, you know. Everyone loves her. You’re jealous, right?
    QUINN : No.
    SKIP : So, who is your favorite on the set?
    QUINN : I like everyone. Sada Thompson gave me this great book about…
    SKIP : But not Kristy, right? Sibling rivalry. It’s natural.
    QUINN : We’re not really sisters.
    SKIP : Of course you’re not. Just let it out.
    See the article the next day. See the publicity picture of me the paper chose to use. Note how I am scowling. The caption underneath says, in big block letters, “KRISTY IS NO SISTER OF MINE!” See me apologizing to Kristy for the impression the reporter has given that I have a secret voodoo altar with black candles, Kristy McNichol dolls, and a few dozen well-placed pins.
    Not every reporter was setting traps and snare pits into our conversations. If two out of the five resented my very existence, another two were irrationally proud of their ability to talk to children. I love children! they’d think. My nephew is a child. He’s…what is he now? Four? No, he just went to college so that makes him…fifteen? Something like that. Armed with almost a total lack of experience talking to anyone who didn’tlive through the Cuban Missile Crisis, they’d arrive and we’d enjoy a conversation that whipsawed between Romper Room and Meet the Press . Skip would ask me if I liked dollies. If I mentioned that I wasn’t so interested in dolls—being eleven and all—he’d ask me what I thought the Fed was going to do in response to the inflation rate.
    The bulk of my interviews occurred between the ages of nine and eleven. That’s less than one-thirteenth of my life. I’ve spent more time trying to