At the audition for Press That Button! she was given a pair of red stilettos and a skintight black cocktail dress, and told to change. The producer, who was female, said, “We’re the classy game show.” The woman looked at Anna expectantly.
“Wow,” Anna said. “That’s…” She could not think of anything else to say.
The producer had Anna go through a series of exercises: opening and closing a curtain at the right pace, presenting an empty box, leading a contestant backstage, carrying out a big check, laughing and applauding politely.
“Bigger smile, Anna,” the producer called. “With teeth and happy eyes!” Anna smiled bigger.
“That’s great! Laughing is important, too. Chip needs to feel like you think he’s funny, even when he’s not being funny. Do you know what I mean?”
Anna laughed.
“Very good,” the producer said. “Maybe a different kind of laugh? Something more genuine. Like Oh Dad! You’re so corny, but I still love you. That kind of laugh.”
Anna laughed, in a genuinely bemused way.
“Good, good! You’re good. I completely believed that.” The producer looked at Anna. “You’re a little petite, but I like your look.” The producer nodded. “Okay, so I’m going to have you meet with Chip now. The thing you need to know about Chip is that he’s super old-school, right? He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not into, as he puts it, any women’s lib stuff—he’s fine with women, but he doesn’t want to hear about it. Also, he went to Dartmouth and he likes people to know that. Your job is to laugh at his jokes, and be gorgeous like you are, and stay out of his way, as much as possible.”
The producer led Anna into an office with a star on the door. The producer knocked. “Chip, I’ve got someone for you to meet. The girl that might replace Anna.”
“I’m Anna,” Anna said.
“Sorry. The girl before you was called Anne.”
The first time Anna saw Chip Willingham, she thought that no one had ever looked more like a game-show host than this man. He was tanned and buttery, like a quality handbag; his hair had the color and rigidity of onyx; his teeth were enormous white rectangles. He gave the impression of being handsome without actually being handsome, and she could not begin to guess his age. He turned his head over his broad shoulders and looked Anna up and down.
“Go in,” the producer instructed Anna before closing the door behind her.
“Short,” Chip said.
“I am,” Anna said.
“Tits.” He paused. “Small.” He paused again. “Apples. Some men like apples. Some men don’t.”
Anna laughed the Corny Dad! laugh. She couldn’t wait for this to be over. With any luck, she’d get the national touring company of South Pacific. It would pay well enough, and while she’d miss Sam, at least he’d be with her parents.
“But women are the ones who watch our show. Your apple tits are perfecto for daytime.”
“That’s what my mother always told me,” Anna said.
“You’re funny.” Chip did not laugh. “Come closer.”
Anna didn’t know why, but she did. He looked at her face. He ran his index finger down the bridge of her nose.
“Exotic. The last one was an Oriental, too.”
“Orientals are rugs and furniture,” Anna said. “Not people.”
“Chinoiseries are furniture,” Chip said. “Turn around.”
Again, Anna didn’t know why she did, but she did.
“Ass,” he said. “Big apple.” He smacked her on the rear and then he clutched her right butt cheek, his manicured fingernails penetrating her crack. “Firm.”
Anna laughed, Corny Dad! And then she slapped Chip across the face.
She walked to the dressing room to find her clothes. She didn’t cry.
The female producer stopped her as she was leaving. “How’d it go with Chip?”
Anna shook her head.
“For what it’s worth, I think he really liked you,” the producer said. “It wouldn’t have gone that long if he didn’t like you.”
“What happened to Anne? The girl who had this job before.”
“Anne. It’s, well, it’s a tragic story. Anne died quite suddenly.”
“My God,” Anna said. “Chip didn’t murder her, did he?”
“It must have gone well in there,” the producer quipped. “Anne was driving with one of her boyfriends on Mulholland, and they missed their turn, and…You know Los Angeles. She was a sweet kid. Only twenty-four. From Oakland.”
“Her last name wasn’t Lee, was it?” Anna didn’t know if she could bear it if it was.
“No, it was Chin.”
Anna started to cry. She was crying for the other Anna Lee, who threw herself from a building, and this Anne, who, no doubt, had also had Chip Willingham’s fingers where they shouldn’t have been, and herself: Had it come to this? She questioned her life choices—from auditioning for the school play her freshman year of high school, to deciding to come to Los Angeles because a woman, who had nothing to do with her aside from the coincidence of her name, had thrown herself from a building on a frigid night in February. The producer patted Anna on the shoulder. “It isn’t as bad as all of that. She didn’t suffer.” She handed Anna a tissue.
Three days later, Anna’s agent called. “Great news!” he said. “You booked Press That Button! They loved your ‘feistiness.’ That was the word they used.”
“What happened to South Pacific?”
“Who cares?” the agent said. “You hate South Pacific.”
“What about the soap?”
“They decided to rewrite the role as a poor-white-trash type. Forget about it. Press That Button! will pay better than either of those other gigs, and if the show runs forever, you can afford to send that son of yours to Harvard-Westlake or Crossroads. And if something better comes along, I’ll get you out of Press That Button! I promise. It’s easy money, Anna.”
For its three-year run, Press That Button! was a completely nondistinctive version of a 1980s daytime game show, a completely nondistinctive form. Its variations included regular people paired with celebrities to answer trivia questions; an abusive, flame-haired mascot called the Button Monster; carnival-style games; the studio audience maniacally chanting Press! That! Button! as directed by the prompter. The handful of times Sam had gone to watch tapings, he had found the whole thing delightful—far more entertaining than the theater his mother had been doing in New York.
For her contributions, Anna was paid $1,500 a week, more than she had made when she’d been in A Chorus Line, and though the job had little to do with the work she had trained for, the only difficult part of it was avoiding Chip Willingham’s advances. The more she avoided him, the more he sought her out. The more aggressive she was in rejecting his advances, the more determined he seemed to make them. He seemed to like the rejection, though he also liked telling her how replaceable she was. “There are a million Anna Lees in this town,” he’d say. In order to get through it, she began to imagine herself in a parallel game show. Winning was, among other things, keeping her job.