Likes by Sarah Bynum (electronic book reader txt) 📕

sciatica and a sleeping disorder. How does a slightly graying lesbian documentary maker know exactly what eight-to-twelve-year-old girls will enjoy watching while curled up in their beanbags, eating snacks? “It’s my uncanny ability,” Amy likes to say, half joking and half amazed. But we’re just like those girls; we’ve always been interested in teenagers too, so maybe it’s not such a leap after all.

In Betti’s show there’ll be two teenagers—the finicky older brother and the gorgeous, unmanageable sister—and then a couple of younger siblings thrown in for laughs and relatability. Betti’s plan is that one of the little ones will be an adopted kid from Asia or Africa. Or even better, both of them could be adopted! But definitely from different continents. Anyway, four kids at the very least, though she’s open to more. And an uptight, standoffish dad—think Captain von Trapp as a captain of industry—plus probably one more adult for good measure: A Scottish housekeeper with fluffy hair? A snooty building manager? Someone to balance out Betti—because the whole idea is that Betti’s character isn’t really an adult. She’s the wildly inappropriate babysitter.

Former denizen of downtown clubs, former B-girl, former hairdresser, former bad girl from the Bronx, with the accent to boot: guess who’s taking care of the kids! She’s faked her résumé; she has no business doing this; all she’s got is a tube of Chanel lipstick and her street smarts. When they push her, she’ll push back. Sass, life lessons, more sass. Thrift-store shopping, gum snapping, wisecracking, popping and locking. In the pilot she’ll enter the little ones in a citywide dance contest.

It makes sense, I can see that. I can see the appeal. Objectively it’s not sillier or more overcooked than any other show on Amy’s network. But the idea of Betti pausing for a laugh track still makes me more depressed than I can say.

She reminds me that the concept has already been done, which is apparently what makes it such a sure bet now. “That went for six full seasons,” she says, “and ended a decade ago. It’s way overdue for a relaunch.” She hoots to hear herself talking this way. “Jesus Christ! I sound like my fucking manager.”

“He isn’t concerned,” I ask, “about going in a different direction? Because the stuff Amy does, it’s not exactly—”

“My manager! Please. He’ll pimp me out for any old thing.” Betti gives me her ice pack so she can use both of her hands as she’s talking. “And so what if it’s not high art? I did that. I made those movies. I love independent film as much as the next girl. The first film I ever did? It went to Cannes and came this close to winning a Palme d’Or. So what have I got to prove? I like working. I like making money. I’ve got a mother I want to take care of. Is Rick still paying the mortgage on that house? I don’t think so. And most people don’t know this, but HBO residuals are shit. So what this show’s not going to Cannes. You want to criticize me for trying to get my hustle on? Fuck you. Someone’s got to pay my bills.”

I think I must look a little stunned, because Betti touches my arm.

“Oh bunny, I didn’t mean you. It’s just a colorful expression.”

“I know that,” I tell her. “I say it sometimes for emphasis too.”

“You’re funny.” Betti shakes her head and walks down the steps, sending a goodbye wave over her shoulder. “Now all we have to do is come up with a name.” She looks back at me like she’s not sure I’ve been keeping up with her. “For the show!”

It’s two days later when Manuel rings the doorbell. His white truck is in the driveway, its bed stacked with cedar planks. After saying hello, I point down the street. “It’s Betti’s gate,” I remind him, “not ours.”

“Surprise!” He laughs softly. “I’m here for you.” I notice how young he looks with his new haircut, and I notice the pleasant, artificial scent of laundry soap that his shirts always let off at the beginning of the day. If we lived in New York, and I had taken a seat next to him on the subway, I might have fallen asleep on his shoulder.

He keeps patting his front pocket, even though his cell phone isn’t in there. He tells me that he’s going to build a chicken coop in my backyard.

I can’t help repeating it. “A chicken coop? In our yard?”

But he’s already back by his truck, hoisting planks onto his shoulder.

“Is this Amy’s idea?” I call out.

He nods, which is difficult to do with all the wood that he’s balancing. “She wants to give you a surprise.”

“I didn’t think Amy even had your number,” I say pointlessly. I’m still trying to get my bearings. “You talked about where she wants to put it?” I ask as I follow him down the driveway.

Without grunting, he deposits the first load onto the grass. “I think you’ll like it,” he says. When he straightens, he pauses for a moment, then smiles. “The dog is quiet today.”

It’s true. Hank is miraculously silent. Usually he goes bonkers whenever Manuel or any other male sets foot on the porch, or the driveway, or especially when someone dares to venture into the backyard. “He’s getting to know you,” I say brightly, but I am disturbed. His insane barking is what reminds me that Hank has a past, and memories from a time before we knew him. I can’t understand why he is now soundlessly watching us through the glass of the back door.

Manuel says that the coop will be big enough to hold six chickens. “That’s many eggs,” he observes, and I inwardly sicken, and it occurs to me then that neither he nor Amy has any idea what a bad, bad joke this whole urban-agrarian cedarwood surprise is. I gaze at him dumbly as he digs his little dowels into the ground and then