Trixie’s Mani Pedis is a reality show with local sway, Trixie being the star, her nail salon here in the ‘burb with the rest of us plain folk. Everyone around here loves the show, proud as we all are of the local affiliation. I keep expecting to recognize one of her clients, women exclusively, they sit in a chair and Trixie does the manicure or the pedicure while they kvetch. About traffic, weather, bills, their health, their significant others, kids, jobs, the price of things, celebrities, politics, religion, fabric, food, air travel, fashion, hygiene. Sometimes the cameras follow her clients back to their cushy lives and they have beautiful homes, drive nice cars, have good jobs or they don’t work because they can not to, but there’s still plenty to repine about. Like perfection is still a reasonable expectation.
Trixie is an artist. Her nails are exotic, playful, colorful blends, sometimes with little logos or glittery or with French tips or tips of distinct colors sprinkled with diamond dust, a Trixie invention. When Trixie’s cuticles are dry, she brushes them with polish she keeps in the center console of her jeep.
Trixie tries to get her clients to hold their hands still so she can work her magic. The women need to lay their hands flat on a portable table so she can apply the gel polish. Keeping their hands still is problematic for her clients, they’re fidgety and distracted, which upsets and frustrates Trixie. To the point where it’s really fucking with her humanity.
Cell phones are another problem. Trixie’s on a tight schedule, but the women take calls or stop to respond to texts and Trixie gets behind and has to rush. Sometimes the women are short with her. I wonder if the show’s producers tell the clients to be intentionally difficult, create a little tension, makes for more interesting viewing. Her clients must watch the show, especially if they’re on. They must see the mockumentary-style kvetching Trixie does with the camera. And yet they persist.
Sometimes after they leave Trixie holds her osteoarthritic left hand. Sometimes her hand hurts so much she goes into a janitor’s closet and cries. She turns away from the camera. I can see the heaving of her shoulders and when she’s done, when it’s time to compose herself, she dabs beneath her eyes with a tissue to wipe away eyeliner trickles or smears. On one episode she goes to a hand specialist. The hand specialist prescribes a hand cream and unrestrictive bandage. Trixie doesn’t try the hand cream because it’s a free sample and otherwise expensive, and she’s concerned that if she uses it she’ll become dependent on it and her insurance doesn’t cover the scrip. She has private insurance. Her annual deductible is $16,000, so she pays out of pocket for everything, visits, prescriptions, consultations, treatment. If the manufacturers of this cream were on top of their game, they’d give her a free supply to promote their product, unless they’re concerned it might be ineffective in front of several million viewers.
Abruptly, Trixie decides to move on, though maybe not abrupt to anyone paying attention. The show’s a hit, and with her name recognition Trixie wants to franchise her nails business. Because of her painfully arthritic left hand she can’t do it anymore. There are legal repercussions. They play out on her show, interesting in a conflict-of-interest kind of way. The Trixie’s Mani Pedis executive producer calls Trixie into her office and tells her she can’t do this. She won’t be able to use the name of the show or the logo. Trixie listens, crossing her legs, nodding pensively, cucumber cool. The Trixie’s Mani Pedis executive producer smiles tensely before laying out her case, expecting defiance. When the meeting ends and there’s been no outward resistance, the executive producer is pleased, walking around her desk and extends her hand and arm straight out and they shake hands.
Later in the same episode Trixie meets with an attorney, a referral from one of her well-connected clients. The attorney is an older paisano, mid-sixties with slammed-back hair, hyperactively thin. He seems shell-shocked to be meeting her, at being on a reality show. He has a manila folder on his desk. He asks questions as he flips through a document. He sits back in his creaky leather chair and turns devil’s advocate, grinning confrontationally. Is she sure she’s got the stomach for this? It could get ugly. She’s famous now, she’s a reality TV star. Why mess with success? He has big glasses that catch the backlighting and the glare obscures his eyes, giving him a zany look, zany or devilish. He ignores her answers and meanders off topic. He tells Trixie he’d have retired if it weren’t for his fucking kids and their fucking student loans. He pushes a button on the phone on his desk and asks for two bottled waters. A pear-shaped woman shows up a moment later and hurriedly sets the bottled waters down on his desk and leaves, careful to keep her back to the camera, terrified of it.
Okay, so here’s what I think, he says. The TV show, production company, studio, whatever, they’re full of shit. It’s your name, your business. It was an established business before they came along. Did the TV show enhance your business? Sure. So what? They can go after some of what you make selling the franchises, licensing your methods and any proprietary products and whatever. If they do we’ll go viral, make them out to be a greedy entertainment conglomerate bullying a small business entrepreneur and woman to boot. You’re a sympathetic figure. You’re a person people feel like they know. People like you, not the production company. They’ll be sensitive to public opinion, mostly because their advertisers are.
Trixie smiles gratefully. The attorney holds up his hands with a cocky grin and his big gleaming glasses.
The Trixie’s Mani Pedis producers meet with their attorneys. Their attorneys look young to be established attorneys. They look like actors playing attorneys. The TV show’s attorneys banter back and forth like the producers aren’t there and conclude that the TV show might get a percentage of Trixie’s franchise profits, but it isn’t likely the TV show can prevent her from moving ahead with her plans. There’s no relevant language in her contract. The possibility of Trixie franchising her business was never anticipated, much less safeguarded against. Filing injunctions or bringing an action could be interpreted as restraint of trade. Trixie could counter-sue and have a compelling argument.
The executive producer glares at them. Isn’t that their job? Isn’t that what they’re paid for? To anticipate every contingency? Having iron-clad contracts to prevent this sort of thing from happening? Shouldn’t they have had broader language that would have precluded Trixie from doing this? Isn’t that what attorneys are for? To anticipate bad things happening?
The show’s attorneys arrange a meet with Trixie’s attorney. The show’s three kid attorneys on one side of a conference table with a big window with a cityscape view behind them, Trixie’s attorney on the other, choosing a seat near the entrance. The two flanking attorneys have opened laptops in front of them, Trixie’s attorney has nothing, no briefcase or satchel or attaché, not even a notepad. He crosses his legs, liver-spotted hands resting calmly in his lap. After exchanging pleasantries they get right to it.
Your client will have to share her profits from franchising her business, that’s a given, says the kid attorney in the middle. The TV show will be her silent partner, siphoning off re-investable profits while she’s trying to get the expansion off the ground. Without the show, her brand will depreciate. There won’t be any syndication of the reruns. The show would rather keep going. Ratings are strong. The show has a following. They’re willing to revisit Trixie’s compensation. The smart move is for her to renegotiate rather than move ahead with her expansion plans. No one can argue Trixie’s Mani Pedis hasn’t enhanced her brand. That’s an easy case to make. Franchising wouldn’t be possible without the show.
Trixie’s attorney listens with his confrontational grin and big glasses that catch the backlighting and corresponding glare where his eyes would be, zany-looking as all get out. Fuck off, he says, grinning expansively. Trixie’s quitting. Three more episodes and her contract is up and she’s under no obligation to continue. He stands, smoothing his trousers, buttoning the top button of his suit coat and departing. The kid attorneys sit in silence for a half-minute before they go to commercial.
On the last show Trixie’s having lunch with her boyfriend, then drinks with a friend/client, there’s a bon voyage celebration at her store, balloons and champagne and cake. At the end, out in the parking lot with a sunset beyond trees and shadowy bungalows in the working-class neighborhood where her store is, Trixie takes off the thumb bandage, carefully, and throws it in a dumpster, turning to beam at the camera a last time.
