The female judge who started the bidding war, knowing she can’t compete and doesn’t actually want to, hits her red buzzer indicating she withdraws her offer. The now-angered veteran and Ash are the only two left vying for Best U Man. The OG waves his fingers above his buzzer, pulls his hand back, and hovers it over the buzzer once more, then pulls it back a final time. He matches Ash’s proposal of 20 percent ownership plus raises his cash investment to $450,000. Ash throws up his arms in defeat, then slams his right hand down on his buzzer and announces, “I’m not sold!” It all makes for great television.
As I take in Simon’s elation at his deal, my knees buckle. Simon immediately accepts the offer before the seasoned judge realizes that he may have had a senior moment and overbid. The veteran investor gingerly rises from his chair and advances toward Simon. Going in for an embrace, their puffed-up chests bump first. Ash and the female judge to his right shrug and offer one another anoh wellconciliatory grin. In this absurd moment, even my mother is wise enough to keep any commentary to herself.
The screen goes black for the twenty-minute break between segments to tear down Simon’s set and organize for the next founder, who is hawking a ten-year tattoo concept. A decade is just long enough to commit to an image on the body in the present, knowing it will fade and ultimately disappear before the skin sags and an affinity for Chinese characters is lost. It’s absolutely brilliant. If I had two bucks to rub together, I would invest in that company—quickly. I also wouldn’t lose so much sleep at night as a mother freaking out over the possibility of permanently stamped poetry on my daughters’ shoulder blades.
Ding.
I’ve been hoping Lou and Coco would wake up early enough to reach out to me on my life-changing day and give me a “get it, Mom” for taking the steps to finally chase my dreams. It’s wonderful when your daughters can look to other women to motivate them in their pursuits, but knowing that I’m now one of those inspirational women and my babies are texting to tell me so is next-level motherhood success. When I get home, we are going to celebrate big-time.
10:26 a.m. (Simon)
I told you everything would work out, Toni, I knew I had a unicorn company on my hands! With Best U Man’s infusion of money, we can go back to the way things were, but flush with cash. Whatever happens with your lotions doesn’t really matter, I’m going to be all right.
I huck my phone across the room into the cushions of the love seat. I was counting on Best U Man bombing and Simon walking away with zero investment, ensuring that the last episode of Season 18 would build in excitement and intensity to culminate in a rousing four-judge fight for Brown Butter, Baby!. My only hope now is that investor fatigue is not affecting the judges, nor are they running out of money.
“You will be on deck to check your displays in forty,” the Diet Coke fairy sticks her head in the door to tell us. “I’m going to walk you to the side stage waiting area in ten, and you can watch the second entrepreneur live from there. Cross fingers your segment goes as well as the first guy, he’s set for life.” She throws us a double okay sign and closes the door behind her, completely unaware of how unwelcome her cheerleading is.
STILL THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
“Is itDulceorDulcis?” Mrs. Eisenberg asks me for the hundredth time. “Don’t worry, I have thePrunuspart down just fine.” The question is delivered with a salty eighty-eight-year-old side of continued disapproval.
“You only have to sayPrunus,” Gloria reminds Mrs. Eisenberg, looking pleased to guide our contrary teammate to the profit promised land minutes before our segment starts.
The four of us are now stage left, out of camera sight line, watching the tattoo guru’s head whip back and forth as all four judges yell and fight over one another to be considered for the best seed-stage investment opportunity that may ever have come across their portfolios. For sure the ten-year tattoo concept will be the opening “look where they are now” company featured for the launch of Season 19. Even I predict the patent on the specialized fading ink will be worth billions, the way people use their bodies as a canvas to fill when they think they have something to say.
In a matter of moments, the judges will clear the stage for their second break, and it will be my turn to head onto the set to inspect my four plexiglass displays that are quickly brought out by a couple of stagehands dressed in black.
“I’m with Mrs. E. There’s still a chance my tongue will get turned upside down over pronouncingDiospyros, even though I’ve been practicing for weeks in the mirror,” Zwena complains, linking her arm through Mrs. Eisenberg’s in solidarity over my lotion names. I take Zwena’s complaint as the perfect time to let my sales squad in on a new development.
“Change of plans.” My three sidekicks look at me, panicked. I am not a woman known to make last-minute adjustments, particularly when the stakes have never been higher.
“Relax, this is an easy one,” I assure my team. “I will introduce the name of each lotion—the three of you are off the hook.” A look of relief washes over my crew, no one more so than my mother. I guess she, too, was unsure if the judges would hearTheobromacorrectly in her lingering Puerto Rican accent. “When you hear your name, step over to your assigned display case. Next, open the lid to the lotion at the top of the pyramid and show the color of the cream to the judges. The assistant director tells me the camera will pan from your face to your lotion, then to the judges’ reactions. And last, they will zoom in on the jar you’re holding on the screen.”
“The same screen your golf pro boyfriend was on during Simon’s presentation?” Zwena ribs.
“If we don’t get to say anything, then basically you’ve turned us into Vanna White, minus the White,” Mrs. Eisenberg jokes, ignoring that she’s White too. Our group’s elder is more relaxed now that she does not have to compare herself to a shriveled plum on network television. We all chuckle—except for Zwena, who has no idea what we are laughing about. I guessWheel of Fortunewas never syndicated in Kenya.
“Well, that’s good news for me,” Zwena responds, also now more at ease, her face lighting up to complement her sunshine-yellow, pink, and orange kanga dress with matching dhuku. I love that Zwena has chosen to bring Kenya with her on our shared adventure in Los Angeles.
“That’s good news for all of us,” Mrs. Eisenberg confirms, pulling on the cuffs of her lavender blouse so they peek out of the sleeves of herpower suit. “Though I don’t like not having a talking part. Antonia, you know I always have something to say.”
“Yes, I do, but today let the product speak for itself. And me.” I make eye contact with all three of my assistants, checking that everyone understands there is no room to argue or deviate from the new plan.
“Also, I want us to walk onstage holding hands,” I announce, shifting directives, with one more sweep of my eyes to hold my ladies’ attention. “Mrs. Eisenberg, you will be on the right side of me. Mami on my left. Zwena, you will be to the left of my mom.”
“You sure you don’t want me on the other side of Mrs. Eisenberg?” Zwena offers with an exaggerated bug of her already wide eyes. I know what that look is asking, and so does Mrs. Eisenberg.
“I can walk out on that stage holding only Antonia’s hand just fine, thank you very much.” Mrs. Eisenberg waves a scolding finger at me and Zwena. “Do you know how many keynote speeches I’ve delivered? More than once I saw Bill Gates on the edge of his seat, hanging on my every word.”
“Okay, boss lady.” Zwena backs away, hands up in surrender to our resident tycoon.
“We are in this order, from darkest to lightest, to represent the color range of my cream collection. When I say your name, you step forward, smile at the judges, and head on over to your display case. That’s all you have to do. Z, I want to start with you to honor the beauty and depth of your skin color. That sound okay?” I know exactly how it sounds to her seeing the tears well up in Zwena’s eyes. She has often commented on what, at times, feels like the singularity of her deep, blue-black skin among West Coast people of color and wondered if she would have felt a bit more at home in New York, Baltimore, or Washington, DC, where African immigrants historically have been more likely to settle. My reaction is always the same—What would I do without you in my life?—but I also make sure Zwena knows I hear her. While the Bay Area is not as ripe with the African diasporic glow as other parts of America, similarly, not much has changed since my parents arrived inSan Francisco and had their Puerto Rican heritage lumped together with the dominant Mexican culture. I more than understand Zwena’s sentiment, but I am thankful, every day, that Zwena’s visa sent her to the Golden State and that I was here too. Despite oceans between our ancestors, destiny ensured our paths crossed.
“It’s go time, ladies.” Our assigned intern’s peppiness is waning now, perhaps the result of shooting eighteen episodes on a rigorous schedule, or she just found out there isn’t a paid assistant producer position waiting for her at the end of this gig. Either way, no double okay sign this time, so I give her one of mine.
“Mi amor, of all the people watching today, you know who is most proud?”
I’m still irked at my mom for her play-by-play commentary of Simon’s turn on television, and I am not in the mood to play twenty questions.
