Here’s a game to play during this Monday’s Emmy red carpet show. Keep an eye out for the Plus Ones.
Plus Ones are guests of the stars, writers, and industry bigwigs who are the Emmys’ main event. I first heard the phrase 15 years ago when I attended the Emmys for the first time with my wife Jenji Kohan, long before she created Weeds or Orange Is the New Black. At dinner afterwards, someone at our table—either the boyfriend of an actress or another writer’s husband—pulled out his invitation and happily identified himself by the words printed in tiny lettering at the bottom, below the calligraphed name of the invitee, near the information about limo drop-offs: Plus One.
It’s a good job if you can get it. All you really need to do look presentable, support your partner, and not draw too much attention to yourself.
Somehow, though, I screwed it up back in 1999, in my first fateful appearance as a Plus One. At the time I was a reporter with a suburban LA newspaper and Jenji was a junior writer on the HBO sketch show Tracey Takes On. Being nominated was a huge deal for us both. The show wasn’t expected to win, but we were psyched just to go to the ceremony; Jenji bought a sheer black dress and picked me up a pair of shiny patent-leather shoes to go with the tux I’d rented at a reasonably priced but stinky rental joint in Atwater Village, on the far outskirts of the Hollywood high life.
Shortly after we were picked up in a gleaming new Town Car, I felt something funny with my right shoe. I looked down and noticed that the sole had come undone and was peeling away from the bottom. I held up my left shoe and it was the same; the tip was drooping precariously away from the shoe’s underside, like a long moist tongue.
Panicked, I turned to Jenji, my personal shopper. Why were my shoes falling apart? Where had they come from?
Jenji smiled, proud and oblivious. “The County Morgue Thrift Store. Such a deal!”
My Emmy dress shoes were apparently never meant to hold the weight of a living man. From their shoddy, prop-like construction it appeared they were literally made for a corpse.
When the car pulled up at the curb outside the Shrine Auditorium, Jenji helped me, her hobbled date, onto the red carpet. For a split second, all the assembled fans and photographers fired their laser-beam attention at us. At this point, it is customary for the unfamous to duck their heads and hustle into the crowd. But as I stepped gingerly forward, it became clear any additional movement would cause the shoes to fall apart entirely. So I stopped. And smiled. And waved lamely, as if yes, everyone here had come to see me, the frozen man with the crazy grimace. I remember watching a beefy guy with a walkie talkie making his way toward me.
The moment remains flash-frozen in my mind. Feeling the hot glare of the crowd zero in on me, knowing I’d run afoul of all sorts of unspoken etiquette, I glanced down at those decomposing shoes and had two thoughts. One, I am a complete idiot. And two, these shoes are some fucking metaphor. For what, I wasn’t sure right away.
While I stood there ruminating, Jenji ducked into the crowd, elbows out, gown billowing behind her, not pausing until reaching a phalanx of technicians. She yanked a roll of utility tape from a gaffer’s belt and jogged back to me, grinning crazily and holding the roll over her head like the award she’d come for.
She then kneeled down on the red carpet and with a quick flourish, wrapped each of my shoes in black tape. My glass slipper fit! I was good to go.
* * *
The rest of the night was a blur, owing first to the intense gratitude I felt for my wife’s intrepid engineering then to the bizarre and pleasing experience of seeing so many heretofore unreal people in person (Rupert Murdoch at a urinal! Janeane Garofalo smoking a Camel!), and then finally, close to the end of the evening, to the announcement that Tracey Takes On had won. I was every bit the gushing overjoyed proud partner. It was her victory, but it was also, I felt, ours. Jenji, me, the morgue shoes; we were all in this together.