One day I got a call. They wanted me to work on a TV show. They appreciated my look, my articles, the director and presenter believed it could work. I started that same week. On the day of the show, he would come to get me a taxi home and, on the way out, I would return.
When I arrived at the studies, I was given a sticker and the lady at the entrance always smiled at me. Afterwards, someone was waiting for me at the door and accompanied me to make-up. There, they gave me color and combed my hair like José Luis Rodríguez, the Puma. Afterwards, we would go to a room and there was a coffee machine and the coffee was free. They microphoned you right away. They knew your name and smiled back at you. The alderman made sure you didn’t trip. My section was a more or less scripted dialogue with the presenter. Sometimes we would write to each other after the show to comment on something or joke about some mistake made.
One day, the councilor wrote me a WhatsApp message saying that my intervention that Friday was canceled and would be moved to another day. That the presenter would call me to see how it would look. He didn’t do it. Surprised, I let a week pass before I wrote to the councilor, because I was afraid something had happened to them. He showed surprise. I would make a note of it and they would call me the same day. Another week without news and I feared any misfortune. Disgusted, I wrote a couple of watsaps to the presenter. They were never read. My fear was growing, so I called him. It didn’t hang. I hesitated to call 911.
It’s been months since all this. Beyond not knowing if I will continue working on television or not, the only thing I ask is to know if everyone is okay. The sticker lady, the make-up lady, the microphone lady, the councillor. The presenters A life faith. Something that allows me to live without this anxiety and this melancholy every time I see a taxi arrive at the door of my house.
