Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan

pointing across the studio to the five wardrobe racks she has ready for him.
    â€œAren’t these clothes?” Kirk asks, holding out his faded black T-shirt. “My favorite jeans. I’ll just wear these.”
    Seems like he’s a regular guy with no posse and no pretentions. I like that. But the wardrobe mistress doesn’t.
    â€œNo jeans. No T-shirts. No black,” she says, ruling out just about everything that Kirk probably owns. “We have to make you look sexy.”
    That shouldn’t be hard. Is the woman blind? Nature already took care of it. Still, Kirk amiably agrees to follow the wardrobe mistress to her racks across the room. Though given the way she’s dressed, I wouldn’t let her outfit a Barbie.
    â€œYou go, too,” Berni tells me, sighing. “I can’t move. Make sure he looks good.”
    Since there’s no dressing room, Kirk strips down to his gray spandex Calvin Kleins and begins flicking through the clothes. While he’s checking out Armani, Versace and some pretty cool Hugo Boss, I’m checking out his well-cut abs. Much better than Patrolman Pete’s. I sure have seen a lot of nearly naked men lately. And I don’t even watch Bravo.
    Kirk holds up a buttery-soft brown leather jacket. “Do you like this one?” he asks, slipping it on over his bare chest and skivvies.
    â€œIt’s great!” I say, thinking it looks particularly good without pants. Kirk could single-handedly destroy Seventh Avenue since the less he wears, the better he looks.
    Berni suddenly appears behind me and clutches my arm.
    â€œWater,” she says in a hoarse whisper.
    I turn around and notice beads of perspiration dripping down her forehead. “Let me get you some,” I say. “There’s some Pellegrino over there.”
    â€œNot that kind of water,” Berni says, looking like she might pass out.
    â€œI don’t like Pellegrino either. Too many bubbles,” Kirk says, digging into his backpack for his private stash. “Here—try my Vitamin Water.”
    â€œI don’t need vitamins. I need an ambulance,” Berni moans. “Water. My water broke.”
    â€œOh my god!” I scream. I look around wildly, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do. Call the doctor? Call her husband? Call Pratesi to see if the damn layette ever came in? But the nearly naked Kirk is quickly at her side.
    â€œLet me help. I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV,” he says calmly, putting his arm around Berni and ushering us all toward the exit.
    â€œAre you going to deliver her right here?” I ask, ever more panicked.
    â€œNo, I’m going to deliver her to the hospital,” Kirk says with a smile. He pulls on a pair of pants, exchanges a few quick words with one of the photo assistants and by the time we get downstairs, a cab is waiting. We all pile into the backseat.
    â€œLet’s time those contractions,” Kirk says as the driver speeds off, diving through a few potholes and scoring a near miss with a pedestrian. “How far apart are they?”
    That mellifluous voice in a doctor—or in this case, an actor—is a real plus. With one of Kirk’s big, strong arms around her Berni seems to relax. When the contractions come, he talks her through the breathe-in breathe-out that everyone forgets in the crunch. In between, he has her laughing and licking a lollipop that he has with him. “Part of the actor’s emergency kit,” he explains. “Keeps your lips moist at auditions.”
    By the time we get to the hospital, Berni’s forgotten that Kirk’s medical license came with his SAG card, and she’s more than a little disappointed when the nurse wants to call in a certified MD.
    â€œKirk’s doing fine,” Berni argues. “Six months on that soap and he can deal with anything. Can the obstetricians around here do a heart transplant? Separate Siamese