by Mary Gordon
“Vengeance is mine, saith the lord,” the Bible tells us. But Quin Archer isn’t having it. Her reality-TV show, PAYBACK, does what it says: it looks for payback. Participants contact Archer when they’ve found someone from their past who has done them some harm (Quin refuses the term victim, prefers the term the owed) and has gotten away with it. Followed by Quin and her crew, the harmed confronts the harmer and insists on “payback.” Often it’s actual money, but sometimes…well, let’s just say, sometimes the harmed (with Archer’s help?) can get quite creative.
Quin Archer originally came to Brimston from the East Coast—New England, she says (pressed, she doesn’t reveal details—happy for her participants to spill their guts, she’s quite reserved about her own past), by way of New York. She came in 1982 and opened a fitness center called Tough Love, which her husband still runs. Some of you may remember the program that first made her a public figure: Selfishness Boot Camp. Aimed particularly, but not exclusively, at women, she insisted that putting other people’s needs in front of your own was a formula for unhappiness and bad health.
Certainly, Quin Archer is a good advertisement for her fitness regimen. Well into her fifties, she has the lean body of a twenty-year-old athlete. And she insists that anyone can be where she is, with discipline and determination. And a right sense of priorities.
“I became very distressed when I realized that people’s—particularly women’s—fitness goals for themselves were frustrated because they were putting other people’s needs in front of their own. So before I even started on a fitness program, I had to have some assurance from people that they loved themselves enough to put themselves first. It was called ‘selfishness’—but that’s an invention of people who want to use other people instead of drawing on themselves. I learned about it from the philosophy of Ayn Rand, a great and misunderstood thinker. If we’re not looking out for ourselves, we’re only involved in a meaningless system of self-sacrifice that, in the end, swallows everybody, leads everybody into a hopeless bog of weakness and self-pity.”
“I guess your positions have always been controversial. The people who stayed with your Selfishness Boot Camp program credit you with saving their lives. Others who decided to leave call you a monster, a sadist who gets off on humiliation.”
Archer laughs. “And I guess they’re criticizing me all the way into the doctor’s office for their high blood pressure and type II diabetes.”
“You seem to thrive on controversy. Your many fans say you’re a lifesaver for victims.”
“I refuse the word victim…”
“Why is that?”
“It’s a hopeless word. It calls up pity, or self-pity, which is only a weakener. If you say I’ve been harmed, then you are looking for justice, not sympathy.”
“You seem to really dislike pity and sympathy.”
“I dislike it because it doesn’t work. It leads to weakness and paralysis. Whereas a desire for justice is strengthening, and energizing.”
“The voice-over that starts all your shows says, ‘Forgiveness without payback keeps victims in their chains.’ But your critics say that you never seem interested in forgiveness; that you push the ‘ower’ and the ‘owed’ away from each other every time there seems to be a reconciliation in the air. Your signature phrase—‘Blah blah blah and boo hoo hoo’—some people object that you’re too quick to interject it when the ‘ower’ is trying to explain themselves and ask for forgiveness.”
“Well, Jada, what I’ve come to see is that premature forgiveness never lasts. And it backfires. My job is to see that the owed isn’t harmed further by being pushed by guilt or misplaced kindness into a too-early forgiveness that in the end serves no one well.”
“Do you see a difference between revenge and justice? Isn’t it an awfully easy line to cross?”
“It’s a line, but just because it’s a difficult line—well, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be approached. I believe that things looked at clearly and rationally have the best chance of success.”
“So you deny that revenge is what turns you on.”
“What turns me on is changing people’s lives. It’s the best turn-on there is. And if you say I’m addicted to that, I plead guilty.” (PAYBACK can be seen at 11 p.m. on Thursdays on channel 65.)
* * *
—
She dresses in front of the full-length mirror, running her hands along the hard contours of her body. Her fortieth-birthday present to herself: a breast reduction…she had loathed those fat flopping appendages that threatened to sag and hang. Now there were no vulnerable abutments. She is as lean and taut as a young boy. No need for a bra, but she wears one anyway, because she enjoys the feeling of boundedness. Boyish cotton underpants. Her signature sleeveless sheath, bright orange; the crystal necklace that looks like it was made of ice cubes; her signature black pointed stilettos.
She’s completely ready. She has prepared, not only a face to meet the faces that she meets but a perfectly dressed body…and, more important, a character for reality TV, which has no more reality than the false eyelashes the makeup girl, Estrella, will be attaching to her any minute.
* * *
—
She’s glad to see that Valerie looks uneasy; she won’t do anything to lessen the unease.
“Someone offered you something to drink?” she asks, instead of saying hello…then air kisses, then, Valerie’s gush:
“I’m so excited, Quin. I can’t thank you enough for letting me be part of all this.”
“Who else,” she says, hoping that this will trouble Valerie later—she won’t know whether it’s a compliment—“Of course I value you more than anyone,” or a put-down, “No one else was available.”
“Estrella’s all ready for you.”
She walks over to the makeshift booth that has been set up for her makeup. She suggested they make her up in her own bedroom but Estrella said since they were shooting outdoors she had to calibrate for that.
More air kisses for Estrella.
Estrella runs a comb through the stiff silver spikes.
“It’s such a great look, Quin…totally you. People try to copy it but it’s hard to carry off…I don’t know anyone else who does it as well as you.”
Cheap praise from an underpaid lackey. But it’s important to keep in her good graces. Waiters who don’t like you can piss in your dinner; makeup artists can add ten years with a stroke.
“I always say, Estrella, if I only had you to make me up every day, I’d be a hundred times happier.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Estrella says. “You know I’m always here for you. The silver eye shadow…the usual.”
“You know it.”
She gave her credit; she always gave credit where it was deserved. An important part of trade. Estrella improved on the face she made to meet the faces that she meets. Cold, fierce, dangerous, but entirely in control. She pats her spiky hair and kisses Estrella on her smooth matte cheek.
Rich makes his way into the garden.
“Fabulous as always…and Estrella, what about a little touch for me?”
“Why not…I don’t reserve myself for the ladies,” she says, and Quin wants to say, Oh, don’t waste your breath, he’s not for you…but if you have a younger brother. She watches him look at himself in the mirror. How he loves himself, she thinks, how he loves the way he looks. If he could have licked his own reflection in the mirror, he’d have done it.
He’d brought frosted glasses of iced tea with a sprig of mint for her and Valerie, and she takes her seat at the side of the small glass table across from Valerie. What a cliché, she thinks, the dyed-blond bob…like every anchorwoman from Fox to CNN…what a way to make yourself forgettable. Which Valerie deserved to be.
Willow Moonstone and Alicia Spence make their way to the table.
“Rich,” Quin c
alls over her shoulder. “We need two more glasses.”
The two women greet her perfunctorily; there is no presence of good feeling, just the merest acknowledgment of a common goal. She would have liked to have some sort of connection with Alicia; she was interested in her; she wanted to tell her that really, they had a lot in common…Alicia was ferociously against affirmative action, insisting that people take responsibility and not be given special favor for things that happened before they were born, she railed against rap and hip hop and boys wearing their jeans so you could see their underwear…railed against pregnant teens. She wanted people to take their lives in their own hands, just as Quin did.
But she could tell Alicia actively disliked her. She knew when it had happened; when they first met, Quin, fascinated by the stiff helmet of straightened hair, put a hand out and patted Alicia’s head and said, “I love your hair.” Well, that was something women did…what was so terrible? But Alicia had pulled away as if Quin’s touch had been a burn. She wonders how much time it takes for Alicia to straighten her hair; if it’s uncomfortable; how you get a comb through it. She admires her upper arms, which, as Alicia is in her thirties, are in no danger of looking stringy. Willow Moonstone, as always, looks overdressed; the loose long-sleeved Indian print top, the endless rows of beads, her hair gray and frizzled, shoulder length.
“So, Quin, can you give us a preview…I mean, you’ve told us you have a surprise, something special…so. Can you let me in?” Valerie says.
“No spoilers, the effect of your surprise will make everything stronger.”
The cameramen position themselves. The sound techs clip mikes and move speakers. The director tells Rich to join the women and makes a dispirited signal to begin.
* * *
—
“Hi there, this is Morning Circle. I’m Valerie Singleton with Alicia Spence and Willow Moonstone, and today…as I’ve promised…is a very special day.
“We’re here in the beautiful cactus garden of our very own Quin Archer, who’s graciously invited us into her home today. But first, Quin, maybe you’d take us around your garden…you’ve won a number of prizes for it, in addition to all your other accomplishments. I guess you get tired of people asking, ‘How do you do it?’ ”
“Well, the garden is more a pleasure than a chore, because I just love my cactuses. I love them and I admire them. They’re the most self-sufficient of plants…the prickles make people keep their distance, but they have a function, they nourish the plant itself…and then no promises, just as you least expect it…a beautiful flower.”
“Would you say you identify with your cactuses, then? Self-sufficient, maybe a little prickly, but full of lovely surprises.”
“Why Valerie, what a very nice thing to say. I can’t tell you when I’ve had a compliment that pleased me more.”
I wonder where she came up with that, Quin thinks. I wouldn’t have thought there was room for it in that tiny brain.
“And here comes her gorgeous hunk of a husband, Rich MacParland. Rich is one of the stars of our local theater group Two Thousand Miles Off Broadway. Who can forget his hilarious performance as Felix in The Odd Couple and then, the next year he just tugged at our heartstrings as the sheriff in A Trip to Bountiful. And that’s another admirable thing about this power couple: they share things…originally Rich worked for Quin at Tough Love…that was what the gym was called, and now, as her career in broadcasting has taken off, he’s taken major responsibility…a new look, a new name change. What do you call it now, Rich?”
“Love Your Sweat,” Rich says, flashing his expensive smile.
“I like that a lot better than Tough Love,” says Willow Moonstone. “It’s much more inviting.”
“Great, great,” Valerie says. “So one memorable example of their partnership was Quin’s participation in a talk back when Two Thousand Miles Off Broadway, under the direction of the very talented Julie Gregg, presented their version of King Lear. You had one of the leads, as I recall, Rich…am I right?”
“Oswald,” he says.
“They were considering letting him play the Fool but they were afraid that would be typecasting,” Quin says.
Rich’s eyes harden, but he laughs and lands a fake punch on Quin’s bare arm.
Two Thousand Miles Off Broadway. How she loathed them. A bunch of self-deceived no-talents thinking they’re bringing culture to the hinterlands. Bad enough when they were just amateurs, but then they roped in that idiot Julie Gregg, who taught drama at the community college…urging them to push themselves, to challenge themselves…so, of course, they do King Lear. How they slaughtered the language, how they adored their wigs and makeup…Julie had the bright idea of Quin doing a talk back after the last performance, and Rich said, “Honey, just do this for me…,” and she went along with it…he was owed it, it was justice, and she prided herself on being just. And so the stupid girl thought she’d trip Quin Archer up: “King Lear is a play about forgiveness…and you have a very special take on forgiveness.”
She’d wiped the floor up with them. “The whole thing is a bunch of hooey,” she’d said. “The father’s an egomaniac; the two daughters see that, only Cordelia…purer-than-thou, can’t see that there’s no point trying to make moral capital with someone like that.
It was quite a sensation, that talk back.” Valerie holds up an article from the Brimstone Gazette. “Reality TV Host calls Lear Baloney Stew.”
“Well, what I said was the whole thing was just baloney. From the beginning. Obviously, the guy is out of his gourd, so just play along with him, the one that really cheesed me off was Cordelia…just a vain little girl, oh so honest…I won’t be like my sisters, just giving him what he wants so they could get what they want. Refusing the fair trade: he wants praise, they want land. What’s the problem? No, she has to go all heroic, and everything starts from there. And so he cuts her off…and at the end, she dies trying to rescue him, and they forgive each other, ‘No cause, no cause.’ Blah blah blah and boo hoo hoo. All unnecessary.”
“I would have thought you’d like the character of Edmund,” Alicia says.
“Oh, Alicia, I didn’t know you were a Shakespearean scholar.”
Alicia gets that cold look that can actually, momentarily, throw Quin off balance. “What about me, exactly, makes you think I wouldn’t know my Shakespeare?”
How annoying…you would think that she’d never play the race card, but occasionally she does. But Quin won’t fall for it…the “Gotcha, see you’re really a racist.” “It’s just that I don’t know you very well, and I mainly think of you as a successful businesswoman…it’s one more sign of your versatility. One more sign that you went after what you wanted and got it.”
Gotcha. There is nothing for Alicia to say. But she wants some kind of fight.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I prefer Edmund to Cordelia, if you like, but they all end up badly…that’s tragedy, which is not the Shakespeare I most like, some flaw that gets in the way of happiness. It’s a bad lesson for people. With sense and rational choices, the whole tragedy could have been avoided. It wasn’t in the stars, as Shakespeare knew when he knew better.”
“Fascinating, but let’s not get stuck there. Quin, what is there that you want to tell us about the revelation you’re going to make on your show?”
“Don’t try to trick me, Val, we’re too old friends for that. No spoilers. What I want to talk to you about, what’s the most important lesson from my life, is not the harm that was done to me…which you’ll find out about on PAYBACK…but that I pulled myself up out of it. And didn’t get caught in the counterculture swamp, which I wandered into because of the times, because I hadn’t yet found the philosophy that changed, that organized, my life.”
“You mean the philosophy of Ayn Rand.”
“Yes. Briefly: that Man…and I say Man, not the
politically correct alternative…through will and reason can achieve happiness…and that there’s nothing else. And to get rid of the destructive romance about the ’60s, which we’re still stuck in.”
“Tell us more.”
She’s ready for this. She plotted it all: the false history she’ll sell as reality. She knew just where to go. It had irritated her enormously that the National Book Award had been given to Patti Smith, a rock star, not a writer. Just Kids. A love song to immaturity and depravity. She had read it like a training manual. She’d created a whole file on her computer: Just Kids. Copied out images, details, the most unsavory, the most ridiculous. The National Book Award. A best seller. There seemed to be an endless appetite for the most degraded parts of the ’60s and ’70s. Well, she could use that. Her greatest talent was knowing what would sell. So she would sell Patti Smith’s life as her own.
“Well, I ran away from home at sixteen…you’ll find out why on the show…and made my way to New York. To the Chelsea Hotel, which somehow I’d heard about, it was in the air…a kind of magnet for sick depraved weak people who wanted to wallow in each other’s filth.”
“Are you willing to talk more about it?” says Willow, always, Quin thinks, disgusted, the comforting consoler.
“I’m more than willing, Willow, I’m eager, because as you know one of my major crusades is to expose the lie that drug use is benign, or even productive. So I’ll take you through it, briefly, if we have the time.”
“The show is yours, Quin.”
You bet it is, thinks Quin. I’ve seen to that.
“Let’s see…I arrived in New York, sixteen, desperate, and I made my way to Washington Square Park because somehow I knew that was where hippies gathered, I had this idea that I’d find some musician who’d let me work for him, some kind of roadie…remember, I was very young. Well, I did meet someone, I just walked around…that’s how green I was…telling people I had nowhere to stay and asking if they had a spare room.
