“Hello, Paul.”
“Can you believe all the excitement Dongwood is creating?”
“I really can’t. It’s just immensely rewarding to receive so much praise for a project that nobody believed in and that, frankly, nobody has seen yet.”
“The buzz is tremendous. What do you think the reaction will be across the country?”
“People hear the words ‘carnival worker’ and ‘head lice’ and ordinarily shy away, but I think this is going to be the film that changes all that. The public is ready for a movie that disturbs them deeply by exposing the seedy underworld of the traveling sideshow.”
“Ship, why the NC-17 rating? Is there a great deal of violence and gratuitous sex?”
“Paul, a carnival worker’s life isn’t all elephant ears and powdered sugar. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I don’t, but I wish you the best of luck.”
“Thank you.”
Dirk Harrington, the star of Dongwood and the one responsible for eating Tailburgers on-screen, entered the theater with his fourth wife, Dannika. Reportedly, he beat her so badly before the Oscars, Valentino had to design a full body wrap at the last minute. Looking at her now, I couldn’t see any bruises, although a makeup artist did hover quite closely. Harrington had done big box office before in his action feature Pie Lard and its sequel Pie Lard II: On Thin Crust, and we were counting on him to carry our campaign to new heights.
L.A. was seductive. Once you dipped your big toe into the warm water of its karmic hot tub, it was hard not to let yourself slip in and soak for a while. As ridiculous as it sounds, I couldn’t deny the intoxicating mix of excitement and disgust I felt in Harrington’s presence. Chiseled good looks, buxom babe on his arm (who wasn’t his daughter), exquisitely tailored suit, muscular physique (and the inclination to use it on loved ones), three rehab stints and a witness gig in the Heidi Fleiss trial. Hey, we all have a few warts.
Paul O’Reilly pulled Dirk aside for some questioning.
“Dirk, you look refulgent tonight. May I ask you what you’re wearing?”
“Armani. This is a preview of his fall line. You notice the collarless jacket? That’s an Indian influence. It’s chic, but not in a Gandhi way. The look this year is going to be ethnic influenced but not literally ethnic, do you understand?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Look, I want to say something about the African ivory trade.”
“Please, go ahead.”
“It’s wrong.”
(Pause) “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Very good. You know, Dirk, I couldn’t help but notice the choker around Dannika’s neck.”
“I never choked her.”
“No, not you. The choker around her neck. I couldn’t help but notice it appears to be made of ivory.”
“It’s fake.”
“And the fur collar on her jacket?”
“It’s fake.”
“I see.”
“Everything on Dannika and about Dannika is fake, from her ivory to her fur to her breasts. The only thing that is real is her love for me.” Dirk laughed at his own joke.
“I bet,” O’Brien responded. “Dannika, any comments for our audience?”
“She’s not talking tonight,” Dirk interjected. “She’s just been in for a throat scraping.”
Okay, so it was a mixed bag, but Dirk Harrington was a movie star. He didn’t have to play by the rules, and rightfully so. He raised lots of money for the Democratic Party and paid tons of income and property taxes. He attended GLAAD functions and wore an AIDS ribbon—a veritable celluoid prince of Hollywood and its PC politics.
“Dad, isn’t he amazing?”
“He’s just a person, Soph. Remember that.”
“Just a person. Do you know how many times he’s slept at the White House?”
“Well, no. I haven’t been keeping track.”
“Seven times. And he’s going back again next month for a state dinner honoring Ozzy Osbourne and Kid Rock.”
“The president is obviously a fan of the arts, but let’s keep film’s contribution to society in perspective.”
“Dad, Dirk is about more than just film. Where do you think the antifur fight would be without him? And the anticruelty movement? And the anti–animal testing militia? (Pause) Nowhere.”
“Tell me. Is Dirk for anything?”
“Of course. He’s pro-choice, pro–seventy-two-hour background check and pro–baby seal. But he is antiaging. When he dies, he plans to have himself cryogenically frozen so that he can come back when there’s a cure for it.”
“A cure for what?”
“For dying, of course.”
“Sophia, dying is not a disease. It’s a natural part of the life cycle. You know, dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Aren’t you reading any Emerson in English class?”
“I’m not taking any English, Dad. You know that. Oh my God, here he comes. Hand me my inhaler.”
Sophia’s asthma had an annoying way of cropping up at big moments in her life. Still, it didn’t stop her from trying to make eye contact with Dirk Harrington as he passed by. Dirk, on the other hand, was so transfixed by my daughter’s breasts, his eyes never made it above her neck.
“He looked at me. Did you see that?” Sophia gasped.
By the end of the evening, I had Sophia convinced that I’d come around to her way of thinking. Yes, the world would be overrun by dogs if not for the truly monumental work of Bob Barker. Of course, we all owed a huge debt of gratitude to Goldie Hawn for her tireless efforts on behalf of circus elephants. And no, I found nothing amusing about Meryl Streep’s battle against chemicals in apples. No question, Sally Struthers had struck a huge blow for the refugee children of the world as well as the repellent-spray industry as we now know it. Sometimes you have to appease your kids just to get on with your life.
When people came out of the theater talking about the costumes and the makeup, it was a sure sign the movie was a bomb. I’m no critic, but everyone knows an ending where the hero infests an entire sixth grade class with head lice, and then commits suicide, is box-office poison. The film, three and a half hours long, had an intermission where half the audience left, and a climactic scene where Dirk Harrington’s character barfed up a Tailfrap, our beef-flavored shake, while riding the Tilt-A-Whirl. Not exactly the positive product placement we were looking for. Naturally, Ship Plankton, ubiquitous before, was nowhere to be seen now. And Dirk Harrington was in such a rush to leave, he didn’t have time to sign autographs for a waiting crowd that included Sophia. Like the studio executives who mumbled expletives and grimaced as they climbed into their respective town cars, I entered the back of our limousine in a foul mood. If the numbers for Dongwood’s first weekend turned out to be as bad as I expected, the first major problem with the new campaign was at hand.
15
Crash
Two days later, back at home, I received a call in the middle of the night.
“Hello?”
“Sky, it’s Satan.”
“Manchow?”
“You know another? I’ve got bad news.”
“What is it?”
“Jello’s dead.”
I jerked up in bed.
“He’s what?”
“He’s dead. Collapsed after practice tonight.”
“What happened? I just saw him. Was it his heart?”
“Nope. Peanut allergy. PayDay candy bar finished him off.”
“I can’t believe it. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, it really is a shame. He had a hell of an endorsement future. We were even in talks with the PayDay people.”
“I just can’t believe it. I’m stunned.”
“Well, believe this. As Jello’s representative, I want to make sure that we get every cent he had coming.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. I don’t think right now is the appropriate time to talk about that.”
“I disagree. The moment th
ese guys drop dead, everybody’s memory starts getting real hazy. I’m here to tell you that kinda shit doesn’t fly with Satan.”
“Look, it’ll all be taken care of. Why don’t we talk after the funeral? I’ll see you there, okay?”
“Actually, I won’t be able to make that, but my assistant, Milan Stoshitz, will be there. I’ll send him over to see you and set up a meeting.”
“Okay, Satan. I’ll keep an eye out for him. Good-bye.”
I hung up the telephone and lay awake for the rest of the night. I couldn’t believe Jelloteous was dead. What a cruel joke God had played on my Belgian buddy. The last time I’d seen him he looked so healthy, but then again, the same could be said of our Torture campaign.
My early morning surprise from Satan was followed by more bad news as the day progressed. The initial box-office numbers were in for Dongwood, and it was a disaster. Two and a half million dollars on an opening weekend with little competition didn’t bode well for the film’s long-term grosses. In fact, it almost assured it of a place among the least profitable films of the year. Dongwood would soon be out of theaters and Tailburger would be out of luck, left with millions of extra head lice combs.
With Plankton’s movie dying and Jelloteous dead, the Torture campaign was losing any forward momentum that it had gained during its first few days. Then came the biggest blow yet—an overnight letter from SERMON arrived at headquarters addressed to the Link.
Muffet I. Meaney, Executive Director
S.E.R.M.O.N
Stop Eating Red Meat Now
1335 K Street N.W.
Washington, DC 20005
Mr. Frank A. Fanoflincoln, President
Tailburger, Inc.
Cheese Factory Road
Mendon, NY 14544
Dear Mr. Fanoflincoln:
You are a reprehensible pig. In total disregard for our country’s chronic obesity problem, not to mention the millions of Americans who are dead or dying annually from heart failure, you have devised an advertising campaign that lauds the practice of self-abuse and personal torture. Shame on you!
As you read this, thousands of little boys and girls are blimping up and being unwittingly condemned to shop for the rest of their lives in stores that cater to the “husky” and “plus-sized.” Thousands of adults are switching from Levi’s relaxed-fit jeans to generic “I’ve decided to let myself go” lines. Hundreds of cardiologists are rushing out to their local Porsche dealerships in eager anticipation of the new business to come. I just hope you’re happy, because we are most decidedly not.
We are calling for a nationwide boycott of all Tailburger outlets to protest what we believe is one of the most irresponsible marketing acts of all time. When my Mark, God rest his soul, left this unsavory planet over fifteen years ago, I vowed he would not die in vain. I urge you to pull all scheduled television ads, radio spots, print media and billboard coverage for this horrible campaign. Until you do, we will be speaking to the press and making your life miserable.
Without regard, Muffet Meaney
Subtlety was not Muffet’s strong suit, and when the Link saw this letter, he barged into my office, threw it at me and proceeded to go berserk.
“Goddamnit, Thorne! Read this piece of shit!”
As I read the first line my stomach began to churn. Muffet had betrayed me. There was only one way out of this situation.
“Frank, I’ve got an idea.”
“I’ve got one, too. Get on the horn to that cocksucker and tell her to call off her dogs!”
“Just listen to me for one minute.”
The Link stopped ranting, but continued pacing back and forth in front of my desk.
“This better be good.”
“I’ve got a good idea. It has to do with Muffet Meaney.”
“Goddamn whore. I hope it involves a gun.”
“What if I got involved with her?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Thorne?”
War talk was the only way to get through to the Link.
“I’m talking about infiltrating behind enemy lines.”
“You mean espionage?”
“Exactly. I’m talking about personally improving Tailburger’s position with SERMON by getting romantically involved with Ms. Meaney.”
“Are you fucked in the head, Thorne? That’s about the worst goddamn idea I’ve ever heard. What if it goes bad? Then we’re worse off than before. Did you think about that?”
“No. I really didn’t.”
“The answer is no. Absolutely not. I forbid you from doing that. Just call that Jezebel and tell her to back off.”
Things were not going as well as I’d hoped. The Link, whose sweaty, red face made him look like a burn-unit victim, stormed out of my office as quickly as he’d stormed in, leaving me alone with the letter and the unpleasant task at hand. I took a deep breath and proceeded to light up a Commodore. I was pissed. Muffet’s stunt threatened to torpedo not only the Torture campaign but also my job, my pension and, for whatever it was worth, my identity. I hesitated to call her in such an agitated state, but what choice did I have? If the SERMON boycott went national before I got to her, our conversation would be pointless.
“Hello. You’ve reached SERMON. How may I direct your call?”
“Muffet Meaney, please.”
“One moment.”
How could Muffet treat me like this? For God’s sake, we did it in every room of my house. Barry White himself had blessed our sexual union.
“Hello. Ms. Meaney’s office.”
“Yes, is Muffet there?”
“I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting.”
“Look. Tell her it’s Sky Thorne.”
“One minute, Mr. Thorne.”
Why couldn’t she call for a boycott of Wendy’s or Fuddrucker’s? They could afford it more easily than us. I had to keep my head on straight. I was letting my personal feelings interfere with business.
“Hello.”
“Muffet, how could you?”
“How could I what?”
“Threaten us with a boycott.”
“Sky, your campaign is the worst I’ve seen in fifteen years.”
“But it’s mine. You know, me, the guy you refer to in bed as the Atomic Fly.”
“Sky, you’re letting your personal feelings interfere with business.”
“I am not. That’s ridiculous. I just want fair treatment.”
“Sky, I run an organization committed to the health of the American public. When I see something that I believe jeopardizes its health, I have no choice but to act. I hope you understand that.”
“No, I don’t understand. I’m the Atomic Fly. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Sky, I have to go. Call me tonight and we’ll talk. Okay?”
I felt defeated. Muffet was ruthless.
“No. I need to talk to you now. Are you going to call off the boycott or not?”
“Not.”
Muffet wasn’t going to call off the boycott. That much was clear. I tried to spin it for the Link by telling him it would only enhance our outlaw image. Ever the pragmatist, the Link started crying at first, then shifted into Civil War mode and told me about the personal grooming habits of General Lee for an hour. Finally he said we’d assess the damage after the initial hit and form a battle plan. For once, the Link actually managed to make me feel better about something rather than worse.
I didn’t have time to pout, since Jelloteous Junderstack’s memorial service was on my immediate agenda. I caught an afternoon flight to LAX and checked in at the Beverly Wilshire. The Menendez and Simpson murder trials, seemingly significant blips on the California radar screen, hadn’t changed L.A. one bit. The city found new sources of scandal to fill the void on a daily basis, and today was Jello’s turn.
I reached my room, tipped the valet and closed the door, happy to be safe in my air-conditioned cocoon. I meant to call Muffet, but never did. I knew she wouldn’t change her mind. I fell asleep watching TV an
d woke up at 3:00 A.M. in my clothes, not sure of where I was. I drifted back to sleep and reawoke by 7:00 A.M.
Perfect Southern California weather met me outside. I took a taxi to the Staples Center, where Jelloteous’s casket was draped in purple and gold. All the big Laker fans were there: Jack Nicholson, Dyan Cannon, the guys from those “Whassupp?” ads. Even Ship Plankton, who was known as an enormous supporter of the Lakers’ latest incarnation of Showtime, made an appearance. He was sobbing so uncontrollably, I felt obligated to comfort him.
“Ship, I’m really sorry.”
Ship tried to pull himself together.
“I know, Sky. The whole thing is a travesty. I’m just devastated. Somebody’s ripped my heart out. Can you feel my pain?”
Ship continued to cry.
“I can. I really feel it. I didn’t know Jello well, but he seemed like a great guy.”
Ship’s thoughts were evidently elsewhere.
“I just can’t believe it. The domestic box office for Dongwood should have been huge. Now my only hope is video and the foreign market.”
I consoled Ship the best I could before I was accosted by Satan’s assistant, Milan Stoshitz.
“Sky, Milan Stoshitz. We need to talk about Jello’s contract.”
“Hello, Milan. Have you met Ship Plankton?”
Without looking up, Ship extended a tear-drenched hand toward Milan, who shook it awkardly before letting go.
“Sky, I really want to talk to you about Jello’s contract.”
“C’mon. Can’t it wait until after the service?”
“I guess so. Meet me under Magic’s retired jersey when it’s over.”
“No problem.”
The funeral was very moving in an L.A. kind of way. Jello’s teammates talked about how tall he was and how he could fill up the lane “like a motherfucker.” To what I’m sure was Stoshitz’s delight, the captain of the team announced that Jello had been voted a full share of whatever play-off money was ultimately earned. Particularly touching was the owner’s description of how Jello restructured his contract to help fit everyone under the salary cap. Numerous Laker girls, most with noticeable limps, wore black armbands to pay homage to their fallen hero. A dry eye couldn’t be found during the Belgian national anthem.
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