How Hard Can It Be

by Robyn Peterman

  Chapter 33

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. How is everyone feeling tonight?” Anderson Cooper yelled as he came out onto the stage. The crowd went ballistic and completely ignored the flashing sign to be quiet. He stood there smiling at the nutty audience. Dang, he’s cute. “Tonight we are very lucky to have New York Times best-selling author Evangeline O’Hara. She has thrown her hat into the self-publishing world with a preorder that defies reason. I haven’t had the honor of meeting her yet, but I look forward to sitting with such an incredibly accomplished icon.”

  Oh my God, he’s in for a treat. A producer walked out onto the stage and handed him some papers. Anderson nodded his thanks and continued. “Right here in my hand I’m holding the early reviews for Pirate Dave and His Randy Adventures. Am I in the room with Evangeline O’Hara fans?” he asked the audience. They screamed rabidly. Anderson Cooper looked slightly alarmed by the response, but he was a pro. “Would you like to hear what the papers are saying?” he yelled, holding the reviews above his head. Again, they screamed like they were on fire.

  He glanced at the paper he was holding and blanched. The dagger throwers in my tummy started juggling pillows. He quickly flipped through the sheaf of papers in his hands, getting paler with each discovery. “Well, um,” Anderson Cooper stuttered, “maybe we’ll, ah . . . hold off on these until later in the show.”

  The crowd, clearly in love with Mr. Cooper, cheered like maniacs. Anderson glanced over to the producer, held up the reviews, and gave him a WTF look. “All right, my friends”—he popped right back into his TV self—“after the break we’ll be back with Evangeline O’Hara.”

  “He didn’t read the reviews because the book sucks,” one woman hissed.

  “I agree,” another said. “It’s an obscene pile of disconnected crap. It’s not readable.”

  My fists clenched with excitement and my eyes sparkled behind my horn rims. Fred and Delona grinned and nodded. So far, so good. Anderson Cooper left the stage. I was sure he had some choice words for his producer.

  A hush went through the room as the Viper stepped onto the stage. Evangeline made her entrance with two young producers from the show. The crowd murmured in shock. She looked like a dead hooker who had been reanimated by zombies. Her skirt length was obscenely short. It was turquoise feathers with gold sequins. Her top was a gold lamé halter and her stilettos were covered in gold glitter. Her considerable boobage was spilling out of her halter in a very bad way. I glanced at Delona, whose jaw had practically hit the floor.

  Evangeline wobbled her way to the couch, relying heavily on her escorts. As she seated herself, she grabbed on to the dark-haired escort’s love stick. The crowd gasped and the escort shrieked in terror, turned, and hightailed it off the stage. The other escort backed away in fear and quickly followed his buddy. She made the international “call me” sign to their backs as they escaped.

  “She did not just grab that poor guy’s privates,” I laughed.

  “Yes, she did.” Delona raised her eyebrow in disgust. “I hope he sues her. God knows there are enough witnesses.”

  Evangeline looked out at her fans and did the Queen’s wave. The camera guy, who had a sense of humor or was just as mean as a snake, went in for a close-up, and stayed. A sixteen-foot picture of Evangeline’s face was projected on the big screen all over the lobby. People turned away in horror and some started to cry. I realized what little eyelids she might have had left were completely gone. Her eyes were bulging out of her head. Her makeup was on the garish side and her neck looked like an elephant scrotum at its finest. Fucking awesome.

  The canned music came back on. Anderson Cooper ran back onstage and seated himself at his desk. He turned to smile at Evangeline and startled so badly, he threw himself backward. He and his chair toppled over. Producers, PA’s, and security ran out onto the stage to help their star. Within seconds he was righted, his TV face was back on, and he was ready to go.

  “Sorry about that,” he told the viewing audience at home, “there seems to be a malfunction with my chair. All fixed now!”

  “Malfunction, my ass,” I giggled.

  “This is making my year,” Delona gushed, hugging both me and Fred.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Evangeline O’Hara.” Anderson Cooper smiled out to the crowd, trying to avoid looking directly at the Viper. The smattering of applause was in direct violation of the screen, which was urging us with desperate flashing to “go nuts.”

  “Thank you, Andy,” she purred, running her claw up his arm. He gave her a lovely smile and discreetly moved out of her range.

  “It’s actually Anderson,” he corrected her politely.

  “Oh Andy,” she tittered seductively while everyone in the lobby cringed, “you don’t have to be so formal with me. I’m the spitting image of your mother. Everyone tells me so.”

  Anderson Cooper was speechless. He turned a rather mottled shade of purple and straightened all the papers on his desk. “Yes, well,” he said, gathering himself, “let’s talk about your book.”

  “Of course I’m only sixty,” she cooed and touched her bosom lightly, “but the resemblance is uncanny. Don’t you think so, Andy?” Several women in the crowd rolled their eyes at her age lie, others downright laughed.

  “Um, no, I don’t. So let’s get back to the book.” He smiled, but I could tell it cost him. “You have over forty best-sellers on the New York Times list, so why self-publish?”

  “They’re all crap.” She flicked her hand dismissively. “All those books were awful. I’m embarrassed to have my name on them.”

  The crowd gasped and several people booed.

  Evangeline’s head snapped around and she glared at the audience. “You all are idiots if you liked those books,” she laughed. The poor audience couldn’t tell if she was kidding or serious. Neither could Anderson Cooper. Everyone laughed weakly along with her, wondering if they’d entered the Twilight Zone.

  “You must be joking,” Anderson said, uncomfortably.

  Evangeline’s tiny brain wheels started working, and she realized the crowd was not with her. “Of course I’m joking,” she crooned. “I love all those books and all the little people who buy them.”

  “Oo-kay.” Anderson’s eyes were large and he shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you tell us about Pirate Dave and His Randy Adventures? The pre-sales are phenomenal, absolutely record breaking.”

  “Yes, well, when you’re as prolific as I am, this kind of thing is not a large surprise.” She smile-grimaced and Queen-waved back at all the little people in the audience. “Pirate Dave, as I like to call my tome, is my greatest work to date. It’s based on a true story about the time-traveling vampire warlock who discovered America.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Anderson Cooper snorted.

  “Gesundheit,” she replied. “Yes, not many people know the truth behind the discovery of America and I felt it was my duty as a citizen, a celebrity, and a style icon to make all the little people aware. It’s also a sweeping love story about conjoined twins. There are some wonderful midget fairies and lots of my trademark graphic sex.” She leered at Anderson.

  “The midgets are gay?” he choked out.

  “Oh no, darling,” she tried to giggle, but it sounded like a belch. “They’re fairy shape-shifters and there are also flying magical trolls.”

  “And this is all true?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, Andy.”

  Anderson looked pale. “We are going to go to a station identification break and we’ll be right back with Evangeline O’Hara.”

  The canned music came back on and Anderson Cooper ran off the stage. No one spoke to or offered Evangeline anything. The audience was so confused that some members started to leave. I noticed Joanne speaking animatedly with the same producer who had given Anderson Cooper the sheets of bad reviews. She was showing him the contents of the folder; he was nodding and smiling. Oh. My. God. Was Anderson Cooper going to confront her with her c
rimes on the air?

  The show started again and my body forgot how to breathe. Anderson Cooper took his seat and completely ignored a pouting Evangeline until the cameras rolled.

  “Evangeline, before you read an excerpt, I understand there is someone here who can enlighten the world on your career.”

  “That’s lovely,” Evangeline said, not listening to a word, “but there’s something I’d like to ask you, Andy.”

  Oh my God, no. Was she really going to . . .

  “I’d like to ask you out on a date. I find you extremely attractive, and I think we could make beautiful music together.” She eyed him suggestively and put one of her claws into her mouth. Women around me gagged.

  Anderson was speechless for the second time in ten minutes. My guess was that this was a first for him. “I’m seeing someone,” he muttered with murder in his eyes. “I’d like to bring on your good friend Joanne Krakowski. Welcome, Joanne.”

  Joanne ran up on the stage and shook Anderson Cooper’s hand excitedly. The crowd waited in anticipation and Evangeline just looked confused. I, on the other hand, was about to puke. Joanne must have no idea that there was nothing in the folder to clear her of ruffing, whatever the hell that is.

  “Fred—” I grabbed his hand. “Evangeline will eat her alive. I have to go up there and . . .”

  Fred held tight to my hand, not letting me move. “Rena, Joanne is smarter and tougher than you think. She wouldn’t go up there without knowing what she’s doing.”

  “God, I hope so,” I muttered.

  A crew person ran on and clipped a wireless mike to Joanne’s sweatshirt as she seated herself next to Evangeline. The camera went in for a close-up. Her eyebrows looked fantastic—she’d be so pleased. It looked a little like she’d penciled in where they were still sparse, but she’d done a great job. While her brows were stellar, her body trembled with fear.

  “Joanne,” Anderson Cooper said warmly and with massive relief, “we’re so glad to have you on the show and we’re waiting with baited breath for your inside scoop.”

  “Well, Anderson Cooper,” she giggled, “I’m very nervous. I’ve never been on TV before.”

  “You’re doing a great job so far.” He smiled. “Isn’t she doing great?” he asked the bewildered audience. They started slowly, but the audience roared its approval for someone normal and sweet. Joanne was a hit.

  “Oh my goodness,” she gushed. “Thank you, everyone. Anderson Cooper, I think I’m starting to sweat a little bit, so I’d like to get started before my eyebrows melt off.”

  The audience laughed, relating to her beautifully. I hadn’t realized till this moment how attractive Joanne was. The dimples in her cheeks were adorable and her eyes were a clear blue under the lights. Her nervousness caused a pretty flush across her cheeks and her purple sweatshirt made her sparkling eyes pop.

  “What’s going on here?” Evangeline hissed. “This is my interview. I don’t even know who this woman is. Make her go away, Andy darling. This is our time, my love.”

  “No can do,” he replied, focusing all his energy on Joanne. “What exactly is it you’d like to share with us, Joanne?”

  “Well, Anderson Cooper, I’m here to inform the world that Evangeline O’Hara has never written a book in her life. She’s been blackmailing four people for over twenty years.”

  Oh shit, not four. Five. Oh my God, was she forgetting about Fred?

  “Get the police,” the Viper shrieked. “This unkempt piece of white trash is slandering me. I mean, for God’s sake, look at what she’s wearing.” That was her fatal mistake. Over half the women here were dressed almost identically to Joanne. Purple sweatshirts were a fucking staple in the wardrobe of any self-respecting Minnesotan. Period. Evangeline glanced out at the little people for support and all she got was hostile glares. She howled like an animal and lunged at Joanne with her claws. For a round little gal, Joanne moved quickly. She hopped up on the couch and Evangeline tumbled to the floor, knocking her wig off in the process. Women in the audience screamed in horror and delight as she crawled around the floor swearing and trying to find her hair. Thankfully she disconnected her mic when she flew off the couch, or else the viewers would be getting a blistering string of profanities thrown at them. This had turned into the Jerry Springer Show.

  “What are you saying?” Anderson asked, getting excited at the turn of events. “Did other people write her novels?”

  “Yes, they did, Anderson Cooper.” Joanne moved closer to the host and farther away from the screaming mimi writhing all over the floor.

  “Do you have proof?” he asked hopefully.

  “Of course I do, Anderson Cooper,” she replied. “Do you think I’d risk my life like this if I didn’t have proof?”

  The crowd cheered and began chanting, “Proof, proof, proof . . .” The lead ball in my stomach wasn’t getting along with the dagger throwing jugglers or the chocolate I’d shoved down my throat on my drive over. My eyes welled up and I dropped my head into my hands. I couldn’t watch Joanne go down.

  Fred gently lifted my chin. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

  “Where in the fuck is my hair?” Evangeline screeched. “I will destroy you all,” she wailed, still crawling around. The crowd booed her, which in turn made her start swearing at the crowd. Thank God her mic was gone.

  “The proof is in the folder.” Joanne smiled, and pinched Anderson’s cheek affectionately. Instead of recoiling, Mr. Cooper grinned and leaned in for more. “The writers are here tonight. They’ve been deprived of tens of thousands of dollars and they’ve lived in fear and slavery for twenty years.” Joanne’s pretty eyes filled with tears. “It’s been a living hell,” she whispered.

  Anderson Cooper took Joanne’s hand in his own. “Would you like to bring them up?”

  “Yes,” she sniffed, “and I would like to clear them of this awful weight they’ve been carrying for twenty years.”

  “Audience,” Anderson yelled, “would you like that?”

  The roar was deafening. I watched as Shoshanna, Poppy Harriet, and Nancy made their way to the stage.

  “Fred—” I pulled on him—“you have to go up.”

  “I can’t,” he said, shaking like a leaf. “I can’t.”

  “Delona,” I pleaded, “make him go.”

  “He’s a grown man, Rena. If he wants to go, he will.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Evangeline shouted. She’d found her hair, but the weight of her knockers made getting back up an impossibility.

  “This is Shoshanna LeHump,” Joanne said proudly as Shoshanna took the stage in her full-on camo. “She wrote the entire Pirate series. All fourteen books.”

  “I love you! Those sex scenes saved my marriage,” a woman in the back screamed at Shoshanna.

  “I love you, too!” She grinned, giving the crowd the peace sign. The fans went nuts. No direction screen necessary.

  Joanne continued, “This is Poppy Harriet. She wrote the best-selling historical series. All ten of them,” Joanne said, giving her friend a huge hug.

  Several women shrieked and started sobbing. They ran to the edge of the stage and tried to touch Poppy Harriet as if she was a freakin’ rock star.

  “Thank you,” Poppy Harriet murmured, completely overwhelmed by the attention.

  “Anderson Cooper, I’d like to bring the Minnesota State Health Inspector to the stage, if I may.” Joanne smiled shyly at her new best friend, Anderson.

  “By all means,” he told her gallantly.

  Joanne gestured to the gal with the briefcase. She walked to the podium with an official air, cleared her throat six times, and began to speak. “I am holding proof in my hands that Evangeline O’Hara was the perpetrator and mastermind behind salmonella-gate.” The happy audience turned on a dime. Angry shouts erupted from all corners. A few threw their convention programs at Evangeline, causing her to drop her hair again. Salmonella-gate was no joke here. It was serious fucking business. “We have signed re
ceipts for the illegal substances that were used and copies of checks made out to the people hired to place the poison in the food. Charges will be filed tomorrow. Thank you.” She closed her folder and left the stage.

  “Liars, big, fat, ugly, casserole-eating liars,” Evangeline yowled from the floor. She was ignored.

  “That brings me to Nancy,” Joanne went on, “also known as Nan Thorenson.” The crowd gasped. “She’s lived in hiding for many years, believing she accidentally poisoned two hundred and fifty innocent bridge players.” Nancy meekly walked onto the stage and took her place next to her friends. Joanne took her hand and announced, “Nancy is the author of all twenty-one of Evangeline O’Hara’s cookbooks.”

  The crowd cheered as if Nancy was the new quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings. Anderson Cooper was in hog heaven. The grin that split his face was something to behold.

  Once the roar died down, a quiet murmur began. The audience spoke in excited whispers and then a voice broke from the crowd.

  “Who wrote her best work?” one lady demanded. “Who wrote the Castaway Series?”

  Joanne smiled. “That is one of the finest series ever written,” she agreed. “The Castaway series was written by Fred Smith.”

  “Nooooooo,” Evangeline howled like an injured animal. She dragged herself to the podium and pulled herself and her knockers into a standing position. “Fred Smith is a cross-dressing faggot,” she spat into the microphone. “He’s an abomination.”

  Fred’s face paled and he sank down to the floor.

  “Just wait one second, you over-Botoxed skank,” Joanne yelled. “Fred Smith is not a homosexual. I should know, because we’ve been doing the nasty for over six years, and he’s an animal in the sack!”

  A woman in the back added, “My husband wears my underpants. I think it’s hot.”

  “That’s nothing,” an older gal from the other side of the lobby shouted. “My man and I go lingerie shopping together. He picks out my stuff and I pick out his!”