“You call this an engagement ring?!” he bellowed. “It’s a chip, nothing but a chip.” Trish frowned and looked at the ring.
Mr. Mission glared at Steve, who was sitting on the couch in a fresh state of shock. “Where the hell did you say you work?”
“Price Waterhouse,” Steve replied.
“Well, that explains everything,” he hollered. “You’ll never amount to anything as long as you work for someone else.”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t be hateful,” Trish whined. “Steve has a good job. He makes almost half a million dollars a year.”
“Half a million dollars a what?” he demanded. “A year?” He got up and stormed toward the doorway. “Gunther!” he yelled.
The servant appeared almost instantly.
“Get Jim Lewis on the phone and tell him to open the store immediately. We’re coming over now. And get the car started.” Then he stomped angrily over to his daughter and said, “Give me that thing,” pointing to her finger.
Reluctantly, she slipped the ring off her finger and set it in her father’s outstretched hand. He made a fist around it and abruptly shoved it into his pocket before walking to the minibar and pouring himself a tumbler of scotch.
Steve looked at Trish, who gave him a shrug and mouthed the words, That’s Daddy.
Then, at just after midnight, the three of them, along with Gunther, went to Tiffany & Co., where her father demanded to see the best and largest diamond in the store. When the seven-and-a-half carat stone was delivered to him on a black velvet cushion, he took the original engagement ring out of his pocket and plunked it next to the diamond.
“We want to trade up,” he barked.
Jim Lewis, the store’s senior manager, inspected the engagement ring. He recognized it immediately for what it was—a good quality stone worth approximately $4,000. Then he looked at Mr. Mission. “Well, sir,” he began, “I’m afraid the difference in cost will be quite substantial.”
“Surprise, surprise. Let’s get this over with. I want to go back home and get some sleep.” He pulled his checkbook out from his breast pocket.
“Absolutely, Mr. Mission,” Mr. Lewis said. He then retrieved a sales form and a calculator from beneath the counter. He subtracted the price of the original engagement ring from that of the rare, perfect quality seven-and-a-half carat stone. “Here you are, Mr. Mission,” he said, sliding the completed form in front of the impatient millionaire.
“What the hell is this?” he grumbled. “I don’t have my reading glasses. Just tell me how much the damn thing is so I can write a check and we can all get out of here. This is taking far too long. Time is money.”
Mr. Lewis cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. That will be one million, four hundred thousand dollars.”
At hearing the price of the stone, Steve’s jaw unhinged.
Trish left his side and ran to her father, kissing him on the cheek.
Mr. Mission filled in the check, scrawled his signature at the bottom and turned to his daughter. “See, my little princess? One and a half million, just like that.” He snapped his fingers in the air.
Gunther’s head instinctively turned.
“Nothing is too good for you.” He kissed his daughter on the forehead. Then he looked at Steve and glared. “And you,” he warned, “better not go shopping in a Cracker Jack box ever again.”
“H
i everybody, welcome to Sellevision. I’m your host this evening, Leigh Bushmoore, and for the next hour I invite you to kick off your shoes, get into a cozy pair of your favorite pajamas, and join me for Slumber Sunday Sundown,” she said, standing in the bedroom set.
Cut to Slumber Sunday seven-second intro.
Leigh took a quick sip of water from a bottle that was hidden out of sight of the camera and sat on the edge of the bed.
Smiling broadly into the camera, Leigh asked viewers if they shared her frustration at “always forgetting to moisturize your hands, so you end up with dry, cracked skin? Well, guess what? You don’t ever have to think about it again. Take a look at this.” And she presented an item called RemoteControLotion, a universal remote control unit that not only operated most televisions, VCRs, and stereo systems, but dispensed moisturizing hand lotion through tiny pores on each of the buttons. To demonstrate the unit, Leigh aimed the device at the television directly across from the bed, which instantly popped to life, displaying a Sellevision logo. “I’ve just pressed ‘on’ and already, lotion has been released onto my fingers.”
Cut to a close up of Leigh rubbing lotion between her thumb and index finger. “See?” she asked viewers.
Cut to medium shot. “Now, I can have soft, smooth skin by doing nothing more than being the couch potato that I already am.”
Within two minutes, RemoteControLotion sold out and Leigh crossed her pajama-clad legs and moved on to the next product. “How many of you have ever dreamed of owning a hand-crafted cuckoo clock but thought you could never afford one?”
After her Slumber Sunday show, Leigh headed back to her office. She picked up her phone and dialed Max’s number. His machine answered. “Hi Max, it’s Leigh. I’m just calling to wish you good luck in case you check your messages before the interview. I’m sure you’ll do great. Call me when it’s over and let me know how it went.”
Then Leigh caught up on her E-mail.
“B
oys, make sure you wear your red ties,” Peggy Jean called down the hallway toward her sons’ rooms. Then, to her husband who was in the process of knotting a blue tie around his neck, “Sweetheart, please,” she said, touching him on the elbow with her Honey Desert fingernail. “The boys are wearing their red ties. Wear your red tie, too. I like us to look like a family.” Peggy Jean was wearing a simple navy suit with a red scarf tied loosely around the neck.
Her husband sighed loudly. “Fine,” he grumbled and unknotted the tie, tossed it onto the bed, and walked to the closet to retrieve the red tie.
Peggy Jean adored Sundays because dressing up and going to church gave her family the chance to be together and do something wholesome that everyone enjoyed. And that particular Sunday was especially important, given her medical problems. The fact that she had not yet heard back from her doctor worried her. There was something her doctor was not telling her, she just knew it. “Shoot!” she cried. She brought her finger to her mouth and began sucking on it. “I pricked myself with my crucifixion pin. See what happens when I get worried? You’d think I would have heard something from the doctor by now.”
John slid his eyes over toward his wife and smirked as he secured the red tie in place. “You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” she shrieked. “I most certainly am not overreacting. This could be a serious medical condition, I may need hormone therapy.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled.
In the car, with her husband driving and the three boys in the backseat, Peggy Jean quizzed them on last week’s sermon. “Do you boys remember what nice Father Quigley spoke of last week, hmmmmm?”
The boys looked at each other, then at their mother’s face, which was reflected in the vanity mirror on the visor. They said nothing.
“You remember. He spoke of how important it is to forgive people, even when we feel that they have done or said something we don’t feel we can forgive,” she said, picking a small clump of mascara from an eyelash. Then she glanced back at her sons. “Don’t you boys think that’s an important thing to remember?”
They nodded their heads in unison, as if on cue.
“I think it’s important, too,” she said, snapping the cover of the vanity mirror closed and putting the visor back in place. She turned to her husband. “Sweetheart, there’s no need to drive so fast, we have plenty of time.”
He glanced at the speedometer. “I’m only going forty-three miles an hour.”
“Yes, but the speed limit is only forty miles an hour. We don’t need to be speed-freaks, especially when we’ve got the boys in the car on the way to church.”
<
br /> He depressed the brake ever so slightly and the car slowed to thirty-nine miles per hour.
Peggy Jean smiled and gave his knee a little pat.
The Divinity Center was a nice, clean, contemporary church with colorful stained glass windows depicting various saints and uplifting words such as “hope,” “joy,” “peace,” and “love.” It had a modern P.A. system so one wasn’t forced to strain in order to hear the sermon. And this church didn’t make the boys sneeze like the musty old church they used to attend.
At first, Peggy Jean had been angry with the boys, believing their sneezing was deliberate and mischievous. Then she took them to see an allergist who determined, after many needle pricks, that the boys were, indeed, allergic to certain molds. As soon as they changed churches, the sneezing stopped. But Peggy Jean insisted they still have booster shots on a monthly basis, as prevention.
This Sunday’s sermon was about separating “needs” from “wants,” and how important it was that needs were met and wants were curbed. While Peggy Jean sat with a pleasant smile on her face, hands folded on her lap, listening to Father Quigley, her husband was looking two pews ahead and slightly to the left, at his neighbor’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Nikki.
He was thinking that Nikki would make an excellent baby-sitter for the boys. He was also thinking her hair was exactly the color of honey. At one point, the girl turned around to adjust her bra strap. She spotted Mr. Smythe looking at her and gave him a shy smile before looking away.
After church, the family walked to the McDonald’s next door, a favorite Sunday ritual. The boys were each allowed one Happy Meal. Peggy Jean ordered a Filet-O-Fish with extra tarter sauce. And her husband had a double Quarter Pounder, despite the fact that Peggy Jean thought a half pound was just too much meat. After carrying the red plastic tray over to a table, the family sat down and joined hands. Peggy Jean closed her eyes and led the family in a small prayer. “Dear Lord, we are so grateful for this food and for our good health. We know we are blessed and take pity on those less fortunate than ourselves. Amen.”
“I got a machine gun!” the middle Smythe boy cried when he opened his Happy Meal.
The youngest boy tore into his meal. “Mine’s an axe!”
Ricky, the oldest, rolled his eyes and frowned, tossing his toy plastic gas mask on the table. He felt way too old to be at McDonald’s with his parents, eating a Happy Meal.
After the family had finished eating and were preparing to leave, the youngest boy noticed a dirty man in ragged clothes standing in front of the restaurant. “Look, Mom, it’s a bag man.”
Peggy Jean bent down so that she was at his eye level. “We don’t call them ‘bag men’ anymore, sweetheart. They’re called The Homeless.” Peggy Jean opened her purse and pulled out a quarter from the change compartment of her wallet. “And we need to help The Homeless whenever we can.”
As the family left the restaurant, the man held out his hand and said, “Help me get something to eat?”
Peggy Jean smiled and placed the quarter in the man’s hand, saying “You’re welcome” as she did.
The family began to walk toward the car, but the man cried out after her, “One lousy fucking quarter? What the hell am I supposed to get with one lousy fucking quarter, you bitch?”
Peggy Jean quickened her pace. All three boys turned around to look at the man, who was waving the quarter in the air above his head and shouting.
“Cunt!” he screamed. “Whore!” He threw the quarter at her.
“Don’t look back at him,” she scolded her boys.
Inside the car, the youngest Smythe boy asked his mother, “What’s cunt? What’s whore?”
Peggy Jean unfastened the seatbelt she had just fastened and turned around to face her boys. She pointed a finger at her youngest. “Those are the words of the Devil. You must never, ever say those words again, or even think them. God will be very angry with you if you do.” Then, calmer, she said, “Another thing, the next time we encounter one of The Homeless, we will not look at him, we will just mind our own business and pretend he doesn’t exist. Is that clear?”
The boys nodded.
“Good. From now on, we can’t see The Homeless.”
Then she turned around, fastened her seatbelt, and stared straight ahead out the windshield. As the car moved out of the parking lot and onto the street, Peggy Jean tried to put the image of the screaming man out of her mind by thinking of a field of poppies. She allowed her mind to zoom in on a drop of dew that graced one of the gentle petals.
As he steered the car, John wondered if Nikki trimmed and shaped her pubic hair. He decided that she did, and that she left just a small little patch at the top. Probably a little triangle.
B
ebe’s Dazzling Diamonelle show on Sunday night was, as always, a hit. Historically, Bebe’s weekly ten to twelve P.M. show earned the highest ratings of the week. In fact, the only other programs that could challenge the ratings of this Sunday night show were also hosted by Bebe. But as “on” as Bebe always seemed to be, this Sunday night she was even better than usual. Within the course of two hours, nearly every product sold out; almost one and a half million dollars in inventory was moved, making every single minute Bebe was on air laughing, talking about giving Pepper a flea bath, or wishing out loud that her thighs would stop screaming for “more ice cream!” worth over eight thousand dollars.
What Sellevision management and the millions of viewers watching at home could have no way of knowing was that if Bebe was in fact having an exceptionally great night, the reason was due largely to a man who had never even heard of Sellevision. A man who had never met Bebe in person and was named Michael Klein, though he preferred to be called by his middle name, Eliot. Already they’d spoken on the phone for nearly two hours, and tomorrow night she would meet him for drinks at a bar called Changes.
“Bebe, you were so funny tonight. I was feeling a little blue before we went on, but a couple times I really had to bite my cheek to stop myself from laughing.” The compliment came from Hoshi, the beautiful Japanese-American model who sat ten feet to Bebe’s left for the duration of Dazzling Diamonelle.
“Hoshi, what a sweet thing to say, thank you so much. But I’ll tell you something, I’d trade my big fat mouth for your beauty any day.”
Hoshi smiled.
And then before leaving the set, Bebe turned to her. “Oh, Hoshi, by the way, do you know if the Woodlands Mall is still open twenty-four hours a day on Sundays?”
five
“My father’s dead and my mother wishes she were.”
Bob Shriber, head of broadcast production for the E-Z Shop Channel, laughed at Max’s answer to the question he’d just asked: “How did your parents take the whole penis thing?”
Max noticed that Bob’s suit had a sheen to it. And one stray hair extended out of his left nostril. He also noticed that the office was not nearly as posh as Howard’s. Clearly, this was a rung down on the ladder of success.
“I know you must be sick and tired of defending yourself—but you gotta admit, it’s a pretty unusual way to lose your job.”
“Yeah, actually, I do admit it. But it was a pretty unusual job to begin with, so in a sense it’s like this perfect cosmic thing.” Immediately regretting the Southern California overtones of what he just said, Max changed the subject. “So it seems like a lot of people play golf down here. I mean, I saw a lot of golf courses on the drive from the hotel.”
Bob gave Max a puzzled look.
“Well, the only reason I mention it is because my old boss, Howard Toast, he had this executive golf-putting toy in his office, and I’d always whack a few balls around whenever I went to see him. I mean, except for the last time.”
“I see,” said Bob. “So, how does your wife feel about the prospect of moving to Florida? I mean, if it came to that.”
Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Actually, I’m not married. Still single.”
“N
o girlfriend, even?”
Max smiled. “Nope.”
Bob studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “So, you catch the game last night?”
“Are you kidding?!” Max laughed with relief. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m totally addicted.”
Bob chuckled. “Oh man, last night was a close one, huh?”
Max rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t believe he blew it! I mean, everyone knows “The Wind Beneath My Wings” is from Beaches. What a dork.”
Bob’s smile fell. “What?”
“I just about knocked my wine over with that one! Evita? What was he thinking?” Max said, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you mean? Last night’s game. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” Bob said sourly. “I was talking about the game game. The Mets versus the Cardinals. Not some game show.”
Max’s face turned red. He ran his fingers through his hair again.
Bob looked annoyed. “You do that a lot.”
“What?” Max asked, swallowing.
Bob mimicked the gesture. “Run your fingers through your hair. My ex-wife was always doing that and it drove me crazy.”
“Oh, sorry. I guess I wasn’t really aware that I do it.”
“You don’t do it on air, do you?”
Max bit his lower lip. “I don’t think so. I mean, not that I’m aware of. No, I’m pretty sure I don’t.”
“Because, you know, little tics can be very distracting to the viewers. We once had this host, Tabby something, Clearwater, I think. Yeah, that was her name, Tabby Clearwater. Anyway, she did this thing with her eyes.” Bob twitched his left eye repeatedly, causing the corner of his mouth to spasm.
“Wow, yeah, I can see how that would be distracting.”
“I mean, this is the South. We’re very laid back down here, very easy-going. All these twitches and fingers-through-the-hair stuff might be fine in the North; the pace is a lot quicker up there.”
Sellevision Page 5
