Sellevision
Page 6
Max discreetly tucked his hands under his thighs.
“Say, what’s that on your chin, is that dirt?” he asked, pointing to the center of his own chin.
Max placed his index finger on his chin, felt his cleft. “You mean this?”
“Yeah, that. What is it?” He was frowning now.
“It’s just, you know, a cleft.”
Bob leaned in closer and narrowed his eyes. “That could be a lighting problem.”
After the interview, Max climbed into his rented beige Kia and drove two miles to the Shangri-La. He opened the minibar and took some booze from the inside-door shelf, grabbing a bag of Kettle Crisps Vinegar and Salt potato chips at the last second. Then he took the square ice bucket and walked down the hall, filled it with ice and returned to his room. He lifted the sanitary paper hat off one of the plastic glasses in the bathroom and mixed himself a stiff drink.
Max then realized that alcohol alone was not the answer. He would also need television. He took the remote and aimed it at the screen. Of all the possible channels, on popped Sellevision.
Forty children with Down’s syndrome were standing on the set, dressed in purple choir uniforms and ringing colorful bells. Some of the children rang red bells and some rang yellow bells. When the conductor held up a blue flashcard, only those children with blue bells rang them. The other children pressed their bells firmly against their chests to keep them silent. When the conductor held up a green flashcard, the green children rang their bells. In this method, a barely recognizable version of “People” was being played, very slowly.
A screen graphic read Bell Ringers, and listed the item number as S-6884. Peggy Jean had tears in her eyes as she said, “They are just too precious and I don’t personally know the words to tell you what it’s like to be in this room with these very special children. So let’s go straight to the phones and say hello to Roxy in Tulsa. Hi, Roxy!”
“Hi, Peggy Jean! I can’t believe what I’m seeing, it’s like a miracle!”
“I know, Roxy, isn’t it beautiful? Let me ask, what moved you to call in this evening?”
“Well, for years my husband and I have tried to have children of our own, but that’s turned out not to be an option for us.”
Peggy Jean gave a nod of understanding.
“And you wouldn’t believe all the paperwork involved with adoption. So when I saw these little Bell Ringers, I screamed out for my husband, I said ‘Put that aluminum siding down and come inside, you’ve got to see what Sellevision has on, you just won’t believe it—it’s the Baby Jesus at work.’ ”
One of the yellow bell ringers accidentally rang her bell while the reds were ringing. Peggy Jean smiled at the charming blunder, which only made the Bell Ringers’ rendition of “People” even more adorable.
Roxy continued. “But I don’t see a price on the screen. How much are they?”
Peggy Jean gave a quizzical smile to the camera. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Roxy.”
“Well, that little boy in the first row, the third one from the left—the one with the bangs—he’s just as cute as a bug. How much would he cost?”
Suddenly understanding what the caller was asking, Peggy Jean tried to hide her shock behind a pleasant expression. “Oh, Roxy, you misunderstand. These children are not for sale, you can’t buy these children. You can sponsor them.”
“What do you mean? They’ve got an item number.”
“Well, yes, but that’s so you can make a contribution to the organization they’re a part of, So Very Special Children. So how much would you like to contribute, Roxy?”
Max slammed his fist down on the hotel room desk. “They stole my idea! Those bastards stole my concept!”
A few months before he was “let go” Max had made a suggestion to producers. “Let’s do a show called Hospice Hounds, where people call in and they can sponsor a dog from a shelter to be adopted, trained, and placed with someone who is in the terminal stages of disease.” But the producers had dismissed the idea, saying the Humane Society would never allow them to auction off dogs on live television, no matter how good the cause.
When Max looked back at the television, the Bell Ringers were gone and Peggy Jean was smiling into the camera, introducing the next show. “If you love deep-fried foods—like me—but you don’t love the calories, stay tuned for our very first Fried-But-Fat-Free Olestra Showcase with Adele Oswald Crawley. It’s coming up next.”
“H
i, Nikki. How are you?”
“Hi, Mr. Smythe. I’m okay, just trying to get some sun.”
John had spotted Nikki from his living room window. The girl was lying on a Pokémon towel in her front yard, her firm, young body glistening with suntan lotion. He immediately went into the bathroom to brush his hair and then casually walked outside, pretending to be interested in his driveway. “Better not stay out too long, you don’t want to get sunburned,” he said, sweating slightly, not from the heat.
“Ah, it’s okay, I’m wearing number thirty,” Nikki said, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. John walked over to the edge of Nikki’s towel. She smiled up at him.
“Say, Nikki, I was wondering if you might be able to baby-sit sometime soon?”
Sitting up, Nikki said, “Sure, Mr. Smythe, I’d be happy to. Except Wednesdays are bad for me, because I have gymnastics until eight o’clock in the evening.”
Something, John thought, he would truly enjoy witnessing.
“Ah, no, I was thinking maybe”—he pulled a date out of thin air—“next Thursday. I’m taking Peggy Jean out for dinner, a surprise.”
“Oh, how sweet and romantic,” Nikki said. “My parents never do anything romantic.”
“So Thursday’s okay with you, then?”
“Sure, Thursday is great.”
John shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, then it’s settled. Thanks a lot, Nikki. I’ll see you then, on Thursday.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Smythe. And thanks for thinking of me.”
If only you knew how much I think of you, he thought. “Don’t burn,” he warned with a smile.
“I won’t,” she said.
John waved, nodded his head, and returned to his own yard, his manhood pressed hard against the zipper on his jeans. Then he turned back. “Oh, and it was nice seeing you in church the other week.”
Of course, the trick now was how to get rid of Peggy Jean on Thursday so that when Nikki arrived, he could say that something came up with his wife, and she didn’t have to baby-sit after all. Then maybe he could engage her in a little conversation, offer her a cookie or a glass of Pepsi, and hopefully be able to just talk to her a little.
Inside, he rang his wife at work.
“This is Peggy Jean Smythe,” she answered confidently on the first ring.
“Hi, Peggy.”
“Hello, darling, what a pleasant surprise. Is everything okay?” Then with a slightly worried edge in her voice, “Nothing’s happened to the boys, I hope?”
John wiped his forehead with a quilted Bounty paper towel. “No, the boys are fine. They’re up in their rooms, doing some reading for Bible study.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad that they’re putting their little summer vacation to constructive, good use.”
“Yeah, well anyway, are you working next Thursday night?”
He heard the pages of her day planner turning. “It appears I’m off Thursday. Why, is there something you had in mind? Something special you’d like to do?” She smiled and twisted her wedding band around on her finger.
“Well, I have to work Thursday night. We’ve got a client coming in and I promised the boys I’d take them to the movies, but since I can’t, I was wondering if you would.”
Silence, then, “Oh.”
“So can you?”
“Well, John, I suppose I have no choice, do I?”
“Great, thanks, hon, see you later.” He hung up the phone and bounded up the stairs. “Boys?” he called out.
They appeared at their doorways.
“Your mom’s taking you to the movies on Thursday night,” he announced, so happy he almost laughed.
They exchanged curious glances at each other. “Why?” asked Ricky, the oldest.
“What do you mean, ‘why’? Because she’s your mother and she loves you.”
The three boys looked at him and then Ricky said, “Oh.”
“Well, you boys get back to your studies. I just wanted to let you know the good news.”
John walked into his office and turned on his computer. Sitting at his desk waiting for the computer to come to life, he thought of Nikki in her little bikini, all fragrant and moist. He opened the file drawer of his desk and under NONREIMBURSABLE BUSINESS EXPENSES removed the latest issue of Jane magazine. He thumbed through the pages until he found the article (with pictures) “Bikini Waxing Wisdom,” an article he had not been able to stop thinking about. After his computer was on, his thoughts drifted back to Nikki. “Christ, she’s just a kid,” he told himself as he logged on to America Online. Then he typed in an Internet address, http://www.preteentwat.com, and waited for the familiar images of nude young girls with moist lips to fill his computer screen.
A
fter hanging up with her husband, Peggy Jean made a note in her day planner about the movie. She also made a note reminding herself to make a personal and tax-deductible donation to the So Very Special Children Fund, as the show had moved her emotionally. She also realized that she could probably deduct the movie from her taxes, as it was part of her job to be modern and in-touch with popular culture.
Then Peggy Jean read her E-mail messages. A few of them asked about the watch she was wearing on a recent broadcast. A couple of them were book recommendations, one of which she made a note of (she’d always been a sucker for Western romance novels). And one of the E-mails was from Zoe.
To: PG_Smythe@Sellevision.com
Fr: Zoe@ProviderNet.com
Subject:Too good for me, huh?
I get it, Peggy Jean. I’m no fool. Go ahead and hide behind your hairspray and your clumpy mascara. But make no mistake: your utter selfishness has not gone unnoticed. And sure, while the hair on your earlobes may be gone, you are still a HAIRY BITCH with a mustache—and the only reason I didn’t mention the mustache thing to you before is because I, unlike you, am a person who cares about the feelings of another person.
You snotty, fake woman: You just wait: That “hubby” of yours is going to open his eyes one morning very soon and see this bleach-blond, artificial cow sleeping next to him and he’s going to go out and find himself a REAL woman who UNDERSTANDS THE CONCEPT OF BODILY MAINTENANCE, who doesn’t require a complete stranger to tell her to pull herself together. And who doesn’t sound like a logger. Fuck you and your screwy hormones.
Go to hell,
Zoe :(
“A mustache?” Peggy Jean cried, then immediately retrieved the compact from her purse and checked her reflection. What she saw was shocking: faint—but present—hairs along her upper lip. She snapped the compact shut and tossed it back into her purse.
How could she have missed them?
Oh, and the awful, putrid tone of that letter! How could this Zoe person say such horrible things? And yet, she’d been right about the mustache. And what was that about sounding like a logger? Peggy Jean had sung soprano in high school. Was her voice actually changing, becoming deeper? Was Zoe right about that, too? Peggy Jean immediately picked up the telephone and dialed her physician. Something was definitely wrong.
“Dr. Stewart’s office, may I help you?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, I need to speak with Dr. Stewart.” Peggy Jean drummed her fingers on her desktop.
“I’m sorry, she’s with a patient right now. May I take a message?”
“This is an emergency,” Peggy Jean exploded. “Please.”
The receptionist sighed and placed Peggy Jean on hold.
A few moments later, Dr. Stewart came on the line. “Is something the matter Peggy Jean? Are you okay?”
“Dr. Stewart, did you get my test results back yet?”
“Test results?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, my test results, you know, for my hormonal condition, my female problems?”
The doctor chuckled. “Oh, now I remember. Yes, of course I got the results back. I told you that I’d call you if anything was the matter, and everything is, of course, perfectly fine, so I didn’t call.”
“But it can’t be fine, something’s wrong!” Peggy Jean’s voice cracked with panic. “I have an actual mustache now, it’s spread from my ears to my face.”
“Peggy Jean, I really can’t speak right now, I have a patient. But let me assure you that everything is normal with your blood work, there’s nothing hormonal the matter with you.”
In other words, Peggy Jean thought, whatever was wrong with her was going to remain untreated, left to take its own disastrous course. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m not imagining this, you know? My fans are noticing, I’m getting letters from them.”
“Peggy Jean, I’ve already explained this to you; we all have little hairs. I have little hairs, you have little hairs, even movie stars like Kathy Bates have little hairs. It’s just part of being human. Now good-bye, I must go.”
Dear God, was she as hairy as Kathy Bates? “Wait, Dr. Stewart?” Peggy Jean pleaded. “Please, then, at least give me a little something to calm my nerves. I’m just very confused and upset.”
“Peggy Jean, please. Take up yoga or get a massage. Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“I can’t take up yoga!” Peggy Jean cried into the phone. “I’m on live television constantly; I don’t have time. Please, I can’t be anxious on television.”
The doctor was silent for a moment. “Okay, Peggy, here’s what I’ll do: I’ll phone in a prescription—just a small one—for Valium, and you can pick it up at CVS, okay? And remember, they’re just for anxiety attacks.”
She was flooded with relief and gratitude. “Yes, yes, good, thank you. All right then, good-bye, Doctor.” After Peggy Jean hung up, she replied to the hateful E-mail.
To: Zoe@ProviderNet.com
Fr: PG_Smythe@Sellevision.com
Subject: Re: Too good for me, huh?
While Peggy Jean does read all of her E-mail, it’s impossible for her to reply personally to each and every person. Therefore, she has asked me to write you on her behalf and thank you for your kind words and for taking the time to write. Peggy Jean hopes that you continue to enjoy Sellevision and she looks forward to shopping with you in the future.
It then occurred to her that Zoe might not be a stranger at all, but one of the other hosts. A disgruntled host. Perhaps a host who had been recently fired?
Max had always acted strange around her. What was it about him? He was so . . . happy. Happy-go-lucky Max. Peggy Jean bit her lip. It made sense. Max was homosexual, after all. And those homosexuals were constantly holding angry marches or demonstrations and carrying picket signs. Not to mention those red ribbons they always wore. Blood-red ribbons. They were so confrontational. Peggy Jean shivered as a chill went down her spine. The sad but true fact of life was that not everybody was a good Christian. She would have to give this “Max/Zoe thing some more thought.
W
hat the hell are you telling me, Howard? Hmmm?” Leigh was blinking back tears, arms folded tightly across her chest, bold Stampato bracelet layered on her arm with a sterling Greek Key two-inch-wide cuff.
Howard, sitting at his desk, was trying to explain the meaninglessness of the two American Airlines round-trip tickets from Philadelphia to St. Barts that the travel department had just delivered to him. The skin on his face was smooth and moisturized from an afternoon facial. Explaining the trip he was taking with his wife had turned out to be more complicated than he had anticipated. But what did he think? That Leigh would wrap her arms around him and say, “I understand, darling”?
Leigh was still standing across from him with her eyes trained on the ceiling.
“Look, Leigh, I love you, it’s you that I love. It’s just that if I don’t take this trip with her, it’ll make everything worse. She’s liable to explode and contest the divorce. But giving her a chance to relax, beforehand—it’s a strategy, Leigh, that’s all it is—a strategy.”
“This is just so . . .” Leigh was struggling to maintain her composure, struggling hard not to simply pick the onyx-handled letter opener up off his desk and plunge it into his neck. “. . . I feel, I don’t know, used. This is just not what I want for myself.”
Rising from his chair and going over to Leigh, Howard—gently, slowly—placed his hands on her shoulders.
She looked away from him.
“Leigh, I mean it when I tell you that this is for the best, it’s for us. Trust me, please? Don’t give up on us, Leigh.”
“So how long are you going to be away?”
“It’s just for a week, baby, that’s all—a week.”
“And you swear that you’ll tell her after?”
Wrapping Leigh in his arms, he held her tight. “Yes, yes, I promise with all my heart . . . a heart that no longer belongs to me.”
She relaxed against him.
He made a mental note to ask his personal trainer about the whole fiber vs. carbohydrate issue, and what it really meant in terms of fat.
D
on, the Good Morning Show host, was angrily storming down the hallway in Peggy Jean’s direction.
“Don, what’s the matter? Are you okay? What is it?”