Sellevision

by Augusten Burroughs

  When the security officer arrived, she was hyperventilating. He handed her an empty Taco Bell Express bag to breathe into. “Just calm down, Ms. Smythe. Breath into the bag, then tell me what’s going on.”

  Peggy Jean placed the bag over her face and breathed. The bag inflated and shrunk against her mouth.

  “I thought it was a box of chocolates,” she said, heaving into the bag. She was aware of the scent of nachos . . . or was it a Burrito Supreme? She pulled her face out of the bag and waved it in front of her open mouth, as if to fan more air into her lungs.

  Then she limped alongside the security officer back to the building. She led him to her office but refused to step inside herself.

  “Well, how about that,” the security guard remarked upon seeing the crucified rat. “Poor little thing.” An older man, near retirement, the security officer seemed genuinely saddened by the fate of the rodent. “Sure are a lot of crazies out there.”

  “Just get rid of it,” Peggy Jean cried. “Get it the hell out of my office.” Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. She was shivering.

  Once the security guard and the rat were gone, Peggy Jean sprinkled Giorgio perfume on the floor where the rat-box had landed. Then she took two Valium and washed them down with one of the little bottles of Frangelica.

  “I don’t like the taste of liquor, so it’s okay,” she said aloud.

  A moment later, Trish appeared in Peggy Jean’s doorway. “What’s this I hear about someone sending you vermin on a stick?”

  Peggy Jean started, and immediately tucked the little empty bottle in the pocket of her jacket. “Tic Tac?” She picked up the small plastic box and rattled it at Trish.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  Could Trish have . . . ? Peggy Jean wondered. No. She had to stop thinking like that. It was a sin to suspect her cohost and friend. “Oh, Trish, it’s just awful. It’s that Zoe woman, she’s terrorizing me, and I’m going absolutely out of my mind.” Peggy Jean’s hands were visibly shaking as she popped a mint into her mouth. She was sweating profusely.

  Trish sat against the edge of the desk. “I know it’s not my business, but have you considered seeing someone?”

  Peggy Jean perked up. “You mean, like a federal agent?”

  “Actually no,” Trish said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a therapist. You know, someone you can talk to who can help you deal . . . with the stress.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Peggy Jean asked, incredulously. “Are you suggesting that I see a mental health professional?”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Trish said, crossing her legs at the ankle.

  “But I am not the one mailing crucified rats to people.”

  “Yes, true. But you are the one receiving them.”

  Peggy Jean licked her lips. She just hated Frangelica.

  “And, well, you do seem awfully stressed out lately.” Then Trish turned around and picked up the box of Tic Tacs. “And, Peggy—I’ve seen you taking the pills. I don’t know what they are, but I’ve noticed.”

  Peggy Jean’s face flushed red with humiliation. “They’re natural—homeopathic pills, like vitamins,” she said, a bit too defensively.

  Trish set the Tic Tacs back down on the desk. “Well, I still think it might be a good idea to see somebody, just until this whole thing passes over.”

  After Trish left, Peggy Jean waited until her hands stopped shaking before she phoned her other, secret doctor for a Valium refill.

  I

  nside Control Room 1, the producer directed her engineers. She faced a wall of monitors, and was surrounded on all sides by sophisticated technical equipment: title generators, switchers, a stack of nine Sony Beta video players, an audio mixing console. There were also three Avid editorial stations in the room where editors could cut together promos. Not to mention the all-important “G-spot,” a nickname for the red button that allowed producers to speak to hosts while they were on the air. It was Broadcast News, without the news.

  “Five, four, three, two . . . and now!” she said.

  Somebody threw a switch.

  Cut to ten-second prerecorded program promo.

  “I am so sick of pizza. Three nights in a row, God I hate this job,” Rob, one of the engineers complained.

  “Camera Two, we’re gonna open with your wide shot . . . ready . . . set . . . three . . . two . . . and . . . Trish.”

  “Hi, everybody, and welcome to the O-mazing Oriental Ring Spectacular! My name is Trish Mission, and you’re watching Sellevision.”

  “Camera Three, stay as you are—we’re gonna grab that medium shot.”

  “We have a lot to talk about this evening, so I want to just jump right on in and start.”

  “Doing great, Trish.”

  Trish was radiant, her blond hair piled atop her head in an elegant updo. She wore a sleeveless black satin dress that hung gracefully from her shoulders by two spaghetti straps. “Let’s talk bold. Let’s talk solid fourteen-karat gold. Let’s talk—are you ready?—jade. And gold. Together. Mystery and magic, gold and jade.” As she said this, she moved her head from side to side. Already the phones were ringing.

  “You’re rockin’, Trish, love the drama.”

  “This is item number J-5114—and it’s brand-new tonight.” Trish stared into the camera and let that fact sink in.

  “Jeff, gimme some graphics. Camera Three, stay on Trish.”

  “This is the double-cross jade signet ring, and it’s introductory-priced at just one hundred and seventy-nine dollars.”

  “Camera One, go in for an extreme closeup.”

  “Measuring it for you, it’s almost a quarter of an inch across . . . and almost half an inch long.”

  “Camera Two, we’re taking that medium shot again. Trish, gimme some more ring-talk.”

  Trish rested her elbows on the glossy black table in front of her and clasped her long fingers together. “Gold is a material of the material world. Jade is a material of the spiritual world. And that’s what we have here tonight, this absolutely stunning ring that joins two important worlds together. So whether . . .”

  “Great, Trish. Camera One, we’re going extreme closeup again—move frame right.”

  “. . . you’re wearing jeans or you’re all dressed up, this ring can take you anywhere. It can make you feel good about yourself, because you know that you’re really treating yourself to something special, and that is so important these days. Because honestly, who is not under pressure? I mean, we all see the news.”

  “Camera Two, going medium—standby.”

  “And if you think about it, one seventy-nine is a very reasonable price when you consider how much this ring can offer you in terms of different looks. And of course, there’s the . . .”

  “Wow, she’s really on tonight. I mean for somebody who was just told two hours ago that she had to fill in for Peggy Jean, she’s like, amazing,” Rob commented to the room, then wiped his pizza-mouth on the back of his hand.

  “. . . spiritual importance, because as we all know, angels and the life beyond are all very important fashion trends. Now, let’s take a caller. Millie from San Francisco, welcome to Sellevision. Do you love this ring?”

  “Oh yes, Trish. It’s beautiful. And I love what you were saying about angels, because I collect angels and love anything that has something to do with them.”

  “That’s terrific, Millie. And this ring really does have a certain something about it.” Trish paused, stroking the jade stone of the ring. “It’s like wearing it, you can feel there’s something almost mystical about it, that it has an internal power.”

  “Yeah, Trish, go, go go. We’re getting really limited, less than two hundred, so wind this up and let’s get on to the next thing.”

  “Oh, my. I can’t wait to receive this ring. I mean, I can almost feel that energy you’re talking about over the television set, like there really is . . .”

  Trish interrupted Millie from San Francisco. “I’m sorry Millie, but I’
m going to have to say good-bye. The ring is just about sold out.” Then, holding up a delicate pearl ring, Trish asked, “Think pearls are just for grandmothers? Think again! I’m going to show you a brand-new pearl ring that’s going to change the way you think about pearls and glamour in general.”

  eleven

  Max took the elevator to the seventeenth floor reception of Goodby Silverstein Grey advertising and told the receptionist that he was there for a voice-over audition.

  “And whom shall I call to inform that you’re here?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Buzz Davidson.”

  “Certainly, have a seat and I’ll inform Mr. Davidson of your arrival.”

  Max walked over to one of the many black leather Knoll chairs and took a seat. The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows to his left presented a spectacular view of the Hudson River and uptown. The raw, unfinished ceiling with exposed pipes and electrical cables was a nice juxtaposition to the clean, highly polished wood floors. The place reeked of money. This made Max feel hopeful. Television commercials played silently on a large HDTV screen directly across from him. As he stared at the commercials, he thought back to his most recent conversation with Laurie.

  “Well, he said that he felt you just really didn’t understand modern news, that you didn’t know how to ‘work’ a story.”

  “Great. I don’t know how to ‘work’ a story, whatever the hell that means. So anything else? Did you get a hold of anybody at KRON in San Francisco?”

  “I did, they’re only interested in serious journalists. You know, it’s the whole CNN, MSNBC thing. I mean, they’ve just made all the local stations panic. Now everybody needs a journalist. It’s a shame because that eliminates a lot of really attractive, charismatic people.”

  “That’s so unfair,” Max agreed. “What happened with QVC? Did you call them?”

  “Penis-thing is still too fresh. They said we could check back in a year.”

  “Home Shopping?”

  “Same story.”

  “This is just awful, Laurie. I’m getting really depressed.”

  “Look, Max. Commercial voice-over work pays a lot of money. We’ll get you some jobs, the money will start coming in, and pretty soon you’ll forget you were ever on Sellevision.”

  “You think?” Max said, wanting to believe her.

  “Of course. Ad agencies are just filthy rich. And they don’t care about controversy—in fact, they love it. Ad people are morally bankrupt. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Sweetie, I’ve got to run, I have a gazillion messages I have to return. Listen to me: You’ve only had two interviews so far. There are a lot of ad agencies in New York and I have plenty of cable shows to contact, so perk up.”

  The conversation had lifted his spirits. And she was right, he had only been on two interviews. Why not do some advertising voice-over work until he could get back on television?

  A tall, handsome man that Max pegged at about forty-five walked toward him across the expansive lobby. As the man walked, he gave Max a smile. Then he stuck his hand down the front of his pants, tucking in his shirt and, Max noticed, adjusting himself. He then took that same hand out of his pants and extended it for Max to shake.

  “Max Andrews? I’m Buzz Davidson, nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” Max found the man attractive, for an older man. He had all his hair, and a really good body for someone his age. The man was wearing tan slacks and a pink-and-white striped shirt. He looked like somebody who grew up sailing and might have gone to school with one of the older Kennedys.

  Buzz led Max back to the elevator banks.

  “My agent told me you’re auditioning for some art gallery or something?” Max said.

  The elevator arrived with a pleasant bling and the men stepped inside. Buzz pressed fifteen. “That’s right, we just won a new account. It’s small but there’s a chance to do some really good work, maybe win some awards.”

  “Great, that’s great. Congratulations.”

  As he followed Buzz through a maze of hallways, Max looked at all the framed print advertisements on the wall, many of them familiar. It must be cool to be in advertising, he thought. Just sitting around all day thinking up fun ideas. “Wow, you guys did that?” Max asked, pointing to one of the ads. The photograph featured a tree with melting pats of butter instead of leaves.

  Buzz paused. “We sure did. TreeOla’s a great product. Ever try it?”

  Max nodded. “Yeah, it’s the best.” He leaned forward and read the copy beneath the butter tree. “Only TreeOla is made from the natural goodness of trees. Cholesterol-free TreeOla tastes remarkably like your favorite margarine but without the aftertaste of guilt. Plus, it may help prevent cold sores. TreeOla. Another breakthrough from the maker of America’s favorite retrovirus inhibitor.”

  “Clients these days believe in diversification,” Buzz commented as they walked down the hall.

  Max thought, that’s all voice-over work is. Diversification. He smiled, pleased with his evolution as a professional.

  Then Buzz gave Max a look. The look. And Max smiled back at him, giving him The Look in return. Hey, he was dealing with ad people now, and business is business.

  Buzz led Max into a professional recording studio. The main room had all sorts of technical equipment, huge speakers and padded walls. A long table divided the room. On one side of the table was all the recording equipment and a place for the audio engineer to sit, on the other a row of ergonomically designed chairs for the ad people. On the table itself, telephones in front of each chair, pads of paper, each with a pen rested on top. On the far wall was a window, through which was another room, also padded, but furnished with only a microphone and a music stand.

  Buzz handed Max a script and motioned for him to walk through a set of double doors into the soundproof recording booth. Max stepped into the room, approached the microphone and grabbed the earphones, which were slung over the music stand. He looked out the window at Buzz.

  Buzz nodded and Max put the earphones on. He rested the script on the music stand in front of him. A technician entered the main room, settled into his chair, and pressed a button. Max then heard the man’s voice in his headphones.

  This is just like recording a voice-over at Sellevision, he thought.

  “Hi, Max, I’m Donny. Listen, I need to adjust the sound levels, so just speak into the microphone for me.”

  “What should I say?”

  “It doesn’t matter, anything. Tell us about the last person you fucked,” he laughed.

  “Okay, um, testing, testing, one, two, three . . . testing, one, two . . .”

  “That’s fine,” the engineer cut him off. “We’re all set, ready whenever you are.”

  Then he heard Buzz’s voice in his earphones. “Okay, Max. Hi, it’s me. Listen, just read through the script, real natural—not too announcer-y. Make it very conversational, but also give it a slightly important edge, like this is really a big deal, very high class. But don’t make it snotty. Also, we’re talking to very well educated people here, with a lot of money, so don’t make it too important.”

  Max nodded his head, pretended to understand.

  The engineer said, “And this is take one.”

  Max cleared his throat and was shocked by how loud and detailed it sounded in his earphones. He took a deep breath and let it out, then he read.

  “His name was Pogo. And he was the Killer Clown. Executed for his heinous sex and torture crimes, John Wayne Gacy was himself tortured—a tortured artist. Now the Weidenbacher gallery is pleased to announce the exclusive world premier of his work—Gacy: The Death Row Retrospective. Join us next Friday at the Weidenbacher gallery for a champagne debut. Prices for the artist’s most infamous works begin at just ten thousand dollars. Gacy: The Death Row Retrospective, only at the Weidenbacher gallery. Where art is brought to life.”

  Max looked out the window, saw Buzz on the phone. He waited.

  The eng
ineer’s voice filled his headphones. “Nice, Max. That was good. Hold on a sec while I get Buzz.” He turned, said something, and Buzz looked up from the phone.

  Then the engineer told Max, “Okay, that was great, you can come out now.”

  That’s it? thought Max.

  When he entered the main room, Buzz hung up the phone.

  “Thanks for stopping by, that was great.” Then, standing, he said, “Here, let me walk you back to the elevators.”

  As they walked through the twisting hallways, Max asked, “So was I okay? I mean, is that it?”

  “You were fine, absolutely. We’ve got a lot of people to audition, so it’s gonna be a crazy day.”

  Max stopped. “No, I’m serious. I mean, I didn’t get the job, did I?”

  Buzz stopped, looked at Max. “The thing is, your voice is a little too—how should I put this—soft for this spot. For something else, I’m sure it’s right. But it’s not right for this. Sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  They reached the elevators and Buzz pressed the down button. Then Buzz looked at Max. “Personally, I like your voice. A lot. It’s just that, well, you know how clients are.”

  Max hid his disappointment and smiled. “Sure, no problem,” he said. And wondered, Soft?

  “But I wouldn’t mind getting together again, maybe talking about some other projects, if you know what I mean. You like sushi?” he asked, and then raised one eyebrow. “Or do you prefer beef?” Buzz was actually leering.

  The elevator arrived and Max stepped into it, pressed L and said, “Actually, I’m a vegetarian.”

  No matter how desperate, he was not going to fuck his way into a voice-over.

  A

  fter the family came home from church, Peggy Jean’s husband went directly into his office to work. The boys headed upstairs to their rooms and Peggy Jean took two Valium. The funny thing about Valium was that sometimes it worked, and sometimes she had to take two. Lately, it seemed she always had to take at least two.