Sellevision

by Augusten Burroughs

  Realizing his wife was perhaps in the midst of a nervous breakdown, John had phoned a coworker whose own wife was in psychiatric treatment for a mild self-mutilation disorder and asked for the name of the psychiatrist. The coworker gave John the name, and before hanging up he warned, “Christ, man, whatever you do, don’t let your wife anywhere near a fork. Take it from me.” John phoned the doctor and explained the situation. The doctor had told him that if Peggy Jean’s condition did not improve within a matter of days, it would probably be best to have her admitted to a local psychiatric hospital for observation.

  “You mean lock her in a nuthouse?”

  “No, not a nuthouse. A psychiatric facility with trained professionals who can help her.”

  “Well, for how long? How long would she have to stay?”

  “That all depends on your wife.”

  John pictured his wife upstairs on the bed like an embryo. A time-lapse movie played out in his mind, a movie in which his wife’s position on the bed did not change, but her fingernails grew long and her hair went gray. In the movie, nobody ate and the house was a mess.

  He had phoned Sellevision to let them know that Peggy Jean would be unable to come to work for an unspecified amount of time. He had found the Amanda person he spoke with to be extremely compassionate and understanding. She sounded very young. He had also spoken with the police, who had no leads whatsoever.

  But now, with his wife showing no improvement, John was left with no other option than to follow the psychiatrist’s advice and somehow have his wife admitted to a hospital.

  “Peggy, c’mon, I need you to get out of bed and get dressed. We’re going to go for a little ride.”

  No response.

  “Peggy, please, you need help, you need to be with people who can help you.”

  More moans.

  “Jesus, Peggy, please. You’ve got to get up out of this bed. Life has to go on. No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. You’re being ridiculous.”

  When nothing he said got a response, John decided he would call in sick, take a quick shower, and literally carry Peggy Jean into the car and deliver her to the hospital himself.

  Stripping down to his boxer shorts, he stepped into the bathroom and examined his face in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, three days of beard, hair a mess. If he ever got his hands on this Zoe person that Tina said was responsible for all of this, he swore he’d strangle her.

  Where was his shaver? The vanity was so crowded with Peggy Jean’s toiletries, it was impossible to see even a square inch of surface area. Then, hidden behind a collection of Joyce’s Choice bottles, he saw the Norelco GlideFlex his wife had stuffed into his Christmas stocking last year. Powered by a rechargeable battery, the electric shaver did not need to be plugged in, allowing modern fathers to shave while they poured coffee, chose a necktie, or visited an Adult Check site on the Internet.

  When he switched the shaver on it immediately made a steady buzzing sound. The sound caused Peggy Jean to gasp, cry out “Shave shave shave,” and leap from the bed, ripping the electric shaver from his hands.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Peggy Jean, what the hell?” Too stunned at first to even move, John watched as his wife crazily ran the shaver back and forth across her forearms with frantic speed while she screamed, “Hairy bitch, hairy bitch, hairy bitch!”

  He wrestled the cordless shaver from her and tossed it on the floor behind him where it buzzed into the thick pile carpeting. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, holding her, trying to stop her from thrashing. And then just as suddenly as she had exploded, she collapsed, unblinking eyes focused on the white ceiling above her.

  “S

  he tried to slash her wrists with my razor,” John Smythe told the admitting psychiatrist of the Anne Sexton Center.

  “But Mr. Smythe, we didn’t find any lacerations on your wife’s wrists during the physical examination,” the doctor said, peering over the tops of his round, wire-framed eyeglasses.

  “No, I mean it wasn’t a razor, it was a cordless shaver. But still, she grabbed it right out of my hands and started going at her wrists like she was insane, just like this.” He made a fist and rubbed it hard and fast across his forearm.

  The doctor made a note on the pad that sat on his lap. “I understand,” he said. “She had the intention, but not the means. Does your wife have a history of mental illness?”

  “Not at all. Up until three days ago, she was perfectly normal. She’s one of the top hosts on Sellevision, you know?” John said, as though this somehow provided evidence of her psychological stability.

  “What about drug or alcohol abuse?” the doctor asked.

  John opened his mouth to answer, but then thought of the potato vodka bottle and all the pills she seemed to be taking lately. “I don’t think so, I mean not that I really know of. Although lately, she’s been taking an awful lot of vitamins or something. Plus, I found a bottle of vodka next to her. Actually, when I think about it, I have noticed that I smell alcohol whenever she’s around. But she says it’s her perfume.”

  “Excellent. So there’s a possible unrecognized chemical dependency issue. We’ll do a blood workup on her. Now, this state she’s in, you say it was caused by a recent event involving a stalker?”

  John told the doctor everything he knew, which wasn’t much. He explained, “For the past month, she’s seemed to be under a lot of pressure, just very tense—and then after the disposable razor thing, she snapped.”

  “Now this disposable razor incident you mention, finding all those razors scattered about the yard, do you believe there is any connection to those razors and her sudden reaction when you began using your electric shaver?”

  John shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t have any idea, all I know is that she was stabbing the shaver against her arms and she kept screaming ‘hairy bitch’ over and over again.”

  “Hairy bitch?” the doctor asked, looking up from his notepad.

  “Yup, ‘hairy bitch.’ That’s what she was screaming.”

  “Interesting.” The doctor made another note and asked, “Now, you mention Debby Boone. Is this the same Debby Boone who sang that song—”

  “ ‘You Light Up My Life,’ yeah, that’s her.”

  “Ah, that’s the song I was thinking of. Lovely song. In any case, what exactly is your wife’s relationship with Ms. Boone?”

  “Again, I have no idea. She kept saying she needed to talk with Debby. I had no clue what she was talking about until our next-door neighbor, Tina, who was there when the police interviewed my wife, explained to me that my wife had recently been, I guess, in contact with her, with Debby Boone.”

  “Mr. Smythe, please don’t take offense at this next question, I’m just trying to explore all the options here.”

  John nodded.

  “Well, do you believe there is any chance that perhaps your wife and Ms. Boone were involved in some sort of physical relationship that perhaps didn’t work out and this is what could have led to your wife’s suicide attempt?”

  Peggy Jean . . . a lesbian? It just wasn’t possible. Was it?

  “No, I don’t think that’s it at all. My wife is not—my wife— she loves me. I mean, we have three children, boys, you know?”

  “I understand, Mr. Smythe. Like I said, I’m just exploring all possibilities here in order to understand and help your wife.”

  “I can’t imagine. . .”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Smythe, we don’t need to continue with this right now. The important thing is your wife is here and she’s safe and we can begin to help her.” The doctor rose from his leather desk chair and extended his hand for John to shake.

  “So is that it? I just. . . wait?”

  “That’s all for now. We’ll keep you abreast of any developments, of course, but you must understand that for the first thirty days, your wife will not be allowed to have any outside visitors. She may make phone calls, though, if they are approved.”

  John l
ooked upset. He couldn’t cook.

  “Here at the Anne Sexton Center, we believe in aggressive, total-immersion therapy. It’s important that your wife remain one-hundred-and-ten percent focused on her recovery.”

  fifteen

  “Mr. Palantino?” Max asked the voice on the other end of the line. “My name is Max Andrews. Up until recently I was an on-air host with Sellevision and the reason I’m calling you is because I saw something on the Leeza show.”

  After getting the number of Eagle Studios in San Bernadino, Max had spent a good forty-five minutes on the phone trying to learn the name of the person he should talk to about possibly becoming an “actor” in one of Eagle Studio’s releases. He had finally been directed to a producer named Mr. Palantino.

  “A host? On Sellevision?” Mr. Palantino asked. “Why would you want to go from that kind of job to this kind of job?”

  Max told him about the Slumber Sunday incident. About the many failed interviews and auditions. “I think the fact that I learned about Eagle Studios while watching Leeza pretty much sums things up.”

  Max answered his questions as best he could. No, Max hadn’t had any previous experience. Yes, he was considered good looking. And yes, he was well equipped. (“Ask almost any housewife in the country.”)

  “And you’re sure you have no prior experience, nothing at all?” Mr. Palantino had asked.

  “None. I’m sure I’d remember.”

  “Fantastic, just what we like. Here’s the deal, send us a head shot along with a couple of nude pictures, Polaroids are fine, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I get them.”

  After hanging up, Max worried that perhaps he had overpromised when he had said, “Sure, I’ve got a great body.” So he walked into the bathroom, took off his shirt, and stood before the mirror. Although lacking grapefruit-sized pecs or biceps as large as thighs, Max thought he looked pretty good for thirty-three—tall, lean, a muscular chest, a hint of abs, good arms. He had a hairy chest, and the hair had a nice, natural pattern to it, across his chest and then a trail down his stomach, a T. It could be shaved, or not. Max thought, I’m good raw material. Plus, he had a full head of Brad-Pitt hair, thick and gelable. And although his face was handsome, it was not so perfect as to appear plastic. It was a friendly face. “I’d date me,” he said to his reflection.

  Hunting through the hall closet for his Polaroid camera, Max thought, I can’t believe I’m really doing this. Yet, instead of ashamed, he actually felt excited. The idea of being a porn star like that guy on Leeza was just so outrageous, so completely out of character, that he found it very intriguing. It was almost like going into hiding. He could make some good money, and nobody would ever even know. Besides, why serve eggs to cops at Denny’s when you can have sex with them on a soundstage?

  Max set the Polaroid camera down on top of the television set and stripped off the remainder of his clothing. Standing in his condo, naked, midafternoon, in the presence of a loaded camera, had a somewhat decadent feeling. He picked up the camera and set the self-timer button on the back, then depressed the shutter. Rushing to stand far enough back so that all of him was in the kitchen, he watched as a small red light blinked steadily on the front of the camera. Then the blinking sped up significantly and was followed by the sound of the shutter and a bright flash. The instant picture was ejected from the camera. Before even waiting for it to develop, Max took more pictures, five in all: standing at a 3/4 angle to the camera, flexing his abs, looking casual (as casual as one can look while nude in front of a Polaroid camera), and finally one last shot of his equipment. Just to seal the deal.

  After the shots were finished developing, Max laid them out on the coffee table and sat on the sofa, making his selections. He chose a flattering shot of himself standing with his arms behind his back, as well as the one where he was flexing his abs. He also included the equipment photo.

  Then he retrieved a head shot from his filing cabinet, a black-and-white photograph in which he was wearing a suit and tie, smiling into the camera. Although the picture was more than two years old, Max felt he still pretty much looked the same, except that the new, unemployed Max no longer needed to wear a tie. It also showed that he could be lit professionally with good results.

  He sat at the computer and wrote a quick note to accompany the pictures. Nice talking with you, look forward to hearing from you, really excited, blah, blah blah. He printed out the letter using the Epson Stylus he had purchased from Sellevision last year when it was featured as a Today’s Super Value ($81.66 in three easy payments of $27.22).

  Reading the letter over for spelling errors and/or idiotic comments, Max felt satisfied enough to stick the letter, the head shot, and the three Polaroids into a manila envelope.

  Grabbing his keys, wallet, and bomber jacket, Max headed out of the condo, care package in hand.

  “G

  ee, Nikki, you don’t have to do that, I can do it myself later on,” John told the girl.

  She set the yellow plastic laundry basket onto the table beside the washing machine. “Really, Mr. Smythe, it’s no problem at all. I want to help,” she said as she placed a load of whites in the machine.

  He leaned against the dryer, noticing the care that she took while placing the garments into the Kenmore. Unlike Peggy Jean, who wore Playtex gloves when she did the laundry, always complaining about pee stains.

  “Are these yours?” she asked coyly, taking a pair of John’s Calvin Klein boxer briefs in her hands, dangling them in front of her by the waistband.

  “How embarrassing,” he said, turning slightly red in the face.

  She let them fall into the washing machine and smiled, closing the lid and pressing the start button. “Oops,” she said. “I forgot the soap.”

  He pointed to a family-size jug of Tide on the floor next to the machine.

  She slowly bent over and picked it up. He could see no pantyline beneath her tight jeans. And this could only mean one thing.

  Upstairs in the kitchen, the two sat at the table, each with a Diet Pepsi. “So when you dropped Peggy Jean off this morning, did they say how long she’ll have to stay?” she asked.

  God, the girl had beautiful lips; full and perfectly shaped. “Uh, the doctor said she’d be there at least thirty days,” he told her, wondering what flavor her lip-gloss was. Peach? Maybe strawberry?

  “That’s such a long time. And this is such a big house. Please don’t be afraid to ask me for help, whenever you need it.” Nikki looked into his eyes. “Your eyes are a beautiful brown,” she told him.

  He blinked. “Peggy Jean keeps telling me to get blue contacts. She thinks they’d go better with my hair color.”

  Nikki tilted her head slightly down, allowing a few stands of her long hair to fall against her cheeks. “Well, she’s wrong.” Nikki rose from the table and rinsed her glass in the sink before placing it in the dishwasher.

  John trembled slightly, as if from a chill.

  Then she walked behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You’re so tense. Your shoulders are like rocks,” she said as she began to massage. “My father stores all his tension in his shoulders, too,” she said kneading his muscles between her fingers with expert skill.

  He moaned softly, and she applied more pressure.

  “This must be so hard for your sons. What have you told them? Are they okay?”

  He sighed. “Oh, they’ll be fine. They’re good kids. God, you’re good at this.”

  She began softly pounding on either side of his spine with her fists. “See? Already you’re relaxing.” Then she ran her hands gently across his back; over his shoulder blades, across his deltoids and down to his lower back just above his buttocks. “You have such a strong back. You must go to a gym,” she said in a soft, breathy voice.

  “I try to keep in shape,” he said, his mouth suddenly very dry.

  “My father never does anything to stay in shape,” she said. Then Nikki leaned her face next to his ear, placing her lips so clo
se he could almost feel them. “You know,” she whispered, “this would be a lot easier if you were lying down.”

  I

  mmediately after making love, Eliot announced, “I’m hungry.” Bebe laughed. “My God, the male of the species is so primal and need-driven.”

  He gave her his hurt puppy look. “What?”

  She lay back on the bed in mock despair. “You mean you’d rather eat cold pizza than bask in the afterglow of love with moi?”

  Eliot had forgotten about the pizza that was in the refrigerator from the night before. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and leapt from the bed.

  Bebe smiled and looked at the clock on the nightstand: 4:30 P.M. She’d have to be at work in an hour and a half to prepare for her Sunday night Dazzling Diamonelle show. She lay back and watched the shadow of a tree outside the window play against the ceiling. What funny thing had she and Eliot done that she could talk about tonight? Of course she would absolutely love to talk about the burly judge who brought plussize Victoria’s Secret nighties into Eliot’s dry-cleaning shop all the time. But that probably wasn’t such a good idea, in case she ever appeared before him.

  She heard the microwave beep, and a moment later Eliot was standing naked before her, eating mushroom pizza off a paper towel decorated with puppies and kittens. Her little dog was between his legs, looking straight up.

  “Want a bite?” he asked as he chewed.

  Bebe burst out laughing. “Now I know what I’m going to talk about tonight.”