Sellevision

by Augusten Burroughs

  He grinned, cheeks plumped out with pizza. “Gote ewe air,” he said, then after swallowing, “Don’t you dare.” He had learned that nothing he said or did was off limits when Bebe went on the air. Just last week, the entire country learned that he couldn’t pee unless the faucet was running. He finished the pizza except for the crust, which he automatically handed to her. For some reason, the crust was Bebe’s favorite part and he always saved it for her.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you—guess who called me last night?” he asked.

  Pepper jumped up on the bed and Bebe scratched behind his ears. “What a good boy, yes.” she looked up at Eliot. “Who?”

  “My mother,” he said, slipping into a pair of boxer shorts.

  “Your mother? Your mother’s dead.” Pepper licked her hand.

  Eliot pulled his head through a T-shirt. “I mean my biological mother, the one I never knew.”

  Pepper jumped off the bed and Bebe sat up, pulling the covers over her breasts. “Eliot, you were adopted?”

  He nodded his head. “Yeah, when I was a month old.”

  She couldn’t believe he hadn’t told her. “Why didn’t you ever mention this to me?”

  He shrugged. “It just never seemed important. I mean, I don’t really even think about it much. I don’t feel adopted.” He licked some tomato sauce off his thumb.

  She thought this made sense. “So what did she say? Why did she call?”

  “She said she’d always wondered what happened to me, that she never really got over giving me up, and that it had taken her all these years to find me. It was weird. She’s a stranger to me.”

  “Well, did she tell you anything about her? Do you have brothers and sisters? What about your father?”

  “Shit!” he cried and hopped on one foot. “Bebe, what the hell do you need this roulette wheel for? And why’d you put it on the floor?

  Bebe rolled her eyes. “Eliot, I told you—it’s an investment. It’s from the original Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. Someday, it’ll be worth a lot. I just haven’t found a place to put it yet.”

  He rubbed his big toe and frowned.

  “Anyway, tell me more about your mother. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “She didn’t mention brothers or sisters, but she did mention my father.” He pressed on his toenail and a small amount of blood appeared at the edge of the nail.

  She looked at him, waiting for him to say more.

  “She said they were living in Brooklyn at the time. He was with the NYPD. Imagine, I’m the son of a cop.” He limped into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. “Haven’t you got any Band-Aids?”

  She froze. A chill went through her entire body; her arms sprouted goose bumps. “Eliot, what’s your biological mother’s name?”

  “Never mind, I found them,” he said, walking back into the room with the box. He handed it to her. “Here, can you open one of these? You’ve got fingernails.”

  “What was your mother’s name, Eliot?” Bebe asked again.

  “Rosalind,” he said as he walked over to the chair and picked up his jeans.

  Bebe thought she was going to pass out. She closed her eyes and placed her hands over her ears to make sure her head didn’t fall off her shoulders. And then it hit her in waves. The heaving came before the actual tears, but soon enough the tears came.

  She sobbed into her hands and he ran over to the bed. “Bebe, what is it, what’s the matter, what?” There was panic in his voice. He’d never seen her like this, ever.

  She was able to control the sobs enough to ask him, “Don’t you see?” But then the sobs took her over again.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she pushed it away. “Bebe, what’s going on? What did I say?” He scolded himself for snapping at her about the roulette wheel.

  “Eliot.” She looked up at him. “Rose is short for Rosalind. That’s my mother’s name,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows: So what?

  “My parents lived in Brooklyn before I was born. My father was a cop.” She inhaled. “And they gave their first baby, a boy, up for adoption.”

  His mouth fell open. He blinked once.

  sixteen

  “Yes. Mr. Smythe, yes, yes, oh God!” Nikki cried, as John pounded into her from behind, drops of sweat falling from his forehead onto her back. “Oh, I’ve been such a naughty little girl, punish me. Harder, harder!”

  John thrust into her, groaning loudly, like an animal, his fingers pressed tightly into her buttocks. “Oh, Nikki, I’m getting close, I’m getting so close,” he cried out, eyes rolling back in his head.

  Just then she pulled away from him and he fell out of her. She turned over on her back. “On my face, Mr. Smythe, all over my face—just not in my hair.”

  When it was all over, Nikki asked for a tissue. John brought her a box of pink ones from the bathroom.

  “How long did you say your wife’s going to be in the hospital?” she asked.

  He smiled wickedly at her. “Thirty days and thirty nights.”

  Nikki crawled under the covers. “Let’s take a little nap.”

  He climbed into bed next to her, wrapped his large arms around her small, perfect body. She closed her eyes.

  “Mmmmm, you’re so warm.”

  “It’s all my hair,” he said. “It’s like insulation.”

  Nikki ran her fingers through the hair along his arm. “My father’s smooth all over, like a porpoise. It really grosses me out.”

  He nibbled her earlobe. “You never, you know, did anything with your father, did you, Nikki?” he asked.

  “Just once,” she said. “When I was fourteen.”

  John opened his eyes in alarm. “Your father raped you when you were fourteen?”

  Nikki laughed. “I’d hardly call it rape. I was curious so I climbed into the shower with him one morning.”

  He stuck his tongue in her ear. “You’re such a bad girl, Nikki.”

  She giggled. “That tickles.” Then she got philosophical, gazing at the curtain rod. “I’m the Fashion Café generation, you know? I mean I just believe that if something feels good and it’s not hurting anybody, you should just go for it!”

  Oh yes, he thought, you little treat.

  “We’re all gonna die eventually, so why not have some fun?” Then she turned to him. “Hey, you don’t have any handcuffs, do you? I know a good trick.”

  He brought his mouth to her small breast, sucking on the nipple until it stiffened.

  “I’m not really seventeen,” she said.

  He moaned.

  “I’m sixteen. Almost.”

  He moaned harder. His mouth moved hungrily along her neck. “I don’t care if you’re twelve. If I can have thirty days with you, it’s worth rotting on death row for the rest of my life.”

  John ran his fingers across Nikki’s tight, flat stomach. “Jesus, you don’t have a single stretch mark. Peggy Jean is covered with them. It’s repulsive.”

  Nikki tensed. “I swear, I will never have stretch marks. I’d kill myself first. If I want to have a baby someday, I’ll just hire some surrogate cow.”

  John flicked her navel ring with his tongue. “Kids just get in the way.”

  She reached down between his legs. “Hey, what’s this, Mr. Smythe? Already?”

  “Yo, Dad!” Ricky called out, bounding up the stairs.

  “Shit,” John said. “Quick Nikki, hide in the closet or get under the bed.”

  But it was too late. Ricky threw open the door. “Can we order pizza tonight since Mom’s—oh, hi Nikki, how’s it going?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  He looked back at his father. “Anyway, since Mom’s in the loony bin now and everything, can we order a pizza?”

  He stared in astonishment at his son. “Uh, yeah, sure, I guess.”

  Ricky smiled. “Cool.” Then he dashed down the hall and went into his room.

  After John and Nikki dressed and Nikki had gone downstairs to move t
he clothes from the washer to the drier, John, his three boys, and Nikki shared three large pizzas.

  “You don’t have to call your father, let him know where you are?” John asked.

  Nikki slid the point of a slice of pepperoni pizza into her mouth. “Oh no, I do whatever I want. He’s sort of scared of me.”

  John and Nikki sat together on the couch, her leg over his knee. His three boys sat on the floor directly in front of the television. The boys drank Diet Pepsis while John and Nikki sipped from a mutual tumbler of Absolut. John had found a bottle stashed in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator when he was looking for a cucumber.

  All three boys laughed at the part of the movie where Patrick Bateman plugged in his nail gun. But Nikki set her paper plate on her lap and covered her eyes.

  “Oh my God, this part is so gross, I can’t even watch.” She peeked through her fingers.

  As American Psycho II played out ghoulishly on the television, John thought to himself that this was the first time he’d had such a relaxed family dinner. Normally, the family would sit in stiff chairs and his wife would quiz the boys about their school projects or Bible study class. All the while, John himself would daydream about some girl he’d seen in seventeen or Jane. Peggy Jean would insist that the boys drink all eight ounces of one-percent milk. And after the boys were excused from the table, Peggy Jean would turn to him; “Darling, tell me about your day.”

  But here with Nikki and his boys, John was actually present in the moment. Just today, just hours ago, he’d been worried about how he would run the house while still having to work. But Nikki had made it perfectly clear that she’d “take care of the house ’n’ stuff, if you take care of me.” And it seemed the boys were more than happy to have pizza or drive through McDonald’s. So far, the boys didn’t seem at all traumatized that their mother had been placed in a psychiatric hospital. And they certainly didn’t seem to mind having Nikki around; it was as if she’d always been there.

  In fact, when Nikki had suggested they watch American Psycho II on Pay-Per-View, all three had squealed with delight. “You’re awesome,” Robbie had said.

  When the movie ended at eleven, John told the boys, “You guys should probably get to bed now.” Satisfied with pizza and gore, they agreed without a fuss and said goodnight before going upstairs to their rooms.

  “I could sleep over,” Nikki offered.

  “You could?”

  “Sure, I sleep over at friends’ houses all the time.”

  John looked at her as one might look at a winning lottery ticket, with an equal sense of disbelief and greed.

  “I do sort of have Kirsty Hume’s hair, don’t I?” Nikki said, holding a few strands of her hair in front of her face.

  P

  lease, enough with the Mr. Palantino stuff, you’re makin’ me feel like an old man. Call me Ed.” The sixty something pornographer with the soaring triglyceride level extended his hand to Max. After they exchanged a firm handshake, he motioned Max over to the sofa, and then sat in the chair across from it.

  “Getcha something? Coffee, soda, anything?”

  “Oh, no, thank you, I’m fine,” Max said, glancing around at all the enlarged and framed video covers that lined the wall: Rocky Horny Picture Blow, Midnight with the Beaver of Good and Evil, Titanic Tops II, You’ve Got (Fe)Male!

  “Ahh, so you’re checkin’ out the goods, huh? But those are only a few of our bestsellers; we do maybe thirty films a year,” Ed said, rubbing his hand across his large belly as though he had just finished a huge meal.

  “Wow, that’s really . . . prolific.”

  “Oh yeah, we’re very open-minded; pro-straight, pro-gay, pro-tits. Eagle Studios can’t be pigeon-holed—we’re out there makin’ movies for everybody.” He lit a cigarette. “Hell, last month we wrapped production on this great chicks-with-dicks diaper thing. Bizarre as you can fuckin’ imagine. But hey, there’s a market for it.”

  “That’s, um, really great.” Max noticed that the carpeting was worn away in places from foot traffic. The walls were paneled and the ceilings low. There would be no mistaking Eagle Studios for MGM.

  “So, Max, we could sit here all day shooting the bull ’til the fucking cows come home, but what I wanna know is: How serious are you?”

  Max wiped his hand on his knee, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, I’m very serious; I mean I’m very serious in terms of learning, you know, more.”

  “Well, I’ll tell ya, I thought your pics were fantastic. And now sitting here with you in person, I like the energy. I like your vibe.”

  “Okay . . . well, great, I guess. That’s really great that I come off good in person.”

  “And I gotta also tell ya, I’m crazy about your story.”

  “My . . . story?”

  Leaning back in his chair and crossing his hands behind his back, Ed explained, “I like the whole ‘boy-next-door Sellevision host’ thing. It’s a great plot.”

  “A plot?” Max watched as Ed became increasingly excited.

  “Sure is. I can see the whole thing right now in my head. By the way, you gay, straight, or bi?”

  Max shifted awkwardly on the sofa. “Well, I guess I’d be considered gay.”

  “You guess? What does that mean? I’m asking ’cause I need to know what sort of films I’d put you in.”

  “I’m sorry, no. What I meant was, or you know, what I mean is, that I’m gay, like all the way. I’m not into women, I’m into men. So, that’s kinda how. . .”

  “No problem man, no problem—shit. I love gays; we do almost forty-seven percent of sales from the gay flicks.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah, so sure, I think that’s fantastic. Helps me see a clearer picture: Home-Shopping Hunk. That’s the title right there.” He flicked his cigarette ash onto the floor.

  “So you mean like a movie based on, like, me?”

  “Not ‘you’ personally, but what you used to do. The whole TV thing, the whole shopping thing. It rocks.”

  “Oh. Okay, I guess I know what you mean.”

  “So here’s what the deal is in terms of next steps. If you’re interested, I’d like you to do a little screen test for me. Nothing major, just you and one of the fellas, see how well you perform on camera.”

  “Oh, I’m very comfortable in front of the camera, more comfortable on camera than off, as a matter of fact,” Max said, smiling.

  “That’s great, yeah, I’m sure you are. But I just want to see how comfortable your dick is on camera. Because you know, a lot of guys have trouble getting wood the minute the camera starts rolling.”

  “Wood?” Max asked.

  “Wood, you know, a hard-on.”

  Well, Max thought, what did I expect? He was, after all, interviewing for a career in porno movies. He’d had to audition for the news anchor job, hadn’t he? This was the same thing, pretty much. “So when would you want to do this screen-test thing?”

  Ed rose from his chair, dropped the cigarette on the floor, and squashed it with his foot. “We’re shooting a film right now, in the sound stage across the parking lot. We could just walk right on over and take care of it this minute.”

  Part of Max felt paralyzed from the neck down. But another part of him felt like, sure. As if there were an internal audience in his head chanting, Go Ricki, go Ricki! “Sure, no problem.”

  “Follow me, then.”

  seventeen

  By her third day at the Anne Sexton Center, Peggy Jean was no longer shaking or crouching over the toilet to vomit. The electroshock therapy sessions had ceased. And she was not on a twenty-four-hour suicide watch, which had been automatic, given the attempt she made on her life with her husband’s cordless shaver. She’d been told that the first three days of withdrawal were the most difficult, and it had been true. For the first two nights, she’d seen spiders creeping along the ceiling of her room, yet when she turned on the light, they were gone.

  “Hallucinations are very common with alcoholics,
” she’d been told by one of the chemical dependency counselors.

  Alcoholics.

  Peggy Jean had become an alcoholic. And a drug addict. At least that is what they told her.

  “No, Mrs. Smythe. Kahula is not just like coffee and it does count.”

  They’d even taken her Giorgio perfume away from her. “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed anything containing alcohol.”

  Did they really think she would drink her perfume?

  “You’d be surprised,” one of the chemical dependency counselors had said.

  When asked how much Valium she took, Peggy Jean replied, “Oh, just five or six little pills a few times a day.”

  So here she was, in a hospital. A mental hospital. True, it was named after a poet, but it was just as much of a hospital as the one where Peggy Jean had held one of the AIDS babies she sponsored. Harsh, unflattering fluorescent lighting, cold tile floors, bathrooms equipped for the handicapped. It was just awful. One long hallway of hospital rooms, at the end of which was a “community room” with utilitarian sofas and chairs, tables piled high with year-old magazines. There were two classrooms, both of which were filled with beige padded banquet chairs arranged in a circle. There was no art on the walls, only white marker boards and red fire extinguishers. Three times a day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all the patients were led into a large elevator that was operated by a key. It stopped at only one floor: the cafeteria. A grim, linoleum-tiled room that smelled of Pine-Sol and grease.

  Just like common cattle, Peggy Jean had thought on her first day as she stood in the rear of the elevator, a skinny black man and a girl with bruised arms pressed up against her.

  At first Peggy Jean had been repulsed by the meals: dry pancakes for breakfast, a grilled Velveeta cheese sandwich for lunch, and Swedish meatballs for dinner. But by the third day, she’d begun to look forward to the meals. There was usually a deep-fried fish option for dinner (if you asked) and always plenty of tarter sauce.

  Most of the patients had roommates, but Peggy Jean was fortunate enough to have an entire room all to herself, although she wasn’t allowed to close the door. This small bit of privacy had made the first three days bearable. And she began to think of it as a luxury.