Sellevision

by Augusten Burroughs

  Rocky turned. The smile left Max’s face, was replaced by something else. Despite the sheer power of him, Max could see there was a softness in Rocky’s green eyes. He was attracted to Rocky. Max took a step closer and unbuttoned the first button on Rocky’s shirt.

  Rocky took Max’s hands in his, pressed them to his chest. “You’re trembling,” he said gently.

  “A little,” Max said softly, still looking into Rocky’s eyes.

  “Here, let me help,” Rocky said, unbuttoning his own button. First one, then the next, then the next. Max slid his hands across Rocky’s exposed chest, felt the strength that was in those muscles.

  The shirt fell to the floor.

  Rocky unbuckled his belt, slowly. Then unfastened his pants. He slid them down his thighs, stepped out of first one leg, then the other.

  Max and Rocky stood naked before each other. Rocky extended his arms, and Max moved into them.

  Rocky ran his fingers across Max’s back, then pulled him closer. He took Max’s face in his hands, cocked his head slightly, and kissed Max on the lips. A gentle kiss, but a real one.

  He turned Max around so that Max’s back was against his chest. Rocky slid his hands across Max’s chest, then down his flat stomach. Max closed his eyes and arched his head back against Rocky’s neck. He moaned softly.

  “Cut!” Ed shouted.

  Max’s eyes startled open.

  There was applause from the crew.

  Rocky let go of Max and stepped back. “That was great, buddy,” he said. “Man, you’re really good. I was really getting into it.” He gave Max’s neck a playful squeeze, the way buddies sometimes do with one another.

  Ed approached enthusiastically, extended his hand. “Max, you are nothing less than brilliant. I mean, you could just feel the intensity, the raw sexuality. The whole room was frozen. Max, my man, you were born for this, the camera loves you. And obviously, you don’t have any problem with the camera,” he said, winking.

  Rocky walked off the set. “See you later, buddy. Hey, maybe we’ll work together sometime, that could be pretty cool.”

  Max just stood there, stunned. And then he looked down.

  Wood.

  Someone handed him a robe.

  He caught a glimpse of Shaun, sitting off to the side, completely engrossed in his magazine.

  eighteen

  “I’m sorry, Peggy Jean. But confrontational group therapy isn’t supposed to be pleasant. Achieving mental health is never a picnic.” Peggy Jean was sitting in her case manager’s office having just come from a humiliating group therapy session. She had asked Ms. Guttel, a woman so masculine that Peggy Jean had at first called her “sir,” to excuse her from future grouptherapy sessions. “Absolutely out of the question. You’re a very sick woman and group therapy plays a primary role in recovery.” Then the hateful man/woman glared and said, “Don’t think that just because you’re some fancy-shmancy Home Shopping host from TV that you get special privileges, because lady, you’re just another alcoholic, plain and simple.”

  “Sellevision,” Peggy Jean spat. “Not Home Shopping Network.” Then she stood and abruptly left Ms. Guttel’s office.

  It was getting worse by the minute. How could her husband have put her in such an awful place? She tried to imagine Elizabeth Taylor staying there and she couldn’t. Dear Lord, why hadn’t he sent her to Betty Ford instead? This was no place for a celebrity.

  “I can channel Tammy Wynette,” said a raspy voice from behind Peggy Jean. She turned to see a haggard old woman with a wart on her nose like a fairy-tale witch. The wart had a hair growing out of it.

  Peggy Jean backed against the wall. “Please don’t speak to me,” she said to the witch. Thankfully, a nurse appeared, taking the witch by the arm.

  “Well, Peggy Jean, I see you’ve met Mrs. Creenly. She’s a new patient.” Peggy Jean slid away and went into her room. More than a crème de menthe, more than a Valium, she just wanted to close her door.

  And then it hit her. It hit her like a baseball bat across the face. She really did want a crème de menthe; she did want a Valium. The feeling was powerful, overwhelming. She sat on the edge of her bed and rocked. What was she supposed to do when cravings hit? What was it they had told her? Feelings are like the weather, they will pass. Let go and let God. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Or was that last one for something else?

  Just that morning in group therapy she had said that her real problem was not alcohol or pills, her real problem was that she was being stalked by some crazed person, jealous of her fame.

  An awful man sitting across from her had said, “Look, honey, denial ain’t a river in Egypt.”

  Somebody else said, “You may have a stalker, but you’re not facing the fear, you’re drinking it away. You’re pill-popping yourself into oblivion.”

  Peggy Jean had said that she wasn’t like “the rest of you people,” that she was only “trying to smooth her nerves out a little, for the camera.”

  Leslie, the group facilitator, reminded Peggy Jean that she had made an attempt on her life, that when she had been discovered by her husband, she was intoxicated.

  “I don’t remember any of it. I was in a state of complete mental collapse.”

  One of the patients, a woman too pretty to be an alcoholic, sneered at her. “It’s called a blackout. We’ve all had ’em. And normal people don’t have blackouts. Hate to break it to you but only we alcoholics get them.”

  Peggy Jean was aghast. “You people are” She used a word she’d learned recently. “. . . projecting your own problems onto me. I shouldn’t even be here.”

  She stood to leave but was told by Leslie that leaving was not an option. “I’m sorry, but you need to confront these issues.”

  That was when she burst into tears and somebody handed her a box of tissues. She looked at the box and sobbed even harder. “I can’t use these tissues. I can only use the ones with lotion in them. Don’t any of you people understand how close the camera gets?”

  Peggy Jean got up off the bed and went to the sink. She splashed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror. “My name is Peggy Jean Smythe and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict.” It rang true. She walked over to the nightstand and looked at the small pile of letters that people had sent her. She sat on the bed and then picked up the stack of letters. Debby Boone, Bebe Friedman, Adele Oswald Crawley, Trish Mission, and Leigh Bushmoore. I have friends. People love me. I am somebody. And isn’t it true, doesn’t everybody have tiny little hairs all over their body?

  Peggy Jean could hear the sound of patients gathering in the hall on their way to the elevator for lunch. Maybe the cafeteria would have the green Jell-O again today. And this thought momentarily perked her up. Of course, she’d have to face all those awful people from group therapy. But she’d just eat and leave as quickly as possible.

  “Hi, Peggy Jean,” said one of the awful people who attacked her earlier, the pretty one.

  Peggy Jean said an icy, “Hello.”

  The woman came right up beside Peggy Jean and entered the elevator with her. “You were great in group today. You really got in touch with some feelings. It’s hard at first but it gets easier.”

  Peggy Jean looked at the woman, who was suddenly being friendly. “Hmph.”

  “I sure hope they have patty melts today, I could really go for a patty melt,” she said.

  Mmmm, Peggy Jean thought, so could she. The hospital food had really started to grow on her.

  “My name’s Debby, by the way. I know it’s hard to learn all these new names.”

  Peggy Jean gave her a little smile. “I have a friend named Debby,” she said.

  “Really?”

  Peggy Jean nodded. “Yes, the singer Debby Boone. Actually she’s been a tremendous help to me through my crisis.” Just then Peggy Jean noticed the witch woman staring at her from the other side of the elevator. I bet that’s exactly what Zoe looks like, she thought.

  Peggy Jean and Debby sat t
ogether at a table.

  “Oh well,” Debby said. “It may not be a patty melt, but I guess turkey loaf will have to do.”

  Peggy Jean took a bite of turkey loaf and wondered what her family was having for lunch. Maybe Nikki had made them a nice chicken salad. Or maybe something festive, like stuffed tomatoes. “This is actually quite tasty,” she told Debby. “I wonder if I could get the recipe. My family would love it.”

  Debby nodded with her mouth full.

  “And I bet it would make great sandwiches the next day.”

  Debby asked, “How many kids do you have?”

  “Three. Three little boys, four if you count my hubby!” She pierced a lima bean with a prong of her fork. “And you? Do you have any kids?”

  A pained look spread across Debby’s face. “I have two children, Hope and Charity.”

  Peggy Jean smiled. “What lovely names. How old?”

  “They’re thirteen, twins.”

  Peggy Jean paused her fork in midair. “How wonderful. They must be very beautiful. I mean, you’re so pretty yourself.”

  Debby lowered her head. “Thank you.” Then, looking Peggy Jean in the eyes, “Actually, my girls aren’t just twins, they’re conjoined twins.”

  Peggy Jean leaned in. “Conwhat?”

  Debby nodded her head, resting her fork on her tray. “Conjoined. They share major organs; they each have one leg, one arm. They share a chest and they have one vagina.”

  Peggy Jean bit her knuckle.

  “I started drinking right after they were born. It’s very stressful because they’ve never gotten along, and well, there’s nothing I can do about it because they basically have one body.”

  Peggy Jean would not be able to finish her turkey loaf. “My Lord, you poor thing. No wonder.”

  Debby began to cry softly, reached for a napkin. “If only they got along—but they don’t, they just scream and fight all day.”

  Peggy Jean shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know what I would do, I honestly have no idea. I don’t know that I could bear the grief.”

  Debby dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the napkin. “The only good thing is, they just got a movie deal from Streistar for their life story. So at least they’ll have some money for college. Or whatever.”

  Peggy Jean placed her hands on Debby’s shoulders. “There’s always a silver lining.” And then, alarmed, she blurted out, “I forgot to say grace!”

  The two women left the cafeteria and Peggy Jean thought, Well, if she can survive all of that . . .

  “W

  hat are the chances? I mean, how many people named Rosalind who were living in Brooklyn and married to police officers in the mid 1950s gave their first son up for adoption?” Bebe asked Eliot as they sat on his sofa.

  “It’s just incredible,” Eliot said. “I mean, we really should do a talk show.”

  Bebe smiled. “I was so terrified, Eliot.” She reached for her glass of wine.

  “I knew it couldn’t be true,” Eliot told her.

  She took a sip of wine. “You were scared shitless,” she said.

  “I knew in my heart that it couldn’t be true, because God couldn’t be that cruel.”

  It had only taken a quick call to Bebe’s mother, Rose, to clear the matter up. Her mother told her that she had never searched for the baby she gave up for adoption. She hadn’t phoned Eliot. There was no way Eliot was Bebe’s brother. Bebe was just being crazy. Period.

  Bebe wasn’t so sure.

  “Does he have a large birthmark shaped like an owl on his chest?” her mother had asked.

  “No,” Bebe had said. She even made Eliot lift his shirt so she could look for a scar. But there was nothing but a normal chest.

  Of course, the confusion had made a wonderful story for her to talk about on her Sunday Dazzling Diamonelle show. It had also shown her how much she cared for Eliot and how devastating the thought of losing him was to her. It was a relief to know that her relationship was okay. Unlike, it appeared, Peggy Jean’s.

  Yesterday Bebe was having lunch with Joyce DeWitt, who was in town for one of her Joyce’s Choice shows. Bebe happened to notice John Smythe sitting at a table with a young girl. They were tucked away at a rear table in the restaurant, but it was impossible not to see them. They were practically going at it, right there on the table.

  “What are you thinking?” Eliot asked.

  “I was thinking if I ever catch you licking a young girl’s wrist in public, I’ll kill you.”

  “What?” Eliot laughed.

  “I mean it, I’ll send you right through that dry-cleaning machine of yours.”

  Eliot picked up Bebe’s hand and licked her wrist. “There’s only one wrist I want to lick, I promise.” She smiled at him. He studied her face for a moment. “We really do have the same nose, don’t we?”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Bebe said. “I want to take a quick trip over to CVS and pick up some of those strips that you stick on your nose, you know, for your pores. Actually, maybe we could stop at the Gap along the way. I could use . . .”

  T

  rish slid the post of the gold-finish Diana-Dodi Double Hoop Forever earring through her ear. She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, then nodded her approval. She had twenty-five minutes before going on air, just enough time to have a quick cup of herbal tea. She walked to the hosts’ lounge and said hello to Adele, who was microwaving some popcorn. “Smells good,” Trish said.

  “Help me eat it?”

  “Can’t,” Trish smiled. “Just brushed my teeth.” She took a bag of Earl Grey out of the box and dropped it into a white Styrofoam cup. “Your Kitchen Creations show was fantastic. Is that lobster ice cream really as good as you said?”

  “It honestly is, believe it or not,” Adele said, straightening the eagle feather in her hair.

  Trish filled her cup with hot water. “Well, I’d better be running along.”

  “Good luck with your show. Love your earrings.”

  Trish brought the cup of tea back into her office and sat at her desk. Max was gone, Leigh was gone, and Peggy Jean probably wouldn’t be returning to the show. She smiled. To top it off, the new head of broadcast production, Keith Everheart, was crazy about her. He’d even flirted with her, and she’d flirted back. And why not? With her Price Waterhouse exfiancé no longer calling her in the middle of the night crying, she was a free agent. A free agent whose star was rising.

  She picked up the phone and immediately dialed Dallas. “Hi, Daddy,” she said when he answered. “Did you see my Greek Key showcase last night?”

  Her father told her that of course he’d seen it, had watched every second of it, and had made Gunther tape it.

  Trish applied a quick-drying top coat to her nails. “Well, guess what? I’m on again tonight!” She held the phone between her ear and shoulder as she waved her fingers in the air in front of her to dry them. “I know, and I thought my hair looked really good, too. Well, make sure you watch tonight, okay Daddy?” She blew across her fingernails. “Love you too, bye,” she said and hung up the phone. Checking her watch, she realized that she had to get over to the stage.

  Trish Everheart, she said in her mind as she walked. I like the sound of that.

  After Adele’s popcorn finished popping, she brought it back to her office, peeled the bag open, and set it on her desk. Three of the kernels tumbled out of the bag, and she popped these into her mouth. She sat down at her computer to check her E-mail when her phone rang.

  “Hello, this is Adele Oswald Crawley,” she said. “Oh, hi Mom, what a great surprise, how are you?” Adele reached into the bag and plucked a kernel out, brought it to her mouth, and then paused. “What?” Adele set the kernel on the desk, pressing the telephone against her ear. “Oh my God,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Oh Mom, please tell me this isn’t true, please tell me.”

  But it was true.

  Her mother had been mistaken. There wasn’t any Native American blood in her at all. None.
>
  Now she’d have to completely redecorate her apartment. The tepee, the birchbark canoe, the feather headdress lampshades—all of it would have to go.

  “S

  peak to the chair, Peggy Jean. The chair represents Zoe. What do you want to say to the chair?” Alice, the drama therapist, had instructed.

  For a moment, Peggy Jean was gripped by fear. But she allowed herself to feel the feeling and then move through it, thus enabling her to perform the exercise. She approached the chair. “What did I ever do to you? Were you unhappy with a purchase? You could have sent it back—we have an unconditional thirty-day guarantee!”

  Then feelings began to pour out of her and she pounded on the padded seat of the banquet chair. “I am not a hairy bitch and you have no right to come to my house and terrorize me and my family,” she screamed. “I do not have a hormonal imbalance—my endocrinologist said everyone has little hairs.”

  When Peggy Jean collapsed on the floor in tears, Debby offered her a tissue, but Alice intervened. “No, don’t, you might interrupt the grieving process.”

  After a small break, allowing Peggy Jean the time she needed to feel her feelings, Alice said, “I’d like you all to stand in a close circle.”

  The patients obliged, creating a tight, safe space.

  “Now, Peggy Jean—I’d like you to stand in the center of the circle, close your eyes and fall backward.”

  “What?” she cried.

  “And group, when Peggy Jean falls, I want you to all reach out and catch her; show her that she has support.”

  “I don’t think I can,” Peggy Jean whispered.

  “I know you can,” empowered the therapist.

  And so, trusting the process, Peggy Jean closed her eyes and, going against instinct, fear and pride, she allowed herself to fall backward; backward into the outstretched arms of the other patients at the Anne Sexton Center.

  Tears welled in Debby’s eyes.

  Then a smiling Peggy Jean was raised to her feet, and as she opened her eyes, the whole room applauded. “I hope I wasn’t too heavy, what with all the patty melts and pudding cups I’ve been eating.”