Sellevision

by Augusten Burroughs

  “You are insane,” Max said, completely absorbed.

  Adam took this as a compliment and continued. “That’s when I decided to help. America Online was just right there on his computer. I hit return, which immediately signed me on. He’d already stored his password.”

  The waiter appeared again. “All finished with these?” he asked, and then carried the two plates, empty except for onions, away.

  “Anyway, I’m quite familiar with America Online, so as soon as I got the main menu, I went right to the gay section. And I placed the ad in the Chicago section, because I’d looked at his return airline ticket and seen O’Hare.”

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you really did this. What did you write?” Max asked.

  Adam smiled, brought one of his big furry arms up and ran his fingers through his hair, then caught himself. “Sorry, I do that all the time, run my fingers through my hair, it’s like a nervous habit or something and it drives people crazy.”

  Max shivered.

  “So anyway, I wrote, ‘GWM thirtysomething advertising guy, average looks, gym bod, thinning hair, Doc Martens and a girlfriend. Help me out here, guys. I’m just coming to terms with my sexual orientation and would appreciate any support/advice you could give me. I’m real new to this whole thing. If you have a HOT picture, send that too.’ Short and sweet.”

  “I don’t ever want to stay in a hotel again,” Max said. “I never knew that you people were so . . . involved.”

  “Well, it’s like brain surgery in a way, being a maid. Because these people check out, they move on with their lives, and I have no idea what ever happens to them. Like, I’ll never know how much my little ad helped this man.”

  “Or ruined his life,” Max added, grinning.

  “So tell me about you. What’s it like being a porn star? What does your mother say?”

  Max thought of his mother, her wrist in a plaster cast from when she fainted, falling and breaking her old wristbones. “Well, I just sort of fell into it,” he said.

  Adam leaned in. “Fell into it? How does one ‘fall into’ a career as an actor in porn flicks?”

  “Well,” Max said, “it started when I fell out.”

  After going through the entire saga and finishing their entrées, Max and Adam split the check and stood on the sidewalk outside Café Left.

  “I had a really nice time, thanks,” Adam said.

  “So did I.”

  “So . . . see you again?” Adam asked.

  Max blushed. Something left over from his childhood; the inability to conceal his emotions.

  “You’re blushing,” Adam happily pointed out.

  “Sorry. Um, yeah, I’d love to.”

  More silence as the two men stood outside the restaurant, hands in pockets. Max looked at Adam, at his strong Italian features, his cleft chin etched with razor stubble.

  “Okay,” Max said.

  “Okay what?” Adam asked.

  “Okay, so I guess I’ll see you soon.”

  “You have beautiful eyes,” Adam told Max.

  “Don’t tell me that,” Max said, lowering his head. “You’ll make me turn red again.”

  Adam laughed, reached out, and touched Max’s shoulder. “So . . . what are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe order in some Chinese or a pizza or something. I might call my friend Leigh from back East.”

  “I have a better idea,” Adam said.

  Max felt his palms begin to sweat. “You do?”

  “Yes. Much better. You like roasted quail with garlic mashed potatoes?”

  “Well, gosh, yeah, that sounds great!” Max said.

  Adam shifted his weight onto the other leg. “Yeah, so do I, but I can’t cook. So why don’t we rent a movie and order in a pizza over at my place?” Adam’s smile was about a thousand watts.

  Max was blinded by it.

  P

  eggy Jean sat on a folding metal chair in the basement of her church. A ceiling fan turned lazily above her head. On the wall was a large poster: The 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Next to it, another poster read: The Promises. The room was filled with about thirty people forming a half-circle around a desk that was placed in the center, in front of the wall. Behind the desk was an alcoholic. The alcoholic had spoken for twenty minutes, telling his own story, his qualification. Afterward, the other alcoholics in the room raised their hands and he would call on them, allowing them to say whatever was on their minds.

  Peggy Jean raised her hand and the alcoholic behind the desk pointed to her.

  “My name is Peggy Jean Smythe, and I’m an alcoholic-slash-drug addict.”

  “Hi, Peggy Jean,” the other alcoholics in the room said in unison.

  Peggy Jean squeezed one hand with the other. “I’ve been clean and sober for a year, and I’m just trying to get on with my life, one day at a time.”

  Many of the alcoholics nodded their heads, understanding.

  “But you know, I’m still dealing with the same old . . . shit.”

  There, she’d said it. Her therapist would be proud of her. She would tell him that she said it when she saw him on Friday.

  She took a sip of coffee from the styrofoam cup in her hand. “I mean, sometimes I’ll be out with a friend having dinner, or on my way to the beauty parlor, and I’ll see them together. And it still hurts. It’s just so very hard for me to even say the word out loud. I know I’m a modern woman, but I’ve just been programmed to believe that divorce is something to be ashamed of.”

  A pale, lanky woman with long, stringy brown hair continued to shred a napkin.

  “I try to think of Princess Diana and how she was able to lift her head up high. But then my internal tapes start playing. The tapes that say, ‘Charles left Diana for an older woman who looks like a Chesapeake Bay retriever, while your husband left you for a seventeen-year-old girl who can do backflips.’”

  Peggy Jean went silent. For a moment she thought of Pete, the homeless man she had become friends with at the shelter where she volunteered. He had begun to turn his life around. Recently, he had said to her, “All I could think about was the crack, smokin’ the crack. And that’s what I became. Just a bum that smoked crack. And somehow, someway, I got it—that flash of truth. I realized that what you focus on, that’s what grows, that’s what you become.” He had taken another bite of her turkey loaf. “Like this here turkey loaf of yours. Best damn turkey loaf there is because you put your whole heart into makin’ it, you focus on it.”

  Peggy Jean looked at the faces of the other alcoholics in the room. “For a long time, I’ve been focusing on the wrong things. On the things outside. And you know what? To heck with the outside crap. I’m going to focus on my inner garden.”

  When the meeting ended, the alcoholics joined hands and said the Serenity Prayer together, one of Peggy Jean’s favorite things about being in the program. Afterward, the lanky girl approached her.

  “Hi, Peggy Jean, I’m glad you were able to make it today,” she said.

  Peggy Jean gave her a hug. “Hi, Nadine. No, I had to come today. I was really feeling anxious, but I’m better now.”

  “Do you want to get some coffee?”

  Peggy Jean smiled and rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder, the two-karat Queen of Hearts simulated sapphire ring sparkling on her finger. “I’d like that.” She checked her watch. “But we better make it a quick cup. I’ve got a long drive upstate ahead of me.”

  Nadine linked her arm through Peggy Jean’s and the two walked outside. “I’m proud of what you’re doing,” she said. “I wish I could be there in person to support you.”

  Peggy Jean saw a glint of copper on the ground. She bent over and picked it up. “A lucky penny!” she cried.

  “It’s a sign,” Nadine said.

  Peggy Jean slipped the coin into her pocket. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  A

  s Peggy Jean cruised along the highway, she thought to herself, had it r
eally been just a year ago that life changed forever? Sometimes it felt like ten years; sometimes it felt as fresh and raw as yesterday. If only she had not come home from the Anne Sexton Center one day early. If only she hadn’t been so eager to be reunited with her loving family. Then she wouldn’t have unlocked the front door and seen her husband giving a tongue bath to Nikki, who was handcuffed to the coffee table.

  She had screamed, taken the Lord’s name in vain, and hurled her pocketbook at his head, missing. He just had laughed and told her to take the kids and move out. Nikki simply giggled and arched her back. The floor was littered with Diet Pepsi cans and tissues.

  And in the end, Peggy Jean had done exactly what her husband had told her to do. She had not reached for a Valium or an apertif. Instead, she collected her boys and her wardrobe and rented an apartment for the four of them. But she didn’t do it for him. She did it for herself and her babies.

  She had almost relapsed when Sellevision fired her.

  “You can’t expect us to allow you back on air after you’ve been in a mental institution. You admit yourself that you’re an alcoholic and a drug abuser,” the heartless new head of production had said.

  Those first few weeks had been the most difficult of her life. At times, she had even questioned God’s commitment to her. “Remember Peggy Jean, in early sobriety, you will face many challenges, but God will never give you more than you can deal with,” they had told her at the center. Peggy Jean had expected such things as spoiled food in the back of the refrigerator, dried leaves on the hanging spider plant in her sewing room, or perhaps an ingrown toenail on one of her boys. Things she could deal with. She had not expected her marriage to fall apart and her career to collapse.

  And never in her wildest dreams had she expected that phone call from the state’s prosecuting attorney.

  “There’s been an explosion at your son’s school,” he had told her. “Nobody was injured, but the damage is significant.”

  Her relief was brief.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe, but your son, Ricky, is responsible. He’s confessed to the crime and plastic explosive was discovered on his person.”

  And then Ricky was sent to a juvenile facility for boys in the western part of the state.

  Her own son, her firstborn, a potential teen killer. It was simply more than a mother could bear. And then after one month at the facility, he called her on the phone. “There’s something I need to tell you” he said. And then in a muffled, high-pitched voice identical to the voice of “Zoe” when she had called her on air, he quoted verbatim from the first letter she received: “Peggy Jean, my ears always perk up when I hear your voice on Sellevision. You are my favorite host. You are so professional and friendly, and I just love your hair! Speaking of hair, I just want to tell you this, woman to woman: Peggy Jean, I have noticed many times in close-up pictures how very hairy your earlobes are.”

  Zoe was her son.

  Hearing this, she had instinctively reached for a Valium. Then the awful reality set in. The reality that there would be no more of that. And that she had to face this dreadful truth, stone cold sober.

  “But why?” she had asked, blinking away the tears.

  “Because I had a lot of repressed anger, a lot of self-esteem issues in terms of feeling infantilized by you. And your lack of physical affection, well, it just cemented my already latent feelings of inadequacy and failure. I’ve also got major control issues.”

  He’d been undergoing extensive therapy since the bombing.

  “Do you hate me?” she whimpered.

  “I did,” he told her. “But I’m moving through my anger. And it’s something we can work on—together, with a therapist—when I get out.”

  He also told her that when he got out, he was going to apply to the Vidal Sassoon Academy in Venice, California. He was going to become a colorist.

  As for her two youngest boys, she no longer charted their moods and even allowed them to drink nondiet sodas on weekends. She didn’t force them to go to church. And she was learning to throw a softball. Her therapist called all of it progress.

  Life was a journey.

  Peggy Jean saw her exit up ahead. She moved into the far right lane and turned on her blinker. The sun had nearly set. She would have just enough time to check into her room at the Quality Inn and have a refreshing shower and a quick dinner. Being on tour was exhausting, but also very rewarding. Most importantly, what she was doing was God’s will. And who was she to argue with God? After all, they were business partners now.

  The blue neon sign in front of the Poco-no-no Motor Lodge in the heart of the Poconos advertised “Heart Shaped Hot Tubs!” and “Free Cable!” The beige shingled building was set back from the street and nestled among tall pine trees. The “no-no” was clean, comfortable, and only $39 a night. Frequent daytrippers, John and Nikki had checked in just after lunch, registering as father and daughter. But even at three-thirty in the morning, the games were still going strong.

  “Mr. Smythe, I’m going to need you to take a deep breath and then let it out very slowly,” Nikki said, placing the cold stethoscope against his back.

  John shivered. “That’s so cold,” he said.

  Nikki smiled and placed the stethoscope in the front pocket of her white L.P.N. uniform. “Now, now, now, I hope you’re not going to cause me any trouble today,” she warned. She wagged her finger at him.

  He licked it.

  She slid the finger deeper into his mouth. “Mmmmmm,” she moaned, “Nurse Nikki thinks you’re just what the doctor ordered.”

  John reclined on his elbows, knocking the remote control onto the floor. The television suddenly came to life.

  Nikki screamed and brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she cried. Her eyes bulged in disbelief.

  John turned toward the screen. He gasped.

  Nikki laughed viciously. “Have you ever seen anything so pathetic?”

  “Shhhh,” John said. “Where’s the volume? Where’s the remote?” His erection immediately deflated.

  “You knocked it on the floor. Hurry.”

  He reached over and grabbed it, stabbing at the volume button.

  Nikki leaned forward with her mouth wide open.

  John snickered through his nose. “Jesus, Nikki. Even I never imagined she could sink so low.”

  Nikki shook her head slowly from side to side, frowning. “Her roots must be half an inch!”

  John scratched under his arm and absently brought his fingers to his nose. “She must have stopped taking her medication.”

  “And look how she’s standing! She thinks she’s Cindy Crawford with a halo!” Nikki shrieked with delight.

  The two then pointed at the screen, both laughing so hard the bed shook.

  “Oh, God, this is so priceless. I wish we were taping it,” Nikki said, wiping a tear.

  John grinned and reached for the ashtray. He put the half-smoked joint between his lips. “Got a light?” he mumbled.

  “Yay!” Nikki said. “I forgot all about that.” She scanned the room. “But we’re gonna need munchies.”

  John smiled devilishly. “I got your munchies right here,” he said, grabbing his crotch.

  Nikki slapped him on the arm and arched an eyebrow. “Don’t make me give you another prostate exam, Mr. Smythe.”

  R

  etail Salvage had the distinction of being the Poconos’ very own shop-from-home cable show. It was broadcast live from a small studio in an industrial park. The hours were irregular. The lighting was harsh. And at 4:15 A.M. Peggy Jean was the guest. Although she had visited numerous bookstores and radio stations and had established her own Web site, this was Peggy Jean’s first television appearance. Her self-published book was entitled, Peggy Jean, Jesus and You! Under the large color photograph of Peggy Jean was a quote from Debby Boone: “Together, Peggy Jean and Jesus will light up your life—take it from me.”

  “And for our viewers who are out there watching in these early morning hou
rs, what would you like to say to them?” the somewhat paunchy host asked.

  Peggy Jean shouldered her way in front of the host and looked directly into the camera. “Maybe you have insomnia,” she began, “or a terminal disease. Perhaps you’re older and live all alone. And you’re frightened because you know that crime can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time. This book is for you. It offers not just hope, but real-life solutions.”

  The host attempted to move out from behind Peggy Jean and stand beside her, but she would not allow it. She was much more experienced, and knew how to move on camera.

  “Phone call!” someone yelled from off the set.

  “I understand we have a caller,” Peggy Jean said, smiling confidently. “God has opened a window. Come on through!”

  There was a loud crackling sound, followed by a screech. “Hello?” said the caller. “Hello? Am I on the air with Peggy Jean Smythe? Hel—”