Sellevision (4 page)

That evening at home, Peggy Jean approached her husband, John. He was in bed, reading. “Honey?” she said as she slipped under the covers, her body sinking into the Cozy Nights Feather Bed (item number H-3424), “Do you think we should have another baby . . . while I still can?”

Her husband simply replied, “Um-hmm,” absently turning the pages of an Amy Fisher biography, which he was rereading for the fourth time.

She rolled over on her side and reached for the glass of Chardonnay she had brought to bed with her, something she seldom did. But that night, that one time, she felt it was okay; medicinal, even.

She thought about her visit to Dr. Stewart’s office, wondering what she would do if the tests came back positive. And then it hit her: the M word. Wasn’t she too young to go through menopause? But what if? What if she were suffering not merely from a hormonal imbalance, but from the ultimate and final hormonal imbalance? What if it was
already
too late to even have another baby?

She set the glass down on the table and rolled back over, placing her arms around her husband. “Oh, John, hold me,” she said.

“Jesus Christ, Peggy Jean,” her husband cried, fanning her breath away from his nose with the book. “Have you been
drinking
?”

“U

ncle Max? Why didn’t you get me my Peanut like you said you would?” his niece was saying into the answering machine.

Max rolled over on his mattress, bumping against the sleeping man next to him whom he had known for a total of nine hours, the past seven of which were spent unconscious. “Shit,” he said as he climbed out of bed, going into the bathroom to pee. As he looked at his penis, he said to it, “This is all your fault.”

Judging from her message, his niece had not yet received the $350 McDonald’s gift certificate he had FedExed to her. Enough money to purchase at least ten thousand grams of saturated fat and guarantee that she would be an overweight, unhappy teenager. Yet another life, aside from his own, that he had ruined.

“Hey, Mr. Handsome,” called the body from the bed.

Max turned and saw a man probably ten years older than his own age of thirty-three. While six-foot-two Max sported thick, light brown hair, striking green eyes, and classic, all-American features that would not be out of place in a Banana Republic catalog, the man in the bed resembled a plump lawn gnome. Which was astonishing to Max, because only last night the man had resembled Mel Gibson.

“Up and about so early?” the lawn gnome asked.

Max needed the gnome to leave. As in,
immediately
. He made a mental note to never drink again.

According to his most recent automated telephone inquiry at Merchant’s Bank, Max had $14,750 in his account, minus what he spent the previous night for drinks, which could easily have totaled over $100, maybe more. Max had calculated that he had approximately five months in which to secure a position as a host on one of the other shopping networks, five months until he would be forced to take whatever job was offered him, including, possibly, one on
radio
.

Max closed the bathrobe that he had slipped on immediately after exiting the bed occupied by the stranger. “Yeah, that’s me, up and at it!” he chirped, his on-air personality taking over. “And I need to get going, hop in the shower.”
Hint, hint
, he thought, and scratched the cleft on his chin.

The gnome didn’t take the hint, but instead patted the empty space beside him on the bed. “C’mere, baby. I know what you need.”

O

n Fridays, the hosts gathered in a conference room for their weekly meeting with executive and associate producers to discuss any programming notes for the following week, as well as any other issues. Howard Toast was addressing the group. “As you folks know, Max Andrews has been released from his contract with us, due to an unfortunate incident during Slumber Sunday, the details of which I’m sure you’re all familiar with.”

A couple of the hosts exchanged glances. Trish Mission, who was never terribly fond of Max and all his air time, simply stared straight ahead. Peggy Jean hadn’t seen the need for a homosexual show host in the first place.

“As a result, we find ourselves with a total of six hours of air time to fill each week,” Howard said.

The slot Max had left behind included two hours every Sunday evening beginning at six
P.M
., two hours in the
A.M
. on Mondays (variable), and Wednesdays from noon to two
P.M
., all Eastern Standard Time.

“Therefore, I am pleased to announce that effective immediately, Leigh will be occupying the time slot previously held by Max.”

The hosts broke into applause. Don from the Good Morning Show whistled. Bebe Friedman reached across the table and touched Leigh’s hand. “You deserve it.”

Leigh smiled sheepishly, “Thanks, everybody.”

Previously a field reporter with WPBC in Philadelphia, Leigh Bushmoore had joined Sellevision two years ago, and had been hosting the overnight slot from two
A.M
. to five
A.M
., Monday through Friday. With the new slot, Leigh would have daytime exposure, even though she would be on air fewer hours. The exposure would no doubt boost the career of the intelligent and attractive twenty-nine-year-old. But because her new success was at the expense of her friend and former coworker’s career, the moment was not as exciting as it might have been under different circumstances.

Bob, the other overnight host, was to have his current five to seven
A.M
. hours extended to include the
entire
overnight slot, from two to seven
A.M
., an enormous windfall for the youngest Sellevision host. With twenty-five hours of total air time, it was ironic that the least experienced host now had the most on-air hours. Although viewership of Sellevision dropped nearly 85 percent during his hours, the experience in front of the camera was going to be invaluable. When Bob’s new hours were announced, the room broke into another round of applause.

But Howard was quick with his caveat. “Now don’t get a big head, fella, this is only temporary, until we’ve chosen a new host to split the overnight with you.”

With this out of the way, it was time to discuss the following week’s Today’s Super Value, or TSV items. There were 364 TSVs a year (Sellevision suspended broadcasting on Christmas day). Sometimes a kitchen appliance or an air purifier, sometimes a piece of jewelry, a TSV featured a very low price and its own bright red screen graphic. Many of the items, especially certain jewelry items, were in development for as much as nine months before their air date. A TSV was announced to viewers at midnight. Each of the hosts were required to be familiar with the TSV because it would be presented throughout the day, at prescribed intervals. If it was a piece of jewelry, all the female hosts were to wear it on air. The same was true of clothing. Often, a TSV would sell out before the next TSV could be introduced at midnight. In this event, the producers created a Just For Now Value to replace the TSV.

Amanda, the associate producer, passed around a six-page document detailing each TSV for the following six days. Peggy Jean noticed that on the day
she
would be introducing the TSV at midnight, it was not a Big ’N’ Easy comfort shirt or a perfume sampler set. It was a HandiMan table saw. Something
just for the guys
. She frowned and fluffed the silk scarf around her neck.

A

bsent from the hosts’ meeting because she was currently on air, Adele Oswald Crawley was stroking the cotton crotch of a pair of panties. “The moisture is literally whisked away, and that’s why they’re called Moisture Whik Control Panties. And as many viewers have told me on the air and in letters and E-mails, these are the most comfortable panties you can wear. As a matter of fact I have them on right now, and they really are truly comfortable.” Cut to a medium shot of Adele sitting on a chair in the bedroom set with a display of panties on a table before her.

“Adele, double X just sold out,” the producer said in her ear.

“Okay, my producer just told me that extra-extra large has just sold out. We still have small, medium, large and extra large available.” Adele looked at the Teleprompter and saw that there was a caller, Lona from Connecticut, who
ALREADY OWNS
the panties. “Let’s take a call and say hello to . . . Lona from Connecticut. Good afternoon, Lona, how are you today?” Adele said, fingering the crotch of the panties.

“Hello, Adele, it’s so nice to speak with you.”

“Thank you so much, Lona. I’m glad you could be a part of our show today. So you already own Moisture Whik Control Panties, is that right?”

“Yes, I do. And let me tell you, Adele, I’m a nurse so I’m always running around, working double shifts. And boy oh boy, do I feel fresh.”

Adele smiled. “That’s wonderful, Lona. So you feel fresh all day long?”

“Oh yes, I really do. I wouldn’t wear any other panties—even if you paid me.” The caller chuckled and continued. “And let me just say, the waistband is so comfortable. Because with some of the other panties I’ve tried, I sometimes get a rash because the elastic is really binding, but these are a treat.”

“You bring up an excellent point, Lona, and I really should have mentioned that. The waistband of Moisture Whik Control Panties is a full inch in diameter, so it’s wide and comfortable and doesn’t pinch or bind. Thank you so much for calling, Lona, and you have a great, fresh day.”

“I will, Adele, and you have a great day too. Can I say hello to my dog?”

Adele laughed. “Of course you can. What’s your dog’s name?”

“Her name is Nermal. Hi, Nermal, hi, baby,” cooed the caller.

“Hello, Nermal,” Adele chirped. “You be a good girl and stay off the sofa.” Lona laughed.

“Adele, we’re going to cut to the Di promo, mention the choker,” the producer said.

“All right, and if you’ve been admiring this beautiful pearl choker I’m wearing”—Adele touched her necklace as Camera One zoomed in for a closeup—“you’re gonna want to tune in to Sellevision this evening when Trish Mission hosts ‘England’s Rose: Jewelry Inspired by Princess Diana.’ This particular piece is the Diana Triple Strand Simulated Pearl Choker, and it’s item number J-5212. It’s introductory-priced at just twenty-five ninety-nine. Take a look at this.” The producers in Control Room 2 cut away from Adele to a prerecorded thirty-second promotional commercial.

The commercial was a montage of footage featuring the Princess. The clips were purchased from various news services and stock-footage agencies and assembled by Sellevision editors. The spot featured shots of Diana exiting a limousine as flash bulbs fired, Diana smiling with her eyes lowered, Diana sitting at an official engagement, Diana hugging her two sons on a ski slope. The promo ended with the heartbreaking shot of the crumpled black Mercedes inside the Alma Tunnel in Paris.

Intercut with the footage of Diana were beauty shots of various pieces of fashion jewelry: a simulated-sapphire ring surrounded by faux diamonds, the choker that Adele was wearing, assorted bracelets, and a twenty-inch beaded necklace. There were also pins, a lariat, and the most affordable item in the showcase: a key fob.

A voice-over romanced the upcoming program. “She was England’s most beautiful rose, Princess Diana. Loved by millions and suddenly, tragically, taken from us at the height of her beauty and freedom. Join Sellevision this Friday at eight
P.M
. Eastern Standard Time for a full hour of our first ‘England’s Rose: Jewelry Inspired by Princess Diana’ showcase. This extraordinary show features beautiful fashion jewelry created in loving memory of the most famous princess the world has ever known. If you love Diana, this is your chance to add her legacy to your own jewelry wardrobe. Don’t miss ‘England’s Rose,’ this Friday evening, only on Sellevision.”

Cut back to a medium shot of Adele and the Moisture Whik Control Panty display.

“Y

es, please,” Bebe told the waiter at Café Sonzero, when he asked if she would care for a sprinkling of freshly grated parmesan cheese on her Rhode Island field greens and grilled calamari salad. Bebe had taken Amtrak into Manhattan to do some shopping and have lunch with her friend, Amy, a children’s book editor with Depretis Books. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and after lunch the two friends would head uptown to shop on Fifth Avenue.

“I can’t believe you, Bebe. What if you meet some psycho who tries to tie you up or something?”

Bebe laughed wickedly. “Who says I don’t want to be tied up, huh?”

“I’m serious, you could meet a lunatic,” Amy said firmly. “What on earth possessed you to write a personal ad and place it on the Internet?”

Bebe stabbed a piece of calamari with her fork. The emerald-cut Diamonelle on her ring finger sparkled as she lifted the morsel of deep-sea predator to her lips. “Amy, I know lots of people who have placed personal ads. You know Trish? Trish Mission from the show?”

Amy nodded, having just seen Trish on the England’s Rose show. She’d even ordered the key fob.

“Well, she placed an ad last summer and yeah, she met a couple of bozos, but she also met her boyfriend, Steve. And believe me, he’s no psycho, he’s an analyst with Price Waterhouse.”

Amy remained skeptical. “I don’t know, Bebe, maybe I’m old fashioned, but I’d rather meet somebody through friends, or just by chance in the supermarket.”

Bebe took a sip of wine. “Amy, the only people I meet at the supermarket are housewives who come up and show me all the Diamonelle they’re wearing and ask for my autograph, while their kids whine and tug at their legs.” She leaned in. “Look, I’m forty-two and single. This calls for desperate measures.”

Amy smiled and rolled her eyes. “Fine. So what’d you say in your ad?”

Bebe rested her fork on the plate, clasped her hands in front of her on the table and recited: “Aging Jewish Princess, forty-two, seeks her prince, or at least a guy who walks upright. I’m attractive, successful, with a down-to-earth nature and an unfortunate passion for Rocky Road ice cream. Healthy, active, and fit, I enjoy the outdoors as well the occasional night on the town. I’m very spontaneous, and love to travel. You should be likewise. You should also be devastatingly handsome, filthy rich, outrageously funny, prone to extreme lapses of common sense, and humble. What else did I say? Oh yeah—the sense-of-humor impaired need not apply.”