Sellevision (6 page)

Checking her flexible bangle bracelet two-tone watch with genuine quartz movement, Peggy Jean saw that she had less than fifty minutes before going on air. Just enough time to pick up a decaf from the hosts’ kitchenette and introduce herself to the special guest who would be joining her on that evening’s Celebrity Doll Showcase.

“You Light Up My Life” had always been one of Peggy Jean’s favorite songs. She considered it a beautiful and powerful love song to God, and she found herself actually quite thrilled that she was about to meet Debby Boone in person. That evening marked the debut of Dolls by Debby, and she very much looked forward to spending an enjoyable two hours presenting the (adorable) collectible porcelain dolls and showing video clip highlights of Ms. Boone’s extraordinary career.

As Peggy Jean was leaving the cantina, she saw Trish Mission leaning over the water fountain in the hallway. “Trish, I just wanted to tell you how
stunning
that Royal Crystal tiara looked on you the other night during your England’s Rose show. It didn’t surprise me a bit that it sold immediately.”

Trish rose from the water fountain and a drop of water fell from her lower lip. “Thank you so much, Peggy. I know, wasn’t it terrific! Everything except the ‘Always Wear a Seat Belt’ glitter brooch sold out, so it looks like I might do it again in a few months.”

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” Peggy Jean called back as she walked down the hall.

That was one show that she, herself, would have enjoyed hosting. Peggy Jean felt a special kinship toward the princess, as both women lived very public lives yet were successful mothers. They even shared a similar hairstyle. Although Diana had been divorced, Peggy Jean didn’t blame her in the least. It was perfectly clear to the world that her husband was an adulterer. And the princess had done all she could to keep the marriage alive, for the sake of the children. One had to respect that.

“Debby?” she said, walking into the guest’s lounge.

Debby Boone looked up from her Patricia Cornwell novel.

Peggy Jean extended her hand and beamed. “Hi, I’m Peggy Jean Smythe and I’m going to be joining you on this evening’s show. I just wanted to welcome you to Sellevision and let you know what a huge fan of yours I am!”

“A

my, you were right, I must be losing my marbles,” Bebe said to herself as she sat at her computer, reading the responses to the personal ad she placed last week on America Online. Occasionally laughing out loud or shaking her head in disbelief, Bebe was slowly resigning herself to the fact that maybe this computer-dating thing hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

One of the men had asked Bebe if she was capable of multiple orgasms. Another said that although he was a big man (385 pounds) he was still a very good person who deserved to be loved. Some guy even sent a nude picture of himself in the form of a JPEG file. Bebe had to admit that although that man did have an excellent body, there was no way she would ever consider meeting somebody who would send such a picture to a stranger.

Rising from her chair and stretching, Bebe brought her coffee mug into the kitchen and made herself another cup of Lemon Zinger tea. Then it was back to the computer to read the last of her responses.

Occasionally, Bebe would glance up from the computer and over to the small Sony Trinitron she kept on a bookshelf near her desk. Bebe had no less than five television sets in her condominium, and most were usually tuned to Sellevision, often—like now—with the sound muted.

Peggy Jean was on with Debby Boone. She was laughing and placing her hand on Debby’s shoulder. The two seemed to really be hitting it off.

More than ten men had responded to her personal ad, and out of these, so far exactly zero were contenders.

Pepper walked into the room and Bebe reached down to scratch the dog’s back. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kiddo.” The dog licked her hand.

Then Bebe read the last of the replies. The letter was from a man named Eliot who lived close by in Philly, forty-two, never married, the owner of a chain of dry cleaning establishments. When Bebe read this, she chuckled to herself, “How perfect for me, now I can dribble all the pasta sauce I want over myself and not have to worry about it.” As Bebe continued reading Eliot’s letter, she began to think that maybe she should write the guy back.

At least on paper, he had a great sense of humor: “I assure you, I’m not a psycho who pulled the legs off ants as a child, nor do I have any outstanding arrest warrants. At least in this state.”

Plus, they seemed to like some of the same things. “I’ve been known to get a little teary-eyed at sappy movies, scream my lungs out at football games, and once in a blue moon put on a tux, head to Manhattan, and listen to fat people sing in a language I don’t understand: i.e., opera. I treat common sense as a spice and I love to travel.”

“He’s probably married or really short or has very bad breath.” And with that, Bebe set about writing him a little note in return.

Afterward, she logged on to Ebay to see if any of her bids had been accepted for the classic Leica M3 rangefinder camera, the antique silver hairbrush, or the bronze swan garden loveseat.

“M

oist towellette?” the flight attendant asked Max, presenting him with a plastic tray piled with steaming, freshly microwaved cloths.

“Uh, yeah, sure, thanks,” he said, taking one of the towels, unfolding it, and pressing it against his face. It smelled fresh, like lemon. Like new things about to happen. Beneath the cloth, he was smiling. He still couldn’t believe he was actually en route to an interview with the E-Z Shop Channel.

His agent, Laurie, had called two days ago to ask him if he’d seen the current issue of
The National Enquirer
.

Sarcastically, he’d answered, “Yeah, it’s sitting right here on top of my
Scientific American
, I just haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.”

Laurie then went on to inform him that on page four there was a large color picture of him from the Slumber Sunday incident, a black box over his crotch and a headline that read
SELLEVISION HOST SLIPS OUT, GETS OUSTED
.

Yet despite the tabloid article, E-Z Shop Channel was
still
interested in meeting him. After all, they were paying for the flight, the hotel room, even his meals.

“As a matter of fact,” Laurie had told him, “I think it might even work in your favor. They need all the publicity they can get.”

So be it. If his penis was responsible for getting him fired in the first place, it was only fair that it should help him secure a new and better job. Besides, E-Z Shop was located in Florida. And he had to admit, Florida wasn’t such a bad place to live. There was South Beach, after all. And he almost had the abs for it. Plus, he wouldn’t have to deal with those frigid northern winters anymore. And maybe he’d finally meet somebody, settle down. A nice, sun-bleached Florida guy who was really sweet and wholesome. And didn’t read
The National Enquirer
. Sure, the E-Z Shop wasn’t as classy as Sellevision, but then again, it beat the hell out of
radio
.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, in preparation for landing, please make sure that your tray table is stowed and that your seat back is in its upright position.” The flight attendant looked directly at Max when he said this.

He tightened the belt around his lap and peered out the window. The plane seemed to hover just above the tops of palm trees as it came in for the landing.

As he exited the aircraft, Max noticed that the forty-something pilot did a double take when he saw him. The pilot stared for a moment and then glanced at Max’s crotch before smiling and whispering something into the copilot’s ear. Max assumed he was being paranoid, but after stepping onto the exit ramp, he turned around. The pilot, copilot, and flight attendant were all looking at him, smirking. The obviously gay male flight attendant was at least covering his grin with his fingers.

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

Subject: Gee, thanks.

Peggy Jean,

I know you’re a busy woman with a demanding career and three young children who no doubt receives more than her fair share of “fan mail” but I have to tell you that I was a little hurt that you couldn’t find the time to send me even a brief personal note, especially considering I took the time out of my own busy life to inform you of your hairy earlobe problem, not to mention expressing my concern over your health in terms of smoking.

Zoe :|

After reading the letter, Peggy Jean once again sent her standard reply in return, making no apology and adding not a single personal comment. She then phoned her husband at his office and asked if he wouldn’t mind picking up a can of cream of celery soup on his way home. She thought she’d try out a new recipe for canned salmon casserole she’d clipped from the back of
Soap Opera Digest.
Peggy Jean then opened the box of homeopathic medicine she’d purchased, pushed one of the pills through the foil backing, and placed it under her tongue, letting it dissolve.

four

“T
a da!” Trish sang, extending her finger so that Leigh and Peggy Jean could admire the gigantic diamond engagement ring.

“Oh, Trish, congratulations—he finally asked, you are just . . .” Peggy Jean stopped midsentence, rendered speechless as her eyes fell on the
rock
.

Leigh simply gasped. Then, taking Trish’s hand in her own and bringing it closer to her face, she said, “Trish, this stone is
enormous
, it must be like seven carats. How . . . ? I mean . . . ?”

“Seven point five,” Trish said gleefully, “
but who’s counting!
” She squealed and stamped both little feet.

Peggy Jean discreetly turned her own diamond engagement ring around so that the small stone faced the inside of her hand.

“I had no idea your fiancé was so, well, loaded,” Leigh said. “This ring must have cost him a fortune.”

Trish tilted her hand slightly from side to side, dazzled by how the ring just soaked up all the light in the room. “Huh?” she said, looking up. “Who?”

“Your
fiancé
,” Leigh said again. “This must have broken the bank.”

“Oh,
him!
” Trish laughed. “This didn’t cost
him
a penny.”

And it was true.

When Trish’s Price Waterhouse boyfriend had presented her with the
original
engagement ring, it had been in front of Trish’s father, Walter Mission III. Trish and her boyfriend had flown to Dallas to celebrate his sixtieth birthday, an event Trish would not have missed for the world.

As the only child, Trish was not only the apple of her father’s eye, but also the sole heiress to the entire FlushKing Toilet Bowl and Urinal fortune.

“Daddy!” Trish cried the moment she saw him, running to the front door of the estate toward her beaming father’s outstretched arms. Her boyfriend was left behind to collect the luggage from the trunk of the rental car.

“My baby princess!” he gushed, scooping the girl into his arms and giving her a great big bear hug. He was a large man, in every way. Even his white eyebrows seemed twice as thick as an ordinary man’s. And he didn’t speak, he boomed.

“Oh Daddy! Happy birthday, happy,
happy
birthday.”

Porcelain, the white Maltese, scampered to the door and began yapping.

Trish’s boyfriend arrived and set the luggage on the flagstone steps.

Mr. Mission released his daughter and extended his beefy hand for the boyfriend to shake. “Hello, Stan,” he said.

“
Steve
,” Steve corrected, shaking Mr. Mission’s hand. Mr. Mission squeezed
hard
and Steve winced.

Trish playfully slapped her father on the arm. “Oh Daddy, stop teasing him. You know his name.” Then she bent down and scooped the little lap dog into her arms. “I missed you, too,” she said, laughing as it licked her face.

It was after dinner when Trish’s boyfriend presented her with the engagement ring and asked for her hand in marriage. He had placed the simple one-carat ring on Trish’s finger, and she said, yes.

Trish then leapt up off the mahogany leather sofa and dashed to her father, who was seated in a matching wing chair. “Look, Daddy,” she cried, “isn’t it pretty?”

Her father placed his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and peered at the ring. He leaned closer and his nostrils flared.

“You call this an engagement ring?!” he bellowed. “It’s a chip, nothing but a chip.” Trish frowned and looked at the ring.