Twisted Sisters (11 page)

But instead of capitalizing on his predicament and turning this moment into the beginning
of an X-rated rap video, Ol’ Rat Nasty says, “Ashlee, I find your behavior appalling
and I’m uncomfortable with your persistent advances.”

Beg your pardon, guy who TMZ dubbed the Master of Misogyny?

In the seconds since Ol’ Rat Nasty entered the car, his entire demeanor has changed.
An imperceptible but crucial shift occurs. Gone is the hip-hop swagger, replaced by
an icy calm and competence. In the blink of an eye, he morphs from the dude your parents
warned you about to the man who brokered the merger between Bank of America and Merrill
Lynch.

He brushes dust and groupie glitter off himself, then adjusts his pants so he can
properly cross his legs. He says, “Ashlee, my dear, I urge you to channel the energy
and creativity you devote to attempting to seduce me via social media into something
more productive. Perhaps you could work with children or take a pottery course? You
could change lives, or, at the very least, you’d create an interesting bit of crockery
in which to store your keys.”

This from the performer who nightly closes his show with the lyrics “Punch the ho
in the pussy / Punch the ho in the pussy / Don’t be a
[f-bomb] wussy, [horrible, terrible, deeply offensive racial slur that I hesitate
to even acknowledge exists, except that it’s part of the song so I feel I have little
choice] / Punch her in the pussy”?

“Your interest is not reciprocated, am I making myself clear?”

Numbly, Ashlee nods. I glance over at Gary to see if he’s filming all of this, but
he’s completely immersed in watching the wind take the cocktail napkins he’s tossing
out the sunroof.

“Look, Dr. Reagan!” he exclaims. “Floaties!”

Nasty pats Ashlee’s knee in a fatherly manner. “I’m not well versed in what brought
you to this point in your life, but I recognize your behavior as unhealthy and self-destructive.
I implore you to seek help.”

“I’m getting help!” she whines before attempting to somehow make
me
responsible for today’s debacle. “That’s my shrink right there!”

He turns a gimlet eye on me. “You willingly participated in these shenanigans? I’m
sorry, which of the APA guidelines are you following right now? Because I’m curious.”

I give him the nutshell version of Ashlee’s participation in
Push
and the new format of the show, and his attitude changes.

“I thought I recognized you!” he replies. “Hey, aren’t you a Pepperdine alum?”

“Yes! Go Waves!” Even though I didn’t follow sports, I feel like this is the appropriate
thing to say.

“I almost did my MBA there!”

“What’s a Pepperdine?” Ashlee asks, clearly distressed at having been excluded from
the conversation.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “It’s where they used to hold the
Battle of the Network Stars
.”

“Totes cool!”

“Let me ask you something, Dr. Bishop,” the increasingly inappropriately named Ol’
Rat Nasty asks. “How does anyone expect you to resolve problems rooted in choices
in an afternoon? Patients need time to implement behavior modification. The onus is
on them to learn how to respond to triggers, rather than react. You’re not a witch
doctor! You can’t give your patients a magic potion and make their behaviors go away!
I’m so disenchanted with Wendy for allowing this to happen. The next time she and
I are in Southampton together, I’ll definitely share my disappointment.”

I reply, “You’re rapping to the choir here.”

As we drive around waiting for the crowd in front of the Peninsula to disperse, Nasty
asks for a quick architecture tour. He’s particularly smitten with the Mies van der
Rohe buildings. “I adore his use of nonhierarchical wall enclosures,” he sighs.

We make a loop past the hotel and see there’s still a bit of a presence there, so
we end up circling the Viagra Triangle, thusly named for the drug of choice of the
gentlemen who frequent the area on the weekend. Were it a Saturday night, this whole
area north of the Magnificent Mile would be full of hair-plugged men, driving convertibles
through their midlife crises, looking to hook up with the plentiful twentysomething
women angling to quit their day jobs and become trophy wives. But as it’s midafternoon,
the streets are empty, save for a few Jamaican nannies and their young charges.

When Sebastian and I met, he was living in an apartment down here right behind Hugo’s
Frog Bar. I convinced him he’d be far better off in Lincoln Park, so when it came
time to buy, I helped him find a wonderful condo with a lake view in walking distance
from my place. Despite things being on and off between us right now, I’m so glad he’s
away from here. This place is a spawning ground for bad decisions. I don’t even like
driving on this block, so I instruct the chauffeur to head south.

That reminds me to check my texts.

Nada.

I wonder if he’s in a meeting. He sure wasn’t in a meeting last night!

(I mean we had sex, if that wasn’t clear enough.)

As we pass the Peninsula again, we note that save for the TMZ crew, it’s business
as usual, and Ol’ Rat Nasty decides it’s time to say good-bye.

With a glance at the sullen bald girl, he tells me, “You have a Sisyphean task ahead
of you, and I wish you all the best.”

I shake his hand, unsure if he means with Ashlee or the show in general. I’m not sure
I desire clarification. “It was a pleasure to meet you, and I’m sorry for the circumstances.”

“Godspeed, Dr. Bishop. Pleasure to meet you, Gary. And, Ashlee? The Sinead look doesn’t
work for you.” Gary, who has since nodded off, wakes long enough to give him a mock
salute.

As we pull up to the curb, Ashlee asks him, “Are we really not going to bone?”

He kisses her on the cheek and replies, “Not in this lifetime, my dear.” Then he takes
Ashlee’s underwear out of his pocket and hands them back to her. “These belong to
you. My advice is you put them on and leave them on.” Then, almost sheepishly, he
adds, “I hope you all can forgive me for what happens next, but I have an empire to
protect. There’s a reason it’s not called NiceWater.”

When he exits the car, he seamlessly shifts right back into his public persona, strutting
up to the guys from TMZ. “Y’all see that shiz? That was
wack
. I’mma tell you all about it!”

I actually enjoyed connecting with the Clarence behind Ol’ Rat Nasty, yet despite
my appreciation for his rationale, I can’t help but resent how he just threw me, my
guest, and my show directly under the bus.

Blast from the Past

“The network feels I should fire you, Peace Corps.”

I wish this news was a surprise; it’s not.

Yet the truth is not that I did a terrible job with Ashlee. Quite the opposite, in
fact. The network is partially pissed over Ashlee having pulled herself together without
our intervention.

Technically, we
did
intervene—it’s just that Gary didn’t capture a moment of footage. I suspect Ol’ Rat
Nasty wouldn’t have signed a release to use tape of him even if we had any, but it
might have been nice if Gary had at least tried. Then, when Ashlee had her epiphany
as we drove back to the studio, I didn’t have the heart to interrupt her to say we
needed to start rolling. She was so forthcoming about her problems with her “momager”
and her “frenemies” that I’d have felt unethical in interrupting her flow.

So, like a tree falling in the forest and no one hearing the sound, it’s as though
her breakthrough didn’t happen. At least not on
Push
’s watch.

Now that Ashlee finally has the world’s eyes on her again, she’s blossoming under
all the positive attention. She was witty and engaging on
Good Morning America
earlier this week, and she killed it on
Kimmel
with all the self-deprecation. And the wigmaker worked wonders! All of which would
have been fantastic, had
Push
received the credit. (Related note? I could live without the media having nicknamed
me Dr. Wack.)

I could have easily weathered the Ashlee storm, had she not been immediately followed
by Hurricane Lance Voss.

Lance Voss is world-famous for being the former bad-boy NBA player with three loves
in this world: strippers, cocaine, and model railroads. The trains in and of themselves
aren’t problematic, although I wonder if I couldn’t have gotten through to him a little
more had he not spent the entirety of our three-hour filmed session struggling to
correct a grade he’d built too steep.

After the Ashlee debacle, Kassel and the network were thrilled with the visuals of
our session. There Lance was, this shirtless behemoth of man, biceps bulging, covered
in tattoos from the neck down, pierced nipples peeking out from under his pinstriped
engineer’s overalls, matching cap, and a red bandanna, looming like a Japanese movie
monster over his tiny town. Yet Lance was sweet and forthcoming on-camera, largely
because he wanted us gone so he could do more rails. (The drug kind, not the model-train-enthusiast
kind.)

To me, it was clear that he was shining us on, telling us what we wanted to hear,
but to the casual observer, he seemed open to change. And I suspect that given the
time and the tools the old
Push
would have afforded me, we could have been successful in manifesting healthier behaviors.

Fortunately, Lance is an inpatient at Promises now and receiving the intensive one-on-one
treatment he desperately needed. Unfortunately, he was sent there for having tried
to commandeer an Amtrak engine after running out on a nineteen-thousand-dollar bar
tab at Scores.

Let me just say this: The media has not been kind about the incident, with the lion’s
share of the blame once again going to
Push
, and I’m just mortified. By itself, the shame is bad enough. But Geri’s been calling
me all week, no doubt to rub it all in. Each time I see her number, I send the call
directly to voice mail before deleting the message without listening. I’ve no desire
to hear her gloat. Naturally, Sebastian pulled yet another one of his disappearing
acts. Why is he perpetually busiest when I need him most?

As I was pacing last night, I was so desperate for some reassurance that when the
phone rang, I picked up. At that point, I didn’t even care if it was Geri on the line.
A smug hug is still a hug.

“Hello?”

“What do you say, Ray?”

I’d have known that voice anywhere. Deep and smooth, with the slightest trace of a
New York accent.

“Boyd? What . . . how did . . .” I was at a loss for words. I hadn’t spoken to him
since the early days of Sebastian, almost three years ago, and certainly not since
I bought my house and installed the landline.

I could feel him smiling all the way out in California. “How’d I get your number?
A little Geri told me. No, no—don’t be mad. I Facebooked her to see how you were doing
and she said you were avoiding everyone. I figured you could use a friend, so here
I am. Hello, friend.”

I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit better. “Hi, back.”

“I assume Sebastian’s not there or he’d make you hang up.”

I snapped, “I don’t need him here to hang up on you.”

“Whoa, Ray, I promise I come in peace. Just figured you could use an ear. No judgment.
Just love.”

I sank down into the couch. “I also don’t need your love, Boyd.”

He snorted. “Yeah, you made that clear when you left me standing on the beach back
then.”

I winced, remembering how I went directly to Surfrider after my adviser read me the
riot act. Although I’d done exceptionally well in my classes, I’d sort of . . . misplaced
the passion I should have been funneling into my dissertation. Ironic, because writing
was kind of my thing.

He said, “Let me start over. Hi, friend. I’m calling to see how you are. You okay?”

I took a deep breath and began my tale of woe. “I’m not. I have a meeting with the
show’s executive producer tomorrow and I’m afraid he’s going to fire me. What’s going
to happen to me if I lose my job, Boyd? I’m already a national laughingstock. I definitely
won’t be able to work in television.
Good Morning America
’s never calling me again.”

“Stephanopoulos was flirting with you last time you were on.”

“Right?” I exclaimed. “I thought so, too! And by the way, did anyone in my family
even bother to watch my episode?”

“You’re trying to make a cat bark, Ray. Your folks love you and they’re proud of you,
but they’re never going to demonstrate the level of validation you want. You’re never
getting a parade. That’s not who they are. They’ll show you in different ways, though.
Your dad’ll upgrade your garbage disposal and gas up your car. Your mom’ll trek to
the north side to bring you a casserole, cursing the whole way. That’s what they do.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there,” I said, trying not to feel guilty about the
chicken à la king I found in a cooler on my porch earlier and immediately donated
to the guys. “The bigger issue is that this scandal could be a career killer. Who’ll
book me for a speaking engagement now? And I can’t imagine private patients lining
up to see
Dr. Wack
. I’ll be ruined. I’ll never be able to show my semi-famous face in Whole Foods again.”

“Is being recognized—and subsequently mocked—in the grocery store really a big deal?”

“No.”
Yes.

He laughed. “You’re a terrible liar. But it’s okay, you can still be my friend.”

“Does that title come with dental and a generous base salary?”

“Maybe.”

As much as I’ve tried to deny it, I miss bantering with Boyd. We used to spend hours
having silly little arguments about the most ridiculous stuff, like whether I was
Mrs. Robinson or a pedophile for having a crush on
Catcher in the Rye
’s Holden Caulfield.

“What are you up to now, anyway?” I asked.

“Little of this, little of that,” he replied in his usual noncommittal fashion.

“Any chance you’ve gone back to business school?”

“These feet were not meant to wear wing tips, Reagan. Give me flip-flops or give me
death.”

What I really wanted to know was if he was seeing someone, but I wasn’t sure what
I’d do with the information once I had it.

Some questions are better left unasked.

“Are you happy, Boyd?”

“Every day, every day. Can you say the same?”

“On the eve of being fired? Probably not.” Pondering my fate, I could feel my stomach
knot. “Seriously, what’ll I do with myself if I lose my job? Sit around and watch
television and get fat? Become a hairdresser? As is, I’ve been so distracted that
I can’t do the marathon this year because I haven’t kept up with my training.”

He sighed into the phone and I could picture him running his hands through his hair.
“Reagan, baby—when’ll you learn to cut yourself a break? Take a breather? Would it
be so bad to have an open schedule for the first time since you wrote your dissertation?”

“You mean, when you had me so distracted being your little surf bunny that I completely
procrastinated writing it?” I think back to the beach with Boyd and how his pals would
tease me for wrapping myself in the terry-cloth equivalent of a burka. Sometimes I
miss those days so much it’s a physical ache.

“Guilty as charged. I’d do it again, too.”

I curled into the corner of the couch and inadvertently wrapped myself in a throw,
remembering how he’d laugh about the SPF properties of terry cloth.

“What am I going to do, Boyd? My only skill is counseling people.”

“Not true,” he countered. “Your writing always impressed me, Ray.”

Even though I was heartbroken when I finally sat down to begin my dissertation, I
can’t help but remember the joy I felt putting words to page. I always wanted to write
a book, yet I assumed that would happen after I’d had some major accomplishments.
Losing my job, even if it’s through no fault of my own?

Hardly an accomplishment on which to base one’s literary career.

“Thanks, but if you recall—and I’m sure you do—
this
is the choice I made. I mean, I dedicated the last decade and a half to getting here,
and it’s so wrong that I’m being penalized for things that aren’t in my control. The
stuff with Lance Voss couldn’t have been helped. I had three hours with him! That’s
not enough time to bake a brisket, let alone address a decade of addiction.”

“You back on the cow?” Although Boyd’s a carnivore, he never once teased me for my
dining proclivities. In fact, he’d perpetually seek out the best vegetarian and seafood
places because he knew they’d make me happy. And he’s the one who introduced me to
the wide world of organics in the first place.

Of course, Sebastian is Captain Steakhouse. But I figure it’s a trade-off, what with
his career involving more than board shorts and a shot glass.

“God, no. I just couldn’t think of anything that might take me more than three hours
to do.”

“I might be able to occupy you for that long.”

And then I blushed, because he was right.

“Listen,” I told him, “I have a big, awful day to prepare for tomorrow, so I’ve got
to go. It’s been good to talk to you. Thank you . . . friend.”

“Miss you, Ray. I’m here if you need me. Take my number.” He rattled it off and I
parroted it back to him, pretending to write it down.

As smooth as it may go down, I can’t eat ice cream for dinner; ergo, the past is inevitably
best left in the past.

As for my present?

I’m about to learn my fate.

Kassel leans across his desk. “Relax. I’m not going to fire you.”

A wave of relief washes over me. I can feel the tears beginning to well in the corners
of my eyes, but I fight them back. I loosen the death grip I’ve had on my phone, which
is now slick with my own terror sweat.

He amends his statement. “At least not yet.”

Kassel manages to sound empathetic when he says this, gazing at me from behind his
surprisingly old-fashioned antique partners’ desk. This heavy, hand-carved piece of
furniture is a good six feet deep, meant to accommodate workers on either side, so
I feel like I’m sitting a mile away from him. I was shocked when I saw his office
for the first time. I’d have pegged him for picking a hypermodern glass-and-steel
workspace, but that’s not the case at all. This room projects exactly as much warmth
as it did back when Patty had draped every surface in tapestry.

He’s lined the walls with old books—really, a reader?—and he’s covered the floor with
a sumptuous vintage Persian rug in a myriad of subtle jewel tones. Deva says she recognizes
the pattern from her time in Tabriz. (I haven’t a clue as to what she was doing in
East Azerbaijan. She called it Persia, which is the politically correct way of saying
Iran.)

“Thank you,” I practically whisper. I hate how much my voice quavers.

“Don’t thank me yet, Peace Corps. I’m in a world of shit because of you. The Ashlee
episode was supposed to be our premiere, followed by Lance Voss. Those are both off
the table now. I’ve gotta go with the third runner-up, which is Dr. Karen and the
hand washer. Not big. Not at all big.” He makes an obscene gesture to punctuate his
point, inadvertently drawing attention to his glorious wrists.

As it turns out, tales of the aging soap star’s obsessive-compulsive disorder were
largely a figment of her publicist’s imagination. So it’s not like it was particularly
difficult for Dr. Karen to capture big changes on film. The trailer featuring Andrea
DiAngelo dipping her paws in a compost pile has been running all week, leading up
to the show’s premiere.

I cast my gaze downward as he continues. “Do not cock this next one up, got it? You
have one more shot. This next episode is do or die for you. Keep in mind, if you’re
gone, then your whole team is outta here. Understand? You’re a package deal. Sorry
to be harsh, but that’s how it’s gotta be. I fought the network to keep you, so
do not
make me look bad.”

I’m awash with equal parts shame and determination. I’ll be devastated if anything
happens to Ruby or Faye because of me. Ruby’s about to buy her first condo and Faye’s
been talking about bringing her grandkids back to the resort where we stayed in Hawaii.
They used to lobby to work with me because I’m so much more competent than Dr. Karen
and her (medicine) bag o’ tricks. I can’t let them down. I can’t allow their faith
in me to be shaken, at least any more than it already has been.

And what of my family? The only thing they have to be proud of right now is Mary Mac
and her ability to toast fennel seeds. It’s my birthright to be the successful one.
It’s on me to make enough to buy the folks a winter place on the Florida coast . . .
because that way I can determine how many guest rooms they need. (Hint—she who pays
stays—the rest of you mooches can rent a hotel room if you want to visit.)