Season 2 Chapter 7

I could not feel my ass cheeks. I mean I could touch them, and my hand registered that I was indeed touching ass cheeks, but my ass cheeks were not registering that there was a hand touching them. I also had a winceworthy crick in my neck. Having imbibed considerably, it took me a few seconds to realize that I had left my adequately comfortable bed and fallen asleep on the toilet. I had been asleep on the toilet for a little over two hours. With the bed only a couple dozen feet away, the toilet didn’t seem like a valid option; however, I could easily ascertain how it came to be. I knew that I would never allow myself to urinate in bed. My bladder speaks; I listen. I’ve used sinks and trash cans, but I haven’t pissed in bed since college. Urinating in a standing position would have been nearly impossible in my condition hours earlier. At the most inopportune time, seated on the commode, I had passed out. It took my ass over two hours to tell my brain, “Hey, you drunk fuck, we’re shutting down these crushed nerves until you get this limp body to move.” I was a little impressed that I had somehow remained seated the entire time without falling over.

Usually I try to drink just enough to set me right without impairing my ability to make it back to bed and take in a little porno, but the cumulative effect of drinks at the Wisconsin Club, followed by drinks at the hotel bar, followed by drinks from the honor bar in my room pushed me well beyond my targeted level of intoxication. I would discover later that the honor bar was sentient enough not to trust me. Each bottle removed from the miniature fridge instantly became a line item on my hotel bill. Cami must have seen me at my finest when she stopped by earlier. As I forced myself to move back to where I should have been sleeping, slipped under the covers, and gave thanks to my pillow, I was not nearly as upset about missing on demand hotel porn as I thought I should be.

The true reckoning came five or six hours later with a phone call from Cami waking me from my deep tortured slumber. I was in the middle of a horrifying dream at the bowling alley where I couldn’t keep a single ball out of the gutter and everyone’s faces were lifeless masks. I could tell the faces were animated at some point in the past, but they had slowly petrified over time. The faces had become shells to protect the new faces that were forming underneath. No one wanted to show me his or her new face. I kept pleading with one woman in a provocative bowling shirt to remove her mask. Any face that hid beneath would be an improvement over the stoic façade she was wearing. I finally convinced her to take it off, and when she did pull off the mask, I’m pretty sure my neighbors and anyone in the hall outside my room would have heard me scream. Cami’s call saved me from having to continue to look at that unfathomably hideous face.

“Thank you.”

“Most people say, ‘Hello,’ Sheldon. Are you alive?”

“I’ll tell you about it later, but right now, I’m grateful for your call.”

“I thought maybe in your condition, you wouldn’t be picking up the phone. I was going to leave a message.”

“Well, I can hang up, you can call me back, and I’ll let it go to voicemail if that’s what you’d prefer.”

I could tell by the pause, she was considering it.

“Ian wanted to see if you’d be interested in meeting up for breakfast or lunch maybe since your flight doesn’t leave until this evening. He feels a little weird about bombarding you with all those people yesterday.”

“That’s the last thing I expected to hear. Thanks, but I don’t want to be a fifth wheel for you guys. I think I’ll just hang out with myself.”

“Fifth wheel? You’re talking like he’s my boyfriend.”

“If he wipes that dirt off his upper lip and settles down, he could be. It’s not every day that you meet a wealthy philanthropist.”

“Now, you’re talking like you think you know what I want.”

“Yes, you want to be a network anchor and then president of the United States. A wealthy philanthropist will just slow you down. What am I thinking.”

“Wow. You bounce back fast.”

“Quickly.”

“So you coming, or what?”

I’d ruined a lot of things by opening my mouth. I figured I would take the day off and attempt to create as little mayhem for others as possible.

“You kids, have a ball. I’m going to get in touch with my inner Shel. If I find out y’all went to Elsa’s though…”

“If we did, would you come?”

“Nope.”

“Sheldon, you’re missing another opportunity.”

“It was destined to be missed.”

The next few hours were filled with room service and daytime television. What at first appears to be a pathetic situation is in fact a golden research opportunity. A lot of what happens on daytime television could end up on Another Fifteen Minutes in a decade or so. Dozens of people gather behind a jovial man with a microphone on a glorious morning. Only a thin cord separates the fanatics from the on-air personality. They crush each other to make it into the frame, hoping their loved ones back home will notice. They hold crudely made signs to be more obtrusive. The man devours the attention and the power. Before shooting begins, he chats up the crowd. He decides which of the faithful he will bring into his world—who will get a voice.

In another part of the country, recorded days earlier, a woman paces the aisles of a studio audience. The audience hopes for that opportunity to speak into the microphone and ask a pertinent question of the panel of guests or maybe just contribute their little bit of wisdom. For that one little moment, millions of Americans are paying attention. They’re hanging on every word. And then it’s over.

Or so you think, until you get a call from us. It’s just one more piece of culture I dig into with Another Fifteen. We’ll track down guests of decades-old talk shows (difficult work), show them the footage of themselves speaking into the microphone, and put them on the spot again. We get to find out more about the angry woman who admonished a panelist for being immature and irresponsible for choosing not to wear age-appropriate clothing. We delve into the biographical relevance of an audience member who told the microphone what he would have done if he had caught someone masturbating on his furniture. Yes, we do follow up with the panelists as well, but it’s the audience members who are the real mysteries.

We get folks from court shows too. I was in the middle of watching a case about a man suing a neighbor for a borrowed surfboard that conveniently turned up stolen when I heard a knock on my door.

“Oh my god, you’re not even dressed.”

It was Cami and Ian. Surprise!

“I am not your god-- yet. But yes, I haven’t bothered to put any clothes on for the day.”

“Come on, Sheldon. Get dressed, and let’s get lunch.”

“I get the feeling you think I need cheering up.”

“Just pretend you do. I know you don’t. I know you don’t give a fuck.”

“Okay. Give me a sec to tidy up.”

It wasn’t going to be one of my prettier days. With a few splashes of water, some deodorant, multiple toothbrush stokes, a t-shirt, jeans, argyle socks, and sneakers, I was ready. My head was still a little foggy, so I picked up the packet of pills that everyone really wanted me to try and said, “What the heck.” I chugged the pills down with a glass of watered down o.j. and stepped through the door.

“Ta-da!”

“You look like a zombie, mate,” Ian smiled out.

“That means a lot to me, coming from a zombie like yourself. I hope I’ve captured all the little nuances that just scream out, ‘authentic zombie.’”

“It’s the eyes, Shel.”

“If you guys hang out with me enough, you’ll see that the zombie eyes aren’t all that uncommon. You’ll get used to ‘em after a while.”

I kept the two of them laughing most of the way to Bradford Beach. It was one of the days where the zingers just fall from the sky and the crowd is drinking everything up. Cami really wanted to go to the beach. She had moved out to Southern California, and immediately they shipped her out to the Midwest. She would not be denied the daily beach excursions she had been dreaming about. Ian’s chef had put together a little picnic with the basket and everything. I felt like I was a chaperone. I think the two of them were afraid to be left alone together for too long. Reality was setting in for the playboy and the ambitious career-minded woman.

“You know, for being as big of dick as I’ve been, I’m still not sure why I’m here with you guys. You were pretty pissed off at me last night, Cami. And I’m not entirely certain, Ian, but I think I may have offended a few of your guests.”

“The morning brings a new perspective to things. I’m not ready to write you off completely, Sheldon.”

“It’s all cool, Shel. I see that happen all the time. We’ve all been ‘That Guy’ at least once in our lives. Now if you’re ‘That Guy’ all the time, you’ve got a problem.”

“I think I might be ‘THEEE That Guy’. When I swing, I swing for the fences. When I shoot, I shoot the moon.”

Cami looked at Ian. “Maybe we’re ‘enabling’ him.”

I replied for Ian. “Without question, you are. So does everyone else. And that’s why you must continue. You’re all thinking like drug, alcohol, tobacco and fire arms dealers. ‘If we don’t do it; then someone else will.’”

“Sheldon, you’re about as dangerous as Tylenol.”

“Hey, you take enough Tylenol, and you can seriously fuck up your liver—no joke. Speaking of drugs, Ian, how deep into this Ephimria thing are you? Are you acquainted with my friend, Mason Burnett?”

“Ephimria is getting big for sure. They were a big sponsor for us this year. They’ve been trying to get me to hock for them, but I’m waiting it out. They don’t have enough of track record yet for me to make any kind of endorsement. I’ve met Mason maybe a couple times at some fundraisers when he was there with his dad. He seems like a good guy for being a trust fund baby.”

“Not as cool as you though.”

“Maybe. You know who is cool? That guy on Weather or Not—Hans Sumthinruther. I love that guy. He’s got a positive aura.”

“Hans Reitherman. Yes, he is very well-loved. I run into him all the time at work. He’s my nemesis.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“You’d think Hans would have a positive influence on you,” Cami said.

“You’d think. But the minute you try to be like Hans, you’re not. Hans doesn’t try; he just is. There is a magic there that you can’t bottle and sell to other people.”

“That’s bullshit, Sheldon. Hans makes choices every day, just like the rest of us. He just makes really good choices.”

“That’s true. He also had a hell of an awesome childhood.”

“So your childhood was too fucked up to allow you to be like Hans?”

“I don’t know. I can always start over I guess. Cami, Ian, you can be my mamma and papa. Through osmosis I’ll learn to be more ambitious and generous. I’ll learn how to treat a lady with respect.”

“This is sick, Sheldon.”

“Mamma, Papa, can I go swimming?”

Ian joined in on the pantomime. “I don’t know, Son. You just ate. You should really wait an hour.”

“Aw, Dad, you know that’s an old wives' tale. No offence, Mamma.”

“Okay, Son. But stay where we can see you.”

I think they were a little surprised when I stripped down to my chonies and sprinted towards the lake. As soon as I hit the water, even though I was in Lake Michigan, all I could think about was the old SNL commercial with Bill Murray as the spokesman for Swill mineral water dredged straight from Lake Erie. I got to chuckling.

---

I made sure to get a dry pair of underwear on before my flight back. I received an open invitation from Ian to return any time. I could tell, Cami, on the other hand, was very close to the point of begging Jeff to move her to another production. She could handle the candid conversation, but the embarrassing and uncharacteristic outbursts might have been too much for her. I was a little unsettled myself. I couldn’t tell if it was the drinking, the Ephimria, or swimming in Lake Michigan that knocked something loose. With Cami’s evaluation and the message I left, I was definitely looking forward to my next conversation with Jeff. To up the ante, maybe some paparazzi shots would turn up of a drunken Sheldon or Sheldon swimming in Lake Michigan. My star power would have to be a lot brighter though for that to happen.

On the plane, I pulled up some documents on my laptop related to another story in development. A number of years back a mother in Galveston had shot her son accidentally not once but on four separate occasions over a period of six years. If the son had died, it probably wouldn’t be as funny as it is. It still shouldn’t be funny, and it’s not to the mother. Everyone else can’t help but laugh. I’ve been in the same boat. My ex-wife laughed for a good five minutes when I showed her the third extension cord I had cut through with my electric hedger. I wasn’t laughing. I was furious with myself. I looked forward to talking with the mother in Galveston. I could relate.

Season 2 Chapter 6

I got a knock on my door around six-thirty, and it was Cami announcing a change of plans for us. Well, not so much a change as it was an upgrade. And I should have known at that point things would not end up going to my liking.

“No, we’re still having drinks, it’s just that Ian has decided to…ah, open the invitation.”

I’m completely fine with shooing the messenger, even if their cherubic features are looking me right in the face, eyes wide and eyebrows arched. She didn’t know what else to do, other than accept and pass the info on to me, and the look she gave me dared me to challenge that. And I swear I would have, if I didn’t start to notice the cocktail dress she was wearing.

“So what’s with the party threads,” I asked, taking that as rightful opportunity to really take in the simple but subtly elegant black dress. Not too deep a cut on the neck line yet not so conservative a hem, to give just the right amount of allure without being slutty or tacky. And there’s nothing worse than a woman who ruins a perfectly nice ass or perky rack with a dress that has no mystique. Unless it’s whore, in which case, you hope to get a good look at what you’re buying, leaving behind just enough to make you desperate to get that taxi to hurry up and get you back to your room, and then reconsider just having them drive in circles around the block Not that I know what that’s like. Circling the parking lot of the Chicago W hotel.

I was lost in thought about Windy City Wendy, when Cami’s response grounded my attention in more recent events. “Seems as though we’re not the only ones who wanted to chat with Ian and have a drink. He figured it would be better if it was a more accommodating set up.”

“What the fuck does that mean,” I wondered, and Cami took to my vernacular.

“It means your dockers and sport coat are fine, but you’re going to have to chew with your mouth closed. Now unless you’re trying to finish that episode of Law & Order: Kalamazoo, then lets go.”

“It’s Duluth, if you must know. CSI is Kalamazoo.”

“Whatever,” Cami scoffed. “It’s just different C-listers solving the same crimes.” I turned to grab my jacket from the bed and caught a glance at a semi-cute brunette and an older bearded man crouching over a bloodstain as police officers cordoned off the area on TV, which I shut off defiantly. America doesn’t want to stretch too hard watching television. They want 13 versions of the same show because it’s comfortable and comforting and easy to follow the format from one to the next. It’s ice cream; you want the urban setting, there’s your chocolate chip. Tropical locale is strawberry. Mint is for the Midwest. Different flavors but the same damn thing. And God bless that predilection for familiarity. Because Another Fifteen Minutes is more of the same flavor, just spiced up so it doesn’t look like leftovers. And sometimes leftovers just need to be put on a new plate to keep them looking and tasting fresh.

---

I had expected us to take a taxi, but there was a Town Car waiting for us in our lobby. I don’t know if it was because Cami was on this trip or that Jeff and Laura were softening the nepotism with comforts, but between the hotel and the car, doing the segment for and with Ian was not such a bad thing. Fran and I had to do some shit beats, humping wherever that fickle finger of Nielsen-rated fate pointed, but travel, especially with a decent bed and smooth transportation make everywhere more charming, if not tolerable.

Cami looked over at me in the car as I peered out the window watching the meek skyline of downtown Milwaukee draw nearer. “What are you sulking about?”

I looked at my reflection in the window. I didn’t feel like I was sulking. Thinking, yes – but not sulking.

“I guess I was just thinking of Elsa’s. Bacon-wrapped water chestnuts. Buffalo wings. Artery-clogging burgers that when they ask if you want American, Swiss, Cheddar, or Colby, they follow up with ‘or all four’.” I figured Cami understood what I was talking about given her old job. She’d probably talk loose meat sandwiches from the Quad Cities area and then back it up with some Kopp’s frozen custard, just to show you she knew her shit.

“You’ll be fine you big baby. You’d probably have a massive coronary if you ate that too. If it wasn’t for bulimia, I’d be twice your size with all the places I’ve been to with RFN.” I think she was kidding about that.

I patted my belly, which wasn’t too bloated in part to the afternoon crap I made with general frequency, and further slimmed by the little we’d eaten all day. “I can handle that. You can try my shoes for a while and I’ll squeeze into yours. Ninth Ward jambalaya has got to be more pleasing than a middle school principal who has the largest collection of Star Wars figures in North America.”

She felt challenged, and flipped a lock of her bangs away that wasn’t captive of the loose bun she was wearing. “Sweetie,” Cami smiled, “you’d be dead before you even hit the county fair circuit.” We locked eyes in semi-friendly rivalry over who’s pseudo-journalistic career was king of the hill. “And besides, there’s only so many cookbooks you can write before you have to move on.”

“So the newsmagazine format is better? It’s just like network segs, but you get your own title card and the drops are 15 seconds between programs instead of pre-commercial dialogue leads read by an anchor.”

“C’mon, Sheldon – aren’t you looking to move up the basic cable ladder? Get a spot on CNN or Fox or try to cross into national network?”

“I’ve been through that, and it’s a fool’s game. Come and take a look at my Emmy. It’s right next to the magazine rack in my bathroom. Swear.”

Cami shook her head. “Whatever works for you. But between Southern Comforts or Antique Alley or even Another Fifteen Minutes, we’re just curiosities. Specialty acts when people are flipping between re-runs of House or reality television. It’s a good spot, but this isn’t the majors.”

“Since when is a national channel a major?”

“Talk to your girl Sadie about the rates…we’re not a top tier marketing op. We do infomercials outside of peak hours.”

“So does CNN and a whole bunch of other real national nets,” I corrected her.”

“Don’t get me wrong – your gig is good, but for somebody like me, it would be a temporary stop.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. What I thought would have been at least a month or two before they started fucking with me and the show came much sooner, but maybe she wasn’t really going to be a co-host. Or not much more than for a few episodes. And who's to say it wouldn’t be a long vetting process of girls from around the cable programming sphere? I don’t want to play babysitter or tour guide while I travel around, but the longer things stay the same, well, I’m okay with it staying the same. But I wasn’t going to let her off the hook so easy.

“Sounds like a good plan. You can be the next Chuck Henry.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she spat. Nobody liked Chuck, even when he was doing his fluffy Eye On L.A. back in the 80s. He was the gold standard for all of us on-airs of somebody who miraculously ended up with a career without providing the merit to build it upon. Any time you did something stupid or ended up ruining a story through nothing your own sheer incompetence, we’ll all laugh and say they “Chuck Henry’d it”. Plus he was a Mormon, and they’re just fucking aliens.

“No, really. You could get yourself a nice evening anchor desk. Only in entertainment can you fail upwards.”

“Failure is being stuck in one place, without options. And don’t forget it is entertainment. The news is just another show with sex and violence. Career longevity doesn’t mean how long you stay still. It’s how you take what you’ve got and make it last, and spread it out.” She patted my belly. “If you don’t stay lean and hungry in this climate, you’re libel to get…”

Cami never finished her sentence. The car eased to a stop, which may have lead to her trail off. But then again, she could have been about to say something more ominous, or worse true. I didn’t even want to fill in that blank and spare it a thought.

---

The Wisconsin Club is one of the oldest private social clubs in the state, if not the region. Aside from being the titular family for which the airport was eventually named, the Wisconsin Mitchells are well known locally as both upper class scions and government officials. When Alexander Mitchell, who was considered the wealthiest son of a bitch of his generation, died in 1887 he left behind a lavish mansion that was appropriated by a group of businessmen looking for a new home for what was at the time called The Deutscher Club. While retaining the handcrafted woodwork and grand architecture of the original design, the Wisconsin Club has become a premier facility for hosting events, meetings, and dining with the community. I could tell you more, but I didn’t feel like reading more of the plaques that shared the establishment’s history along with a photographic narrative.

Cami and I were escorted past the grand dining room, where families were done up in their Sunday best, even though it wasn’t. White jackets moved across the vast sea of white tablecloths and white faces, but I didn’t linger too long at the sight, as going up two flights stairs put Ms. Theroux’s ass right at eye level. Wow. We arrived in the MacArthur Room where there must have been 150 people drinking cocktails and sampling finger sized delicacies.

“I guess Ian really opened up that invitation,” I quipped. Cami paid little attention to my whining and made a beeline to the nearest server who was carrying a silver tray of long stemmed champagne glasses, of which she grabbed two. She took a sip and savored the light, crisp sparkle of bubbles and slowly made her way back to where I stood, surveying the room.

“Try to have a good time without embarrassing yourself. Or me.” She smiled and took a gulp of champagne that would make a frat boy jealous, knocking down the rest of the contents as fast as it poured out. She jammed the empty flute in my hand and set off into the heart of the crowd. Before she vanished I saw her reach her hand up and wave, verifying Ian was somewhere in the tangle of ties and heels before me.

I took my time looking for all the exits in the room, so that no matter where I ended up, I could flee without much effort. I even took note of the windows, just in case I had to – or wanted to – jump out one. I did alright making conversation with strangers though I didn’t care too, and eventually my patience would wear thin and I’d say something either they or I would regret, and by that point if I’d made enough of a mess, there was a good chance the villagers would have their pitchforks and torches leveled at me. I had expected drinks, and fortunately there were a few bars set up around the room, so I liberated a healthy tumbler of gin with a pinch of lime and tonic.

Making my way through to the far end of the room, where Ian was holding court, got slowed by criss-crossing servers and their plates of hamachi in citrus ponzu, chorizo rigatoni, morel mushroom fava bean crostinis, red curry coconut mussels, goat cheese stuffed squash blossoms, fried soft shell crab with celery-sake, green pepper crusted tuna belly, olive oil poached scallops, Kobe steak tartar, shot glasses of pheasant soup, and foie gras on dark chocolate spears. I’ll admit that I doubled back and got a second gin before actually getting to Ian.

“Good of you to come, Sheldon,” he greeted me, breaking out of the conversation he was having with a circle of attentive listeners. Some were adorned with silly facial hair from the day’s event, but I wasn’t sure the women with them were really with them. At the mention of my name, Cami appeared and made herself part of the group.

“Quite the little soiree, my friend!” I patted him jovially on the back, and then announced, “If you folks don’t mind, I’d like to borrow our gracious host for the briefest of moments, and I promise that I’ll have him back in this very spot in the time it takes for me to top this cocktail off and get him another.” The face-hairs seemed to recognize me from the earlier filming and interview and figured there was some business to discuss. The female scenery didn’t seem to mind either, but Cami looked as though she was about to protest. “Just right back,” I said smiling as I turned to look at her. Your dress may get you attention, but I have better connections.

I started walking Ian towards the other end of the room when he confided apologetically, “Hey, I’m sorry that this wasn’t intimate like we’d discussed. If you stick around a few more days I promise I’ll take you into the bowels of this town and give you an authentic experience.”

“Look, you’re the man here and you’re going to be in demand. It’s tough being popular. Besides, it’s another favor I can say I did for your wife and her husband.” He was put at ease seeing I wasn’t upset, and laughed. It was a little forced, but that was Ian’s shtick. “Any chance she’s getting divorced? Because I’ve been keeping myself single, just in case, for that very reason.”

“No such luck there. They’ve both got too much money, so it’s not like they’ve got anything to gain from a divorce. They must really be in love.”

“I guess,” I said cheerfully enough to mask my disappointment. “You did quite a job throwing this together on short notice.”

“You’d be amazed what you can get done with the right phone numbers.”

“You mean credit card numbers.”

“Haha, yeah,” Ian admitted shrugging. “I guess anybody who says money can’t buy you happiness just doesn’t have enough of it. But this is all really for a good cause, and between this little meet-and-greet and the coverage both locally and on your program, I hope there’ll be some bigger, corporate sponsors getting on board.”

“So that’s who else is here…I picked out the Beard Boys and Mustache Club, but couldn’t place the other faces. Or the ladies for that matter.”

“Just because this is Milwaukee doesn’t been there aren’t quality local gals. It’s not just New York and LA that have the best action…there’s something to be said for a nice Midwestern gal. There’s definitely a bunch here that would kick the fake tits and dyed mops right off those other gals with their accomplishments. Introduce yourself around and see if you can’t find an entrepreneur or local heroine, and I dare you to keep up with them.” Ian’s hand was on my shoulder and he gave it a squeeze. “Hi, how are you,” he grinned at two Asian women who were walking past and looking, no, gazing at him. “”Really, Sheldon…if you’re staying in town let me know and we’ll do a round or two at the club and have a proper evening out.” He started off back towards his group, throwing an arm around each of the women, wooing them, “So ladies, my name’s Ian. Welcome to my little get together…”

I watched him melt back into the body of the party, and I stared back into the nearly empty drink I was holding. I put it on the bar and turned to the bartender, who if had to guess was roughly my age, and less than happy to be on the working side of the counter. “Some guys have all the luck,” I told him, nodding at Ian.

The bartender just looked at me. “What’ll it be Rod Stewart?”

“Gin and tonic.” You prick.

That miserable bastard poured with a heavy hand, thankfully. I took my companion and escorted it around the room, where I found different displays with photos and information about the charity. Soon, I’d exhausted all the visual aids and my liquid friend was down to cubes, so we parted ways…I may have accidentally given that glass to a guest and not a server. Serves him right for wearing a white coat. Dumb fuck. You never wear a vest in a record store, and you don’t go to an event in a white coat, or people are going to thing you work there. I was feeling alright and pushed my way into some of the conversations that were scattered around the room.

“Hi, I’m Sheldon Reiss,” I introduced myself to the group that was with the gentleman sporting a Prussian military officer’s beard. He was an accountant from Michigan. There was a table full of women sitting and chatting when I took the last remaining seat. “Hello ladies, I’m Shelly Wilson. And what brings all of you here?” The character with the El Guapo mustache and his companion, Frontier Beard, did not approve of me trying to converse with them. I extended my hand to them, which had no takers. “I’m Sheldon. Sheldon Ackerman.” I guess they were biased against those of us with naked faces. I must have spent a good twenty minutes wandering from group to group making up names. And where I lingered long enough I’d even given myself a few made up occupations. But the last folks I chatted with caught me off guard.

“Gary Wells,” said the lean, average looking man, “and my wife Eliza.”

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Wells, have you had the pleasure of talking with our host and master of ceremonies? I know here’s around here somewhere…” I whipped my head around looking for Ian. “You’ve gotta meet him. If only just to see his starter mustache.” I staggered a half step, but didn’t let a drop of my drink get out of its glass. That’s balance, friends.

Dave braced me with his hand. “Whoa there pal,” he said chuckling. “Take a load off.” He started to pull a chair out from an adjacent table, but I’d located my balance. It was right there in the center, just above where the gin was.

“NO NO no, I’m good,” I feebly tried to assure him.

“Listen,” Gary said, “why don’t you take this with a little water. Give it a few minutes and you’ll feel better.” He pulled a small packet out of his pocket and put it in my hand.

“Oh, it’s really great,” added Eliza, in her Minnesotan accent. “I take two before I go to sleep after having a glass of rosé, and I wake up feeling great”

I opened my hand and the pills were in a white square packet, with a glorious E logo on there. “Wazzthis,” I said clenching my fingers around the packet.

“Rejuvenator Pro Protein Complex.”

“No. What. Is. It?”

“Well, it’s…”, he paused, nervous.

“Go on. Say it.”

“It’s…”

“Say it,” I said though gritted teeth.

“It’s… Ephimria?”

“Yeeeesssss,” I grinned devilishly. His wife was getting timid and he was starting to back off.

“I, ah…we, we are distributors here. In four states,” Gary said sheepishly. “You can, uh…you can keep that. We have samples. We…it’s no problem.”

“Noooo…no problem Gary. Thank you!”

Eliza added, “We’re here for the company…you know. They are going to be donating some money, and they, they though it would be a good idea if a bunch of the upper managers saw what philanthropy the company was, um, supporting.”

“Keep up the support,” I bellowed. They were moving away but they heard me. A lot of people heard me.

---

I don’t know what time it was, but it was late when there was a knock at my door. I knew this because they’d closed the bar in the lobby and room service would no longer deliver. It was late enough for Jeff to be asleep and have the ringer turned off on his phone. But I still left a message. I don’t remember what it was, but I think I was pissed off about Ephimria. I may have said something about being sold down the river. I don’t remember. It was late enough that anything worth watching on television was finished and it was more of a flickering lamp for the room than entertainment. It was late enough that I was starting to regret the side order of onion rings, but not the chicken club sandwich. Definitely not the chicken club sandwich. It was late enough that I wasn’t sure if staying up was better than going to sleep, and riding it out until my flight so I could pass out the whole way back. There was a knock at my door, right?

Standing shorter than I’d remembered was Cami, her locks no longer neatly up for the evening’s drinks.

“Ms. Theroux…you are…shorter.” She was not wearing her heels. I can certify this because they were in her hand. And she swung them at me, straps balled in her hand like a Nine West warrior princess.

“Dumb idiot,” she said, as I blocked her attack. The plastic stem of the heel clipped my fingers, which I’m glad I didn’t feel. “After your little scene, there was a buzz going around. It’s a good thing nobody pieced together who you were or the whole thing would have turned real ugly, real quick.”

“Why are you so angry? It was nothing…”


“You’re really intent on ruffling as many feathers as you can because you’re too stupid to read the writing on the wall.”

“Okay, enough with the stupid,” I raised my voice.

“”God, you’re a drunk mess,” Cami said with a hint of pity.

“Me? Look at you?” Cami was swaying there, and if she wasn’t starting to spin, then it may have been the hallway. Or me.

“Sleep it off and get your shit together, okay. I’m going to make sure that whatever Ian may or may not have heard about your little freak out isn’t made into anything. I’ll let you know in a couple of days if it’s cool.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m staying here for a few more days…”

“Look, I’ll talk to Ian. We go back, so it’s not a problem.”

“It’s covered, Shel – I’ll handle him. Just…don’t fuck up anymore.” She seemed sad saying it. I wanted to reach out for her and give her a hug or something, because nothing comforting or sensible was going to come out of my mouth. I heard a door open and a man’s voice call out Cami’s name.

“Who is that,” I asked confused.

“I told you, it’s covered. Go to sleep.”

She took heavy, plodding steps away and I stood there for a good minute after she’d gone back to her room.

Years ago, there was a woman who lived in the building across from mine. She was something Middle Eastern. This I could tell from the conversations she had on the phone. They were not just loud, but much of the time in one of those horrible sounding languages. It could have been Hebrew or Farsi or whatever they speak over there, but it was one of those guttural, nasty sounding languages. She would talk on the phone, and for some reason needed to talk her normal, extra loud way directly out her window towards my place. She was an older woman, but I never got a good look at her since she kept her blinds drawn at just enough of an angle to keep me from seeing in. And I didn’t want her to see me staring in at her either.

So one day she’s making all these calls, in English, for my benefit I guess, and I’m trying to drown her out with music or a program, but she’s not going to stop until the whole damn phonebook gets called I hear most of it. Apparently, she was engaged, and “not to that man, but another man” – yes, she was letting all her friends and family know that some unknown guy, and certainly not the one they thought, was going to be her fiancée. They must have been proud. The next day, her lucky suitor paid her a visit in the afternoon. And while she didn’t make another round of calls, she still made it a point to be nice and loud in my direction. It was all springs and moans and just a horrible experience.

I’m lying in bed, and I’m pretty certain that I’m going to pass out, but now the memory of that loud bitch is back in my head. I hope I’m going to be unconscious soon, because even if I get that horrible piercing shriek out of my mind, I’m afraid that a new, even more terrible thought will implant itself, and then I’ll never be able to look at Cami Theroux again without being scarred and miserable. There’s muffed conversation and I hear something undistinguishable, which could be a drawer opening or a bed sheet folding back or maybe it’s something from outside and I don’t know what direction it’s really coming from because I’m on my back and it’s dark and I’m drunk, so any moment now I should be out and then I won’t have to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Season 2 Chapter 5

Bite-size cubes of translucent green gems jiggled before my eyes bringing back memories from two segments of my personal history. As a child it was one of the most entertaining foods to consume and throw about the dining room. I can clearly remember my mother reprimanding me multiple times for letting the stuff dangle from my lips before vacuuming it up into my mouth. Why I was allowed to eat so much of the stuff I’m still not sure.

For all her faults, which she kept hidden from those outside her nuclear family, my mother was obsessed with manners. A shirt not tucked in, a hair out of place, a silly face, an ill-timed bout of rectal flatulence—these things she could not abide. Any misstep on the part of her children she took as an assault on her own image. It always hit me funny which traits she decided to rebel against. Grandpa was an uncouth Bible-beating drunk. Almost paradoxically, Mamma was able to give up on church and practice flawless etiquette. Alcohol on the other hand was the immortal dog gnawing on her leg that just wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t give ten shits if people thought of her as a heretic. She would be horrified though if folks knew she couldn’t hold her liquor. I lost count how many times I had to tell teachers, friends, other parents, etc., “She has a touch of the flu” or “You know how she gets those migraines.”

Jell-O made a bit of a comeback for me in college. Instead of water, we used vodka. It was the perfect gateway snack for innocent freshmen lovelies. They would suck them down with youthful enthusiasm. Jiggles and giggles. Minutes later they would experience the inhibition lowering properties. Hours later we either got laid, or we scrubbed harlequin puddles out of the carpeting.

“Hey, Fran, are you going to eat this?”

“Go ahead. I’m not a fan of the jiggly stuff. Mel thinks every meal needs to be like hospital food, since hospitals should know what people need to eat. I mean I got Jell-O with practically ever meal. I think Mel believes it must have some mystical healing power. I’m a meat and potatoes guy.”

I couldn’t resist slurping the gelatin through my teeth. I swished it back and forth until it was almost back to liquid form.

“That’s right, Fran. The redder and fatter the meat, the better. Now that your arteries have been cleared of debris, it’s time to build up more.”

“With all the drugs I’ll have to take, I won’t have to give up the good stuff.”

“You’re a genius, Fran. You’ll spend half your salary on drugs, so you won’t have to pass on the sixteen ounce prime rib and heavily buttered mashed potatoes. Way to stick it to the man, hombre.”

“CNC has great insurance. I’m covered.”

“…Had great insurance. After this, I imagine, being part of the group, my premium will go up. And I’m a heavy drinker. No risk here. I’m going to live forever. We really should be talking about the prescription medication program. It’s all right at best. I got my guy in Mexico though that could hook you up.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be cheering me up?”

“Oh, right. You can have a glass or two of red wine a night. How’s that?”

“That’ll do.”

“And you get a colon exam free of charge.”

“How’d you know about that? Out of left field they’re strapping me down and sticking fingers up my ass.”

“You can never be too cautious, Fran. The doctors are just playing it safe. I hear it’s pretty standard procedure these days.”

“My ass. Literally, my ass.”

“Clear the coronary arteries. Might as well clear the large intestine. Your ass has never been cleaner, my friend. It could have been worse. They could have stuffed tangeremons up there.”

I smiled. Fran laughed, but only at the reference to tangeremons. His mind would not be able to fathom me altering his chart. I refused to spell it out for him. Fran would have to get rid of his training wheels eventually.

“You can’t make me laugh like that, Shel, with my chest all tore up.”

“It’s impossible for me to guess how you’ll react to what words come out of my mouth. You’ll get no apology.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Right. So when are you coming back to work?”

“Not too sure on that one. I’m on extended medical leave. I could opt for early retirement, but I’d hate to miss out on all the fun.”

“It’s getting less fun every day now that we’re Ephimria’s bitches. Your best bet for now is to spend some Q.T. with Mel and wait for this mess to blow over.”

“Convince her to stop making Jell-O, and you got a deal.”

“Done.”

As Mel showed me out, I mentioned to her how Jell-O to Fran is like spinach to Popeye. Hey, if I’m going to be stopping by for regular visits, why not set myself up with a little treat. You won’t find any powdered gelatin dust in my pantry.

---

Milwaukee to me was like that friend of yours who partied his brains out back in the day. He was always number one in intoxication, and everyone thought he would die young like many other great partiers of our generation. You loved him for it, and his drunken wisdom kept your stomach muscles in shape from laughing so much. Then he cleaned himself up. He got married, bought a condo, squirted out a couple kids. You were happy for him, but he just wasn’t the engaging lovable personality like he had been back in the day. He would disavow his past and would in fact lash out at others who displayed his old characteristics. This isn’t really a bad thing. It’s just Milwaukee.

I thought the flight from LAX into Mitchell was going to give me a great opportunity to become acquainted with my new shadow and ultimately tear her down a notch or two, but mine was already booked full, so she was on another plane. I did meet Cami Theroux briefly back at the CNC headquarters. I had pretty much told Jeff to fuck off and stop messing with my show. He gave me a speech about how every key player in the organization needed a succession plan. He was doing me a favor by setting me up with top talent. In my narrow view of the world, Another Fifteen Minutes and me are inseparable. You can’t have one without the other. The way everyone else sees it, I came up with a spectacular way to entertain people, yes, but I am going to die someday. Someone else will need to pick up the pieces and make sure my brilliant idea continues to attract audiences. If anyone should be picking a successor, it should be me. When someone else picks your successor for you, he’s not worried about you dying. He’s worried about what happens if and when he fires you or you walk out. Jeff suggested I at least meet her face to face, and I have to say, she definitely has a face for television. I’ll give her that. But a face for Another Fifteen? She could never be cast as my twin sister. Jeff and Cami thought that was a good thing.

I sat in one of those ubiquitous coffee places sipping an Americano waiting for the lovely Cami to arrive. She would be easy to spot with her strawberry blonde waves. She’ll have no trouble finding me. Sometimes I almost forget that there are millions of people out there who recognize my face. I’m not doing much to put myself in the tabloids, which helps, but Another Fifteen has a fairly devoted following, and any one of those viewers can become a potential awkward encounter.

“Excuse me. Are you the guy from Another Fifteen Minutes?” came the words from spunky young girl with retro kitsch spectacles.

“That depends. Are you the girl from Ipanema?”

“Awesome. Can I get a picture with you to show my boyfriend? He’ll freak. We fucking love your show.”

“Now that everyone has a camera in his or her pocket, you all want photographs. What happened to good old-fashioned autographs?”

“Oh yeah, totally.”

She grabbed a napkin and borrowed a pen from one of the baristas.

“Can I still get the picture?”

“Sure. Whom shall I make this out to?”

“Owen and Claire with an ‘E’.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do two separate autographs? What if you two break up? Who gets the autograph?”

She gave me a look that said, ‘Dude, I just want the picture. The autograph was your idea anyway.’

“If we break up, I guess we’ll just have to rip it in half.”

“Good answer.”

“You know, my boyfriend is in a band. Maybe you could do a show about his band.”

“Do they have quite a reputation around here?”

“They just started playing together last year. They’ve done a few shows already.”

“Well, how about we let them become semi-famous rock stars first for, oh, about fifteen minutes. Then we’ll wait a long while. And then I’ll come back and talk to them. That’s sort of how the show works.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t hurt to ask, right?”

“They’re just words.”

She got her picture with me along with the autograph I forced on her, and she was as pleased as Punch. She didn’t feel the need to settle down and try to become my good buddy.

I have to give our viewers credit—for the most part, they’re decent folk. About ninety percent of the time, I only have to put up with that overly long stare. I can catch out of the corner of my eye sometimes when someone is gawking. It’s harmless, and if you’re going to do anything annoying, it’s what I prefer. Of course I also get the people that tell me how much they love the show like little Claire just did. As long as they don’t stick with me for too long, they’re tolerable. On very rare occasions, I find out I’m someone’s favorite person in the whole wide world. It’s a delicate art to extricate myself from the hooks of these obsessive freaks. “Oh my! There he is. Now is my chance to ingratiate myself. I can practically hear the wedding bells.” This sums up their thought process nicely. A newer trend I’m seeing involves people that are out to make celebrities look foolish in some way. Like I was telling Claire, everyone carries a camera now—enough to cover all the celebrities deserving scorn. For all I know, as Claire was snapping her photo with me, she could have unzipped her sweater to reveal a t-shirt reading, “I’m with stupid” with an arrow pointing at me. I’m glad I’m not a “celebrity”. I’m content to be very far from John Lennon territory.

A few minutes a later, a woman with strawberry blonde hair (she straightened it today) and a cyborg earpiece stood in front of me talking. She wasn’t talking to me, but she was talking. At least she was desperately trying to wrap up the conversation. After her farewell response, she finally tapped the button on her earpiece to end the call. Now I felt special.

“My mother. I always have to check in with her after I land.”

How sweet.

“Me too. I like to gloat that I’m still here. She’s waiting to inherit my riches.”

“It’s ridiculous. Plane crashes are so rare.”

“But so much more spectacular.”

“You’re odd, Sheldon.”

“I can tell you haven’t had much exposure to so-called odd folk. I’m a little surprised. I’m going to ask you to forget about home-cookin’ for a minute and, as my shadow, open your mind to the odd and treat it as it is normal because the odd is in fact normal. It is the world in which Another Fifteen Minutes dwells.”

“Do you ever stop trying to be more clever than everyone else?”

“Hey, we have to be dating for at least three weeks before you can ask that question.”

“Really?”

“Okay. I’ll keep it dull for you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes when I talk to my mom, I get so… I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“Cami, you were playing a pretty good hand there. I was about to fold.”

“Don’t fold. Stay in it. Maybe my mood will change. If it starts to get irritating, I’ll let you know.”

Well, she wasn’t vapidly giggling. That was a plus. Me and my shadow might get along after all. Or we may end up flying back on separate planes.

---

Laura’s little brother, the son of a banker, had a nice little racket going. Free to do as he liked on top of the bedrock of his trust fund, Ian chose to devote his life to charitable causes. No cause was too small for Ian to get behind and organize as long his profile was high enough to be noticed. Where his sister’s humanitarian efforts were most likely altruistic, Ian’s motivation was carnal in nature. It was about impressing the ladies. Impressing them with money was too easy. He wanted to win their hearts and minds. To attract the best, you have to try a little harder. As soon as he met Cami, I began watching his transparent game unfold. To Cami’s credit, she could see through it as well. To her fault, she thought it was cute. I shouldn’t care, but she is my shadow, and my shadow should be stitched to my feet.

“Ian, seven years ago, you decided to let your beard grow—a highly selfish act. But you found a way to turn that selfish act into an act of giving by encouraging others to sponsor every inch of every beard grown in the Milwaukee area to support testicular cancer research. Most guys would just grow the beard as way to stand up and fight against a clean-shaven society. Why all the extra hullabaloo?”

“Testicular cancer strikes thousands of men each year. That’s what we decided to focus on in the first year. With each year’s beard-a-thon, we’ve focused on a different form of cancer. This year we’re going after thyroid cancer. Growing out your beard is a lot of fun. The beard-a-thon is great excuse for guys to let their faces go without getting into too much trouble from their wives and girlfriends.”

“Cancer treatment involves chemotherapy and radiation often resulting in hair loss. Aren’t you in a way rubbing your thick beards in the faces of these hairless cancer victims?”

“Ummm. We think of the beards as more an aspiration of health—something to inspire cancer patients and survivors.”

“I see this year, you are not sporting a full beard. Can you explain the meaning of this? Do you not want to save lives?”

“This year we’ve created a new mustache division. The mustaches are actually worth more points this year. We’ve convinced a lot bearded fellows out there to expose their chins for charity.”

“So you just change the rules willy-nilly.”

“We like to keep it fresh and interesting.”

Cami then handed me my poster board full of pictures of mustachioed gentlemen containing the likes of Sam Elliott, Burt Reynolds, Tom Selleck, Kaiser Wilhelm, Freddy Mercury, Rip Taylor, etc.

“Ian, can you point to me which of these mustaches most captures what you are going for with your own mustache?”

Ian’s mustache was actually quite unimpressive and didn’t come close to matching any of the pictures on the board.

“Probably that one.” He pointed to Tom Selleck. I gave him a puzzled look.

“Magnum P.I. Good choice. However, I think you’re leaning more towards this one.” I pointed to Freddy Mercury. Ian tensed up a little.

“Nah. Definitely this one.”

“Are you sure?”

Cami unexpectedly chimed in, “I don’t like where this is going.”

It took all my will power to contain my fury with the cameras rolling. I didn’t need some footage floating around the interweb of me flipping out on my shadow. I finished up the interview. We made arrangements to meet Ian later for drinks as I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to get some intel on Laura and maybe even Jeff. Then I let it all out.

“Don’t you ever fucking speak up like that in the middle of an interview. Do you understand?”

“You were implying that…”

“I don’t give a fuck about your opinion while the interview is happening. You need to shut the fuck up. If you want to talk about something, it happens before or after.”

“I can’t just sit there while you’re obviously hinting that to be homosexual is less desirable.”

“That’s not what I was doing. The choice was Ian’s. There was a correct answer. Rip Taylor’s or Wilhelm’s staches should have been his first choice. After he selected Magnum’s and I chose Freddy Mercury’s for him, he should have agreed with my choice. He chose incorrectly.”

“You set him up.”

“I set him up to succeed or fail. He failed.”

“It’s going to get cut. Or they’ll fix it in editing.”

“I am the editor.”

“It’s Jeff’s brother-in-law.”

She may have had a point, but then again, most people in America could probably care less how Ian responded. I was done with the conversation. Cami wasn’t though.

“Don’t think this is going to be one of those relationships where we start off hating each other, and the tension between us leads to incredible sex because it’s not going to happen. I’m a dyke. And don’t think I’m going to be your dyke friend who eventually falls for you and goes straight.”

My jaw hit the floor. I did not peg her as a lesbian. I was the proverbial deer in the headlights.

“Okay. I’ll turn down the charm a little.”

“I’m just fucking with you.”

“What?”

She began to laugh a little. It was a cute laugh, but slightly crazy.

“I had you. You really thought I was gay for a second.”

“Wow. You are a Martian. Touché. I'm actually cool with you either way.”

Season 2 Chapter 4

My mother calls it the Sunday Sadness.

When she was growing up in a dry county, you were shit outta booze and luck once a week. There are plenty of things to turn you off religion: the mindless allegiance, the subconscious placement of guilt, the ritual, the proselytizing – not to mention getting rapped on the knuckles or having your junk diddled. But Mamma couldn’t stand giving up her savior for another, so eventually she gave up the holy ghost and sought greener, wetter pastures. When I was older, I understood what she meant, and I found I had my own version of it.

Even though I worked whenever I wanted to, or had to, for the most part it was Monday to Friday gig, and the weekends were free to sleep off gin benders from Lakers games or dodge phone calls from my ex-wife. And because I knew I was going back to work on Mondays and that glorious, self-indulgent time was coming to an end; it always put a damper on my Sundays. I have the same problem when I’m on vacation. Once I’m past the halfway point and time is running down, it’s the same feeling. Reality starts to creep in, schedules reform and routines reappear. Sometimes, when I’d wake up in the morning, it would hit me and ruin the rest of the day. If I was distracted enough, I’d forget about the pressing issues there and it wouldn’t hit until maybe dinnertime, or if I was lucky nine or ten.

There’s a little picture frame I keep by my desk that I got as a gift from this very hip gal I dated way back when my waist and age were roughly the same number. It’s not a picture, although she was a gorgeous little number. I bet she still looks damn good now. Like Marisa Tomei-you’re-forty-plus-and-you’re-still-getting-naked-and-convincingly-playing-strippers good. It’s a piece of art, and while modern art to me is basically bullshit, this is a photo print of Jenny Holzer’s Bench # 16, which is just the following words:

SOME DAYS YOU WAKE AND
IMMEDIATELY START TO WORRY.
NOTHING IN PARTICULAR IS WRONG,
IT’S JUST THE SUSPICION THAT
FORCES ARE ALIGNING QUIETY
AND THERE WILL BE TROUBLE.

I love that because it’s perfectly that feeling. In fact, when things are not tinged with that underlying tension, it actually worries me. When you're so used to things being one way - even if they're not necessarily good, to have it be different is bad.

Anyway, It was going pretty well so far. This cholo gangbanger’s mattress at the bagel shop undercharged me for the coffee and toasted everythings with vegetable smear. Clearly she spent more time getting “PACO” tatted in majestic Old English letters on her neck than in the remedial math class at her continuation school. Then I got a glimpse down that hippie-whore Apuri’s loose poncho top, and even for popping out a pair of kids, her thin frame snapped back to pre-parental form and her tits looked pretty good. But those perky apples left my mind the minute Melissa called and said that Fran suffered an myocardial infarction. He was going to be at St. Gloria’s for another couple of days while they ran tests. Now I was going to have to shoot the Lone Ranger without Tonto. Spurred by the sad news about my cohort, it was full blown Sunday Sadness.

---

The office was buzzing with the news about Fran, which elevated the mood to slightly above suicide bombing witness. Rather than watch everybody mope about and stuff their fat fucking faces as they confronted their own mortality with the false comfort of doughnuts and sticky buns, I packed my shit up early and headed over to St. Gloria’s. Melissa was sitting in his room, and while she was clearly struggling with the situation, she smiled and was genuinely glad to see me there. I filed that image away for safe-keeping, since it was rare. What, you don’t think I’m acutely aware how fine that like is of being liked and tolerated? Melissa told me to spend a few minutes with Fran and went to the lobby kiosk for a bottle of water to give me some time alone with patient zero.

There were tubes and cords and wires all over him, and he looked like an oversized, pale Muppet getting cyber-tentacle raped. Not his finest hour. Fran’s eyes were closed and if I didn’t check the EKG monitor, would have questioned he was breathing. I sat beside the gurney bed and thought for a moment about how much the segments were going to suck without him on the other side of the camera.

“You stubborn bastard,” I said softly to him. “I would have given you the window seat.” For the first time in a long time I felt anxious about covering a segment. “Don’t spend too long in here. Me and the rest of the taxpayers would rather pull the plug and give the money to an illegal immigrant to have another child at County.” He didn’t open his eyes or move. “You let me know how your exposé on the American health care system goes. And then get your ass back to work. They’re counting these a vacation days.” Still no response, so we just shared the room in silence for a little while.

I put my hand on his shoulder as I got up and leaned in a little closer. I could smell ammonia, the faint hint of disinfectants, the stale fabric of sheets laundered daily for years, and the unwashed musk of a man. Fuck hospitals. They’re depressing as shit. “Hurry up, young man, so we can get back to business,” I said sincerely. I passed Melissa coming back up the stairs, and she looked at me surprised I was leaving so quickly. “Since he’s sleeping, I don’t want to bother him.”

“That’s odd…we were talking, and when I saw you coming down the hall and told him, he said he was excited you were here.”

I winced, but have to admit I was impressed. On my way out I ducked into the nurse’s station and saw his chart. What? There was no bowel exam scheduled for Fran? I guess they forgot to put that in the notes from their last shift. Yes, colorectal examination needed due to concerns of bowel obstruction. Patient prone to spastic jerking of the limbs and petite seizures, so please restrain and provide mouthguard.

Enjoy your tangeremons.

---

The flight put me in at La Guardia before the locals woke up, which made me happy that there’d be only the slightest of traffic getting out of there. Our travel coordinator told me that one of the local cable system affiliates was lending us a crew and driver given Fran’s new condition. In the baggage area I saw a kid holding the CNC logo on a paper, scanning the travelers herd through and past. Somewhere in upstate, there’s a field missing it’s scarecrow.

"Order some golf shoes," I whispered. "Otherwise, we'll never got out of this place alive..."

Another brilliant Hunter S. Thompson quote wasted on the young and stupid.

“Listen up, Shakespeare – do you know where were going,” I quizzed him? He nodded, so I followed his lead, and by the time he pulled the car out of the airport, I was laid out in the backseat. I came to in the parking lot a spit shot aware from the interstate, and the boy wonder was gone. I saw him inside the diner taking a token for the restroom, so I figured if we we’re taking a break I’d get a cup of coffee. The elderly lady behind the counter fixed me up as Kevin came out of the crapper. “Want some coffee, Kevin?”

“My name’s not Kevin,” he protested.

“Sure it is, Shakespeare. It’s Kevin.” Point to me.

Wisely knowing not to pursue it, we resumed our trek, which was barely five sips of coffee down the road. The Poughkeepsie neighborhood looked as though it barely changed from the first time television cameras captured Wes Kitney.

I asked Kevin, “How long until the crew arrives?” and he replied “they’re here”. Yet I saw him rummaging through the trunk. Kevin pulled out a boom pole and a small camera bag. “Oh don’t tell me,” I whined. Kevin smirked. Point for him.

“Okay, here’s how I like to do things. Lav me up and just keep the camera rolling. A lot of this is one-take stuff, but a little goes a long way as long as it doesn’t look like we’re all stuck in one spot. Signal me if you’re running out of battery or space, otherwise don’t turn it off. Cool?” He understood and put the wireless lavaliere on my coat pocket, and we went down the gravel drive way at the Kitney household. Before we got to the door to knock, it was already open. Apparently ol’ Wes really wasn’t using those rubbers, because standing before us was a nearly identical looking man, with only a slightly updated wardrobe and hairstyle from the one in the old footage.

Randall Kitney introduced himself, as I extended my hand and exchanged mine and Kevin’s name. Not that he wasn’t polite, but I was unhappy to be dealing with Son of Condomball, though he did have a fairly good story.

“Pop’s got neurosyphilis.” Apparently, somebody bought the illusion and lined up to be one of Wes’ conquests.

Junior led us around the house towards the freestanding barn-door style garage. Kevin did pretty well for being the president of the high school AV club, moving around us as we made our way, clearly trying to make it seem like 13 cameras were involved. He’d run around with the boom pole wrapped in one arm craning above him and the other hand operating the camera, and even with the battery pack and portable recording gear, Kevin was both graceful and silent. It’s nice when people actually listen to what you say rather than just be waiting to speak. Randall was telling me how ever since Wes got sick, he’s taken care of his father and kept the raincoat boulder a very minor local attraction.

He went to wheel his invalid father out for the program and I gave Kevin some ideas that were developing at the same time as the words formed on my lips. I like to narrate over the shots and cut to the Q+A for more impact, so without Fran knowing my style, there was only so much instinct I could expect Kevin to react upon. It’s a little something I felt gave the stories an extra dimension, with the direct reporter’s interaction as well as a narrator’s perspective. I’m not even bitter that the Datelines and 20/20s of the televised news magazine world adopted it for their programs…I like to think of that as my unsung heroism and contribution to this industry. Kevin was trained well, and he obediently nodded in understanding, agreeing with my directorial and pre-editing choices. I suspect he would have made further praise for my plans, but didn’t want to be kiss-assy, which is also okay. Nobody, least of all me, likes a suck up.

Wes Kitney rolled in like diseased royalty on his wheelchair chariot. As the son resembled a past copy of this man, the future version was not something he’d be looking forward to. Wes wore a leather headband but it was lost mostly in a torrent of stringy long white hair, which where it ended sprouted a bountiful beard. He wore a kaftan or wrap – I don’t really know (or care) what the actual name was, but it was like Gandalf appearing. The Lord of the Cockrings spoke:

“Have you come to come to see it? Are you ready to gaze upon its awesome majesty? Let it be a warning to thee!” He planted his feet and stood beckoning, like Moses, wide armed, waiting for divine light to shine on him. Wes was out of his fucking mind, and that makes the most interesting television. Randall pulled the doors open, and there it was – 10 glorious feet in diameter, made of dry, worn latex, lambskin, and polyurethane. The years had been equally unkind to the ball as they’d been to it’s creator. Had the roof not exposed it to sunlight and water, it would look more robust, and there wouldn’t be a small tangle of sticks forming a bird nest near the rear of the equator. But there is was, the eventual bane of Wes Kitney’s existence.

Wes pulled his garb off, and standing there now in only the shirt he wore underneath, started yelling at the sex monolith. I swear I almost got an erection as the viral video clip of it spread around the web. Then I saw the shirt. The E logo. The big fucking block letters. Ephimria. Son of a bitch.

Kevin was covering the ranting madman condemn promiscuity and I pulled Randall aside. I’m trying to look cheerful, but I’m kinda pissed. But with as much sweetness as I can sprinkle on it, I ask, “What’s with the old man and the powder?”

“My Dad has been a tier 3 manager for a while now. We don’t make that much from the gift shop, so most of our income comes from supplying our territory and adding new distributors,” Randall grinned. The look they get on their face when they talk about their organization and products is the expression I picture before they put on the track suits, drink their magic juice and launch off heaven’s catapult.

In a rec center or Elk’s Lodge somewhere, Mason Burnett is greasing the wheels of commerce, pushing his way up the Ephimria executive ladder by overseeing barnstorming tours across the countryside, and he looks at the travel schedule. For some reason, his eyes are drawn to the date in lower New York State. Weeks later he arrives and a partially-crippled father and son who are just starting with the introductory pack of handbooks and 2 weeks of supplements share their background and faith in the Ephimria program, which resonate with him. At a holiday dinner, he pitches the company to his father, who agrees to open his vast network of resources to promote the product. One day, Mason opens a portfolio of investment opportunities generated by their financial analysts, closes his eyes, and finds his finger has come down on a boutique channel, which he turns on and finds a charming program that revisits the odd and obscure news of days past. He decides that will be his Omaha Beach.

I’m certain this is how it went down.

We try and do a little more history since the first story, but each time Wes goes down memory lane to lookout point with the girl next door, he inevitably ends back at his adamant safe-sex stance, which I think is a positive message to put out there. I just wish he didn’t have to keep insisting “everybody wrap your prick” each time he tried to advance his point.

After, we shoot a short segment where Kevin pretends to be a tourist, and Randall woodenly reforms a sale in the storage shed that has been renovated of its shelves to house various useless shit. I don’t like to add things that aren’t natural or real, but any boost they can get off selling their crappy wares instead of that fairy powder and brainwashing pamphlets I’ll support. Kevin looks like an absolute idiot wearing a too tight powder blue tee shirt with a smiling condom running away from what looks like a ball of yarn but is supposed to be the dickbag orb, and spilling out from all ends is his red and brown flannel long sleeve. Even though its a goof as far as I’m concerned, Randall insists that Kevin take the souvenir, which pains him to have to wear as much as it delights me.

It’s a quiet drive afterwards on the way to Greencastle. Kevin is still wearing that awful shirt because I said so, and while he sulks, I’m engrossed in my own battle plans. They all end up like outtakes and derivations from the movie Nine To Five, but mine are less successful, and Mason Burnett is too sharp to be played like Dabney Coleman. Beyond that I keep getting stuck between 80’s Jane Fonda and Dolly Parton for who was hotter, so I reject any of those scenarios, except the ones with Fonda and Parton, which I plan on delving deeper into before I go to sleep. Kevin is nowhere to be found after I take a few minutes to settle into my motel room. The man behind the front desk has to think hard, but figures out who I’m talking about and tells me that I’m the only room booked, which is even more interesting to me when I realize I don’t have any way to contact Kevin. He knows the schedule for the interview, so I hope he’ll be back by then.

Guess that makes us even for the shirt.

---

It’s Thursday morning and I’m watching and rewatching the raw footage after it’s been dumped onto my computer back at the office, taking notes what ADR needs to go over the parts that look goods but are non essential. Fran is now going to be enjoying extended medical leave now that he’s been discharged, which leads me to believe that with the right amount of milking and finesse Fran can ride that wave of checks and compensation into the sunset of retirement. Good for him. Cutting through the usual scent of coffee and despair was Jasmine Noir by Bulgari, which let me know that Sadie was behind me, and that she was meeting with somebody important, because that was her preferred “power odor”. Yeah, I heard her telling that to some of the other office girls once.

“Go away.” That always started the conversation for me at a more controllable point.

“What are you doing,” Sadie pressed on by saying. As if it wasn’t obvious.

“Kidd Video actually did a decent enough job, but it wasn’t Fran. And who knows when it will be.” I kept watching the screen and jotting timecode down. I also liked having conversations when I didn’t want to have them engaged in the thing I was more interested in. “I just did what I felt was right, what was in my heart,” I say along with William Bryant Cumberton IV, who is in full Union battlefield regalia and on screen. I turn around to look at Sadie, and lip synch his words, “It’s my calling, and what I was meant to do. And that’s why it doesn’t feel like work.” She’s less impressed than I think she should be for memorizing his responses after going through it that many times, but mustered up a flash of her teeth just so she could dismiss it and get to what she wanted to say. But I wouldn’t let her have the floor that easily, and turned back to the video clips.

“The night prior, he took off and must have been helping the girls celebrate. Never thought there were too many straight fans, but I guess he’s one of them.”

Confused, though uncaring, Sadie politely asked “Who,” and I figured she meant who the gals, not who Kevin.

“The Lady Blue Devils. PIAA Class AAA state softball champs. And I thought Willie would be into them, even more than Kevin there, because they’ve both got the uniforms, the culture, organization. But you can‘t make generalizations, because in his anachronistic mind, only men played baseball back then, so he can barely appreciate the accomplishment. But I can. And for that, being the youngest practitioner or using the theme for, of all things, greeting cards, it just diminishes the rest to pointlessness.”

“Wow, Shel. You’ve not only advanced women’s lib but also put a dress up geek in his place. Please shower me with more of your keen insights into human nature.

“All I heard were the words ‘shower’ and ‘me’, so if there’s more you better repeat it.”

“I just came by to see when you’re going out for your next segments. I don’t need the play by play of your trip.”

“Are you telling me this guy isn’t interesting?” I paused the frame where Lieutenant Cumberton stood with his boot on a pile of artillery, looking attentively through the binoculars of his day. “I see a woman in the future, who does not find my moustache and tasseled gloves sexy. At least there’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ amongst the Yankees!”

“Just let me know when that’s going to be…I’m just getting involved as a favor.” What was she talking about?

“What are you talking about?”

“Cami Theroux, Regional Food Network?” Okay. So what?

“So what?”

“Gonna be your shadow the next time you go out.”

I turned back around again. “And why the hell would that be?”

Sadie shook her head. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, cuz you’re not so bright,” and blew a kiss off her hand to me as she headed down the hall. Shit. Shitty fucking shit shit. They’re bringing in a goddamn co-host. Or worse. I stuck my head out into the hall. “Five to ten,” I yelled at her. “It was five to ten…you said it yourself.” So much for their wait-and-see attitude before turning everything upside down on me.

I was getting odd looks from the rabble, so I turned to the neared one, a middle aged woman who handled something with clearances. “Statutory rape,” I said deadpan. “You’d think a young man would look forward to an experienced older lady, but it can be scary. She can be scary. The little guy never had a chance. She deserves the full ten.”

Season 2 Chapter 3

What I should have been doing was depositing a large brown log into the toilet. Instead I was transfixed and horrified by what was happening in the stall next to mine. Yes, I take my craps at work and in public restrooms more than I do at home. Why foul up my own bathroom and put undue stress on my plumbing. The toilets at work were designed to take it and take it. I had an ex-girlfriend who eschewed defecating at her workplace. She would just hold it until she was home. She was afraid of offending someone else’s olfactory system. She was also afraid of being offended. I knew we had crossed a major threshold when she dookied at my place for the first time. Even then, she was still overly apologetic.

For the past year and half, while crapping in the work lavatory, I had been noticing someone was leaving behind tiny pills on the ground in one of the stalls. These were tiny toilet paper pills—some lightly coated with fecal matter. It baffled me. What was this person doing to himself? I was about to find out.

It was a particularly busy day in the men’s room. I had neighbors to my right and left. Fortunately no one had eaten anything recently or contracted some infection to really damage the immediate atmosphere. We were all getting the job done cleanly and efficiently, mobile device buttons clicking and tapping away. The occupant to my left had finished. He stood up, and then he began to unroll toilet paper at an alarming rate. I’m not the environmentalist Cody and Apuri would like me to be, but I try not to take more tree-derived goods than I need. This guy was creating a veritable mitten of toilet paper. Maybe he was bleeding profusely and was going to use the T.P. mitten to apply some direct pressure. I was readying myself to make the 911 call. But then it all became clear; the mystery was solved. This guy, using his newly fashioned T.P. mitten, just started scrubbing the holy fuck out of his asshole. I thought the mitten was going to catch on fire. It sounded like a choo-choo train to hell. The tiny pills of shit-encrusted toilet paper were dropping to the floor like sparks. Then he created another T.P. mitten, and repeated the process.

“The toilet paper ain’t going to hold up to that level of abuse. You want to borrow my ass hanky?”

There was silence from my neighbor to the left and stifled laughter from my neighbor to the right. Mr. Mittens left the stall, walked right past the sink, and left the restroom. He didn’t wash his hands. I will never forget those white Nikes and denim cuffs to my left. I imagine Mr. Mittens trashed those Nikes for fear I might match the shoes to the face.

---

After one of the more interesting bowel movements in my career, I made my way to Karen’s cubicle. Karen was Jeff’s vice president of administration. Don’t try to call her a secretary. She was Jeff’s gatekeeper.

“How open is his door today, Karen?”

“Well, howdy, Shel. Aren’t you a glutton for punishment.”

“Not as much as you. You have to deal with him non-stop. I only get the random phone call at two in the morning.”

“He’s booked solid for the rest of the day.”

“You can squeeze me in somewhere.”

“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

“Will that change anything?”

“No.”

“You know in the movies and TV, how the ‘administrative assistant’ always says the boss is busy even though he’s not, and then the guy trying to see the boss just barges in…”

“Yeah, his door is locked. Conference call with Australia right now. I can put you on the calendar for… let me see… the week after next… Friday morning.”

“But it’s me—Sheldon.”

“Well, I’m here. You can talk to me.”

“Karen, if you could do something about it, I would.”

“Try me.”

“Ephimria.”

“Oh yeah, you need talk to Jeff.”

“I’m not worried. He’ll probably call me at five A.M. on Sunday anyway. Hey, I’m still good for the Staples box tonight, right?”

“Yes, it doesn’t look like Jeff has bumped you, so enjoy the game.”

“You going?”

“It’s Friday night, Shel. I have better things to do.”

“Babysitting Jeff is better than a Lakers game?”

“Ha ha. He’s giving me the night off. Ally is on call in case he needs anything.”

“Much deserved. Enjoy.”

I hate most people, but Karen was very low on my hate list, which I suppose makes her one of my favorite people at the office relatively speaking. I don’t know if it’s the way she looks or the way she talks. All I know is that if I had the same conversation with Ally, and Ally used the same exact words Karen used throughout the conversation, I’d have wanted to kill myself at about the halfway point. Karen’s delivery was always sincere and playful. Ally was always caustic and gratingly sarcastic. Ally was Karen’s assistant. Ally was an assistant’s assistant. Did Ally always get the crap shifts because she was a bitch? Or was she a bitch because she always got the crap shifts? I’ll bring that up with her next time I see her.

---

I enjoy watching basketball played at the professional level, but it’s not really high up there for me as a pastime. What keeps me coming back to take advantage of our company’s luxury box at Staples Center is the dessert cart. Everyone down in the stands has to settle for the lame concessions some guy can fit in a box around his neck. Up in luxury box country, a cart comes by with a cornucopia of sweetness. Yeah, I could go to a nice restaurant and get a soufflé, but it just seems so awesomely ridiculous to be eating a giant hunk of chocolate cake while watching ten guys run around a wooden court and throw a ball through a hoop-- I’m drawn to it. It’s the same reason I’m drawn to salami and Nutella sandwiches. It doesn’t sound like it’s going to make sense at first, but it does. At least for me, it does.

Since the Lakers were in the middle of the play-offs, many big shots from the Classic News Channel were in the suite. I found myself hanging with Hans Reitherman, the executive producer of Weather or Not. I really hate Hans, but not for the reasons I hate most other people. I hate Hans because he’s probably the most genuinely cool fellow I’ve ever met—near perfect. He is impossible to hate, so I hate him for that. He oozes positive energy, warmth, humility, all that gooey stuff. He’s an accomplished mountain climber and shows incredible reverence towards nature. I’ve heard him rip it up on the piano and the blues harp; the cat wails. His wife is easily a ten in beauty and personality. He was born in Thailand to nomadic and philanthropic parents. You can’t beat this guy. Don’t bother trying. He will let you win, and you will lose. He even tolerates me.

While I was enjoying an oversized double-chocolate-dipped chocolate chip cookie, Hans and I discussed my bathroom incident earlier in the day, and we were trying to determine what proper wiping technique should be. Hans seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

“Shel, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about this with anyone.”

“And we’re watching the Lakers destroy the Nuggets while I’m eating this humungous cookie. It’s pretty crazy, I know.”

We switched our focus back to the game, when two new guests arrived who immediately caused a stir in the pants of all the males and the one lesbian in the suite. Now my days of being a globetrotting john were way behind me, but I could pick out a call girl from a line up of exotic dancers. These girls commanded top dollar. I must have been sitting in the right seat because they sauntered over to me. The taller one asked, “Are you Jeff?”

“No.”

I returned my focus to the game.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I’m sure he’s sitting in his courtside seat.”

“His friend told us to meet him here.”

“Well, then, grab an Amstel Light or a glass of chardonnay while you wait for Jeff to show up… maybe.”

“You think he won’t show?”

Just then the door opened, and in walked Jeff with two more attractive women in tow. Powerful men understand excess, but they’re also insanely disciplined. Jeff spotted me with his other new employees.

“Shel, we missed each other earlier. What did you want to talk about? Ladies, Hans, please excuse us. I can’t seem to get work off my mind.”

“Ephimria.”

“It’s great stuff, Shel. I’ve been taking their vitapack supplements for a couple weeks. Haven’t had a single canker sore since I started.”

“You get a lot of canker sores?”

“No, not really.”

“Jeff, I really think we’ll be taking our own brand down a few notches by associating with a product like Ephimria. I have hundreds of pitches ready for products and brands that I care about, and I think our viewers care about. They’re too sophisticated to not be offended by even one ad from these shysters.”

“You overestimate your audience and your show, and you underestimate Ephimria, Shel. I can sell anything to anyone, and so can the guys at Ephimria. There is one thing I care about and the shareholders of our company care about. Your show is cheap to make and it grabs a lot of eyes. That’s why it exists. Stop thinking that you are helping people on their path to enlightenment. You’re getting them to buy things.”

“We’re never going to agree on this, Jeff. You use me, and I use you. But I’ll tell you right now, people will stop watching Another Fifteen as Ephimria creeps in.”

“You met Mason Burnett, didn’t you. He’s fucking great.”

“He’s a fucking douche bag’s douche bag just like you.”

Jeff looked up and over my shoulder.

“Mason, you already know Shel.”

“We have met. No offense taken, Sheldon. My kids call me worse.”

That’s how these guys thought of me—as a child. Let the little one run off and make something awesome, and then we’ll take it and exploit it and strip it of everything that made it awesome. Well, this little kid could always take his ball and play somewhere else. The problem was I didn’t fully control the rights to Another Fifteen Minutes. The thought of some soulless prick stepping into my shoes as the producer made me want to pour cyanide sprinkles on my cookie. I would have to operate within the system to save the system. I’m just not ready to move to Canada.

“Your kids sound pretty cool.”

That got a chuckle from Mason. Both Jeff and Mason knew not to kill the goose that craps millions of dollars. Or maybe they had senses of humor.

“Full disclosure, Shel—Mason and I were fraternity brothers at UCSB. We both disappointed our parents by not going to Princeton.”

“Now it all makes sense. You’re both blinded by bromance.”

“That’s how it works. We help each other out.”

“So what do you get in return for helping out Mason here? Again no offense, Mason, but to me it looks like you’re getting the sweeter end of the deal.”

“The last name Burnett doesn’t mean anything to you?”

I started thinking, but it didn’t take long for me to figure it out.

“Oh, shit. You’re Gaston Burnett’s son.”

“I’m one of them, yes,” Mason replied with a smile.
Gaston Burnett was the head of Burnett Media, one of the largest media corporations in the world. Jeff takes care of Gaston Burnett’s third son, Gaston Burnett buys the Classic News Channel, and Jeff now has a chance to work his way up the Burnett Media ladder. It was exactly what Jeff would be thinking. Shit like this really happens.

“Say no more. I feel if I know too much, someone is going have to kill me. Let’s just get back to enjoying this compelling blowout.”

The lure of resignation was even greater now. I switched from cookies to gin. I began responding to the prods and pokes from the call girls. I was an oddity to them. Most guys just wanted to fuck them. I was talking to them and trying to figure out what broke them in the first place. I wasn’t trying to help them; I was just curious. Jeff scolded me once a while back for causing one to cry and walk out on a job. As the girls took over my time, Hans, the perfect family man and genuine nice guy, moved on. People at the top of my hate list now surrounded me.

Season 2 Chapter 2

One of the perks of being in the business is that you don’t have to wake up those ungodly slave hours and chain yourself to a machine after punching in, spending the rest of the day wanting to punch out – your boss, your time card, yourself – just to deal with the monotony of the daily grind. Which I guess is the apt term if you’re just wasting away at the grindstone. But not me. I like what I do, which is rare these days, especially in the media. And what I should be doing right now is sleeping, except the shrieks of wild children are preventing me.

In the front of the building live Cody and Apuri, and they’re responsible for the mewing anklebiters outside the door. They’re a couple of dirty hippies who somehow eek out a living making candles, which they must sell whenever the chamber of commerce feels like jacking off the locals with the rich pageantry of a homemade goods and crafts fair. Sure, I once had a copy of a Grateful Dead record (I think it was American Beauty, if that’s the one that has “Truckin’” on it), but liking the music and liking the dipshits who listen to it are about as far apart as Farmer John and those PETA folks. They’re nice enough and friendly, but there’s something about being an earth-first peace-and-love do-gooder that rubs me wrong. Wash your hair, shave, and put on something better than overalls. And the same goes for your husband.

I stumbled to the door and opened it to find the little one crying. I say little one because I don’t know for sure if it’s a boy or a girl. True to hippie form, if the kids aren’t mostly naked, they’re dressed in indistinguishable unisex outsfits, and both have long hair. I think this one is called Chan. I leaned down to see what was wrong.

“What’s the matter, little person?”

It stopped carrying on and looked up at me bewildered. The other, older one, was just a few steps away, playing with a stick. That one was Koi. They were both dirty, and for some reason, generally damp looking. I tried again.

“Where’s your mommy and daddy,” I asked.

It didn’t respond, but picked itself up, and then held up a sandal. I was about to help put it on, when I saw the kid was barefoot, and so was Koi, who came over at the sight of Chan holding up the shoe. They both looked at it for a moment, as foreign to them as soap. Chan dropped the sandal, and they stood confused by its purpose. Koi started hitting it with the stick, and Chan giggled. They both started laughing as Koi beat the evil footwear, punishing it for the foot-freedom stealing ways of it’s design. What next, rage against the moccasin?

In the distance I saw Apuri, attending to saving the planet rather than minding her brood. She was fidgeting with organic birdseed that she no doubt made herself, putting it into a holder made of recycled plastics and cans. Even from across the courtyard, she must have felt me looking at her, and turned around. She came over herd her offspring and show the concern of a mother who realized her children were not where she’d thought they were. And in front of a man wearing inappropriately dressed in a tee shirt and underwear.

“Hi Sheldon,” Apuri said in a strangely accented English. Maybe it was New Zealander. Or one of the places the English colonized and then were summarily expelled from years later. “Were they making too much noise?”

“I was just wondering why they weren’t off at the salt mines,” I said. “Shouldn’t they be getting ready for school or day care or something?”

“Oh, they’re still too young for that. Koi’s barely three, and Chan is just about 18 months. Besides, we’re going to home school them. It’s so much better for them to learn more than what the elitist school system is going to teach them.” Of course.

It would have been funny to me, except I knew she actually meant what she’d said. Yes, you idiot…math, language, all that elite knowledge and socialization that harms all those delicate children’s psyches. And Apuri was almost looking attractive until that utopian rhetoric came out.

“Yeah, it would be a real shame if they were corrupted by society and our educational system.”

“Oh, I know,” she nodded, looking quite serious. Fuck, you hippies don’t even get sarcasm.

She picked up the sandal and tucked it under her arm, and scooped up Chan. Apuri took Koi by the hand, ignoring the stick, which Koi used to smack against every door, fence, and window along the way back to their apartment. Way to parent there. I’m coming to the realization that while children may still be a possibility to have, seeing how those ones are turning out makes me think now may not be the best time. Plus I’m single and standing in my doorway half-dressed.

---

It wasn’t the abrupt awakening that made me sour in the morning, but I’m sure that extra hour or two I would have had made me more receptive to Sadie when she sought me out.

“I got a surprise for you Shelly,” she cooed.

I was looking at my notes for next week’s trip, which put me and Fran on a red eye to La Guardia for our Poughkeepsie visit with The Prophylactic Mr. Kitney, and then back home after a stop in Greencastle, PA for a segment with the former youngest Civil War re-enactor who now makes Civil War themed birthday cards.

“You want to skip dinner and go straight to crossing off items on the company’s sexual harassment policy?”

“If you’re lucky,” she said smiling. Sadie was impervious to my lecherous ways, which happens to many women when they live in a beachfront duplex with their personal trailer boyfriend who drives a Porsche. “But then you wouldn’t get to meet Mason.”

“And Mason is…?”

“Mason Burnett, Senior VP of sales and marketing for Ephimria. He’s wants to be very involved with the programs they’re backing. I just found out he’s in town tonight, which is perfect!”

“Couldn’t they have just sent a fruit basket and worked with the traffic department to figure out the pods to place their ads? And what do you mean programs?”

“They’re starting with Another Fifteen Minutes, but they want to add more shows. And the rumor is that they’re thinking about buying a part of the channel.” Sadie got excited just by the thought of it.

“So are we getting stock options then?”

“No, better…discounts on Ephimria products!”

I was not looking forward to this dinner.

---

I pulled up to Faka Fafina in my Subaru, which always turned heads. Away. Faka Fafini was a swank Polynesian-Fusion restaurant which I’d never been to, but was in a row along the strip with other alarmingly expensive and chichi places like Wolf, Datette, The Peg House, or Fuzoku. Sadie was standing over at the bar, and she’d changed out of the baby blue blouse and khaki pants into a slinky black cocktail dress. Very L.A. Very much the corporate cougar at night. For me, I happened to tuck in a clean, pressed dress shirt into my slacks. Very I don’t give a shit. Very acceptable since I wasn’t some collegiate Beverly Hills Persian trying to pile on the most Armani. But Sadie looked great, and I let her know it. She was good at getting advertisers and clients to spend spend spend.

Before there was time to get a drink, Mason showed up, but we did not get properly introduced until we were sat at a table by the window, since he was talking on his Blackberry to some subordinate who didn’t properly get the cranberry stains out of the sheets from the dry cleaners.

“Good to meet you Sheldon,” Mason said with a firm handshake and an unnaturally white smile. “I’m sorry that call went longer than expected.”

“Not a problem, Mason. At least you’re not one of those cyborgs with a stupid earpiece on all the time.”

He turned his head further to the left, past me to reveal the Bluetooth earpiece on his right ear. Shit, I should have seen that. But was sat first and Sadie sat to my left, across from Mason, so she could spill her cleavage out and bat her eyelashes without him needing to turn at all. It would have been more uncomfortable but our waiter fortunately saved us with a list of specials and round of drinks. Still, I had to say something.

“No offense by that, y’know. I just –“

“Don’t worry about it,” Mason offered. “Sometimes I forget the damn thing’s on. My kids make fun of me for wearing it, and I even ruined one taking a shower.”

I was a little surprised at the kid comment, since he had to be about thirty to reach his position, but he looked barely old enough to order a drink. And Sadie launched right in at the mention of kids, like her uterine instruction manual was engaged. I tried to stay out of the small talk they made about his perfect wife and family and Sadie’s sales-y chit chat that was honed from years of dining with clients. Hairdressers and sales people – they are the masters of shallow, light conversation. Our waiter, who all but walked with a lisp, dropped off our entrees and a second round of drinks, which is when the real conversation began.

Mason fired at me point blank. “So how do you feel about having Ephimria being such a large part of the show.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. That’s not entirely true. I could have told him that I had no fucking clue what snake oil he was selling and why they zeroed in on my show to be their springboard to taking over the channel, but this wasn’t going to be a love-in. I could have told him I could care less what they did as long as they signed on and the checks cleared. But really, I didn’t if I could respond how Sadie wanted me to respond, which was what was needed of me. I still managed to slip out a soft, but audible “ecstatic” before I imagined Sadie’s three-inch heals giving me foot stigmata. I made a brief glance at her, arched my brows with a deep breath and tried not smash our new piggy bank.

“We’re ecstatic to have someone who’s looking to partner with the show, and Sadie and I both want to know what we can do to make this…partnership advantageous.” I wanted to take those words in the back alley and kick them in the ribs. But I still understood the importance of being a diplomat.

“Well, that’s very reassuring,” our quarry smiled in response. Sadie looked relieved, and my feet where unharmed. But I had to go a little off script.

“But I’ll be honest with you, Mason. I don’t really know that much about Ephimria…and that website, while very well designed and slick, doesn’t tell you average layperson, like myself, exactly what Ephimria is.”

Mason looked at me with concern. But he didn’t get irritated as I might have expected from my lack of knowledge gleaned from his cryptic website.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid of what,” Sadie piped in, worried as much about the implication as she was about understanding exactly what was being implicated.

“We’re not going to sell much if we’re not transparent,” Mason said. He paused and thought deeply into the wasabi braised tuna medallions with sticky rice. “We should have made it more product and less testimonial,” he said softly, with a slight rap of his fist on the table. When he looked up though, those lines of tension in his voice we gone, and the fluorescent overheads reflected in the water glass, casting him in a small spotlight as he launched into a well-rehearsed description of Ephimria. It was fucking creepy, and I was the one who pulled the string on this talking doll.

“Ephimria was first introduced as epaphimrolnate by Mendel Bronson who was a chemist and amateur canoeist. Due to a freak accident on camping trip, he lost his sense of smell. Distraught from the situation, he left his job and gained almost 400 pounds. He died when his mashed potato to gravy ratio exceeded his throat capacity, but his son Hawthorne found the formula that Mendel was working on at the time. Had he lived, the supplement would have helped shed the excess weight, but there was much, much more.

Hawthorn discovered journal after journal of recipe and chemical notation for a whole series of super nutrients and health supplements, as well as volumes of philosophical musings on lifestyle. The first meal replacement shake powder and enlightenment manual was sold over 25 years ago, out of the trunk of his car, but through the magic of multilevel marketing and direct distribution sales, Ephimria grew into the international health and wellbeing organization that manufactures and distributes over 700 products globally.”

Fuck. Another Fifteen Minutes was about to be turned out like a bitch by a legitimized pyramid scheme with a side cult sauce.

---

The rest of dinner I had very little to add as Mason extolled the virtues of the Level 6 program he was currently taking (running a cool $350 a week between the pills, mixes, and reading material – which was a nearly catalog sized series of articles, exercises, and through provoking texts), and Sadie pressed him to help tailor a program to increase her psychological strength and maintain a high protein, lo-carb diet. Eventually, the show came up, and I was glad that we were at the valet, because I had an excuse to leave.

“Shel, when you come back from shooting your segments, I’d like to go over some of the ideas we’ve been looking at to bolster your audience,” Mason said candidly.

“You’re not going to ask me to turn into a sexy blonde in a red evening gown, are you,” I laughed. “Because I did that once, and it was only for a goof. And the police later cleared me of the charges.”

Mason chuckled, “Oh, that’s rich, but no…however I’m sure there wouldn’t be anything wrong if we added a little sex appeal to the show.”

I know I’m no George Clooney, but Another Fifteen Minutes was not supposed to double as masturbatory material for middle America. “So you want to make the stories a little spicier,” I asked.

“Er, not quite…but maybe a young female co-host would add a demographic we’re not tapping into properly. And that would really open up the lead-in to some of the other programs.”

“I know you guys want to foot the bill and all, but we have been doing this for a while, and we know what works.” Sadie was starting to get antsy at the exchange, and I was getting ready to piss mark my territory.

“It’s great that some kid had a booger shaped like New Jersey that captured the imagination of the public, but we also want to look at some other ideas and options too. That’s all.” Mason started to get into his car, a silver Mercedes convertible. Pretty fancy rental for a guy just in town for a day or two.

“So you want to change the format of the show.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you.”

“Look, Sheldon, we don’t want to change,” and he emphasized that by drawing it out, “the program. We just want to see if we can make it…better.” He flashed that orthodontic masterpiece and waved to us. “Well talk when you come back.”

He drove off into the bustling night traffic, and I got smacked hard in the arm by Sadie.

“What are you fucking doing?”

“What am I doing? What do you mean,” I protested. “Usually I have to grope a woman to get that response.”

“Don’t be stupid, Shelly. They’re the boss because they’re going to pay to call the shots. If they say they want tits, we’re going to get them tits. If they want you to dress like a chicken and dance, you better listen for the music.”

“Shit, Sadie…I get that they’re making the calls, but this is my baby, too. Just because they show up and start waving their dick around saying it’s the biggest doesn’t mean that’s the best.”

She recoiled at the imagery. “Ugh, that’s disgusting and typical, to turn it into a dick thing.” Sadie looked me in the eye with ardent seriousness. “You’re not listening to me.”

“Okay, what?”

“They’re going to see how the next five or ten shows go, but they’re going to be making changes. Guaranteed. And when they get on the other programs, they’re going to make them too. It’s going to happen. Be smart. Don’t be one of them.”

Season 2 Chapter 1

What I should have been doing was what they pay me to do around here. Instead I found myself in an agonizing infinite loop of a conundrum of which I could find no way to extricate myself. I had committed myself to leaving a clever comment on one of the thousands of photos “friends of mine” had felt compelled to share with the entire interweb. People will tell you to go with your first instinct in these situations, but I don’t have a great track record with this method. My first instinct is almost always exactly what I shouldn’t do. As an example a couple years ago, I wrote what I thought was an appropriate comment about a pic of one of my old college drinking companions and his new bride. I wasn’t invited to their wedding ceremony of course; however, via the magic of the interweb, my old friend had tracked me down and had thrust himself back into my life, attempting to recapture some of the spirit of the murky haze that was our undergrad existence. The comment read, “Congratulations to you, my fellow Dildude. Your wife looks very much like that hooker we both doinked in Amsterdam.”

Yes, we were the Dildudes back then. I’m not exactly sure who came up with that moniker. Now this comment to me wasn’t necessarily funny as much as it was amazingly true. We were both in Amsterdam but on separate occasions before college. As we discussed our European adventures, we eventually came to the realization that we had both fornicated with the very same working girl—a bonny lass named Laily. She was a goddess of sexual maneuvering. I was the first to have her. I always made it a point to dwell on this fact whenever chatting with my comrade. Laily became the touchstone of our four year relationship. Around the other Dildudes, we would extol her name and her legendary skill. She became the bedtime story every Dildude wanted to hear if they ever ended the night without a mate. “Tell us again about Laily. Please. Please. Pretty please,” the chorus sang after many a night’s drinking bout. It wasn’t uncommon for a Dildude to be without a mate.

My relationship with my friend along with my friend’s marriage to a dead ringer for Laily both ended abruptly after leaving that comment. Honesty is wonderful. Now I’m left in awe of the destructive power of my photo comments. Trembling, I had wasted nearly five minutes typing some words only to delete them. Am I growing some tiny modicum of restraint? This is the latest battle for my soul. I’ve always been one to speak my mind, but lately I’ve been exercising a bit of discretion and discovering that holding back a little information often has positive results. Holding back is hardly easy for me. People who know me well seem to agree that I’m developing a split personality as a result of my struggle to apply restraint at appropriate times. They just don’t know which one of me is going to show up on a particular day. You can see them physically flinch when they say something that would typically warrant a brutal response.

---

What I should have been doing was scrubbing through old news footage to prepare for my next interview. As the producer and host of Another Fifteen Minutes on the Classic News Channel, it is my job to follow up on those little human interest stories you catch on the news or in gossip rags. We’re asking the question, “Where are they now?” of people you’ve probably never heard of unless as an example you saw the morning news in Poughkeepsie back in July of 1976. For this latest assignment, I’m looking to revisit a man who has made it his life’s work to create the largest ball made entirely of latex prophylactics. I almost want to just show the original segment and skip the interview, but my contract demands otherwise.

In the footage, an earnest elderly reporter in a three-piece suit asks a young couple with matching feathered mullets, “What brings you to the home of Wes Kitney today?”

The two smile at each other and then respond in unison to the reporter, “We came to see the rubber ball.”

Then Mr. Kitney speaks. “It’s a little embarrassing, I guess, how it all started. There was a girl I really liked who worked down at Thrifty. I figured if she saw how much sex I was having, she’d be interested in me. So I’d go in there to buy rubbers every chance I had. It never worked out with her, but I had all these rubbers. I just started tyin’ ‘em together and rollin’ ‘em up. Now I’ve really got something people want to see.”

“Fucking moron,” is what came out of my mouth.

At that moment my trusted camera operator, Fran, stuck his head into my office. Fran had unusually thick eyebrows. It was as if the salt and pepper hair that used to reside near his hairline had emigrated down to start a new life on his brows. They were all you could really focus on when looking at him.

“Shel, can I bother you?”

“Isn’t that what you’re already doing?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll come back.”

“Fran, you are a man. You don’t take shit from people-- especially people like me. You barge in, sit down, and start talking.”

“I’m sorry…”

“You don’t say ‘sorry’ either for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m… Well. I uh. What I wanted. Well, my wife suggested…”

I was a millisecond away from strangling—no-- throat-punching him.

“My wife and I would like to invite you over for dinner some time?”

“Fran, why would I want to share a dining experience with you? You are socially inept. You’re no fun to look at.”

“Well, my wife was thinking that’s part of the reason why I lost my last job. She thinks I should try a little harder to get in good with my co-workers and bosses.”

You’ve got to love honesty. Fran came to us after he had been let go from his job as a camera repair technician with some big company like Panavision or Sony. We figured, hey, this guy knows cameras. So maybe he doesn’t have much experience filming. At least he can fix his own camera. Ironically, we’re using cameras now that Fran has no inkling how to fix.

“All right, Fran. I’m going to make it my mission to teach you what I know about living. I’m good to go any night except Thursday through Monday.”

“So Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Sharp man.”

“Today is Wednesday. How about tonight?”

Damn. It was Wednesday.

“You know, Fran, I did have plans tonight, but I’m going to ditch them to go have dinner with you instead. That’s how committed I am.”

“Awesome! I’ll email the details.”

I really did have plans. But they were the kind of plans on which you would find any excuse (even dinner with Fran) to avoid following through.

I gradually eased back into my research work and was really starting to hit my stride when another unwelcome intrusion found its way into my office—Sadie from sales.

“Hey there, Shelly boy, guess who’s got a new sponsor?”

“Sixties at Six. Seventies at Seven. Eighties at Eight. Anchors Away. Teleprompter vs. News Reader…” I continued to rattle off every show in the Classic News Channel lineup besides my own.

“No, silly. Another Fifteen.”

“Damn. I never would’ve guessed in a million years.”

“It’s called Ephimria, and it will change your life.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a lot of hype about it. There’s a huge buzz.”

“What is it?”

“A lot of people are using it. You should check out their website.”

“What is it?”

“Just check out the website. You’ll find out everything you need to know. They love the show, and they want in on it in a big way.”

“Please, don’t tell me we’re doing product placement. Why can’t they love another show?”

“Ooooo, that’s a great idea. I’m going to talk to the buyer about working the product in somehow. You’re a genius, Shel. Let’s get dinner later to talk about it some more.”

“I’m actually booked. And you’re not hearing me about the product placement. It’s not cool.”

“I’ll cruise by tomorrow then. Ta-ta.”

The next ten minutes were spent trying to figure out what this Ephimria product actually was. I searched under every goatse and behind every glossy bubbly button across the interweb. The only real source of information was the company’s website, which didn’t actually say much. There were myriad bold testimonials of how life before Ephimria plainly sucked, including a video montage of happy customer after happy customer glowing with satisfaction on a sunny beach. Was it a drug? Was it a get-rich pyramid scheme? I could not fucking tell. The about page spoke of its wondrous life-altering effects but still didn’t state directly what it was. This was marketing? This was bullshit.

---

My day ended sooner than usual when I realized Fran and his wife were expecting my ass to be at their suburban home around eight o’clock. I’m an assertive driver. Other people would probably call me an aggressive driver. This classification didn’t help much in getting me the twenty-five miles up the freeway through traffic to Fran’s home. I kept thinking to myself, “How the hell does he do this every day? Just get a place in Culver City already or something, anything closer than this.”

With a bottle of cheap wine in hand, I knocked on the door. The toothy smile of Fran’s wife greeted me.

“Sssssssssssssssss…” was all I could say.

“Sheldon? You’re leaking, dear.”

Underneath a wiry rat’s nest of hair and two eyes framed by a pair monstrous glasses was a noticeable snaggletooth amongst rows of teeth. I wanted to scream it out to the world. It nearly slipped out of my mouth, but restraint won the day. It was a proud moment.

“’Sorry’ was what I meant to say Mrs. Wilkinson. Sorry for being late.”

I handed her the bottle.

“It’s okay. Fran told me how you’d probably be running a little behind. You really didn’t need to bring anything, but thank you. And please, call me Melissa or Mel. Dinner will be ready in five. Fran is out in the backyard manning his station. Can I pour you a glass of this, or do you want something else to drink?”

“I’m fine for now. I’ll just get out of your way and head out back to check out Fran’s ‘station’.”

I could tell she wasn’t used to entertaining guests. She was well-rehearsed, but she was both excited and slightly terrified at the same time now that the moment had come. The seed she planted in her husband’s brain had borne fruit, and now she wasn’t sure she knew how to eat it. I was expecting a manipulative shrew and not this sweet little snaggletooth. The verbal brutality would be turned down to a minimum tonight.

Fran was indeed manning a station of sorts. He was standing on top of a bench up against a cinder block wall at the rear of his yard. He held a camcorder up to his eye, gazing over the wall into the distance. I stepped up on to the bench to see what was so mesmerizing.

“Hey, Fran, it looks like you live right next to the most mundane city street on the entire planet. I’m sure glad you’re documenting all this. Don’t miss the Accord right there at the stop light.”

“I’m actually documenting the faulty traffic camera the city installed at that intersection. I swear it is going off even when no one runs a red. At night, it uses a flash. It’s like a lightning strike. They’re watching us, Shel. They’re watching our every move.”

“And you’re watching them I see. Don’t you think they’re watching you watch them?”

“Oh, I know they are. The cops come by all the time to see what I’m up to, filming the intersection. I tell them how I’ve called the city multiple times to fix the camera and nothing is being done about it. I tell them how I have a right to privacy. They don’t need to know every move I make. They think it’s a joke.”

“Well, I hope you have some damning evidence for the next city hall meeting. Hell, with video proof, then they’ll really have to do something.”

“Damn right. I’m thinking of posting these videos on the internet too—really put the pressure on.”

“Yeah, and all those people who drive through that intersection whose privacy you’re protecting-- won’t they be grateful.”

Fran wasn’t getting it. I was watching the end of privacy unfold before me.

“Hey, Fran, is that an orange tree over there? You’re just letting ‘em hit the ground. Let’s pick some oranges.”

“Be my guest. Take as many as you like.”

He didn’t seem interested in leaving his post until the dinner bell rang.

I picked one of the citrus fruits off the tree and noticed the aroma immediately. It was definitely tangerine, but these were too big to be tangerines. Was I holding a tangelo? A tangelo would be fantastic. Maybe this trip wasn’t a bust. I peeled the fruit and took a healthy bite. And then I spit it right back out across half the yard.

“Bile of Satan! What the fuck is this, dude?!”

I’d never heard Fran laugh such maniacally unbridled laughter.

“I got you good, didn’t I?”

“You sure did, asshole.”

“We call them tangeremons. I’m not sure what they are, but they taste like pure hell. That tree was there when we moved in.”

Mel opened the slider and was instantly appalled at the site of me spitting out the remnants of the juice.

“Fran, you didn’t! How could let him take a bite of that nasty fruit?”

“It was worth it. You should have seen his reaction. Priceless.”

I had to chime in. “Lesson One for tonight, Fran. Just because someone comes over to your house for dinner, doesn’t mean you’re instantly on frat brother terms with that person. This behavior would not be advisable typically. But I do like to think I have a sense of humor, and I must say this is a side of you that you need to incorporate more into your work persona.”

That set the tone for the rest of the night. Fran was immediately reminded of his subordinate role, but encouraged that some day he might be able to reach my lofty status. My speech earlier in the day must have been a little too empowering. I thought the whole traffic light thing was supposed to be a joke too, but it wasn’t. Fran still had a long road ahead of him.

“Shel, you seem to have it all figured out. What’s your secret?”

“There’s no real secret, Fran. As a pseudo-intellectual, I simply realized that there are a multitude of people out there that have done or have had done to them amazing things. And we’re forgetting them at a rapid pace. One moment, they’re all we can talk about, and the next they’re gone from our collective consciousness. It’s my job to remind everyone. We can only pay attention to the foibles of celebrities so much before we realize there are billions of people out there with whose foibles we have yet to become intimate. What about that young girl who made the local news thirty years ago for winning the state majorette baton-twirling championship? Did she become the CEO of a grain silo manufacturing company? Is she working at Wal-Mart? Did she maintain her lithe figure, or has she expanded to epic proportions? We need to know. We need to know what everyone has ever done forever. That’s what keeps me going, Fran.”

Dinner was actually satisfying. Mel didn’t include any tangeremons in her baked pasta. Maybe feeding me tangeremons earlier was just a ploy to destroy my taste buds into believing any other food tasted delicious. I wasn’t about to test this theory. After four or eight gin and tonics and dozens of wise words passed to my co-worker and his homely yet lovely wife, I finally left Casa de Wilkinson for browner pastures back down the freeway—my real plans for the night.

---

When I unlocked and walked through the apartment door, I was assaulted by a barrage of familiar epithets.

“Fuck you! You fucking piece of shit, cock-sucking ingrate. You’re not too big to fucking whoop upside the fucking head, you fucking shit fucker.”

I handed my mother the bottle of gin she was waiting for, and her anger melted away.

“Oh, Sheldon, I just knew you’d come. You wouldn’t leave your poor mother stranded like this with nothing, absolutely nothing to make it through the night.”

“Who loves you, Ma?”

“My widdle Shelly Welly. Thank you, dear.”

I pretended to listen to my mother’s redundant stories while I fired up my notebook and plugged in my antenna to continue my obsessive research of the mundane accomplishments of people around the world. I had developed the skill of listening for keywords from my mother to know when to make some sort of response. This enabled me to focus less on her and more on my work. Inspiration came from everywhere, but with a show like Another Fifteen Minutes, the stories came to me. I rarely had to look for them myself anymore. Sometimes the inspiration came in the form of post-midnight phone call from Jeff. Jeff was the CEO of the Classic News Channel. My mother had passed out by this time, so we were free to chat uninterrupted.

“Sheldon, I forgot to swing by today to pitch a show idea to you. My wife’s brother organized some sort of charity beard growing contest a while back and made the local news in Milwaukee. He’s putting it on again. My wife was hoping you might be able to work him in. You know Laura. I can’t say ‘No’ to her.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Jeff. It’s after midnight by the way.”

“Oh, fuck. Is it? Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“I wasn’t asleep this time, so you’re off the hook. If I get another call like this, you’ll owe me an all expense paid trip to the Monaco GP.”

“How about I just fire you, and we’ll call it even.”

“How did you become the CEO of the fastest growing cable network in the world anyway?”

“Good night, Sheldon.”

“Night, Jeff. Or should I say, ‘Morning’?”

I would say ‘No’ to Jeff without hesitation. But his wife was indeed another matter. Every CEO’s wife I’d met before Laura had been blonde artificially or not. Laura was a brunette, and it blew my mind. My brain was completely wired to find this woman extremely and achingly attractive. I’m a grown man, and I have a junior high crush on my boss’s wife. Last year at a company party, she asked me if I’d be willing to speak at a charity function she was hosting. I wanted to say “No.” Speaking in front of a bunch of wealthy philanthropists is not fun for me. I’ve actually been blacklisted from similar functions for being “inappropriate”. But the animal mind took over. All I could think about was the fact that maybe I would get to work more closely with her. We’d have coffee or something to talk over the details of the event. One thing would lead to another and blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. The fact that she was married to the guy who ran the company didn’t seem to matter to me. I said “Yes.” Well, I ended up working with her people and not her directly. I did get a nice hand-written thank you note from her though. I think I still have it somewhere. Of course I still have it.