Season 2 Chapter 9

A piece of driftwood I was. I had been part of a larger living organism, sprouting new life and granting shelter and refuge for other organisms. Now separated from that organism, I followed the tide wherever it pushed me. Maybe someday I’ll end up as someone’s coffee table.

Small talk with Apuri, coffee at the bagel shop -- the morning was so routine I almost forgot that I wouldn’t be driving to CNC. In my current frame of mind, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the idea that I would be motivating others. What was I motivating them to do? Talking to an individual, hearing his or her story, and offering sound advice was one of my specialties. Maybe it’s a universal guy thing. Maybe it was a human thing. I’m good with the designer speeches to just one person even if I’ve only known him or her for five minutes. Spouting off generic words of wisdom to a large group without veering too far into platitude territory was an entirely different animal. Memorable delivery was going to be the key over actual substance. From my past speaking engagements to large audiences, I knew I’d been inconsistent in my delivery—yes, sometimes offensive. As a motivational speaker I should tell myself to view these shortcomings as opportunities for growth.

I had to figure most folks, if they sat down and meditated or prayed or just turned off the television, would come to the right conclusion about where they wanted to go and what they would need to do to get there. Most of those folks in turn would be astute enough to see the hellish road ahead and choose a less strenuous path. Some would be too stupid to see the obstacles and plow ahead anyway either to their own destruction or in some cases their miraculous success upon the severed heads of others. Some of those who failed might take another crack at it having learned a few things from their initial failures. A rare few would have the experience, brains, resources, and willpower to achieve their ultimate goals, enriching many including themselves along the way. It was all clear to me. I had been there. I had made it. But now I was somewhere else. Fran, my old protégé, was the one now pointing me in a direction. I say “a direction” because I’m not yet sure it’s the right direction. I had expenses to pay that would slowly deplete my relatively substantial assets, so I wasn’t necessarily in survival mode, but I definitely needed to be doing something to stay sharp and keep me off the FBI’s most wanted list. It was not my dream job of becoming an armpit deodorant tester, but it would do in a pinch. Oh, the sacrifices we make.

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I arrived promptly at the building that was home to the Nell Tanner Agency. The elderly security guard in the lobby was the epitome of the term “non-threatening”, wearing his Mayberry-style uniform and his megawatt grin. The security staff at the CNC building in their pseudo-secret service coats always seemed like they would rather be somewhere else. This guy apparently loved his job. Barney Fife checked my ID and, with a nifty little two-finger salute and a twinkle in his eye, sent me up to suite B on the eighth floor—the only portion of the building that actually had anything to do with the Nell Tanner Agency. The tall-for-a-woman and lanky Nell Tanner was there to greet me.

“Hello, Sheldon. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the Nell Tanner Agency.”

She held out her arms inviting me to take in the corporate Zen majesty of her office space. It was a small operation but well appointed. She had eschewed the dreaded office beige in favor of cool greens and dark wood-- maybe clichéd but not unwelcome.

“I hope you found us all right. Can I get you anything to drink?”

I really wanted to say, “G and T, please,” but I stopped myself. Nell introduced me to her two assistants/accounting clerks, Peter and Sunday. You didn’t really need gaydar to tell on which side of the road Peter drove, and Sunday was an effervescing young lassie fresh from the Midwest as far as I could tell from her accent. Sunday’s smile and exuberance was almost too much cuteness to bear for more than twenty seconds. Nell and I moved on to her cozy office to begin the process of feeling each other out—figuratively of course.

“Your friend, Fran, speaks highly of you. I’ve watched your show, and I have to say that I am impressed with your sense of humor, confidence, and your ability to connect with your subjects and viewers. Of course, public speaking is a very different endeavor. You’ll need time to hone your speaking skills and put together a solid presentation before I can unleash you on the world.”

Then she displayed her droopy-eyed smile which I could only describe as evil genius. I would see that smile many more times.

“A little bit about myself: I worked for many, many years in the corporate world as a customer service manager and management coach for a major communications company. I eventually got into consulting. I trained managers how to be better managers. I’ve always been interested in bringing out the best in people—motivating them to reach their full potential. It’s what drives me. How about you, Sheldon? What is your motivation?”

“What gets me out of bed in the morning is the knowledge that there are things in the world that I’ve never seen or heard before that will just completely blow my mind. Everyone has the potential to create. If I can be the guy encouraging them to create in new and fascinating ways, then in a way, I guess I’m a lot like you, Nell.”

I tried out my own version of the evil genius smile. I’m sure it didn’t come close to matching Nell’s sublime expression.

“That’s fantastic, Sheldon.”

In my mind I was pretending she was responding to my smile rather than what I had just said.

“Fran explained to me a little about your situation, so one of my main concerns is ‘Are you going to be able to commit fully to working for the Nell Tanner Agency?’ The hours aren’t typical, but we still expect a lot. Along with speaking engagements, we operate a website centered on motivation. We like our roster of speakers to contribute motivating affirmations, tips, and tricks. Perhaps you’d be willing to write a feature article on a regular basis for the site. It’s a great way to build up interest—give people a taste of how rewarding a session with Sheldon would be.”

“Well, I can talk, and writing is just talking with your fingers, so I’m sure I can come up with some inspirational anecdotes. If you read the Fifteen Minutes blog, you’ll get a little taste of what I can do. That is unless they’ve already deleted any evidence of my existence at CNC.”

“That would be a shame.”

She displayed a brief look of concern, and then quickly returned to her standard game face.

“One of the benefits of having such a strong roster of speakers is that we have the opportunity on a regular basis to get together to practice our craft with each other. It’s a great opportunity to try out new ideas and gain constructive criticism from your peers in a safe environment. We’re actually having a session today, and I’d like you to sit in to observe and maybe gain some inspiration for your own presentation.”

“An orgy of motivators.”

Did I just say that?

“I would put it differently, Sheldon. You’ll really learn to tailor your presentation to fit the audience. If you’re giving the same speech you used with a group of high school dropouts to a group of executives at Goldman Sachs, you’ll miss the mark.”

“You’re right. I’d really have to dumb it down for the Goldman group. Is Goldman Sachs a client?!”

“It’s a hypothetical scenario. My own opinion is that a phrase such as ‘orgy of motivators’ would go over better with a group from Goldman.”

“Interesting. Now that I think about it, you’re probably right.”

“Most of the time, I am.” Nell’s deadpan was uncanny. “Let’s make our way to the presentation room.”

There was no dawdling on small talk. Nell was a woman of action. She did not mess around. I could tell if I was to make any kind of human connection with her, it would have to be in the context of work. We would never have one of those long arguments over the minimum tolerable thread count in bed sheets.

The presentation room contained a handful of people including Sunday. Peter must have been manning the phones. At the front of the room standing next to a large white screen ready to present was small thin man in a black cowboy shirt and bola tie. His silver belt buckle contained an intricate array of turquoise. His hair was thin in the front, but he made up for it in the back with a ponytail. With his thin moustache and goatee, he appeared to be going for some Southwest guru look. This was Dean, a former drug addict, and he was going to cover the portion of his presentation that dealt with time stealers—those pesky little devils that take your attention away from the things you should be doing. It was all too familiar. I felt like I was being sucked into a time stealer vortex.

The rest of us were to evaluate Dean’s presentation by filling out a form and sharing what we really liked and didn’t like about it. I hoped for Dean’s sake that he was above average.

Dean spent a whole fucking hour and a half talking about time stealers. He talked about procrastination sirens like television and the internet—pretty much the world I live in. He talked about saying “yes” to everything when we should be saying “no” more often. He talked about managing phone calls and email. He talked about getting it right the first time. He got us involved by having us share our own stories. He got us all to raise our hands and look around the room to see that we all deal with the same fucking shit. It was a masterpiece of common sense.

After Dean was finished, it was time to share our thoughts. Most everyone had high praise for Dean. They really liked the way he made the subject matter connect with them on a personal level. They appreciated his timely pauses to allow for moments of reflection. On content, a few folks mentioned they would definitely be incorporating some of his bullets in their own future presentations. One of the gals, Vivian, was highly laudatory. It was one big stroke fest. And then it was my turn.

“Dean, fantastic presentation. I don’t want to repeat what’s already been said, so I’ll get right to some of my other observations. A lot of people take eye contact for granted, but you really nailed it. You shared your gaze with everyone. Maybe it was little heavy on the right side of the room—mainly in Vivian’s direction, but that’s cool. You need an anchor. Some folks try to lock you into their gaze like it’s a tractor beam or something. That kind of thing freaks me out. It’s like we’re in a staring contest. They’re trying to hypnotize me. You had just the right amount pupil connection—not too little; not too much.”

Dean nodded his head effusively.

“We’re also supposed to talk about what bothered us. There was one thing that just sort of grated on me during your presentation. You have this hand gesture. I think you use it to emphasize a point, but you end up using it so much, it begins to lose all meaning. You’re chopping broccoli the whole time. You’re practicing kung fu up there. There were a dozen or so sentences where you were bringing the hammer down on every word. I know they tell you not to put your hands in your pockets when you’re speaking publicly, but, man, I almost wanted you to do just that. You got to lay off the karate chop up there.”

Dean was actually going to fight me on this.

“You’re referring to my ‘power move’. I derive a lot of strength from performing that move. It adds weight to my presentation. If it seems I’m using it too much, it’s because every word is important.”

Vivian, whom I swear I’d seen on a real estate ad billboard somewhere, rushed to Dean’s defense.

“Nell, I don’t think we should be able to stop someone from performing his signature move. It’s not just for the audience. It helps focus the presenter. You need to understand this, Sheldon.”

Yep, Vivian Oglethorpe. I see that horrific sign heading up the 101 through Agoura and Thousand Oaks. Nell stepped up to regulate.

“So how does everyone else feel? Is Sheldon alone in his disdain for Dean’s handiwork? How many of you also felt uncomfortable with Dean’s gesticulations?”

The majority of the room sheepishly raised their hands. Dean looked utterly demoralized. The vein on his temple was about to explode.

“Dean, it appears you’ll need to find a way to keep your ‘power move’ under control. Good catch, Sheldon.”

I could add two new haters to the already long list. I should be trying to find ways to shrink the list. I tried to smooth it out with Dean after the session by seeing if he wanted to get a drink, but he had plans. I was guessing the plans were with Vivian.

Before I took off for the day, Nell introduced me to her library of books on the subject of motivation and motivational speaking and invited me to mine it for ideas. I easily spotted John Wooden’s They Call Me Coach. Nell had a handful of recommended, which I took as required, reading, and she even provided me with a presentation template which I could use to get started. Like she said earlier, she likes to see people succeed.

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For being fired the day before, I expected a lot more emails and phone calls. I got only one phone call from the guy I hate to love, Hans Reitherman. He wanted to meet up to talk about what happened. I showed up at Versailles for some Cuban-style roast chicken and what I thought would be some farewell party. It was just Hans.

“Howdy, Hans. You know Fidel whines about U.S. influence, but we have to put up with his jazz, chicken, potato balls, etc. I think we’re pretty even.”

“I’m glad to see you’re in good spirits, Shel. I mean Another Fifteen Minutes was a big part of your life.”

“Yeah, it actually sort of was my life, but that’s all behind us now.”

“It’s pretty shitty what they did. Everyone had to sign an agreement to not talk to you for a year.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here, Hans?”

“I’m the only one who didn’t sign it.”

“Yeah, you’d be the only one who could do that and get away with it.”

I proceeded to tell Hans my side of the story, and he agreed with me—I was a complete dumb-ass. About half way through the meal, I got a call from Artie. Hans didn’t mind munching on some fried plantains while I chatted with my agent.

“Shel, the story is going to hit the trades soon, but it’s already been leaked, and I’m getting killed on the phones and the blackberry over here. I’m getting calls from E!, VH1, Bravo, Spike, Food, everybody. They all want to know your availability, and you know what I can do about it? Not a fucking thing, Shel! I swear I’m that Tantalus guy in Hades right now. You have to promise me that you’re coming back to this biz when the year is up.”

“I don’t know, Artie. This new motivational speaking gig is the bee’s knees.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Shel. We’re talking about money.”

“And I’m talking about pollination. Can I call you back later, Artie? I’m eating with Hans.”

“Yeah. Call me in a year. And tell Hans when he gets tired of Suzie and everything she doesn’t do to get him more money, I’m here for him.”

Season 2 Chapter 8

Let me tell you about my last day at CNC as the host and producer of Another Fifteen Minutes.

The first thing I should have picked up on was when I hit the guard stand in the lobby and Carlos, the AM security clerk, asked if I had my passcard ID with me. I usually carried it in my satchel bag, but couldn’t remember the last time I flashed it to enter the building, let alone needed to verify my ID. I rummaged through the mints, pens, folded notes, coins and generally random garbage that were in the front pocket until I could confirm the little plastic laminate with my likeness (and a far younger one at that) was in there. I pulled it out just to show Carlos in case the registration on my face was not substantiation enough I’d located it. He read the bar code off it with his pen wand, and his computer made a happy chime of recognition.

He replied nervously and mildly relieved, “Thanks. Thanks, Mr.--“

“No problem, Carlos,” I interrupted him, raising my hand to stop him, and taking the ID card from his stubby, outstretched fingers. “One should never begrudge another man just doing their job.”

My words didn’t give him much confidence as I walked away, and I didn’t need to look back to know he maintained the flushed, sweaty discomfort of a student being told of a pop quiz.

I settled into my nest and looked over a few papers that were left on my desk while I was gone, waiting for the laptop to boot up. The office was full, but there was a tranquility flowing over from the focused work, yet I had not been lulled by its spell. I watched everybody for a moment. Head down. Hide that smile. I had an ant farm when I was younger, but they never had e-mail addresses or folders.

I started organizing the next segments into possible show groupings, and tried to keep myself from needing to travel for too many long stretches. If I could cut a few shows together with what we had, that would be great. Mom was about to take her annual cruise with her group of drunken retired shut-ins, and there was something extra pleasant about coming home to an empty home, far more than just being out of town and away. There were a few minutes cheerfully spent thinking of those elderly boozers, holding on to their walkers as they retched or babbling even more incoherently than their early onset dementia. My demeanor on the phone was made even a touch brighter because of it.

“Hello, may I speak with Ms. Gladys Crocker,” I asked politely.

“This is she,” responded the boisterous, husky voice. I pictured her as a robust woman, like a steer wearing a wig.

“Ma’am, my name is Sheldon and I’m with the program Another Fifteen Minutes. I believe you’ve already been contacted by some folks in our office regarding your story.”

“Yes, they did. Are we changing the time?”

“I’m sorry, changing the time?”

“Yes, for us to meet. And for my son to come into town so he’s there too. Is that going to change?”

I didn’t know what to say. Who the fuck called here and already made the appointment? “No,” I agreed, “we’ll keep things the same. Our staff must have duplicate lists. That happens sometimes.”

“Can we be on the TV twice then?”

That there is the difference between who is watching television and who just sits in from of it getting a cathode-ray tan. The TV and not TV. “Well, Ms. Crocker, there will be reruns.”

She barely waited for me to finish before she started rambling about her nephew who got struck by lightning in her backyard, or her uncle with six fingers on his right hand. She may have still been listing family members and their oddities when I gently hung up after thanking her several times. I called over to Karen to try and get some info on how this could have happened, but all I got was Ally, who stonewalled me in her usual way.

“I don’t know what to tell you Shel…you know we don’t deal with that stuff out of our office. We’re not setting seating arrangements at a banquet.”

Charming. Can’t even raise the flag to see who salutes it. I tried to forget about it and move on to reviewing our next episode before it aired, making sure there weren’t any last minute changes or edits to give the show a more interesting angle. It was 22 minutes and six seconds of smooth, well done programming, and I was proud. It wasn’t going to change the world or solve people’s problems, but it was entertaining and engrossing, and made me forget about everything else while I watched while I became part of the story, which is what television should do.

My zen was not shattered even with the surprise of Jeff, standing behind me and watching the last few minutes. “That’s good stuff,” he said.

I smiled and turned in my chair. “Damn right it is. You come all the way down here to tell me that?”

“Actually, I came all the way from Baltimore.”

“”You could have just left a message.”

“Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about…”

I paused for a few moments, drinking in what I could remember about that message I’d left when I was drinking. Nada. But I think I knew what I would have said.

“Hey, sorry about that. You know I love you and Laura…and it’s no secret that she’s, I don’t know, something special. I said something about her tits, right? I mean, you’ve even said how perfect they are. I’m sorry about that.” I smiled apologetically, but Jeff didn’t break from his stoic expression.

“Listen Shel, we go back a long way, and this is not easy for me, but that message was too much. It went too far.”

“Are you serious?” He was.

Jeff studied me for a second and a flicker of worry registered in his eyes. “You know even really know, do you? Damn it, Shel, this is what the trouble is?”

It was getting very intense, all too quickly. “Wait, wait. What are you talking about?”

Jeff closed the door. “When you were in Wisconsin, where do you think you called?”

“I called you.” I was confused. “I called you on your cell phone.”

Jeff grunted a small laugh, but it was in a pathetic register, not of glee or humor. “No you didn’t.” He was suppressing being too emotional, but I could see there was anger simmering inside.

He continued, “Actually, you called my office line. In your…state, you somehow mashed the right keys and accessed the voice mail menu, my voice mail menu. You didn’t leave me a message.”

“So what then?”

“You keyed in the redial function. And it redialed my last call that day, which was a conference call.” If there was somewhere lower in your body for your stomach to sink into, I’d just found it without knowing the anatomical term to describe it. “That message you left, that stupid message, went to a dozen of the wrong people.”

“So they’re not fans of Laura’s tits?” I didn’t know what to say, and that did not help.

“Mason Burnett called me first, and he was able to keep most of the others from calling me.” He produced a CD. Care to remember what that golden, forked tongue of yours was spewing?” So that’s what the apple looked like to Eve.

I popped it into the laptop and listened back to my greatest hits. Yeah, I could see why the network heads, Ephimria boardmembers, and scions of Burnett Media would have been ticked off. I was astounded by my ability to tax the language so far as to not reuse a single adjective or inflammatory curse. I looked at Jeff and admitted honestly, “Alcohol is the best lubricant for the wheels of truth to grind. Did I mention I was sorry?”

“There’s almost a half hour’s worth of that!” Jeff was not shrugging it off and finding my position in this. What was my position?

“You really got going at the end, about how it would be better to castrate the executives and march them down the streets in chains in hopes of warning the public of the real danger of being raped by their marketing schemes, and that you wanted to spare further generations oppression at the hands of a white devil overlord.”

Oh, that position. Gin makes a man mean.

“Fortunately,” Jeff added, “most of them had already hung up before that part.”

“What can I say, Jeff. I’m sorry. Really. That was a one in a million, cruel twist of fate. Listen, I’ll write them all personally apologizing if that’s what it takes. No, I’ll film an apology. That way that can really see that I am sorry. I am.”

Jeff shook his head and exhaled under the immense burden I could see this had put upon him.

“Listen to me, Shelly. You’ve got to leave. And you have to leave quietly. If you don’t, they’re going to fire you, and this whole thing is going to blow up. Big.”

“How big?”

“They’ll make sure you don’t even eat off the same catering trucks that go onto the lot. Even when they’re in your neighborhood. It’s career genocide.”

“I believe it’s suicide.”

“No, you don’t get the scope of it.”

“So I just quit my own show? Are you kidding me?”

“Here’s what I think; they don’t dislike you, and they think the program is terrific, but you fire from the hip when you shouldn’t even be carrying a gun. Everybody knows you’re not a fan of what’s happening with the accountants and stockholders, but that’s not where your focus should be. They may never be convinced you’re a team player, but right now, you’re too caustic to be here while deals are going down and plans are in action. Plans within plans. And for that to be so vocally expressed, they’re just going to bulldoze you. This isn’t David versus Goliath. It’s an army of Goliaths.”

“So no matter what I’m done?”

“They can fire you and ruin everything you’ve done, or you can disappear for a little while they forget about you.”

I shook my head. “Jeff, that’s blackmail.”

“No, it’s business.”

I thought about it, looking for any possible footing. “I’m still under contract…they have to buy me out.”

“Not if you quit. And they want you to quit. They’re not going to let you piss on their leg and then let you sell them an umbrella just because you say it’s raining.”

“So where does that leave me?”

“There’s a non-competition clause in there…go can’t go to other networks as on-air, you can’t develop programming. Basically you have to sit it out until it expires in about a year.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I got the feeling I may have been right about these vultures.

“Did I fly all the way here to make jokes with you?” I could see he’d been backed into a corner, and it wasn’t mine.

“Look,” he said, “if you just take a sabbatical and let things carry on, let me do what I can to try and get you back. We’ll finish out the remaining episodes and I’m sure we can push another season’s start back beyond the contract terms. By then, things will be in place and we can make a move to get you back. You’ve gotta walk away and not cause a ruckus. That’ll help show them you’re serious about working here, under their structure.”

“But I think their structure is bullshit,” I began to protest.

“Stop being so thick-headed! I’m not telling you this as your boss, I’m trying to help you as your friend. This isn’t easy to do, but I’m the only thing standing between them butchering you and you being able to walk away from this in one piece.”

“So I just walk away from everything I put my heart and soul and guts into, and maybe I get a shot at it again?”

“If you don’t, you’ve got no shot at all. Think about it – why something instead of nothing?”

“So what happens? Cami takes over the show?”

“I don’t know. They don’t know. It was never set up to be like that. They’ll probably take what’s shot and mix it with anything she does. They may even borrow a host to fill in a segment, just to cross promote the other shows.”

“Hans is okay. I don’t feel too bad about having him on.”

Jeff nodded, “Yeah, Hans would be good.”

I couldn’t believe what we were talking about. Abandon my child? It was fucked on so many levels, but underneath all my righteous indignation and cantankerousness, Jeff was trying to do what he could for me, even though I’d royally screwed myself. It was better to fall on my sword than be surrounded and stabbed by dozens of them.

“So what, I just go home now?”

“Come over to my office. You’ll sign some paperwork resigning your position. While you’re doing that, one of the tech guys will scrub your laptop and take anything that belongs to the company off. You’ll be done by lunchtime, and then you can gather your stuff without much attention while the rest are off eating.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” Really, I had no idea.

“You’ve got some bucks saved up, right?”

“Sure, that’s why I’m a grown man who lives with his mother…it’s fun and convenient.”

“I thought you moved her in because of her heatlh?”

“Yeah,” I said, “so I can make sure the unhealthy amount she drinks is somewhat regulated.”

“There’ll be a little for the stuff that has to air, but just take a break for a little while and yet your head straight. I am going to get you back here, but you’ve got to trust me.”

“So fuck me.”

“What?”

“It’s a joke,” I explained. “How does a lawyer say ‘fuck you?’ Trust me.”

“If I was a lawyer, all they’d find is the chewed up wetsuit.”

Ah…the lawyer as shark. Touché.

I took my final walk through the bullpens and we ended up in Jeff’s office. It was what I figure sleepwalking is like. The closest I can describe it to was when I graduated from college. Those moments when I walked up the stairs, crossed the stage to shake hands with the university chancellor (shake with the right, cross and grab the diploma with your left), and then shuffled back down with the other side were an out of body experience, and not because it was one of the few times I wasn’t stoned or drunk or taking pills in college. It’s like an invisible hand is pushing you along, moving your limbs and manipulating you like a limp puppet.

That viper Ally wasn’t around thankfully, but Celine was sitting by Jeff’s desk. She was the human resources administrator and probably one of the least useful humans on the planet. Like Dante, I believe there are several levels to Hell, and HR folks end up there somewhere between disc jockeys with their unfunny, idiotic banter and senators, who are mostly just plain scumbags. The last time I had anything to do with her was an amusing exchange (on my side) about assigned parking spaces. She wrote me a memo about not parking in Jeff’s space when he was out of town since the spots were assigned, to which I replied he was not only aware, but he gave me permission to do so. And what fucking difference did it make? Our spots were maybe 20 feet apart and there was no advantage to parking there – in fact, mine was actually closer. Fran and I came up with a list of questions for her, which never got a response. I really did want to know where to park when we carpooled into work? And what if I was borrowing Jeff’s car – where to park then? I don’t feel that rules are meant to be broken, just questioned why they’re rules.

Celine tried to hide her pleasure in seeing me go under her cold, professional veneer, but I know this was going to be the highlight of her month.

“Try not to throw a party until I leave the building,” I said to her.

She looked at me with the dead eyes of an unrepentant tattle-tale, framed by layers of make up that begged you to scratch your initials in it like wet cement. “I just wish you good luck with your future endeavors, on behalf of myself and the company.” God, what an uptight bitch. It was hard to believe she was married, let alone uncrossed her legs long enough to have two children. Her sister used to be a line producer years ago, and to try convincing yourself they were related was a flag-wrapped stunt the size of the Snake River.

I signed all the forms they put in front of me without protest as Jeff stood off the the side, watching the process. I was listening to Celine explain what each paper was that I signed or initialed; this was my formal discharge, this was my confirmation I understood the parameters of my formal discharge, this was non-disclosure agreement, this was reaffirmation of the contract terms to not compete with the network or try to recreate the show - but I wasn’t paying attention. Soon enough it was done, and Jeff escorted me back to the office. An IT guy came in with my laptop and gave it to Jeff.

“Clean and clear, sir.”

Jeff thanked the computer tech, who doubled back from the door of the office. “This was in the drive, sir. It’s marked company property, but we weren’t sure.”

“I’ll take that,” Jeff said as he took the CD.

I scraped together the little bits I had around the desk and on the wall that belonged to me and put them into a file box, which would just look like I was taking some documents home to review, though I was doing anything but. I put the laptop back in my satchel bag, and took one last look around.

“I think that’s everything.”

“Here,” motioned Jeff with the CD. “You get this.”

“I’ll be playing it all the time.”

No,” he said, “it’s yours because that’s the only copy of it. It was wiped from all the voice mail after they made that. That’s the only copy in existence.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said, and put the disc on the desk, halfway off the edge. I drove my fist down over the extended crescent, snapping the platter in half. The broken edge dangled over the side, attached by the thin film coating the surface of the disc. It must have looked cool and cinematic. I hope it did, because that fucking hurt more than I thought. “Now it doesn’t exist.”

“Thanks for not fighting this, Shelly. It helps. A lot. That’s how I got them to give up the copy of the recording. I told them you’d cooperate and not cause a problem. This will smooth things over with them. Just be patient and I’ll do what I can to get things back on track.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not unemployed or unemployable.”

I went down to the lobby alone, and Carlos checked out the contents of the box per his instructions, liberating my ID from me before I signed out and left the building.

---

By the time I was near home, the shock dissipated into rage, and I was pissed off. Mostly at myself for being such a complete moron. All the sexual harassment I could have been bounced on if I’d just reached that extra inch to grab ass. The insubordination if I’d just argued my points a little harder. There were a bunch of less chickenshit ways I could have gone out on, but I got pinched for the stupid crap you gossip about in the lunch room. I wanted to be angry at Jeff, but he was trying to protect me as much as he could, and I was basically a giant liability which he was able to defuse before really causing some explosive damage.

At my offramp, there was a one-legged black homeless guy panhandling. As I crept forward in line, I peripherally watched him grow increasingly animated and aggressive. I was almost at the corner when he took a small wooden pike with a sign for the upcoming guitar expo attached and plucked it from the chain-link fence behind him. He waved it above him and then pitched it over the fence behind him, leering at me. Normally, I’d ignore the antics of beggars, but I guess I was just feeling confrontational given the day so far.

I rolled down my window, and very directly asked, “What the fuck?”

Hoppy, who had not expected his attack on the harmless sign to actually generate interest, was slightly taken aback at my comment. “Yo, fuck you, man!”

“Listen you one-legged piece of shit, you get the fuck out of here!” Welcome to my new day job, getting into dust-ups and confronting the homeless.

A CHP officer happened to spy Hoppy at the bottom the offramp, and buzzed his siren. I made my turn and watched in my rear view as Poncherello sized up Hoppy and shooed him away to a different corner, or wherever else he stood around. A few blocks from home, I saw a pair of legs sticking out into the street. As I got closer, I saw it was a Mexican man, lying in the shade of a small shrub on the grassy island between the sidewalk and curb. I thought about saying something, or laying on my horn, but riled up as I was, I wasn’t about to turn into the neighborhood crusader against minorities. So this is what’s going down in my town on a weekday afternoon…

I was happy that I was alone when I got home, because I didn’t feel like dealing with or talking to anybody. I didn’t bother to look on the refrigerator to see what activity mother was up to. Was it lawn bowling on Tuesdays? Or was that Thursday. And when was bingo? Who gave a fuck. It was dark and quiet inside, and I sat at the kitchen table in my cave with a glass of ice and some diet Coke. I looked out the window into the courtyard where Apuri was stirring different kettles of wax, dipping small plugs in, shaping the colorful candles before hanging them on a small wire frame to dry and harden. Is this how things were gonna be?

---

Moms came home around sundown, and sober to boot. We talked briefly but it was really small talk, since she had to make her last packing moves before I dropped her off at the harbor launch in the morning. Other than killing any chance of bringing a girl home, she was a pretty good roommate – she kept to herself, didn’t want to spend too much time with companionship or attention, and other that occasionally passing out here or there, was hardly seen. Before dawn broke we were up, and I was soon one of many family members and friends waving to a limb sticking out a portal window or railing. It wasn’t that bad having to get up early, and even my sleepless night hadn’t left me as tired as I’d expected. I waited until around 10 to call Fran, since I had nothing better to do but complain and plead my case to someone who’d be sympathetic to my plight, but didn’t want to burn any of that goodwill calling too early.

The phone rang five or six times, and I was about to hang up, but Fran answered after dropping the receiver and knocking it around before finally getting up to his face.

“Hello?”

“Fran, it’s Sheldon…what are you doing?”

“Uh, I’m kinda, uh, tied up at the moment,”

“Well get yourself untied. I gotta talk to somebody. Shit has gone down.”

“I can’t really…Mel’s in the other room and she’s coming back in any moment now.”

“So what…”

In the background, I heard Melissa yelling at Fran. “How did you get that phone? Put that down! What do you think you’re doing?” There was the sound of either a bullwhip cracking or a paddle smacking; I couldn’t tell. Fran managed to yelp “I’ll call you back” before I lost the connection.

It was a few hours later when Fran called back. “I shouldn’t have answered, because that just got Mel more worked up.”

“I didn’t realize you have a call curfew.”

“When she’s got her corset on, she’s in charge, and I got punished for breaking the rule.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I had a thought of Melissa spilling out of leathers and cuffs while Fran was chained to a bar wearing a gimp mask. Tens of thousand of my sperm died instantly at the image.

“I told you, I was tied up.”

“That’s what you’re doing with your free time? It’s magical what doors heart problems will open up for you.”

“We’ve always been into having fun,” he admitted. “But now it’s even more important to do so since my little ticker scare.”

“Great, great,” I redressed, trying to move on. “Listen, I’m in a weird spot and I want your opinion, or advice, or…I don’t know. I need somebody to tell me I made the right decision.”

For over an hour I recounted the details for Fran; the barbs between Cami and I, the charity event and subsequent cocktail reception, my descent into the bowels of drunkenness, that foolish phone call, Jeff’s ultimatum, and the general state of shit I’d gotten myself into.

“Wow, you made a pretty nice mess there,” Fran said. “For a guy who holds his liquor well, you picked the wrong time to have a bad episode.”

“Thanks Fran, I know,” I huffed.

“But,” he added, “I think you did the right thing.”

“By leaving?”

“Yes, by leaving. I mean, what you said, that was alright too, but that’s not quite the time and place and way you’re supposed to let that slip out. I thought you were more subtle that that.”

“What, you think I was going to do that anyway?”

“Don’t get mad Shel, but ever since Ephimria showed up, everybody was just waiting for you to do something…well, YOU.”

“What!?!”

“They were even taking bets to see if you were going to Jerry Maguire or Howard Beale over Ephimria. Doesn’t look like it went enough either way for anybody to collect, but you sure blew it.”

“You expected me to make an ass out of myself and trash my career, and you didn’t bother to warn me,” I fumed.

Fran chuckled, “What? The apprentice was going to tell the master, ‘hey, look out – you’re going to cut off your nose to spite your face’? You wouldn’t have listened anyway, and it would have turned out the same. You’re just you, and that’s an easier pill for some to swallow than others. I still think you did what was right, for you.”

“Well, supposing I did,” I pressed him, “now what?”

“If Jeff can get you back there in a year, would you go?”

“I don’t know? Sure. No. Maybe. Who knows what will be going out by then. I may still have hard-on for Ephimria and just end up running my mouth off because that’s how that shit rubs me.”

“And that’s good, because you’re not compromising yourself. But maybe by then it won’t bother you and you’ll go back to doing what you do best. Or you’ll go back and decide you were better off without them looming over. Bottom line is you took responsibility for what you did, and Jeff’s a stand-up guy. You put yourself into that position and left them little choice, but it’s Hollywood and people forget that shit after the money changes hands and the deals get made.”

“Well I have to do something in the meantime…I’m not set up to get by with what little is going to trickle in.”

“Did you talk with Artie yet?” Artie Rosen was my agent.

“No, I had to speak with somebody first who wasn’t going to be thinking about losing a piece of their income.”

“Well, call him and see what he comes up with, and let me know.”

---

I’d known Artie since he was a kid, and he followed in his father’s footsteps, eventually talking over the agency his dad built from the ground up. I’m not saying he inherited the business and didn’t understand the value of building a career and recognition, but he sure had it easier than everybody else who didn’t have a last name helping them get into the game. Of course, he was upset at first when I spoke to him.

“Why didn’t you call me the minute they came to you, you schmuck?”

“Artie, it wasn’t one of those situations we were going to fight,” I said trying to bring some calm into the conversation.

“You know what I got this morning? It was an advance press release that is getting issued next week. You know what it says?”

“No.”

“That was a rhetorical pause, Shel,” he said, though I didn’t see it that way, not knowing what was on that press release. “It says, blah blah blah we welcome the edition of Cami Theroux to Another Fifteen Minutes blah blah blah this company Ephimria sponsoring blah blah blah what the fuck is going on?”

“Well, Artie…”

He cut me off. Must have been another rhetorical question. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. I got copies of signed paperwork saying you’re resigning your position and you’re adhering to all these conditions, and how the hell am I supposed to represent your interests when you’re making decisions without me?” He paused, but I know better than to obstruct another rhetorical.

“According to this, you’re on the shelf for a year. You’re a tchotchke I gotta look at for the next year and can’t do a thing with. And you know that’s my job.”

“Listen Artie, you ever accidentally call your gal the wrong woman’s name in bed? Well this is like that, except I went through the phone book.”

“You’re schtuping somebody at work?” He didn’t get it.

“I said the wrong things that accidentally got back to the wrong people, and I that was my only option. Ephimria and Burnett Media and CNC are getting nice and cozy in bed together, and there’s no room in there for me, not after the things I said.”

“Bubby, why would you be so stupid?”

“Believe me, it was an accident. A huge accident. The kind that’s a message for somebody which ends up making rounds that it shouldn’t. The deal was they were going to ruin me publicly and make me poisonous or I could step away for a little while and let business as usual happen. At least that way I’ve still got a shot at getting back, or doing something else.” I realized I sounded like Jeff, and instead of talking sense into me I was attempting to make Artie understand like I had to.

“Oy…this is not good. We really can’t do anything until this runs out.” He flipped the papers around, and I heard him cup the receiver slightly. “Marcie! Marcie. Order me a corned beef on rye. Extra lean. No pickle.” He came back on, continuing his routine like he was besmirched. “We’re stuck for now, Sheldon. Keep tabs on them and see if they’re thinking about changing their mind sooner. If that happens, boom, gimme a call. Otherwise, ya just gotta wait this thing out. Be well, pal…we’ll talk when you’re on parole from jawflap jail.”

---

“That went pretty much how I expected,” Fran replied.

“Me too.”

“Since you’re not going back anytime soon, I may as well tell you I’m not either.”

“Oh come on Fran, I appreciate your loyalty, but don’t make a stand on my account.”

That got him laughing, even though I wasn’t making a joke. “Hahaha, almost but not quite, pal. I‘m taking the golden parachute they’re offering. I’m done with all that. Take my benefits and retirement and mix in a little disability and that’s it for me.”

“That’s great, Fran. Good for you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not done yet. I figured something out. I want you to call this woman, Nell Tanner. She’s gonna hire you, and get you through this year until things get straightened out at CNC.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch…just call her, meet her face to face, and you’re going to get the job.”

“What job?”

“Speaker.”

“Speaker?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean, like a motivational speaker?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Fuck no.”

“C’mon Sheldon, think about it – it doesn’t violate any of the conditions you agreed to and is the only thing that can take advantage of the faint light from your star power.”

“I don’t want to go around talking to high school kids about having hugs and not drugs. No.”

“I already spoke to her,” he pleaded with me. “You’re gonna get this and you’ll see it won’t be so bad. They do corporate gigs and private address and all kinds of different situations.”

“And high schools. Can’t you come up with anything else?”

“Sheldon, you’re not in any position to be choosy. I did a side job once where I shot her niece’s wedding and I remembered her. We’d talked briefly, but she knew of you and the show, so when I called and asked if you may be a person of interest to her, it sounded like it was a good fit.”

I didn’t want to give Fran the satisfaction but he was right. I may as well be a shoe salesman at an amputee convention. Or is it a hot dog vendor at the Lilith Fair? Whatever. My turn on television was good for swap meet appearances and public speaking gigs, and I would never head out to Saugus to fight for coins with stall vendors. It was really the only clear direction to go.

I wrote Nell Tanner’s number down and took a brief look at the website for The Nell Tanner Agency, which was full of glossy headshots and even glossier smiles, and a wide variety of winners and losers, all available to share life lessons and wisdom, “for entertainment or education”. Minor league athletes, business world refugees, struggling actors, and jerks with every gimmick from guitars to marionettes – they were all here, and soon I would join their lackluster ranks.

I dialed their office, and a bright, chirpy girls voice answered. “Hello, may I speak with Ms. Tanner please? She’s expecting my call…tell her it’s Sheldon.”

“Sheldon who...?”

“Just Sheldon. She’s expecting my call back.”

“One moment please.” There were a few trills of a saxophone playing a complicated solo over soft jazz.

“Nell Tanner.”

“Ms. Tanner, this is Sheldon…Fran spoke with you...”

“Yes, he did. I’ll be brief because I want you come down here so I can size you up. I am familiar with what you do, but I need to see how you look and sound in person. We can go on reputation, which I have built this agency on, but there is no substitute for knowing firsthand what you’re getting.”

I pulled up her profile page on her site. I she was going to make me sound like a piece of slave meat that she was buying, I wanted to see who I was dealing with. And there she was, the middle sister between Queen Grimhilde and Maleficent. Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight librarian’s bun and while she wasn’t wearing them, I was sure there were glasses to go with the look. She had a stern look that went with the mirthless tone in her voice.

“You can come down anytime you like tomorrow, and if things go according to plan, we can look at some potential engagements and get you into one of our groups?

“Groups,” I asked.

“Yes, Sheldon. Groups. You don’t just get booked for gigs, show up, and run your mouth. We have many groups where we workshop our orations, and help each other further develop our skills. Speech is like any other skill, and if you don’t practice and train with others, you don’t get any better. Does this present a problem for you?”

“Uh, no…it does not. No problem.”

“Good. This is a team, and you need to be a team player. You can do that, right?”

“Yes,” I said in my most convincing tone.

Alright, Ms Tanner…tomorrow we’re going to get acquainted.

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 think 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 he’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.

Gary 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.