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.