His Words - Not Mine

The Tangeremon

2009-12-15T23:38:00.000-08:00

That's what this latest installment of HWNM is called.

Season 2 Chapter 26

2009-11-23T09:00:00.000-08:00

Because we all went to the same grade school, then middle school, and finally high school, everybody knew everyone. It didn’t matter where in the social food chain you were; it was almost arbitrary to play a part and fill the spectrum with archetypes. But I remember when the two Jennifers with the same last name were differentiated by their middle names, long before any mention of her could only be in reference to the pretty, popular one. I remember that thuggish, white trash kid Steve Berryholt as a troubled weirdo that you were better off avoiding well before his sickly peach-fuzz moustache, not yet having blossomed into a more dangerous, low class version at puberty. The same goes for Elisha Collins who worked on an English class project with me, and Jocko Dellham who used to play kickball with me and some of the other local kids.

There’s a picture in the yearbook where those shrews who where the cheerleaders and homecoming queens are posing with Denise Silvio, who most of them probably played dolls with or had tea parties years ago. Denise had Cerebral Palsy, and was not part of that elite clique, though the smiles and friendly poses with her in her wheelchair sold a completely different image altogether. She’d never get invited to their parties or have lunch with her, but a photo op was like a time machine and peeled away all the bullshit and pettiness. Similarly, I was friendly with a few of the band geeks, and was almost one of them if I’d have stuck with clarinet, but after hearing The Velvet Underground & Nico, I picked up a guitar. Though we didn’t cross those boundaries at school, it was after watching the Spring Talent Show we hatched the idea to form a band. We were decent, but clearly not good enough to be serious about pursuing.

That summer we played anywhere and everywhere we could because Mark Russell was enlisting in the Navy, and he was the most talented of the bunch. There were a few originals sprinkled in with the covers but we mostly played the same set in the coffee houses and drinking establishments that would let four underage kids play for an hour before their main act or on a Tuesday when they’d otherwise have nothing. Todd Cochran and I both knew Mandy from school, but their families were neighbors, and they were far friendlier than she and I. Her older sister Janet and I - that was another story (also lending itself to part of my sister scoring legacy).

She and I met briefly a few months prior at a party; she’d come back home for the weekend from college, which was only an hour’s drive, and we’d hit it off. Janet and I had a few dates, and while it wasn’t terribly serious, it was a long distance relationship with fair convenience and a small source of pride for a younger man who was able to land a college girl. She’d come into town one particular August night we were playing a set at Toes Tavern, a grimy watering hole on the southside of town. Patiently, she watched from the audience as we entertained the uninterested and distracted crowd. To my surprise, Janet was not the only girl in attendance waiting for me.

I was working in a pizzeria and used to have all the local shop girls come through on their breaks, so it was only a matter of time before I became flirtatious with one of them. I had made mention of the band playing and promptly forgot I’d even made the proposition, but sitting in a corner with one of her co-workers was Helene, clearly there to acknowledge her interest in me. In a panic, I quickly determined the best way to survive the situation was to split them up. Before the two worlds collided, I greeted Janet and told her that I was going to be a little while packing the gear with the band, which would probably not be any fun for her to sit through, and that if she wanted to go home, I’d swing by her place to pick her up after I was done, in no more than 40 minutes or so. The idea of sitting by yourself in a seedy place with nothing to do was easily defeated by the comfort of home, and I’d avoided having two camps upset ant the lack of attention I was paying them. And being charming comes much more naturally when nobody is over your shoulder ready to burst into a fit of jealousy.

It was not harsh, but I could only imagine how Janet would have felt knowing she was waiting in queue for me to take care of other business and was not a top priority. But I was getting a little of that feeling now, holding court back on the terrace that overlooked the pool, the bar behind me inhabited by different faces but the same flavor of nightbird. Waiting for my chance to chat candidly with Gaston Burnett was taking forever, and while I could feel my guts quiver anxiously to talk to him, I was just as concerned about losing some of the fire and adrenaline from making it though the engagement with all my limbs intact. My gin didn’t taste any better now that I was free of the pressure, and I was disappointed that it didn’t. Should the air not be sweeter and cleaner with deep breaths of freedom?

Nell had gone to talk with Mason about their exclusivity since my talk didn’t end in a riot, which would be considered a success to her but a little shy of my hopes of anarchy. But just in case the attendees did get that roused, at that time I had retreated to the service ways between the ballrooms, where I thanked the girls who added to my stage antics and paid them for their time. Soon it was just Carla and I and a canvas duffle bag full of gorilla masks.

“Thanks for helping out,” I said

“If they were selling tickets I would have paid any amount to watch,” Carla said sweetly.

“No,” I smiled, “really, thanks. You helped me get those girls and –“

“They were happy to get paid to keep their clothes on and not have to grind up against any sleezebags for a change. And I like to think that by helping them get away from that I’ll have to deal with them less professionally.”

“Don’t be so fast to stop eager, young girls from earning their tuition.” I was serious about that. A world without objectified women who are ridding horny men of their money is not one worth living in. “And I mean, thank you for not tipping Nell off to any of this. My plan already had a bunch of holes in it, but that would have torn it apart.”

Carla added, “Watching Nell drink herself into a stupor was also a selling point. It was either she have a heart attack or drown herself to be able to sit idly by.”

“Ever have to defuse a bomb, especially when you know it can explode at any moment? Nell is smart enough not to jump in the path of the explosion.”

“No casualties either. Not even yourself.”

“Yelling ‘Sheldon Akbar’ wasn’t quite the endgame I had in mind.”

“Thankfully,” she said. “But what is your endgame?”

I hadn’t thought of that. You spend all your time cracking the shell and getting through defenses that you don’t have any plans afterwards because you never thought you get that far.

“Probably just open my mouth and see what comes out. It’s always kept me in trouble before.”

Carla smiled and gave me a hug. “Go and wrap this up. You can give me the recap tomorrow.” She started to leave but continued. “I hope it doesn’t weird you out or anything, but I have you as an emergency contact.”

“You really want me in an emergency?”

“I just feel that I can depend on you, that you’re a man without compromise. It’s a rare thing to find.”

“I’ll take the responsibility then, since you put it that way. I just hope that I never get that call.”

It would have made the time pass if she’d not left, but being reflective is best coupled with a boozy state, even if the company is worth keeping. No sooner than I’d thought it, Britta and Zia came outside, fresh from a rendezvous.

“Getting into trouble, ladies?”

“Not enough so far,” said Britta. “You conquer the world, hero?”

“Sure, and we even agreed to an armistice. Got the enemy to come here and sign too.”

“Shall we celebrate,” asked Zia.

“Wouldn’t want to take you away from other opportunities.”

“Oh, please,” Zia said, “We just finished playing together for some of those boys in there. It’s time we actually had some physical contact with a man tonight.”

“Even if it’s me, it will have to wait…looks like my date is here.” Gaston Burnett entered the bar, looking like the fox who not just got into the henhouse, but changed the locks and put in an alarm system.

“Didn’t peg that as your type,” Zia lamented.

“No, you’re both way more my type. Hang around if you’re not preoccupied, and I try to do my best to not leave you ladies without plans.”

“We can’t promise anything,” Britta said.

“Neither can I,” I admitted.

Gaston saw I was outside and strolled out.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said.

“No sir, I was just enjoying the atmosphere. It’s nice outside.”

He took a glimpse at Zia and Britta lounging in the corner and agreed, “Yes, you make a good point. Not the first, either.”

“I was worried all my forward thinking and being shockingly reasonable would have fallen on deaf ears. Not a lot of virgin minds in there.”

“Thankfully so…you basically told my advertisers to be concerned about the content that surrounds their products, all because of a little attention from one of our mistakes.”

“A little mistake?”

“Sure. A learning experience for Mason. You look confused. Let’s have a drink,” Gaston said, and gestured at the bartender. It was less than a minute later when they brought over another gin and tonic, and a bottle of ancient scotch that probably cost a month’s rent in certain parts of town.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his full glass, and swallowing the whole thing with a few mighty gulps. “Gotta get the first one out of the way before you can really begin to enjoy the second.”

“I know the feeling,” I said, masking my shock at the manhandling of that scotch. “But I don’t see how you can treat it like a little thing, Mr. Burnett.”
“Please, call my Gaston. I don’t worry about Mason so much. I taught him well, and while he still has a way to go, I’m not so concerned with what he does. There will be some setbacks and some negative response, but it’s hardly going to be the Achilles heel of our operations. I told Mason from day one that he was getting covered in blood and dropped in shark-infested waters, and he’s handled himself in a way that makes me proud.”

“I lost my job and my position on account of this.”

“You lost it for what you said and did, not my ennui about how it played out. Is the issue with me, or our company, or your own actions?”

I paused to keep my composure, including that in my hands which wanted to give Gaston a right cross for his flippant attitude. “You’re right, it was my own doing. It just when you say or do what’s right, it’s supposed to have positive results.”

“You think things didn’t turn out well?” Gaston studied me for a moment. “Sheldon, I think you may be too focused on the ‘little picture’. Attention to detail is good, but you’re too concerned with pleasing yourself by making your opinion and thoughts heard. That should never be more important than the message you have.”

“I may not have had the podium to spread it from, but I know the right people heard it,” I said defensively.

“That is true, Sheldon. And I can appreciate that because there was a time I thought like that too. Let me share a tale with you about my early days…I used to go to our stations in the morning and say hello to everybody, just to let them know that I was still involved there and so that they could see I was not some figure who was out of touch with them. This was what I did until soon, there were plenty more stations. And then other fields we diversified into. And you know what happened? I couldn’t get to all the stations in the morning. Or companies. And I didn’t meet all the people who worked for me. Sure, there were familiar faces I certainly recognized, but you could throw out a name and I’d be just as ready to believe you it was theirs for my own lack of knowing. But they all knew who I was, no matter how many more bricks they added to raise me up in a tower above them.

I didn’t feel bad about it, either. You’re not wrong, but at this level those are not real concerns. Business is war, and it’s foolish to spend time thinking about leading on a personal level. You have to reach everybody, and so the message has to be simple. Sometimes the message is loud and clear and yet it fails because it was incorrectly understood. Other times the things you’re telling them are the wrong message. But when you’re overseeing armies, you look at the overall aim of your campaign and deal with achieving it. Your generals have to deal with the battles and skirmishes and get you the big win. They don’t have to claim every victory as long as the end result is.”

“I never pegged you for a big war analogy guy.”

Gaston tore through another giant glass of scotch, though not as voraciously as the first. “It’s that damned History Channel. I just end up watching it whenever I’m in my room traveling. They’re always playing something about World War Two, which I almost got tangled up in, so I have an interest in it. May buy the channel in a year or so if the numbers are right. And for all we know, they could be a bigger mess then Ephimria. But messes can be cleaned up, and Mason makes a few. But again, things worked out. Your boss is very happy because she and my boy finalized their business dealings. My friends and associates, were not only enlightened but entertained, and you’ve proven that David does not need to fear Goliath, and can respect him as an opponent.”

“Begrudgingly, though. Overlords are still overlords, whether they dominate their subjects or simply absorb them into their empire.”

“Did you ever feel like you were too good for this business?”

“Perhaps better than,” I said, “but not too good for it. It doesn’t take someone like me to point out what’s good or bad or right or wrong, as long as somebody is thinking about it.”

“Sure. And that’s normal. But Ephimria could be an oil company or an arms manufacturer or a shoe factory and it wouldn’t matter. A family is still a family even if one of the uncles is disliked.”

“Or a son,” I added.

“Or a father,” Gaston replied. We had a small laugh, and then I took a few sips of my drink to try and catch up to the dent Gaston was making on the bottle with his third full glass.

“You’re not all bad, Mr. Burnett. Maybe half, but not all.”

He smiled and shrugged. “I know my reputation, and it was not easily earned. But if you’re going to be a bastard, you have to be unapologetic. You have to create a persona that makes you a formidable foe, and sometimes you even need to become it. Which is why I’m going to finishing this glass and retire back to the penthouse to prepare for those two lovely ladies to arrive, and then do things that would make rock stars and Vikings blush.”

“Charming. And here I though it was blood sacrifices and the blood of newborns.”

“Not since my doctor ordered me to cut back on the souls of the innocent. But what is decadent to most is ordinary to people like me.”

I interrupted,” There aren’t many people like you.”

“And so the majority view is it’s an obscenity of excess,” he countered to wrestle the conversation back. “And I could give a shit about what the common man thinks. And you’re not, which is why we’re talking.”

“Doesn’t that level of arrogance ever bother you? You should hear yourself.”

“As should you. I know that you’ve had to come to terms with what happened, and I do believe that you’d do it all again, the exact same way if you were faced with the same situation. Mason, he’s figuring it out, but he may be anticipating things too much. He needs a curveball thrown at him every once in a while. Like this Ephimria thing. Mason has to be able to not let a situation get the better of him. Even if that means getting someone like you to hand him his lumps in front of everybody. I’m too old to give him a spanking, even when he deserves it. But in the end, he’ll learn, or be punished for not.”

It was chilling to see a man so comfortable and confident with the incredible amount of power he wielded. Most of the top dogs are so full of pride and swagger that they become their own worst enemies, but Gaston Burnett knew how to be in the crosshairs and not even flinch. Which is why what he said next surprised the shit out of me.

“Sheldon, there’s no way you’re ever going to get your old job back, you know that,” he said matter of fact. It wasn’t as though I’d expected much of a chance, but just that he was saying it was stunning. “And let’s face it, you’re not going to work in front of a camera again. Not on any of my networks. Ever. And that’s not even coming from me…those are the ruffled feathers of Mason, which I’m inclined to go with.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was, Sheldon. But you don’t wait for lightning to strike twice.”

“Shouldn’t Mason be here to enjoy drawing blood?”

“This isn’t personal, Sheldon…he’s got no interest in jamming spurs in just to see you buck. Besides, you seem to be doing alright opening your mouth to people. I’ve done a few private speech gigs myself, and they’ve paid handsomely. You know what else does? Consulting.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“Listen to me…I’m old but I’m not dead yet, and I’m still the final word in my company. I can let Mason run it the way he wants to, even if that means making him think he’s running it the way he wants to. I’m not sure yet how or what I’m going to do, but you’re a resource Sheldon, and thank God you’re more sage and smart than abrasive. I’ll come up with a use for you that won’t be a detriment to me.”

“You seem pretty confident about that. How do you know I won’t say no?”

“If I figure out the right application for your sensibilities, you won’t be able to. You can still chat away to people – what I have in mind won’t prevent you from doing both, but I will eventually call you with an offer.”

“Great. I’ll be waiting at home by my phone.”

“If you feel like it. But I’ll make sure I call when you’re home.”

“You got somebody to deal with that for you too?”

“Knowing where you live was one of the first things I took care of when I heard about his whole Ephimria clash you had. Of course I can get to you.”

I hoped that he meant ‘get a hold of you’ when he said ‘get to you’, but that wasn’t a point worth lingering on, and apparently Gaston felt the same by dusting off a fourth blast of scotch.

“Thanks for your time, Sheldon. I will be in touch.” He bowed his head as a gesture and took the bottle with him. Zia made her way over.

“Does the hero get a ticker-tape parade?”

“I think the question is, does he deserve it?”

“Why be hard on yourself when you can be hard on us,” she suggested, not looking for my downturn in demeanor to spoil her chances.

“You’re both in for a very profitable and interesting evening, I assure you. I’m sure you know where the penthouse suite is.” Zia nodded. I pulled out her card from earlier and flipped it over, writing. “This is my number. Go have fun, take care of business, but hold on to my number. I think you’re going to find yourself in situations that require discretion, and that’s a very important person you’re getting involved with. Very important and powerful. Some would even say dangerous. Anything…out of the ordinary or interesting comes up, don’t forget that number. It’s really for his safety and much as it is yours.”

She looked at it suspiciously. “Hmmm…I’m not sure about this. What’s in it for you?”

“Probably nothing, but I’m doing my good deed and setting you up with one of the few people who can allow you to retire decades before you planned. Just remember me and call me if you ever think you have a reason to.”

“And I know when that will be, right?”

“You will.”

They slinked away, headed for great opportunity.

---

I’ll admit that there was more time after that night to sit around a wait for things to happen than I’d expected. Immediately after landing the deal, Nell took off for Europe to work on other opportunities. Having a friend in Burnett Media was going to pay off handsomely, just for the sheer volume of doors it opened by being associated with them. She sent me thanks in a lavish gift basket with champagne and caviar and other overpriced delicacies that I called Cami over to enjoy, seeing as it should go to waste on my untrained palette. Just to show here there were no hard feelings or awkwardness. Cami was able to restrain herself, but warned me not to be surprised if she called sometime, looking for…well, she said somebody who would appreciate the finer things, but I had my own idea what that was polite speak for.

Sunday was clear that Nell would be angling for bigger and better things for me, her wild card and closer, though I thought I was just exceptional for retaining the new car smell for longer than normal.

“You can’t do high schools and felons anymore,” she laughed, “but that’s not where you want to be anyway. When the time comes, and the right group is lined up, she’s going to pull the trigger and send you in.”

“Anything look like it’s coming up,” I pressed her.

“Oh, Sheldon…you’ll have a chance to get back out there and work your magic. In the meantime you get to do whatever you want and get paid for just waiting. You’ll get the call, but until then, figure out your hobbies and don’t lose any of that charisma.”

So I made sure that the place was clean and I kept up with my exercise and diet, keeping what passed in my case as peak form for when I actually had to do something. It had been close to a month I was living a simple, slightly monastic life when my phone finally rang. It was unfamiliar, hearing it chime after a long run of silence, and the first two rings were taken just to make the identification that it was the phone and that it should be answered. Who was it and what was I in for?

“Hello…”

Season 2 Chapter 25

2009-11-16T01:19:00.000-08:00

“Before I finally get around to making some sort of a point, I have one more story to tell you. Please direct your attention to the immense screen directly behind me.”

The screen changed from dark to bright white. Into the frame stepped a young man in a Hang Ten t-shirt with long hair tucked behind his ears. He wore heavily framed spectacles and had a small patch of hair nestled just below his lower lip. If the image were not in black and white, you would have been able to tell that the shirt contained an array of brown, yellow, and white stripes. He stared with stoic intensity through his lenses into the lens of the camera and said in a familiar voice, “Do something.”

The ensuing footage following the man’s statement was a montage of all-too-familiar third world tragedies and triumphs—starving children, mothers holding their infected babies, skinny men holding out their hands for bread or jobs, children frolicking around the village water pump, an overcrowded classroom, a little boy with a cleft palate, etc.

Over the imagery the man’s voice continued, “You can make the difference. Together we can change the world. But you have to…”

The screen quickly cut back to the man’s face.

“Do something. Call now to find out how you can become a part of Aid First.”

Left on the screen was an 800 number and the logo for Aid First. Then the screen went dark, and the spotlight shined its beam on me again.

“Compelling stuff, eh?”

It’s always nice to get folks to think about someone other than themselves, but that’s not what I ultimately was trying to do. I wanted the commercial to sink in, so the impact of what I had to say could be felt with the proper intensity.

“Now please don’t try to call that 800 number. That little spot debuted in 1991. And the man with the long hair and the goofy glasses you may recognize. Yes, he was a little skinnier and a little hairier, but that guy was me. Back then I was an intern for MTV News, and I was a somewhat known on-air correspondent. I had a little cachet with Generation X. And to answer the question that’s bugging you presently, I have no idea what happened to that t-shirt.

“That guy in the commercial was pretty serious. From a first person perspective I can say without a doubt he was. He really believed in what he was doing. It wasn’t his idea, but it didn’t take much convincing to get him to use the trust he’d built up with the young folks and point them towards the noble cause of serving humanity. You’d think altruism would have been my primary motivator in this situation, and it definitely was a factor, but I’ll show you, now, what really sealed the deal for me. For those of you who know me well, this will come as no surprise.”

Within a second or two, the giant portrait of a stunning brunette was projected on the screen behind me. I made sure not to look at it for fear of losing what little concentration I had at the moment.

“The angelic visage over my shoulder here belonged to my girlfriend at the time. To say I was whipped is an understatement. She was smarter than me, and she was funny, and, well, she looked like that. I ended up marrying her. At that time she happened to be head of marketing at Aid First. She got me the little side job as their spokesperson. Together we were going to change the world. I never actually visited Africa, Central America, or any far off impoverished nation. I was obsessed then, as I am today, with life in my own backyard. The only bits of the Aid First organization I came in contact with were the motivational gatherings they organized throughout the country. They called them ‘Do Something Rallies’. I trusted that we were doing a good thing—that my wife was doing a good thing.

“Over time little ugly truths surfaced that began to chip away at that trust. And the little ugly truths got bigger and bigger until…”

I paused for effect. I let the suspense bubble over, and I didn’t quite let it resolve.

“Well, I first started to suspect something was amiss when a passerby on the street said to me, ‘Hey, Sheldon, have you volunteered lately for Aid First, you fucking asshole!’ Not kidding at all. That’s exactly what she said. I’ll never forget it. So I figured it was about time I call the 800 number and see what the girl may have been so upset about.

“You pretty much would have been dealt two options when you called the 800 number. (A), give us money, or (B), volunteer. I had money, but the angry girl seemed to have a problem with volunteering, so I opted to volunteer. I was directed to go to an Aid First volunteer center for orientation. When I got there, I sat through a lengthy video presentation about the importance of being a part of Aid First—how millions of people depended on the work we do. It really got you in the mood to take some action and do your part. After the video, I was ready to get to work. Well, the work they wanted us to do was… You guessed it. Go out and get more money-- door-to-door, over the phone, on the street corner. Get money for Aid First. In fact they made you sign a pledge for how much money you were going to bring in. They didn’t make me sign a pledge because I was Sheldon, the TV ad guy, but I took a pledge sheet from them to see what everyone was signing. It turned out, after reading the fine print, the pledge was legally binding. This meant that if you didn’t pull in what you pledged, you had to come up with the money yourself. And there was a minimum pledge you could make. And if you didn’t make your pledge, they’d hound you for the rest of your life. I always wondered how my wife was able to afford a Porsche working for a non-profit. It was all starting to make sense. I circled and highlighted the parts of the pledge sheet I had issues with and threw it in my wife’s face. She agreed it didn’t seem right, and was going to look into it.

“It didn’t take long before the New York attorney general began to investigate Aid First. You see this guy behind me?”

I pointed my thumb back at the screen again showing a photo of a man in a suit in handcuffs being led away by marshals.

“He was the head of Aid First. He was indicted and convicted on many counts of fraud and embezzling. It turns out Aid First really didn’t do much besides collect money. Oh, there were a few little things here and there they did for photo ops and propaganda, but almost all of the money went straight into this guy and his inner circle’s pockets. My wife was in the inner circle. Don’t worry about her. She finished her community service long ago. The divorce papers were signed right around that time as well. Honestly, there were a lot of other things between us I could go on about, and a lot of times I was probably the bad guy, but this little shenanigan made it a lot easier to walk away. Not to mention Mr. Raid First Aid Last was giving my wife more than money.

“You can take all this as cautionary tale—an ethical no-brainer, if you will. That’s fine. I don’t mind. You should get all that. But we’re talking about you and me here today. Mainly we’ve been talking about me so far. Of course I was hurt by my wife’s betrayal. But the thing that really just destroyed me was the hit to my integrity—to my reputation. In a way I was the most public face of Aid First. I was too blinded and too naïve to see what was really going on. I associated my name and face with a brand that was complete bullshit. It wasn’t an easy thing to bounce back from. I look different now, but I’m still that guy. I had to pound it out in the minor leagues, get my internet video show going, and slowly regain the trust I had squandered. That was a lot of extra time spent regaining lost ground. The main take away from this is not ‘Learn from your mistakes’ or ‘What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger’. You think I’m up here to throw platitudes at you? No, the take away is…”

Large white words on a black background filled the screen behind me appearing one after the other with the last few chords of the famous Richard Strauss tone poem blaring from the speakers.

Integrity is Worth is Longevity.

“It’s so simple. It’s almost silly to put it up there. But it’s absolutely amazing how many people in the world do not get this or choose to ignore it.”

I raised my hand.

“I still catch myself slipping every now and then because it’s always easy to take a shortcut. But to make a habit out of cutting corners at the expense of integrity without feeling any regret is an illness. It’s also costly when it comes to business. Someone who is psychotic doesn’t believe he is crazy. An addict is almost always in denial. And it’s easy to rationalize compromised values in a get rich quick scheme. Yeah, you made money. Even if your actions aren’t illegal though, there is still a quantifiable loss in trust and good alternative opportunities. I’m not going to dwell on what’s legal and illegal because that’s only a subset of what’s right and wrong. In an age of bloggers, youtubers, and instant news delivery, it’s becoming harder and harder to pull a fast one. So why even bother in the first place, seriously. Why waste the resources covering your tracks, when you could be using those same resources to make stuff people want and are happy to pay for. Why assume, like I did, that the enterprise you’re involved in has no negative impact. You think it’s making you rich, but it’s slowly dragging you down.

“Hey, if you’re a cheater, and you die on top, then you win. Hooray for you. But you’ve just set up your progeny to deal with your mess. You just fucked your legacy over. I mean you’re dead, so what do you care if someone is pissing on your tombstone. What do you care if every biography about you shows that you were a complete asshole. You’re dead. It doesn’t matter to you anymore. All players have their haters, right? Maybe you like being despised by normal people. But you have a disease you don’t know you have. To you, all the haters are assholes—they’re the anomalies. You’re somehow the good guy for swindling everyone’s money. You’re some kind of reverse Robin Hood. You can’t be blamed for all the suckers out there. Someone had to relieve these suckers of their cash surplus. It might as well have been you. And right now, you’re so delusional that you probably think I’m talking about someone else. You’re a cancer, motherfucker—plain and simple.

“All this vitriol is great way to kick up the drama, but to really drive home the point, we need to talk dollars and cents. It’s the language everyone will understand. We need to look at a real world example.”

Behind me on the large screen, a giant Ephimria logo came into focus. A bit of a murmur rose up in the crowd.

“Yeah, I’m going to go there. The last time I railed against this stuff, I was in the throes of one of my own vices and was in no condition to talk let alone stand up. Now that I have this wonderful opportunity and the power of hindsight, I’d like to set the record straight and present a more coherent argument.

“As a product by itself, I really don’t have any problem with Ephimria. If it was marketed as a dietary supplement as the FDA approved it, then we’d be cool. It’s proven that the human body needs certain vitamins and minerals, and Ephimria definitely had some of those vitamins and minerals. But Ephimiria needed a way to distinguish itself from the plethora of other brands and generic vitamins. Ephimria was marketed as a wonder drug that could take care of almost any ailment. If it did everything, you could charge more for it, and sell more of it. Pay some TV doctors to recommend it. Pay some celebrities to swear by it. Use a global media network to drop non-stop references to Ephimria. It’s everywhere, and everyone is using it. Neighbors are selling it to their neighbors.

“The marketing originally had a vagueness to it that sort of cushioned it from any claims of false advertisement. But as the campaign grew, more and more official spokespersons loosened up a little too much when describing what Ephimria could do. And without clinical trials, that’s just a no-no. Here are the numbers. A little over three hundred million dollars on marketing for over a billion dollars in gross sales is a pretty darn good for a year. Recently settling a class action lawsuit for close to a billion dollars, after discovering that Ephimiria performed no better than a placebo, pretty much kills all that profit. It’s sort of like driving drunk and calling 911 on yourself.

“The funny thing is that a couple weeks ago, this wasn’t an issue for Burnett Media. Ephimria was just some other tarnished brand. Mason Burnett had already sold his entire stake in Ephimria for three billion long before the class action suit popped up. But a couple weeks ago, the story broke about the sale. Ephimria wasn’t a bunch of punk kids. It was hatched by a global powerhouse. Now Burnett Media is being sucked into the Ephimria vortex. Now every instance where Ephimria showed up in Classic News Channel programming can be found on all your favorite video sites. The takedown notices just can’t keep up with the uploaders. No surprise that ratings are considerably down across all of Burnett’s properties. Burnett Media is an easy target for the other media companies to pick on. None of your shows are fully covering the story, further damaging your image.

“I have no doubt you’ll survive this. Soon most people will have forgotten about it. Heck, I couldn’t imagine boycotting Another Fifteen Minutes with Cami Theroux for more than a week or two. But I have to ask, was it worth it? From a financial perspective, I think you’d have to answer, ‘No.’ There were much wiser investments. The money Mason pulled out of Ephimria does not match the lost ad revenue for Burnett Media. The bad taste in everyone’s mouth will also suppress future ratings.

“Just stick to making good content. Invest in good content. Regain trust, and don’t do anything to waste it. Make this a part of your culture, and be serious about it. Fill your company with people that have fun making good content. Avoid people that have fun screwing other people over. You’ll have fun. You’ll make more money. This isn’t a drug I’m trying to sell you. I’m just a guy in suit that cost a lot more than yours did, telling you what he knows. Thank you. Now let’s bring back out those monkey girls.”

Carla and friends stormed back out on the stage amongst flashing lights to the sound of Animal Collective’s “In the Flowers”—the part right after the initial mellow section when the drums finally kick in. I could definitely hear applause. They were probably glad it was over. I walked off the stage to sit down at Nell’s table.

Nell handed me a glass of champagne and leaned in to tell me, “Now, that wasn’t so terrible. You’re a gifted speaker, Sheldon. I’m proud of you.”

It was the tipsiest I’d seen her. I made sure my lav mic was off.

“We’ll see what the natives have to say.”

It didn’t take long. Mason made his way over to our table and gave me the compulsory handshake.

“Gutsy speech, Shel. I didn’t think you’d go there.”

“Oh, I went there alright. Thanks for the figures by the way. They made for some pretty charts.”

“Transparency, right? It’s unnatural for me, but I’m trying. Uh, my dad wants to have a chat a little later. You don’t want to decline this invitation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of turning down a tête-à-tête with your pops.”

Season 2 Chapter 24

2009-11-09T09:00:00.000-08:00

If you’ve never been to the Beverly Hills Hotel, I suggest you get yourself invited there…it is a great hotel and it has a terrific ballroom. This was the site of the Burnett Media Old White Rich Motherfucker’s Fancy Dress & Backpatting Social, thought the sign on Salon A just said “Private Event”. If you were to send a suicide bomber into the room, you’d probably wipe out half the shitty television programming and advertising. But instead, they were sending me, and I could take them all out if I wanted. I was lounging by myself on the terrace overlooking the pool, bar lightly packed behind me with entertainment types; not the kind I was going to be standing in front of shortly – those were industry types.

There were three or four agencies represented there with their jr. suckasses and glorified mailroom attendants. A couple of struggling actresses and baristas passing for models mixed in for good measure. There were a few unkempt looking guys – writers, and your run-of-the-mill studio development veep next to PR debutants. All of them the shallow, unimportant entertainment fragment of media. My crowd was in the Crystal Ballroom, and actually made important plays in the industry, not angling for a chance to bask in the limelight. Fame and recognition aren’t shit. It’s power that matters. If you ever went into Trader Vics or Dantana’s or one of those old school steakhouses in the day, you wouldn’t see these poseur pieces of crap. There’d be a bunch of plain looking people who didn’t try to get themselves into the background of a paparazzi shot. Guys who didn’t need to have their name known, but folks respected who they were because of what they made happen.

It was my fair maiden gin and I, gazing down on a trio of college gals gabbing around some chaise lounges, oblivious to my voyeurism. I could have been three or four deep already, but this was my one and only drink, and I was just looking to shave some of the edge off before my walk to the gallows. Honestly, I could have spent the evening looking out into the night sky, enjoying the muted coolness that passed for autumn in California. I caught a wisp of vanilla and jasmine as she came towards me in a splendidly clingy black cocktail gown. There was enough room to land a plane in the span between the small panels of low cut fabric, but a pair of perfectly enhanced breasts were blocking any change of air traffic navigation.

“Nice night,” she said, walking towards me with a measured but deliberate gait.

“It still could be,” I replied, smiling briefly but then turning my attention back to the field of stars and calm night sky.

“Buy me a drink and maybe it can be.”

She sashayed over to the railing and rested her elbow on it, leaning so that both her breasts and legs crept a bit more out of the dress for display.

“I wish that I could, seeing how a drink makes work a little more tolerable, but I’m about to have one of the most intense nights of my life, and sadly, it won’t be on top of you.”

She pouted and bit her lip playfully, “But I think you want too.”

“Doing and saying what I want to has never been the problem. It’s not that has.”

Another equally beautiful gal in a gold trimmed white tank dress snuggled up to her friend and looked over at me. There was maybe a finger’s width before her dress rode up to show of panties. If she was wearing any.

Miss White leaned over and whispered in Miss Black’s ear and then giggled. And jiggled. “My friend thinks you’re cute,” Miss White said. “Let all have a drink together.”

“If in a few hours when I’m done you’re both still unoccupied, then I’ll introduce you to some guys who can give you the keys to their car and not worry if they ever see it again.”

Their eyes lit up.

“But I warn you,” I added, “they are not as charming or attractive as me,” which got a smile out of the girls.

Neither had a purse, but somehow, when they came over to be, they were able to produce a business card. There was only a phone number on it.

Miss White extended her dainty hand. “Britta,” she introduced, leaning forward so that her dress gently slipped away at the midsection, making the plunging neckline plunge much further.

“Sheldon,” I said, cupping her hand.

Miss Black received my hand from Britta, and caressed it softly. “Zia,” she said.

“A pleasure ladies, but I’m afraid I have to finish this drink and go radically realign some perspectives.”

“Are you sure we can’t realign yours,” Zia asked.

Goddamn it.

---

I didn’t have much in the way of control. But even though I couldn’t back out, Nell was kind enough to not hover over me or ask when I wanted to charge a little to the company. I doubt she would have signed off on my expenditures without lengthy discussion, so order to make me happy and stay happy about getting up in front of the Burnett Media group and their esteemed colleagues, she had to let me do the engagement the way I wanted to. I straightened the cuff of my navy Brioni pinstripe suit so that it sat just right over my pique front Stefano Ricco shirt, and checked the knot on the Salvatore Ferragamo silk tie that was Windsor knotted. Ng, the tailor at Neiman Marcus had made the pant cuff his at just the perfect height so my John Lobb Oxfords would be shown in all their glory. I had a Patrick Bateman moment impressing myself with the wardrobe I’d selected and Nell paid for, but hey, be happy and stay happy.

I took a slow, deep breath and closed my eyes. Fuck you Burnett Media. Fuck you Ephimria. I exhaled, pushing all of that out of my mind. Inhale power, exhale force. The amber glow of the room faded and no longer glistened like an aura behind my closed eyelids. I opened my eyes and the room was like a black ocean. The incoherent mumbling of the room slowly faded the longer they sat in the dark, and I enjoyed as the moments ticked by, stretching out seemingly longer and longer as they waited for what was going to happen.

There was a low rumbling. Double bass and contrabassoon sustained a double low C, joined shortly by an organ hitting the same note. Thanks to digital editing and one of Vedodius’ mix engineers, we stretched that out a good thirty seconds longer than it was in the regular score before the brass fanfare kicked in. The horns and trumpets, trombones and tubas delivered the arguably the most recognizable three notes in modern composition; the C-G-C melody followed by their climax in natural overtones and timpani drums pounding out. A spot light shown on a monolith at the center of the stage, draped in a black cloth. Around it, half a dozen monkeys started to stand, and as they were reaching full extension, the sheet was drawn away, revealing the monolith to be a giant television with two radio broadcast antenna flanking the sides. A neon colored Burnett Media was made to look like it was being zapped between them, arcing so that a small satellite in between the two words bridged the connection. It went perfectly, timed to the final crescendo of the Einleitung. If I could see, I bet a tear would be hanging off the corner of old Gaston Burnett’s eye. There’s no topping Also Sprach Zarathustra for an opening.

There were applause, but the opening was not finished as the last triumphant note rang out. Before it faded, the distortion of guitars kicked in, and adults who’d never listed to anything heavier than James Taylor or bothered to see what their teenagers had been focused on in their rooms got blasted by the fury of Soundgarden’s “Jesus Christ Pose”. A row of strobe lights fired off at the audience as the monkeys undulated to the grinding riffs and frenetic drumming, unzipping their monkey costumes to reveal women clad in leather bodysuits. The display rotated around, bringing me to face the audience as my monkey masked sexpots writhed in strobe-motion. I stepped off the display which completed its rotation back to the broadcast monolith, and raised my hand. Waiting for the right downbeat, I dropped my arm and the music cut, and a small burst of sparklers ignited at the foot of the stage in emphasis as the strobes switched to full power and sustained a blast of light that made us stringy stick figures in its glare for a moment. The room cut back to blackness, the only light coming from the Burnett Media logo on the stage.

A spattering of applause came, less than the response to the Zarathustra portion. Maybe I should have warned them of the seizure-causing possibility from those strobes. Or my dirty monkey babes. Eh….fuck ‘em. The lights came up to around half brightness and I was alone on stage. I clasped my hands and gave a slight bow of acknowledgement to the room. One of the monkey gals brought out a stool, which had an empty champagne flute and a lavaliere mic, which I clipped in the lapel of my coat. A hand towel was flopped over one of the rungs. I nodded at my monkey assistant in thanks and surveyed the room.

“Clearly, Cam Branson and his pal Jimmy will not be here to perform their ventriloquist act tonight.”

There were nervous laughs, but still a good number of dazed and confused people in the room.

“Good evening everyone, and thank you for attending tonight’s dinner and mini-gala. For those of you attending your first one of these, I assure you, this is not typical. And for those of you who have been privileged to have returned to another one of these evenings, aren’t you glad it’s not typical?”

More nervous laughs, folks still settling in and calming down from their shock assault by simian dancers and alternative rock.

“My name is Sheldon, and we’re stuck together for the next hour or so. I promise you that no matter how rough things get, I’m not leaving. So let me point out the exits are here, here and here,” I added gesturing with both hands to the emergency exits on either side of the room. “I won’t take it personally if you want to save yourself the embarrassment of having to walk out in the middle by leaving now.”

Everybody stayed put.

“Well, okay then, now you’ve been warned. As I said, my name is Sheldon, and some of you may recognize me from years of television that was playing in the background while you were eating dinner or falling asleep or maybe even having a romantic moment. So in a way, perhaps some us are a little more intimately acquainted than others. Most recently, I had a little program called Another Fifteen Minutes on your fine Classic News Channel.”

I paused for the rudimentary applause that followed – not for my show but the channel itself.

“Thank you, whichever one you’re clapping for. But since we are here regarding Burnett Media and we are fortunate to have it’s founder and other top brass here, let us take a moment to say thanks to them for host this event and congratulate them on the excellent ratings and ad revenue so far in this quarter.”

My ape bitches crisscrossed the room with large trays of champagne, distributing the glasses to all the tables. The display behind me turned to reveal my cane and a bottle of Moët White Star, which I took and brought back to my stool.

“Shortly after I received the good news that I would be speaking to you all tonight, I celebrated by getting stabbed in the leg. Other than the fading tingle of nerve damage, which continues to be less frequent, I got a short supply of painkillers and this nifty little plank. So you know, there are easier ways to get painkillers, so don’t try this at home, okay? One of my associates got this for me, and though I regret that I’m not turning into Dr. Gregory House and getting to flip pills and bound about with a cane, I’m happily just as fractious and gruff. Just a few more doctors visits and physical therapy before this’ll be just another trinket of affection, so I’m trying to make the most of it now.”

I held the shaft firm and twisted the top, working both in opposite directions until it unthreaded from the scabbard. Drawing the blade from the sheath, I admired it and displayed it for the onlookers.

“This was much more practical than a wheelchair with a flamethrower.” A better response of laughs than before.

“So over the past few weeks I’ve had my share of free time healing and preparing for tonight, so I tried to perfect this,” I said, exchanging the empty cane for the champagne. “But all that practice has resulted in a lot of champagne that I couldn’t let go to waste. Let’s hope I can pull this off in front of an audience. And not only just in my socks and underwear.”

I held the bottle out and gave a good swing at it, angling it slightly to whisk the cork up and out, which it did with a satisfying pop. Some effervescent mist sprayed out, but there was no geyser, and more importantly, I didn’t take off a finger in the process. I poured myself a glass and re-sheathed my blade.

“To our hosts, Burnett Media and Gaston Burnett…cheers!”

The room resonated with cheers and applause, as Gaston Burnett, who was in a table towards the back stood up and waved in acknowledgement.

“Sir,” I asked, “Can I have my old job back?”

He shrugged and held out his hands, which made the salutations taper off into mild amusement.

“Well, we’ll look into that later,” I said nodding and then sipping the champagne. I put it down on the stool, and as I wiped my hands with the towel, shook my head no.

“Okay ladies and gentlemen…and marketing and advertising folks, we’re done with the silly stunts and breaking the ice, so let’s just talk. And by talk I mean you sit there approvingly while I prattle on, occasionally taking a moment to make a dent in this bottle. You okay there, boss?”

Nell was sitting a table on the far left of the room, looking as though she was trying to rein in a full blown panic attack. I turned to one of the chimp gals, “Bring her a full bottle, please.” Nell slowly held up her hand and raised two fingers, which titillated the audience.

“A woman after my own heart,” I added, raising my glass in salute to her.

“As I said before, I was, up until recently, part of the Classic News Channel family. Before that I worked across the television landscape for quite a few networks, doing everything from copy editor to newsroom manager to producer. I’ve been in this business longer than many of you have had your mistresses, and I even know some of them because I made the introductions. Nine or ten years ago I was able to attend a similar event, enjoying endangered species and drinking exquisite vintages, back when Burnett was just a midsized newspaper and radio company that was partnering with my old employer NewsCorp for distribution. Legal issues keep me from discussing the circumstances as to why I’m here before you instead of with you, but that doesn’t say anything sharing about my feelings.”

If Mason Burnett’s sphincter tightening at the thought of that could be described as anything, I would guess that it would be like that of a black hole or whirlpool, and thankfully, it wasn’t drawing us all into it. I had to take a glance at my helpers in their sexy outfits to wash the mental image away to continue.

“It made me very sad and angry to have to leave this industry, because for so long it had been my life and identity. But I had a responsibility as a journalist, entertainer and producer to uphold, and that also extends to my actions and feelings and abilities. That’s one of the ideas I will be touching upon – responsibility. One of the best things to happen to me leaving my career was the opportunity to reflect on it and reevaluate my responsibilities – to myself and to my employers. And sometimes, like tonight, you have to do something that’s asked of you even though you do not want to.” I added, “With the help of much alcohol and focusing my attention on unrequited feelings of affection, one can deal with anything.”

A young lady who I know, an associate, was kind enough to share the story of Billy Ransom with me not long ago, which has some parallels. Apparently, he was one of those guys who also had himself a “crisis of faith” and they would say in the ecumenical world. Now Billy, he was a former tobacco executive, a company man who spent his years saying ‘go team’ and really meant it. And like all good servants, he was rewarded with some terminal cancer, the side effect of enjoying your own products. By the time he’d found all this out, he’d already left the company and rattled the feathers of some of the top birds for reasons that are not really known to this day. He was a public speaker by then, and once he saw his days were numbered, he ended up booking a gig with his old employer.”

One of my lady primates came on stage to deliver a manila envelope.

“During his talk, Billy Ransom opened up a manila envelope, just like this and shot six of his former co-workers before shooting himself.”

I reached into the envelope and gripped the cool metal in my hand. Surprise, you motherfuckers.

---

The flash of the camera made several of the people in the room gasp, as I drew it from the envelope and popped a shot.

“Can everybody lean in towards the center a little,” I asked. “I may not have gotten everybody in that one.”

There was mumbling and stunned reactions, and I looked over at Nell, who facepalmed herself. I snapped a photo of that too. And took a few more of the crowd, who were gathering their wits and checking to see they didn’t soil themselves. And from the back, cutting through the fog of noise was Gaston Burnett, chortling with belly laughs at the absurdity and results of the prank. It quieted the room down as their top dog didn’t seem to be afflicted with the same chickenshit fears that I would bother to waste a bullet on any of them. Nell didn’t even bother to pour a glass and drank directly from the bottle. I handed the digital camera off to an assistant, who I gave a little slap on her rump.

“Grrrrr,” she grunted and turned back around to look at me. Even underneath the mask I could feel the disapproving scowl. I just shrugged and raised my glass to her, finishing the glass and pouring another. Sorry, Carla, but that ass was just too luscious not to give a slap too. It wasn’t what we’d discussed as I hatched my grand presentation, but since there was no way to get anybody in there to watch me dance to their organ music, you knew that being part of the circus was the only way you could observe it.

The conversation went like this ten days ago:

“You’re seriously going to make them think you’re going to shoot them?”

“You say that like it’s a bad idea,” I defended myself. “It’s not illegal, I mean, I’m not making an actual threat.”

“Well,” Carla thought, “I don’t think it actually constitutes one, but it’s not in good taste.”

“These are television and media businesspeople. They don’t even understand what good taste is. If I had women gyrating doing a strip tease in gorilla suits…only something as stupid and bizarre as that could faze them. And maybe not even that”

“I don’t know that Nell is going to go for it.”

“Probably not,” I reckoned. “But if I’m going to go down in a blaze of glory, it should be spectacular.”

“Why does it have to be like that?”

“It doesn’t, but when I set out to do something, I don’t like to have to compromise. I just like to go at things head on. You may have noticed I’m a little direct.”

“Tact never worked for you,” she questioned.

“Let me ask this – I’ve been playing it cool with you instead of being aggressive. Where has that gotten me?”

“That’s different, Sheldon.”

“I don’t see how?”

“It’s complicated…”

“Look Carla, it’s not a bald spot – I just got a haircut that was too short so it looks like – “

“That’s not it at all,” she interrupted.

“It’s just what then?”

“I’m just not ready to be involved with anyone…and it’s not for lack of interest in you or anything like that. This divorce, Rochelle. It’s hard to deal with that and still do my job. And doing talking gigs. As much as I want to, there’s no room for me to handle it, or put the time in that it requires. And that wouldn’t be fair to you, or me.”

“Has the time we’ve spent together not done anything to change that,” I asked.

“It’s made it worse,” Carla admitted. “Because it is harder now that I have feelings for you.”

“But not strong enough to follow through on those feelings…”

“Sheldon, that night at the ballet, I was so tempted to come inside afterwards…I think about that a lot. But if I did, I don’t think things would have worked out well.”

“I wasn’t that drunk. It would have still worked,” I smiled.

“That’s not what I was worried about. I wanted to, and I still think about if I did. But this is hard for me.”

“If you’re not ready, then I understand. I don’t like it, but you’re not leaving me with much choice.”

“No, I’m not.” And with that, Carla kissed me. Not a peck on the cheek but on the mouth. It was unexpected, and once I realized it was happening, it turned from a kiss to an embrace. I lost track of how long it was, but it could not have been as long as it felt, which is always the hallmark of a good kiss.

“That’s not complicating this at all.”

Carla smiled back. “When isn’t it complicated?”

“Tell me…how do you feel about putting on a gorilla suit and watch things get complicated?”

“As long as I don’t have to do any dancing.”

---

“Okay, so where were we? Yes, responsibility and regret. The more you have of one, you get more of the other. When I was a student in college, I briefly interned at a local television station. Now, I’d already worked broadcast consoles and even done some spoof programming, but this was my first time inside a real facility. Having learned the technical aspects and practiced them, I was far more learned than many of the actual, paid personnel at the station regarding their equipment. And did I have a chance to show any of that skill or knowledge? Absolutely not!

I was the most well educated janitor the place had ever seen. It was slow there, because it was the holidays, so a lot of folks were either traveling or with their families, and I figured that would be exactly the time I could show my stuff and make myself useful, perhaps wrangle a job there at some point in the future. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the production manager called me into his office, which reeked of cigars and cheap aftershave. He put his sweaty hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Sheldon, I have a very important task for you. Can you take care of this for us?’ As you could imagine, I was filled with excitement.

‘Okay, son,’ he said, ‘we need you to go over to University Hospital.’

‘No problem,’ I told him. ‘Should I take a camera and some recording equipment or what exactly is the story?’

‘We need you to get some thing for Mr. Clarkstern. His medicine is available and we need you to pick it up.’

‘His medicine?’

‘Yes, his ear medicine’

‘You want me to go to University Hospital, now, to pick up ear medicine for the station owner?’

‘Technically, it’s his father’s ear medicine. He’s also Mr. Clarkstern.’

‘It’s almost 3:30 and that’s across town,’ I protested, but it mattered little to him.

Needless to say, I did go across town, as rush hour started, to pick up the ear medicine for the father of the station owner. And if you’re wondering if that helped in any way, shape or form to get me in their good graces, think again. It was one of the first professional experiences I had that made me want to question authority, and certainly not the last. I’m not going to ask any of you to raise hands or anything like that, but I guarantee all of you have had those moments where you wonder what the hell your boss is thinking, am I right?”

There were some sight nods and people smiling in agreement. “Mason,” I said, you better not be nodding your head,” to which father and son both laughed along with the rest.

“There is a culture of servitude, where we are put through our paces and expected to jump through hoops of fire because we’re told to, and it’s done out of blind allegiance. Loyalty is not the same as devotion, and people do not understand the difference anymore. And the worst part is that somebody made you have to do terrible things while you paid your dues, so eventually you have to make the next one after you pay theirs. I hate to be the one to say it, but doing the job is the dues, not the stupid, power play shit that happens to coincide with it. And while respecting your bosses is important, you should respect them enough, and yourself, to not take an extra helping of crap just because they’ve got a spoon.

Supposing you’re actually in a position where you’re not being subject to outrageous demands, then you absolutely have to open your mouth and keep from rubber stamping something it. I regret that I ran that errand because it was nothing more than a power play with my lack of position being taken advantage of, and while I took on that responsibility, it was one of the last times I would ever agree to something without knowing what I was getting in return. And as some of my former colleagues know, when something didn’t agree with me, somehow I was going to make my feeling known.” A brief pause to dab some sweat from my brow and sip a little more champagne.

“I feel like I got a lot of that chutzpah from my mother. That and her love of libations,” I continued.

“When I was five or so, we were out at Woolworth’s doing some shopping, when a man who was doing a marketing study asked if we could spare a few moments. It was for Matchbox cars, and they had a whole table full of new toy cars, all of which were prototypes for upcoming lines. They would show me a few at a time and ask me what I thought of them, which ones I liked the most, and why. They would make different pairings and offer them up to me, noting what choices I made and then ask even more questions. It whole thing probably took 15 or 20 minutes, and afterwards we went one our way to continue shopping.

My mother took me to the toy department there and told me to pick out a toy car for myself. I didn’t understand why, because when I was being good, she would tell me we were going to the toy store, and she hadn’t mentioned it at all. When I asked, my mother said it wasn’t right to show a child all those toys and have them play with them, and then not give them a toy when they were done. The disparity of fairness was clear but the gravity of the meaning grew as I got older and could see where it was necessary to assert myself in calling situations out that didn’t’ seem right or were not fair.

For the record, I picked out a red 1955 Cadillac convertible with a white stripe running down the side that had a little plastic Popeye in the driver’s seat.”

---

“What else do you have,” Fran asked me, as we sat at his kitchen table.

“Not much,” I shared. “I was hoping that the Billy Ransom bit would send everybody running for the door. At least, those who didn’t leave after the opening, or who didn’t stroke out from the lights.

“You’re fucked.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What’s there to tell? It’s a week away and I still don’t have my thoughts in order.”

“So you’re going to talk about taking responsibility for yourself and how that’s something lacking in the biz these days, what else do you feel you need to say about the state of things?”

“Besides owning up to the fact that taking risks is the only way to accomplish anything truly satisfying?”

“Well, that’s something. It was a risk to start talking to people.”

“A forced risk,” I corrected.

“Maybe you can spin that somehow and leave out the ‘resigned under a veil of secrecy and shame’ part”

“I’m killing myself trying to find any relevant part from my life and experiences to keep these people involved and not slit their wrists with a butter knife.”

Fran posed a question. “What is the angle that these other speakers have?”

“You mean, what gimmick?”

“Does it have to be that way?”

I was still wobbling around on the crutches, which were reaching their limit for usefulness. “When I get back from the bathroom, I will let you know.”

“There’s no bathroom break when you’re on stage, Shel.”

He was right.

“Okay,” I told him after thinking about it in my urinary moment of solitude. “There are four types of speakers – people who had something bad happen to them, overcome it, and then incorporate that into their talks. There are people who have some quirky talent and use that to showcase what they say, and people who have a particular career and talk about it. And then there’s people who are famous and parlay their celebrity status into a speaking gig.”

“And you’re somewhere between the third and fourth, and that’s being generous with the celebrity part.”

“Did I ever tell you about when I was near three years old and I met my childhood friend Jed McMahon on a playground? I was too young to recall, but my mother told me the story of our first interaction. We were playing in a sandbox at the park – “

“Wait,” Fran said. “How is that relevant?”

“It’s about a celebrity…Jed was in that movie The Goobers. It’s a cult classic with him and a bunch of other child stars.”

“Your point?”

“Hmmm…you’re right.”

“Okay, you can go on with the responsibility angle, but you’ve also got all kinds of ammo and angles with Ephimira.”

“But I can’t come right out and clobber them. I’d be safer wearing a Yankee’s jersey in Boston.”

“You can’t jam a hand grenade up Burnett Media’s ass and pull the pin either, but you can find a more subtle way to blow them up.”

“You should call in a bomb threat,” I said without any hint of humor.

“You know that’s not what I was going for.”

“I know, but it would help.”

“You’ve got Ephimria, you’ve got wild stories from the show (keep my name out of that, okay), you’ve got fire and brimstone feelings about the state of media and why they can’t keep a decent show on the air but clone all the shit ones. You can find a way to get those feeling across without being too offense. This thing is just a way for Burnett to suck up to their constituents…they wine and dine and show them a good time. You just have to be interesting and entertaining, and you being unable to stop being you, can also be slightly subversive and sarcastic. Stop trying to make it the most important thing ever in your life, and just get them to not throw their chairs at you. If you get out of there alive then you’ll probably land the deal for Nell. And if not, you tried.”

“Yeah, tried and failed.”

“Not tried and died,” Fran modified. “And if you really fuck it up and she fires you, then at least you’ll have more free time to hang out with me. I’ll even ask Mel to call upon her sister to come and pay a visit to cheer you up.

Season 2 Chapter 23

2009-11-02T01:18:00.000-08:00

My crutches were lame. They pointed out to everyone in the room that I lacked the ability to ambulate in a normal manner-- that I was in fact lame. They were the temporary underarm kind, which invited a constant drone of “What happened?” from nearly everyone I encountered. Answering with a few particular conditions such as knee surgery for an old nagging sports injury or brutal ski accident could quickly conclude the conversation in most cases. I began to use “Tripped on a curb” for the folks I had encountered earlier in the week. These types of conditions people can get their heads around relatively quickly. A knife wound is not one of those conditions. Once you say, “Knife wound,” the concerned citizen inevitably wants to know the whole story. If I were in the Bronx, no one would bat an eyelash. But I wasn’t in the Bronx.

Luckily one time when I responded with “Knife wound,” a curious woman replied indignantly, “Okay, I get it. Too embarrassing to talk about. Sorry for showing a little compassion.”

To which I replied, “You seem to have the terms intrusive and compassionate confused with each other. I gave you exactly what you wanted.”

I almost wished I were using forearm crutches. If my crutches were forearm crutches, no one would be asking me what happened. They would all assume I was palsied. Plus I could throat punch people without losing a crutch.

A cane was what I needed. A cane has a slim and low profile. A cane adds an air of sophistication and mystery. When the cane is in use by one hand, your other hand remains free to wave and grab ass. A cane is great place to hide stuff. A cane is simply a great all around prop.

The painkillers put me in a weird mood. The idea popped into my head that I needed a cane sword. I would be ready for the next knife fight, and I would have the biggest knife. I actually found a cutlery shop, which carried a variety of cane swords. I really liked the ones with the dragonheads and skulls but felt their aggressive and morbid symbolism would telegraph that my cane concealed a deadly weapon. It was the moment I decided on a very simple model that I pictured myself at the airport the next day navigating the security gauntlet. My cane sword dream evaporated as I pictured the TSA agent confiscating my instrument of death.

How about a cane with a built-in booze flask? That would put two things I needed in one awesome package. Then I realized that there wasn’t a zip-lock bag in the world big enough to hold a cane. The specter of the TSA ruined my dream once again. At least with my injury I’d be getting a choice seat on the plane albeit without a cane.

---

My experience at Orlando International Airport the next day was actually quite pleasant. Nell had reserved a wheelchair for me. I bypassed pretty much every line the airport could throw at me. My crutches had a much easier time making it through the x-ray machine than any sword cane would have had. The skycap pushing me around was a jovial fellow. I let him do most of the talking.

“You know, Shel, I’m getting pretty close to retiring, and I finally have enough saved up to get my little barbeque shack started. I make a mean brisket, my friend. When I open up, I want you to be one of my first customers. Next time you’re in town, I guarantee you Gary’s Grease Pit will be open for business, celebrating fast cars and good eats. I know having the word “grease” in the name seems a little counterintuitive, but I heard of this place called the Heart Attack Grill that’s making it work. I wanted to steal a little of that magic I suppose. Plus the whole hot rod theme fits into the name. I can’t wait for you to try my brisket.”

We had already gotten past bonding over having sustained similar injuries. The knife that stuck me was matched by the piece of shrapnel Gary caught in his leg while serving in Vietnam. I left the man with a fat tip. I didn’t even care if he was making everything up about the restaurant and receiving the Purple Heart. If the man was emulating a person emanating positive vibrations, he deserved an Oscar.

I was the first passenger on the plane. I made myself a nice little ottoman using my carry-on luggage taking advantage of all the legroom by the bulkhead. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, so I pulled it out to take the call. I looked at the little display on the phone to see who was calling. The screen wasn’t even lit up. I unlocked the phone. There was no call. That was a little odd.

Recalling that radio transmitters and receivers weren’t cool to be using during take off, I went ahead and turned off my phone. A few minutes later, I felt it vibrating again. Didn’t I just turn it off? Maybe I thought I did but didn’t. I pulled out the phone again to take the call or maybe read the text message. The screen was dark. The phone was off. Did someone slip something in my drink? Was I starting to trip down a road I really did not want to go down while stuck on an airplane?

I held the phone in my hand to wait for the next phantom vibration. A few minutes later, I felt the vibration, but it wasn’t in my hand. It was in my pocket. I reached into my pocket only to confirm what I already knew. There was nothing in it. I kept my hand in my pocket waiting for the next wave. It came a few minutes later. Apparently the minor nerve damage I had incurred from the knife wound was causing an area of my left quadriceps to quiver involuntarily. It just had to be right where my phone sits in my pocket. I hoped this wasn’t going to be permanent thing. My phone always vibrates a little before it is about to ring. When this occurs, my hand just slips into my pocket. I had committed this to muscle memory long ago. This would be hard habit to unlearn. Now being a lefty had one more strike against it. Every camcorder I’ve ever owned was designed for righties. Ink smears, writing desks, and potato peelers confound me. I had to use my strongest punching hand to parry a knife attack from a righty. The list goes on and on.

After arriving at LAX and collecting our baggage, Nell intervened as I turned to catch a shuttle to where my car was parked.

“I hope you’re not driving home, Sheldon.”

“Well, I’m going to have to figure out how to do this eventually. I’ll have to take the brace off of course. All the pedal work is with my right leg, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Let’s not take any chances with Burnett Media coming up. I’m happy to drive you home.”

“I can’t just leave my car here.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have Sunday and Peter take turns running errands for you. Their first task will be to retrieve your car. I want you focused, Sheldon. Now let’s go.”

The valet pulled up to the curb with Nell’s white 760. How could I resist?

“So how about a little horsepower demonstration once we get on the freeway?” I asked as the valet loaded our luggage.

“Such a juvenile request. We shan’t be driving recklessly with your leg the way it is.”

“Are you kidding? This thing has active knee protection. We could drive it straight into a wall if we wanted.”

“We’ll see.”

Nell did not disappoint. Once we made it out of the LAX loop, she floored it. It actually freaked me out a little. She was driving like she acted in business—impulsively at full speed.

“You’ve done this before.”

“When you have power, Sheldon, you use it.”

“So you don’t worry about the state taking that power away for mocking its rules and regulations?”

“Part of maintaining power is knowing when to use it most effectively. You take calculated risks. You operate on the fine line between hidden exploitation and abuse.”

“So that’s my problem. I haven’t been typing my risky moves into a calculator first.”

“You take on an armed assailant with only your fists. You insult the head of one of the largest corporations in the world with a drunken harangue. I’d say your calculator is broken, Sheldon.”

“So where do I get a new one? Do I need a new one?”

“If you had the same set of values I have, I could easily show you what you need to know. But based on what I know so far about what you value, Sheldon, I’d say you’ll be just fine without one. A Sheldon with a working calculator just wouldn’t be Sheldon.”

“This is exactly why I’m still having trouble wondering why I’m the guy to talk to Burnett.”

“You’ve heard the term ‘preaching to the choir’. That’s not what Burnett needs. I could send in Gorin, and everyone at Burnett would applaud and nod their heads at everything he would have to say. And they would be no better off after the experience. They would achieve zero growth. This is exactly why I tend to send Gorin to talk to internet startups and charitable organizations. He doesn’t tell them what they want to hear. He tells them what they need to hear.”

“Uh, I think your calculator might be a little on the fritz, Nell. Check your rearview.”

“Damn!”

The red and blue flashing lights of an LAPD Interceptor filled up the cabin of the BMW. Nell apparently had stepped a little too far over the line into power abuse territory and gently pulled her car over to the side of the road. The officer that approached was not imposing at all. The flashlight flicked on to blind and intimidate.

“License and registration,” came a sweet familiar voice.

“Hello, Carla,” said Nell delightedly.

“Oh my gosh! I didn’t realize this was your Beamer, Nell. You’re back from Talking Heads, and… you have Sheldon with you.”

“Hi, Carla.”

“I’m giving Sheldon a lift back to his place. He injured his leg in Orlando,” explained Nell.

“Oh no. What happened, Shel?”

“I, uh, cut myself shaving.”

“Don’t be modest, Sheldon. He was stabbed rescuing a young woman from a sexual assault. Our Sheldon is a hunk of heroic maculinity.”

Nell briefly retold the story to an entranced Carla.

“I don’t believe it. This is crazy. Sheldon, you have to tell me all about it. I don’t care how late it is. I’m coming by after my shift.”

Carla gauged our reaction almost to see if Nell and I had plans other than just a ride home.

“Okay. I might be asleep then, but you can always wake me. It’s no problem if you’re that eager to hear about it.”

“I am. Hey, I’m going to let you guys go of course, but I have to ask you really quick, Nell, have you been drinking at all?”

“No. I was just showing Sheldon how quickly the BMW can accelerate.”

“Well, next time try to just describe it to him rather than show him. I don’t want to see my friends getting hurt in an accident. Just to let you know, if I didn’t know you, I’d be writing up a citation for reckless driving right now, so consider yourself very lucky, and drive safe from now on.”

“Certainly, Carla. Thank you.”

“Bye, Shel.”

“See you later, Officer Diaz.”

We continued on to my place both coming down from the little adrenaline rush capped by the pleasant surprise of seeing Carla. I pulled my suitcase out of the trunk, and Nell helped me wheel it up to my apartment. There were no awkward moments. Nell gave me a quick hug and said good night. Once inside, I rounded up a couple pillows to help prop up my leg and crashed on my bed almost immediately.

Carla never stopped by after her shift like she said she was going to. I woke up the next morning and there were no messages on my phone and no notes on the door. I have to say I was a little disappointed. After seeing Carla in her uniform the night before, my dreams that night were filled with handcuffs and harsh interrogation techniques.

Fortunately, she did make it a point to stop by that day before her next shift started.

“Hey, hero, how’s it going?”

“Leg’s a little stiff and achy, but I have some killer meds to take care of it.”

“I brought you this.”

She handed me a gift.

“A cane. Awesome. This is completely unnecessary, but thank you. I will walk the streets now with much more panache.”

“Wait. Check this out.”

She grabbed the cane from me, twisted the handle and unsheathed the motherfucking sword.

“This is absolutely incredible. You read my mind. You’re psychic, Carla.”

“There is an engraved ‘S’ on it for Sheldon or Superman right here on the handle. I got you this simple one because I figured you wouldn’t go for something flashy.”

“Nope. This is perfect.”

“So give me all the details. I want to know how it went down.”

I expanded on the summarized version of the story Nell gave her the night before. Carla was enthralled. She wanted to hear it blow by blow with every bit of minutiae I could recall. Her morbid curiosity was unnerving yet exciting. Upon the conclusion of the story, Carla put her hand over her heart, smiled, took a deep breath, and sighed.

“Sheldon, this heroic side of you makes me crazy.”

“So how about a little kiss for the hero?”

Carla stared at me for about ten seconds before responding.

“How about you work on getting that leg healed. We don’t want to tear any stitches,” she said as she closed her eyes over the last word.

Carla gave me tender kiss on my bed head before leaving. I spent the next half hour in my most unorthodox spank session. Pulling your pud without moving one of your legs is a very delicate procedure.

Season 2 Chapter 22

2009-10-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

We found our way over to the “Towne Square”, which was one of the fully realized buildings to eat. The Royal Hall, as the sign announced, was deceptively small on the outside, but after passing into the foyer, a series of stairwells and ramps inside led to a massive subterranean complex. It was like a Union Station for corndogs and churros. Our group had gone down the different directions, but all of them put us at the base of a central stem, which we circled, noting the various thoroughfares that dumped you at Victoria’s Kitchen or the Pizza of Parliament. Marcus led us into the area called Tiny’s Tavern, which had long benches and tables and an impressive mahogany bar that wrapped along the walls and created a enclosure to the main dining area. Where we had entered looked like a pair of large doors and the grungy face of a watering hole, but being on the other side revealed the exterior to be some kind of one-sided mirror, allowing a clear view of the other eateries and diminishing the claustrophobic feelings that would occur once these chambers filled will thousands of people.

“Nice design with the walls,” I said to Marcus, who looked impressed at his accomplishments – even if he was manipulating the hands that designed and built it.

“It’s something that we wanted to do to create a private, intimate dining area but not seal it off from the rest of the space. Lets light in but keeps you from being able to look through, unless we want to change the opacity. We put the same stuff in the ceilings to give the impression that you’re not underground.”

“Sure, that too. I was actually marveling at the bar tops lining the joint,” I admitted, hoping he’d magically produce somebody behind there to get a pint or three. We were in a tavern.

Marcus ignored my meaning and went right on ahead with the scheme he intended, trying to impress Nell and show off his playground. “You can see in the skylights and even in the windows,” which Marcus pointed to as he proudly waltzed between the rows of furniture, “it looks just like you’re in an above-ground building.” He turned to Tawny, “We also have mirrors reflecting through.”

Gorin interrupted the display, “Yes. A periscope. We all know how that works. Do you have somebody who can get us a something to eat?”

Marcus pulled out a touchscreen phone and jabbed at it before burying it in his frock. A gaggle of wenches came out with plastinated parchments with our dining options. A man in a period suit observed from the recesses of the bar, and after they returned to him with our orders it appeared they were in training. More servers appeared to deliver the food and clear the plates, and aside from the random workman crossing outside, we were undisturbed.

The conversation was forgettable, and I had little to add as Marcus attempted to charm the literal pants off Nell while Gorin made his subtle digs, trying to dispel the magic and nuance that was being built up around us. Fortunately, the food was better than anticipated, and in addition to each of the entrées we wanted, the rest of the menu was made, allowing us to taste such epicurean delights as roasted suckling and rare fowls. My greatest hit was commending Marcus for providing utensils so that we didn’t need to eat with our hands like they did at Medieval Times, which sparked a lengthy oration on the historical detail he was paying to this project. It allowed for my mind to wander and shut off unnecessary parts to conserve energy. Currently, it was all power to the guts to process the feast.

I was thinking it was close to midnight, but we were only on the cusp of nine, and the coffee enema I’d had earlier was fading, coupled with the food coma. I still had that pill from Nell, and figured I wouldn’t need it if we spent much longer. By some miracle, Marcus stood and graciously elicited thanks for the meal, and told us to explore the rest of the grounds, but to be mindful of the construction and only go where it was not taped off. Nell got up to leave as well, but Marcus gently restrained her by the arm. I could see the disparagement in her eyes, but as our leader, she sacrificed herself to the clumsy charms of our host in order for us to make a clean break for freedom.

“We’ve got to be back by 10:30, so let’s reconvene at the gate mouth by 10,” she instructed, fashioning her own exit strategy.

The bickering between Gorin and Tawny continued once we got away from Nell, losing it’s charm and driving me into the heart of jolly ol’ nineteenth century England. It was nice to see so much disposable income and wealth being funneled into a boyhood fantasy that, when completed, could bilk families of their vacation dollars and create more delusion in the minds of children experiencing the park. I stopped by Yorkshire Park, which was only paved paths around an unfilled lake and post-braced saplings. A hedge maze was still being shaped, but the sod was partially rolled out and piles of it were still waiting to be spread in different parts of the quad.

Beyond that was what was probably their version of the Thames, which was filled with water, and there were some men in hip-waders making adjustments to the London Bridge supports, though they waved me across towards Big Ben Plaza, dispelling my concern that it was falling down. Below the clock tower was a post full of signs, their arrows directing traffic to almost a dozen side streets and alleys. It was a brisk evening – why not head down Jack’s Alley to cut through the buildings to get back to where everybody else is?

In my overtired mind, I was followed by a sheet of fog, and midway down the 500 winding yards of businesses and buildings, that cool film was quite real as it settled in around chest and head level. Behind me, I heard the echo of construction, but ahead there were some shapes moving in the vapor, outlined by the gas lamps periodically spaced down the row. About 15 feet away from the forms it became clear it was two people getting amorous on top of a barrel. Wearing period clothing. I tried to blend back into the shadows and mist, but my modern shoes made enough noise to call attention to my intrusion, and the obviously dressed prostitute turned to cry for help as she kept flailing beneath a man who was wearing a long coat.

“Sorry there guv’nah,” I said for interrupting their little scene, “but if the park’s not open, ain’t it a little early to be dispatching whores?”

Jack the Wannabe turned and scowled at me, and even in the shitty, replicated conditions of London weather, I could see the anger and mayhem in his eyes. He raised a ham hock sized fist and struck the whore-girl to quiet her before giving me his full attention. He menaced me with that fist, and fished a decently long shank out of his coat, gripping the rag-wrapped handle tightly. If you told me this morning I would be staring down a man wearing nothing but a coat and emulating one of history’s most enthralling killers, I’d have first laughed at the preposterousness of it, and then figured I was still on that bender from the night before.

I can’t speak too much for fight styles, technique, or having much experience in dust ups, but there are two things that I could recall at the moment. The first was an interview with Charlie Iron Horse, a bare-knuckle fighting champion on the Jemez Puelbo. He was a spirited old fella who was still tossing blows with guys a third his age. I asked him what the best advice he could give to somebody who knew nothing of pugilism.

“Sometimes, you’re just going to have to take a hit,” he said. “But, you can minimize how bad it will be if you’re moving towards your attacker. It makes it harder for them to hit you if you’re not in the place they were aiming for, and they may miss you entirely.”

“But if you still get hit?”

“What would you rather have, a car accelerating 10 feet and hit you, or give it another 50 or 60?”

“Can I just not get hit,” I asked.

“If you can, then you’re not in a fight.”

The second thing I recall was a gal who was my neighbor some years back. She and her roommate were living in El Paso before they came to know me, and this was back around the time there was a guy doing B+E’s the local papers called the Naked Burglar; yes, on account of his buck naked ass rummaging through homes. He picked the wrong window to pop the screen off and found himself bleeding from the groin when he realized the place wasn’t empty as he’d thought. Having something dangling and unprotected makes for a good target, and takes the spirit right outta ya.

So back to my predicament…

Lunging towards me was the madman, coat flapping like a cape, bits waving like a flag, looking to ventilate me more than I already was. Running, which is always a great option didn’t sound so great, because getting stabbed in the back, defenseless, is probably the worst way to start and finish a fight. So was getting stabbed in the face, bur you could throw more punches that way. I took and few steps forward, threw up my left forearm in anticipation of his thrust. I came off my feet and drove my right hand up. My balled fist made contact with Jack’s jaw and his head rolled back as my momentum pushed him off the ground and backwards. He landed hard on his back with me falling on top of him even harder. We were both winded, but he was stunned. And vulnerable.

I was happy to have the jolt of adrenaline coursing through my fist as well as the numbing shock of jawbone on bones, because the feeling of stranger’s cock against your hand is something you definitely do not want much sensation of. A few major league swings and there was no joy in Mudville for Jack. He was moaning and no longer as eager to dimple me with his shank, so I got up and went to check on the streetwalker, who was shivering with fear.

“You’re okay now,” I said, offering her my hand to help her up.

---

“Way to go, hero.”

There wasn’t a whole lot of pride in the way Nell said it. I was in a hospital bed, with a large roll of gauze wrapped around my left thigh.

“That definitely changed my plans for the evening,” Nell admitted to me.

“Yeah,” I said, pushing myself in to a sitting position. “I was really looking forward to going to sleep in a bigger bed. I thought the park wasn’t open. How’d I end up in the show?”

“As you probably figured, Marcus had employees there doing training while the construction was being done. But those two were having too much fun on their break.”

“It didn’t look like much fun.”

“And it probably won’t feel like it either when they both get out of here. They’re on another floor getting detoxified.”

“Detox?”

“Yes. Apparently a little angel dust goes a long way,” Nell said unimpressed.

“That’s not going to go over too well as an attraction once they open.”

“They’ve been fired and are going to have drug and assault charges brought up. I told Marcus that this isn’t going to me an issue for you…you’re not going to make a liar out of me?”

“You mean, make it a press issue?”

“Correct.”

“How about I not do the Burnett Media gig and we call it even?”

“Nice try, Sheldon. I feel bad this happened to you, but you to get Burnett for us, and it will go a long way for both of us.”

“Really,” I questioned.

“This isn’t a gilded cage I’m keeping you in,” Nell argued. “You may want to return to the business one day, and showing them you’ve moved past what happened won’t hurt those chances.”

“You’ve got an answer for every time I tell you I don’t want to do it, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. You can keep fighting it, and I’ll come right back at you with more reasons why you’re going to do it. Good reasons.”

“Fine,” I said defeated, as I rubbed my leg and didn’t feel any pain. “I don’t remember too much after taking Jackie-boy down.”

“That’s shock. You wandered out of there with that blade sticking into your leg, not to mention plenty of blood you lost along the way. Add the morphine that you’ve got in you, and right there’s a good couple of hazy hours you’re not going getting back right away.

“Just keep me on this drip for another week and I won’t bring up the Burnett gig again.”

“You may get to dodge the last day of the convention, but you’re coming back with us after. I need you to be clear headed and thinking about what you’re going to say. Once we get back, your only focus is going to be that night. So for the next two weeks, all you have to do is prepare the best speech you’ve ever made for me, and not pick at your stitches.”

Season 2 Chapter 21

2009-10-19T01:25:00.000-07:00

The end of my shift working the booth seemed like it took a couple revolutions around the sun before it finally arrived. Usually I could keep a conversation going from starting whistle to quitting whistle. In my hazy condition, I was a bit off my game. It didn’t help that I was able to condense our core message around perfecting the art of success into a one minute spiel. I checked my watch—11:04. An interested conference attendee ambled up to have a chat. I went through the motions, smiling, nodding, raising my eyebrows, and calling on the power of Thor to keep from wincing. I handed him one of our information packets. I figured that had to have taken five or six minutes. I checked my watch—11:06. Was it the coke, the caffeine, or me just wanting to draw the shades and climb back under the covers? Stimulants had their place in the theory of relativity. The booze last night helped, but I really should have asked one of the boys for an Ambien, Xanax, Valium, or even a joint. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when I made it back to my room. The previous bouts of sleep were rare gifts squashed by my early morning.

I had just collapsed on the bed and closed my eyes when my phone began to make noises. Nell wanted to make sure I was going to make it to the lecture on web-based presentations. She really wanted me to get familiar with the latest tech. Had she been talking to Fran? She also had a special surprise for me and the rest of the Tanner gang. I rolled off my bed, slipped my shoes back on, and took the long elevator ride back down. Web-based presentation technology I could care less about, but oh, how I loved surprises. I had time for the three block walk to the convention center. Some dweeb rolled past me on a Segway scooter. I guess he really wanted a good seat.

The lecture turned out to be some decent entertainment. Most of the presentation was delivered via a high resolution projection. Some kid in jeans and a tight-fitting plaid shirt on the other side of the country conversed seamlessly with his khaki-wearing counterpart in Orlando. The kid was even able to field questions from the crowd hearing them through a microphone and spying the questioners’ expressions through a digital camera. After a while, I almost forgot he wasn’t actually in the room with us. I wanted to know who their ISP was. I try to stream porn, and I end up vacuuming the house while I wait for the video to buffer.

After the presentation, we reassembled at the booth, and Nell filled us all in on her little surprise.

“I have a little fun lined up for us tonight.”

Don’t tell me she was taking us to the Slit.

“A friend of mine works for one of the theme parks around here. He’s working on a new attraction and has invited us to come by for a sneak peek and dinner.”

Tawny started freaking out as if John, Paul, George, and Ringo walked into the room.

“Oh my God! I love Disneyworld! Omygawd. Omygawd.”

Nell smiled and almost looked like she enjoyed deflating Tawny.

“It’s not Disneyworld, dear.”

Maybe it was the Slit.

Gorin grunted. “This is Marcus Rhys Goodrich you speak of. I will come.” Beneath that beard I could sense a jaw of titanium-coated granite. I couldn’t tell if Gorin liked or wanted to kill this Marcus character.

Nell nodded.

She had also surmised what state I was in. As we dispersed, Nell handed me a little pill and whispered, “Just make sure you make it to the lobby by seven. The train won’t wait, and Marcus assures me, we will be impressed. You might want to cut that in half.”

Now my boss was my pill supplier.

---

I decided to save the whole pill for bedtime and managed to down quite a few cups of coffee before seven o’clock crept up on me. There was a time in my life when I could palpably sense a large dose of caffeine actively coursing through me. I think I was twelve.

I was looking forward to spending more time with the boss lady, but I had mixed feelings about getting cozy with Gorin and Tawny. We all piled into a plush limousine which magically transported us to our surprise destination.

Tawny was visibly excited. There was a twinkle in her eyes. I found it incredible how she had been able to hold on to that innocence and enthusiasm after coming down from that gold medal podium so long ago never to return. I don’t think I ever had that level of hopefulness even when I was a wee lad.

“Did I tell you guys I’m not really all that into surprises?”

“Afraid of the unknown, Shel?” Gorin asked.

“I just like to have all known information revealed as soon as possible, so I can act on it appropriately.”

“That’s not very much fun,” Tawny said.

“Yeah, it’s also not a lot of fun when the surprise is a block of blue cheese when I fucking hate blue cheese.”

“I think Sheldon has trust issues,” suggested Nell.

“You got me.”

“You have to open yourself up enough to let someone know you enough, so that person can invent a worthy surprise for you. Shall I reveal the details, Sheldon, and ruin the surprise for everyone?”

“Please, don’t, Nell,” cried Tawny.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to. It’s a surprise for me too. Marcus wouldn’t tell me anything about it, and I haven’t talked to him in over two years, so I have no idea what he has been working on. What I can say is that Marcus has worked on some amazing theme park experiences in the past. He knows how to please a crowd.”

“There are countless pop culture phenomena that do absolutely nothing for me. And the past does not automatically guarantee future success. I’m just saying.”

“So it’s the cynical Sheldon with us in the limo today.”

“Even if this elevates my consciousness to a previously unreachable dimension, I’ll be annoyed that I wasn’t better prepared to take full advantage of its enlightening powers.”

“No one ever threw you a surprise party?” Tawny asked.

“Someone has. Many have tried. It pisses me off every time.”

Tawny had to know. “Tell us about the worst surprise party anyone has ever thrown for you.”

If I couldn’t ruin the surprise for her, at least I could ruin her optimism over surprise parties.

“Well, my ex-wife pulled off quite a doozy when we were married, and she should have known better. It started off with her claiming that she had to go out of town on business during my birthday. No big deal. ‘You have to work. We’ll celebrate when you get back.’ So (A) I’m not even that sad about it. It’s not like my mamma telling me that it doesn’t look like she can afford to get me the camera I want for Christmas with me walking around dejected up until Christmas only to find out she could afford it, and now I’m angry at her for lying to me. I mean I was happy to get the camera, but I had already written it off and moved on with my life, and now she’s dumping it on me expecting me to be overjoyed. Sorry, Ma. It would have been nice to know you had gotten me the camera before I had already slipped a demo into my backpack at the store with my five finger discount. I can’t undo becoming a thief.

“So let me get back to the story. (B) I don’t think my wife is going to be home, so it’s not like I have to get home right away. I end up telling one of the few people at my work that wasn’t invited to the party about how my wife is out of town on my birthday. I mention that it’s no big deal. I’m not down in the dumps about it. I’m a little miffed that all my friends have shit going on. (They’re really going to my party.) This girl at work thinks, ‘Oh, you can’t be alone on your birthday. I’ll take you out drinking.’ This is a perfectly noble gesture. I’m not going to turn her down. It was my birthday. I was going to knock a few back regardless, and it’s a little less pathetic when you have someone to drink with.

“Hours go by. Everyone is wondering where the hell I am. I’m getting drunker by the minute with my new best friend and her girlfriends. No one can call me to see where I’m at because they’re all supposed to have ‘other plans’. Finally one of my buddies calls me up saying his schedule freed up and he wants to hang out. Maybe we could get a card game going with the other guys or watch a Stallone movie or Caddyshack or Blazing Saddles at my place. Of course I’m cool with that. I figure it wouldn’t be cool to just ditch my colleague and her crew, so I bring them with me. I open the door to my place at like a quarter to eleven surrounded by three young women, and there behind the door is everyone I know. You can kind of imagine how that looked to everyone at the party.”

“Well, Sheldon, being married means no more carousing with other women,” retorted Tawny.

“Yeah, I can understand that to certain degree, but this girl was trying to do something nice for me. I doubt she had any machinations for me. Yeah, I’m always walking a tightrope when women and intoxicating substances are involved, but in this case it was a pretty thick rope.”

“You need to hone your sixth sense, my friend,” advised Gorin.

“Up to that point I had told my wife many times how much I was not down for surprises. I figured someone who supposedly loved me would never consciously do something to me I admittedly despised. But you’re right, with all the other shit she did to me that I despised, I should have seen it coming. I was a little naïve.”

Nell reassured me, “Sheldon, this surprise should be nothing like your unfortunate past experiences.”

We finally arrived at a security gate and were promptly allowed to pass into the subterranean section of a rather large parking structure. A spunky minder and not Marcus Rhys Goodrich himself was there to meet us at the unloading zone. She guided us through a series of underground tunnels until we ascended a staircase back to the open air into what appeared to be a re-creation of a street in an idealized Victorian London with a touch of Dickens, a touch of Goth, and a touch of whimsy. Some of the facades were still incomplete, and the entire street was vacant except for a few anachronistic construction workers. We followed our minder and a row of gas lamps up the street to a grand gothic castle. The level of detail was awe-inspiring. We were in a world that nowadays in Hollywood would be rendered with a computer. We crossed the drawbridge and passed under the portcullis into the courtyard filled with multiple grotesque statues. We entered the main hall of the castle keep, and then our minder bid us adieu closing the giant door behind us.

“If I was in the fifth grade, this would be pretty fucking awesome.”

“This is kind of freaky,” whimpered Tawny.

Suddenly a series of multicolored flashing lights filled the room, and an explosion of thick smoke filled the other end of the room. As the smoke cleared, we saw a small very late middle aged man holding a wooden staff in what could only be called a wizard’s robe. He spoke in a loud and nasally voice. His accent was a Scottish/English hybrid.

“Welcome to MERLIN’S CASTLE!”

Then he had a puzzled look on his face.

“Nell, I didn’t know you were bringing friends.”

“I emailed. I texted. I left you a voicemail. I told you I was bringing my staff. You never got back to me. I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem. You’re always such a gracious host, Marcus.”

It looked like Marcus was the one who was surprised.

“No. No problem at all. One second, while I make some adjustments.”

Marcus pulled up his robe to fish out his phone from a pocket in his jeans. He called to give new instructions to the kitchen and then returned his attention to our group.

“Um, yes. It is a pleasure to meet you all. I recognize you, Mister, uh, Sheldon and of course the great Ms. Tawny Prietch. Hello, Gorin. It’s always a pleasure. Uh, dinner will be arriving a little later, so please feel free to explore the castle while Nell and I discuss some matters. Come back in half hour and everything will be ready.”

Marcus extended his hand to each of us. Tawny gushed. Gorin, Marcus, and Nell exchanged glances as if to make sure Marcus’ suggestion was satisfactory. Apparently it was, so Tawny and I followed Gorin deeper into the castle to let Nell and Marcus talk about whatever it was they needed to talk about.

“Hey, Gorin, you seem to be a little more tuned in to what’s going on around here. I don’t want to pry, but what the hell is going on around here?”

“Marcus is genius, but he is idiot when it comes to women. I am certain he is infatuated with Nell.”

“And you? You’re a genius with the ladies.”

“I am practical.”

Gorin pulled out his mobile phone to show me a picture of him looking like a bearded douche bag on his yacht with a group of Ukrainian models.

“Can we talk about something else?” whined Tawny as we traversed the parapets.

“Okay, Tawny, let’s talk about your fat ass,” said Gorin out of left field.

“Fuck off, Gorin.”

“Uh, Gorin, Tawny is the antithesis of fat,” I said coming to Tawny’s defense.

“Tell him, Tawny.”

Tawny appeared defeated. Here I was with an extremely rich dude and a world class athlete, and it felt like they were rehearsing their lines for a crappy reality show.

“Tawny, I don’t know what Gorin is talking about, and it really doesn’t matter.”

“No, it’s okay. After I won the gold, I kind of went a little downhill trying to get my life together. After the constant routine of gymnastics dominating most of my life up until that point starting from early childhood, it was quite a shock to me emotionally and physically to not have that routine there. My metabolism was super screwed up from all the training and dieting. I just couldn’t stay thin and ballooned up fifty pounds—maybe sixty at the most. I was pretty miserable. If it wasn’t for Nell, I’d probably still be fat and sad.”

“So why are you trying to bring Tawny down, Gorin?”

“She steals my gigs all the time. She doesn’t have business, entrepreneurial background like me, but she does Fortune 500 events. Is silly.”

“Well, Sheldon is doing Burnett Media. How does that make you feel?”

“Yeah, Gorin, what’s your take on Burnett Media? I’ve got a checkered past with them, and somehow I’m in the hot seat on this one.”

“I also have past with Burnett Media. I immediately recuse myself from any dealings with them.”

“Really? You got to tell me about this.”

“After wall come down, I think I can help shape new free market in my home country. I buy radio and TV station in Russia. I always love TV. I like travel shows and information. But running honest station in Russia is very hard. Very early, Burnett Media wants to buy my station. They want into Russian market. Of course I refuse. A few years pass, and is more difficult to ignore suggestions from the state. Sometimes they ask me to change things nicely. Sometimes not so nicely. Sometimes my people get hurt. I need support from global power. I turn back to Burnett. They want majority share. Only way I accept is to remain as CEO. They agree. How long before I step down? Not one year. Manufactured evidence, doctored photographs, implicating me in human trafficking ring. I have to step down. This is Burnett Media. I do not like Burnett Media.”

“Holy fuck, Gorin. I have to say your Burnett Media story totally trumps mine.”

Season 2 Chapter 20

2009-10-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

My head was throbbing from hours of hard partying up in the Slit.

Ask any one of those perfect specimines of soft, honey colored skin, legs a yard long, gravity-resistant breasts, and the just-right strength of cucumber melon scent wafting off them and they’d thrust for your crotch and coo how they could take care of a throbbing head. Aspirin? It did not exist there, even if you wanted it. Cocaine was what you took if yo weren’t feeling so hot, and I could tell there was a lot of if going around. The bump I took probably gave me the goddamned headache in the first place. Somebody probably cut it with just the right amount of baking soda so that it felt potent but held firm on the cusp of becoming an inferior blend. I rubbed my forehead and took a swift gulp of watery scotch, twirling the lone shrunken cube of ice in my mouth before sending down with the rest of the liquid.

It was still before dawn, but the festivities were no longer in the VIP area of the club, and had dragged themselves to the posh suites atop the Ritz-Carlton. There was a small part of me that thought this elaborate display of decadence and was Mason and Jeff’s way of showing how benevolently superior they were. My own empirical nature was also destructive because it was too easy to let the facts become warped in my mind and believe them to be correct. Realistically, the whole wild affair was just a testing of the boundaries of money and power, and my self-centering of the focus was just my cynical side trying to find fault. I tried to turn that part of my brain off, but there are times like this when, while you have a hard time believing how absurd your conclusions are, you’re glad to acknowledge then even if they are far fetched. This is how I came to have a gorgeous young girl convincingly feign attention to me who looked the spitting image of Nell from decades ago, questioning the chances of coincidence.

I feel that compared to most men, I’m probably hyper-sexual, but that is probably like saying you’re a frat boy who has a serious drinking problem or a reality television star who is a serious douchebag. But I do have sex and women on my mind far too much. I’m thankful that it’s not just repeating in my mind like an emergency beacon or mantra, “tits – ass – vagina”, because I’d go nuts. However it seems to manifest in more bizarre ways. Like having the honest belief that you can find a “porn” version of almost any woman. I guess mathematically, the genetic variation favors the likelihood of there being similarities, and with such a high population, the odds don’t seem so unlikely. Yes, Teagan Presley did really look like Brittany Spears – at least, before she got too much plastic surgery like most adult actresses, and was able to capitalize on that likeness, but what are the chances a stripper is going to look like my boss from half a lifetime ago? According to me, very high. You could compare their pictures and think they were the same person at different times, or but them side by side and swear it was a mother daughter. It was crazy. Shit, I’m drunk.

In my periphery, there were close to a dozen other objects wandering around the suite, which looked like it could fit my place in the walk-in closet. Ian was holding court in a far corner of the suite, arm around a pair of girls and a third boxing him in. Mason and Jeff were in the other end of the massive room, entertaining twins. Jim Hebert, who turned out to be a marketing veep for the convention organizers, gave me more information about himself by observing him in the corner then we spent within arm’s reach earlier. He had a fetish for Asian women, drank rosé, and had half the bladder capacity of the tiny Korean girl who he was chatting with. There were a handful of other guys who seemed to have glommed onto our group, and I wasn’t sure if they were conventioneers or just strip joint attendees. A tiny French man was wearing a chef’s coat and shaving various cheeses over a platter and tending to a propane burner on his cart that a petite filet was being pan-seared in.

Not Nell was telling me how she was in Mallorca last week on the yacht of a Yemeni sheik, and I didn’t bat an eye, as the real one could have done the same. I was consciously aware of our conversation but was not really involved in it, even though most other guys would follow up and ask how her cousin came to know Prince Alphabet and got her and her similarly hot, young girlfriends to spend a few days partying. I was concentrating on not unleashing pent up sexual tension on the doppelganger because I was sure that the next day or at some point later I would grab Nell’s breast or pat her ass in a horrific display of muscle memory. I was also torturing myself with the chaste notion of acting honorable for Carla’s sake, which existed as true and lopsided in my mind as the desire for my boss. I hadn’t made my mind up completely, but I took the strongest step so far in the direction of finding myself a woman who was actually available, or at least to indulge carnal pleasures without worrying about non-relationships they might effect.

The sky outside was changing from indigo to navy, and soon the shade would slip into a bluish grey as the sun prepared to make its ascent. I slowly wound up alone in the sunken entertainment area in the center of the suite, surveying the empty champagne bottles and drained tumblers. Isabella, the real name of the young Nell clone who was passed out on the couch beside me, snored slightly. I was sobering up though it was only because there was nothing left to drink. I should have left as the group thinned, but I observed as I usually do, watching and evaluating the scene as it unfolded. It didn’t leave me with any different insights – businessmen still go to absurd lengths to have fun when traveling since they can’t get away with that close to home, women who keep your company for money care less what you demand of them the more you pay, and that having a fuckload of money can buy happiness if it is a penthouse suite hosting an after-hours party.

---

Mason had a car on hand at the hotel, so it was about ten minutes of sleep I had rather than an hour long walk back past the circle of hotels that dotted the path around the convention center to get back to my room. There were a handful of people milling about, the early risers who you hated just on principle. They went about their morning routines and safely stayed out of mine, seeing the disheveled look in my eyes that matched the state of my clothes. The room had a mini coffee maker, so I loaded it up and set the timer. I scratched out another half hour of sleep in the bathtub soaking thigh-deep hot water, which would have been slightly dangerous if the tub was actually large enough to straighten my legs in. I threw on a khaki pair of pants and a powder blue v-neck tee shirt. It was a little casual, but I was not going to have to spend much time at the booth today, so I aimed for comfort. Besides, I’d seen what some of the others around were wearing, and I could have been much worse off.

I walked into a conference room that had been set up with assorted pastries and breakfast food for the staff of Talking Heads. I received some odd looks, but more for the two cup glass coffee pot from my room that I was drinking out of than for being in restricted territory. I nodded and smirked whenever eye contact was made, but kept to myself as I filled up my deluxe cup with their coffee. There was a plate of muffins that I stood over and had to sniff out banana nut, but I found my bounty and softened the sticky bits of the well done top that I chewed with sips of black coffee.

Tawny passed by the entrance and had a double take before retreating and coming back inside. She pensively checked the card on the outside of the room, peered inside to look at me and then the rest of the inhabitants, before deciding to join me.

“Good morning,” she said in a far too upbeat manner.

I smiled and raised my uber-cup in toast, “I salute thee.”

Tawny giggled like a schoolgirl, which she looked like. She reminded me of those child pageant contestants, looking too dolled up for her age, but without the sultry style of a woman. Her eye shadow was a glittery blue and her lip gloss was a bubblegum pink, which furthered the kiddie pageant look, and once again, she dressed in a mix of workout gear and lay about clothes. The physical toll from gymnastics and the forced development of her body at such a young age gave Tawny her tiny form, but I think that lack of a normal childhood also stunted her maturity. By the time she looked old enough to be taken for a woman would probably be when she grows into one.

“Are you staying in here or coming out to the booth?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She giggled again. I bet she had a sunrise prayer circle with the speakers from the Congregation Mount bureau, ate a cantaloupe with lowfat granola, and did calisthenics in the time it took me to gather the will to live and come downstairs this morning.

“No silly, we have to be the first ones there today!”

“Let me top this off and we can go,” I reasoned with her.

We headed out onto the concourse as more and more badge wearing attendees made their way in every direction. I was thinking of going to sleep after this morning block of standing and smiling, rather than checking out the lectures and workshops as Nell had intended for me. I should have swiped a pinch of that coke, just to keep me sharp for the next hour or two, but I wasn’t back in my early network days, and I was a drinker, not a druggie.

“Congratulations,” Tawny said, giving me a nudge on the arm.

“For what,” I asked.

“I heard Ms. Tanner got a big fish and you’re going to be the one doing the first engagement with them.”

“Really, you heard that? She tell you?”

“No,” she confided, “but I overheard her talking on the phone with Sunday about it. You must be excited!” I wish I could have summoned her enthusiasm over it, and not just because I was running on fumes.

“I should be, right?”

“Yes,” she said with an aw-shucks, wide eyed glee like her pumpkin was getting entered in the county fair.

“Maybe you’re right…I just have my…concerns.”

“Well, it is a big deal.”

“Yeah, but I have a little history with the client, so it’s complicated to say the least.”

“Uh-oh. Is it an ex-girlfriend?”

“Worse. Ex-employer.”

“Oooh, that sounds juicy!” She didn’t quite grasp the severity.

“If I told you the whole thing, perhaps it is kinda juicy, but it is like an ex-girlfriend in a way. The way you’re hoping you went your way and they went theirs.”

Tawny made a frowny face. “That’s no good.”

“No, and I wasn’t too keen to get back together with them.”

“As long as you don’t go all Billy Ransom on them.”

“Who is Billy Ransom?”

“He’s like a legend in the speaker circuit.” She was hesitant about him…there was something else.

“What’d he do? Most consecutive hours talking or something?”

“Not quite. He was a former tobacco exec. One of those guys that was all for their product. Smoked all the time, stood behind it.”

“Sounds typical,” I said. “Where’s the spectacular part?”

“He quit the business because of something that went on with the top brass. Left it all behind and decided to hit the talk circuit. He found out was terminal with cancer and ended up getting booked at his old employer.”

“Must have put them in their place,” I chucked.

“Opened up a manila envelope during his address. Shot six of his former co-workers and then killed himself.”

“I see…not so good for business.”

“No,” Tawny said, looking sad.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I have terrible aim.”

Season 2 Chapter 19

2009-10-05T01:57:00.000-07:00

“My newest team member has an instant rapport with my newest client. I don’t believe in luck, Sheldon, but I may have to reconsider.”

Nell seemed quite pleased with herself. Normally I would enjoy defecating all over another’s parade. Not this time. Not with Nell. Not over a perfectly cooked steak. But bad news for me was like diarrhea. It had to get out.

“Well, Nell, luck moves in both directions. If you knew my complete history with the Burnett Media crew, you’d understand that you may have actually created a dilemma. When it comes to Burnett Media, I’m actually more of a liability to you than an asset.”

In my brief time away from CNC, Burnett Media had predictably swooped in to acquire the plucky upstart cable channel in a stock trade. Jeff got exactly what he wanted. He was now on the fast track to becoming Burnett Media royalty, bringing his brother-in-law along for the ride. Mason Burnett inevitably had made the move from the bush league pyramid scheme that was Ephimria to Papa Burnett’s multi-national mega-corporation. I had mentioned to Nell, shortly after meeting her for the first time, a little bit about my acrimonious departure from CNC. Burnett Media’s recent acquisition was a minor blip in world news. I could see how it could slip past her radar. I filled her in, reiterated my CNC departure saga, and marveled at the irony of Burnett’s Talking Heads delegation. Nell’s reaction caught me off guard.

After a heartfelt laugh, she said as she pushed her papaya salad around her plate, “I think we’re both very lucky.”

“Bad lucky? I didn’t sense any sarcasm there.”

“You have an excellent opportunity to make peace with your former colleagues.”

“I’ll have to show you the agreement I signed when I left CNC. It’s not one of those sappy goodbye and good luck cards you get at your going away party. Hell, they didn’t even throw me a going away party.”

“Sheldon, I tend to steer clear of coarse language, but quite some time ago I once told a former rival that she could take her arrogant smile and put it in the warm, dark, disease-infested place between her legs… not so eloquently. I then proceeded to poach a majority of her clientele. Now she is probably one of my closest friends—a BFF as you would say.”

“Wow. Who extended the olive branch first in that little exchange?”

“I don’t quite remember. It was a very mutual reconciliation. Our paths crossed many years after the outburst, and there was no room in the world for the old animosity to exist.”

“There is plenty of room in my world. I’m pretty much against most of what Burnett Media stands for. We’re not going to see eye to eye on anything, and getting Burnett Media to change direction would be like trying to steer the Titanic.”

“You’re no iceberg, Sheldon. Sometimes we can promote change more easily from inside an organization. This negative energy towards Burnett Media needs to stop. Millions of dollars are at stake.”

“I don’t know. Can’t I just stick to lecturing the downtrodden and underprivileged? I’m really hitting my stride in that arena.”

“We would all love to help those who need it the most. There is just no money in it. I can’t have one of my team members running around involved in all the pro bono work, subsidized by the dollars the rest of my team is earning. I don’t have much use for you if you can’t operate in the corporate world. This is reality, Sheldon. I can reach thousands more downtrodden and underprivileged people by whispering into the ear of one millionaire. You are a celebrity, Sheldon, because people want to hear what you have to say. Someone needs to pay for your wisdom. Eventually, you could be charging hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars for one seat in a room full of many seats for people that want to hear you speak.”

“And then we start putting out Sheldon DVD’s and CD’s and books and t-shirts. I get it. Little kids will find little plastic Sheldon’s in their Happy Meals.”

“Don’t dismiss it. Better you than someone else. You know your message, your worldview, has value.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want to rush to cheapen and dilute that message. The monetary rewards might be awesome, but there is this little thing called integrity that ranks pretty high with me and many other like-minded folks.”

“I would never ask you to compromise your precious integrity, Sheldon. Just look at this Burnett Media deal as a chance to make the world a better place. The fact that it earns us a great deal of money is secondary.”

“Just remember, Nell, non-delusional honesty is my M.O. Think about that before you put me up in front of the wolves.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

I wasn’t sure if the excuses Gorin and Tawny provided for not making it to dinner were manufactured by them or by Nell. It was starting to look like Nell was keen to focus on the new Burnett Media deal. Damn the torpedoes. Nell wanted to ram me right into the bow of one of the largest media corporations in the world.

Surprisingly we did squeeze in some personal talk throughout the course of the meal. I learned that Michael Haneke was Nell’s favorite director. I didn’t think the woman had time to watch movies. It would have been a great conversation starter had I actually seen any of Haneke’s films. Instead, I listened while Nell told me how badass a director he is. I made a little note to myself as I bid Nell good night to see if any Haneke films were in the pay-per-view listings back in my hotel room. I had a feeling though that I would be trolling the depths of pay-per-view porn once again.

I was starting to come around to Nell’s idea of mending old relationships. I hadn’t spoken with Jeff in a long time, and I truly missed the S.O.B. I grabbed my mobile phone out of my pocket to give him a quick call. As I was about to press the call button, my phone started vibrating and blinking. Jeff’s name and face beamed at me from the tiny screen. Were they running some sort of illegal mind tap over there? This was weirding me out. I was about to call the man, and now I was having trouble picking up his call. I finally convinced my thumb to do its thing and brought the phone up to my ear.

“Well, hello, Jeff. I was just about to call you.”

“Somehow I believe you, Shel. How’s it going?”

“Still trying to figure that out. It was fantastic to see you and the gang earlier today. Such a pleasant surprise.”

“We all got a big kick out of it too. Nell Tanner is a well-respected name. What’s she doing hanging out with a joker like you?”

“Earning her street cred. How’s life with Burnett Media?”

“Lucky for me they had a vacancy—head of Burnett Cable Entertainment. I’m watching over almost a dozen channels now.”

“Is watching over the same as watching? You’re going to rot your brain if it is.”

“I’ll admit some of our properties need a little polishing, but it’s a great opportunity—a great challenge.”

“You deserve it, pal. How’s Another Fifteen coming along without me?”

“Well, we had a little false start there with Stuart and sputtered along. Then Cami talked to me about taking over the show completely a little while ago. Something just clicked with her. You should really check it out. She’s made it her own. It’s not the same show anymore, but it’s good. When I got bumped up to head of all cable TV, I offered her my old job, but she wants to stick with Another Fifteen.”

“I’m actually glad to hear it.”

“Hey, we’re going over to the Slit for a little T&A. You should come by so we can all get our heads around this idea of you working for the Tanner Agency and how this is going to play out. Do you know how to get there?”

“I’m guessing it’s not going to show up on my map search. Text me the address.”

“All right. You’re coming. We’ll be there in an hour. See you then.”

---

Simulated sex. I was going to try my damnedest to avoid it. A rather dim-witted old high school friend of mine spent a couple years’ salary on simulated sex. He had just broken up with his longtime girlfriend and was in a very fragile emotional state. He was above hookers, but not above hitting the local nudey bar. There was dancer there he took a liking to. She promised him they would be together some day when the time was right. It took him two years to figure out the time would never be right. She just strung him along to keep him coming back for more as he tried to buy her love.

As a wee lad, I could only imagine what went on at a strip club. I pictured a stage with a bunch of comfortable seats. A woman would step onto the stage fully clothed. Then she would slowly take off each piece of apparel one after the other while trombone players slid their slides through blue notes and the men in the audience diddled themselves. A long time ago I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it was done. Now the women come on stage completely naked and pretty much fuck whatever object is on the stage. And the stage barely takes up any real estate in the club. Most of the property is dedicated to darkened corridors where pre-whores dry hump the paying customers.

The Slit was actually a notch above most establishments. It was more of speakeasy and operated on the down low. It was quite popular with senators, congressmen, and the clergy. And of course for all the convention-goers in Orlando who were in the know, the Slit was the place to go.

When I walked in, somehow the receptionist recognized me immediately and escorted me to a private executive room where I found Jeff, Mason, Ian, and one other fellow who I did not recognize. It was almost clichéd to see them sipping brandy, smoking cigars, and playing bridge. What made it atypical was that amongst the gentlemen, some of the finest pairs of tits south of the Mason-Dixon Line were waiting on them hand and foot.

“They’ll do anything you want them to, Shel,” smiled Jeff.

“Honey, can you bring my friend here a tall G and T?” Jeff smacked her ass as she left to get my drink.

“Don’t you call your wife, Honey, Jeff?”

“Oh, Honey is her name. Or at least that’s what she told me her name is.”

“I’m sure that’s what her mom named her,” cackled Mason.

“I bet you’re excited to see me, eh, Mason?” I asked the son of Gaston Burnett.

“I’ve always liked you, Shel.”

“But I’ve always thought you were a douche bag. How am I going to get past that?”

Ian almost sprayed his brandy out through his nostrils.

Mason replied, “It’s true. I was raised a douche bag. I can’t deny it. It’s all I know how to be. I need your help, Sheldon. Show me how to not be such a douche bag.”

“I don’t know if it’s something you can fix, but admitting what you are is definitely a step in the right direction. There may be hope for you.”

Ian and the girl attached to him made their way over to me. Ian put his arm around me for a solid guy hug.

“It’s good to see you, Shel. It’s been too long. Can I have Darling here do anything for you?”

Darling was darling.

I said to Darling, “Darling, I try to make it a point these days to be a girl’s number one fuck. I doubt I would be able to fill that spot for you with all the competition I face from your past fucks.”

“Come on, Shel, don’t be dick. I know it’s been a while for you.”

“Actually, it hasn’t. But even it had…”

Jeff took control. “The women are distracting us. Ladies, please leave for a little while the big boys talk.”

After I got my drink, and the girls started clearing out I reminded them, “You don’t have to be objects. You don’t.”

Jeff got down to business.

“So, Shel, this is quite a coincidence. We can’t shake you. You can’t shake us.”

“Un-fucking-believable is what it is.”

“Shel, meet Jim Hebert. Jim is an old friend of mine and Mason as well. He’s in town too for Talking Heads.”

I shook Jim’s hand.

Jeff went on, “My first thought was, ‘We gotta back out of this deal.’ I mean you’re contractually persona non grata. The thing is, we all like you. And if one of the recipients of your drunken tirade hadn’t been Gaston Burnett, most likely, you’d still be at CNC doing what you love doing.”

“So it pretty much boils down to Gaston Burnett.”

“Gaston is the fucking dark prince. You don’t fuck with Gaston. Mason will even tell you. The man has his hands on all the strings. It’s not total conspiracy theory bullshit, but let’s just say that Gaston Burnett is one of the most powerful men in the world.”

“Ephimria?”

Mason explained, “My dad dreamed it up one day. He said, ‘Mason, make it happen.’”

Jeff continued, “I think we’re okay with this. Our deal is with Nell Tanner. So you, Shel, happen to work for Nell—a very minor little itty bitty fact.”

“Why risk it? You guys obviously fear this man a great deal. If he finds out I’m involved in some way, aren’t you all a little fucked?”

“Well, he’s old. We’re thinking your little excommunication might have been a tiny footnote to his day… long forgotten.”

“Maybe I’ll get it someday. Maybe I’ll understand I’m some pawn in a game that’s way above my head. You guys do what you want to do. If I happen to be speaking to a crowd of Burnett people and Gaston comes walking in, I’m not going to change it up one bit. It’s not going to faze me. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing he could say.”

All four men were smiling.

Season 2 Chapter 18

2009-09-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

The sign atop the diner just off highway 246 touted itself the home of the Lompoc Rockets, which must have been a point of civic pride. I was alone in the joint save Dinah, the young waitress and the line cook, who looked as though his name should be Arnie. A trio of guys who had been loitering for as long as I had just left, looking at me with the same inquisitive caution I had offered them. It was back to tinkling rain, downgraded from pissing for the last two hours.

I don’t particularly like traveling this neck of the woods when it’s raining on account of a particularly unpleasant experience I had long ago on the road leaving Santa Cruz. My friend Don Berkelwood and I went up there to visit our pal Yodis. It was charmingly illicit, and at some point Don convinced me we ought to cut our evening short and head back home. Normally that’s no problem when you’re around the corner from your place, but this was a few hundred miles…and still, after midnight, this seemed like a good idea to us.

We had not counted on two things. The first was an unexpected traversal of Highway 1, the result of our inability to correctly navigate to the 101, which would have been a smooth, simple drive instead of the winding, scenic cliffside coastal route we were on. The other was a storm system that rolled in, drenching the road. The two lane, ill lit, winding, cliffside coastal road. In the middle of night we drove, hoping to navigate those twists and curves without careening off the road in the pouring darkness. That was 100 miles of white knuckle travel I never want to recreate or relive.

So even with less treacherous road ahead, I decided to linger until there was no longer any hint of downpour to before leaving the central coast area.

Dinah bussed the now vacant table, and then came over to see if I needed a fresher cup of coffee.

“I can get you an apron if you want to stay longer…have you do some dishes,” she remarked.

“”Are you closing or throwing me out? Or are you just flirting?”

“Those are my two options?”

“So far…”

“You’re not from around here,” she added obviously.

“I see it’s ‘flirting’ then…”

“Play it cool and it may be,” smiled and went back to the counter area. She brewed a new pot and returned with a new cup of hot coffee.

“What’s this in-between,” she inquired, brushing a blond lock behind her ear.

“Pardon?”

“Here. What is this in-between? You’re gone when the weather clears…what’s your story?”

“You are most definitely flirting,” I accused her. “And I accept.”

“Oooh, you’re gonna be disappointed. I don’t know if you can handle a broken heart at your age.”

I countered, “I’ll have you know that I’m at least five years younger than you think I am. Those other guys more your type?”

“I don’t date musicians.”

“Those guys were musicians? They looked like roofers…they’re closer to my age than yours.”

“Could be,” Dinah said, “but they’re a band. Seen ‘em in Santa Barbara and SLO once or twice. Not bad, but not motivated enough to make it. Even if they didn’t have some kids, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. Small towns can sometime be the biggest black holes.”

“I know what you mean. I used to see quite a few. But isn’t that what makes them quaint and homey?”

“If that’s what small towns mean to you. You’re not a salesman. Why’d you travel so much?”

“Used to be in television. Got to ‘see the countryside’, as they say. Now I spend a few minutes here and there just talking to people.”

“I hope you’re not a comedian,” she said seriously. It made me laugh.

“No, right now I do speaking engagements. Y’know, motivational and educational stuff. Students, companies…prisoners. My name’s Sheldon,” I introduced myself, extending my hand.

“Really, the comedian thing isn’t your strong point,” she said as she gave a soft courtesy shake,” Sheldon.”

It got chilly, even though the door wasn’t open. Outside, the rain picked up, as though break time was over.

Dinah slid into the opposite side of the booth with her own cup of coffee and sized me up for a moment. “So, Sheldon, why so glum?”

Was it that obvious?

“No,” she replied, “but I just have a sense about people. Comes from being an artist.”

“A bullshit artist?”

“More like rendering. Painting. Some graphic design. Little touch up?”

I nodded and she fetched the glass urn off the warmer to top us both off. “And yet you’re here playing coffee queen of Lompoc.”

“Yep, I create art, and read people, but mostly I’m an ambassador of java.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” I added. “But, yes, perhaps I am a shade less than sunny.”

“Old lady?”

“The oldest. Mother went to move in with the infirm aunt, but she fell of the wagon. Spent a good two hours talking her situation over with her the my car before I came in until she finally convinced me that she was shill on the mend and that I needn’t worry even though my aunt was totally unsure who to deal with it. Then there’s one of my colleagues, who I’ve got the hots for, and even when her divorce is finally over, I doubt she is looking to get a new dad for her daughter right away. I don’t even know if I’m up for it. And I can’t even get into the story about one of my former best friends that I haven’t spoken to since I nearly murdered his career and put mine into limbo. But other than that, things are okay.”

Dinah put her cup down the table and leaned in, looking me square in the eye. “If he goes into the walk-in freezer,” she gestured with a nod of her head towards “Arnie” in the kitchen, “I’ve give you a handie under the table.”

I glanced over to see him with his back turned, watching a small black and white TV perched high in a corner, and looked back at Dinah, who was still looking right at me.

“Perhaps not, Sheldon…guess I’m not going to get as big a tip.” Dinah frowned and sniffled, busting my balls.

“No, I’ve got one for you…get your shit together and stop wasting your time here.”

“Gee, thanks,” she smiled in an overdone manner.

“Really. You talk a good game, but all you’re ever going to do is make somebody’s cup of coffee a little more interesting. That all you’ve got to offer?”

She softened up at my calling her out, but said nothing and bowed her head a little.

“How old are you, Dinah?”

“Just about to turn 20.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“NO!”

“Sick parents? Crippled sibling? House arrest?”

“Uh, no.”

“We’ll, other than being a touch impressed by yourself, there’s no reason why you can’t do whatever the hell you want to do. Because being a diplomat for coffee is really not a career move.”

“The truth,” she began to admit,” is that I don’t want follow my dreams and then have them crushed and fail.”

“So this is safer? Easier?”

“In a way,” Dinah clumsily defended herself.

“Look,” I told her, trying to sound wise without that stern parental tone that makes people tune out, “I’m a grade A, number one, top flight asshole. And that’s not an apology. I’ve been pissing people off and making friends out of enemies - and sometimes enemies out of friends for longer than you’ve been around. For the most part, it’s been fine, but I have done and said and behaved in ways that I couldn’t just brush aside. So never mind that that’s one of the reasons I’m here and not doing blow with Russian supermodels in a corporate jet headed to St. Barts.”

“So if I’m an asshole, as you say, I’m going to kill my dreams?”

“No…I’m saying that despite the fact that I can be, I still did what I wanted and wasn’t disappointed. I’m as much a victim of my success as I am my failure, but you can’t really have one without the other. And you can’t be afraid of that.”

“Which? Succeeding? Or screwing things up,” she asked.

I thought about that for a second. “Maybe both.”

In my satchel I fished around in the pockets until I found a stack of cards bound with a rubber band, and separating one from the group.

“There’s a guy who I met once or twice at our company…Amos, he does the same thing but his main gig is making art. I’m sure my boss would be glad to ask him to take a few minutes and chat you up about options and direction. It’s probably better coming from someone in the same field than what I have to say.” I handed her the card with the agency number on it. “Just gimme a few days to get it together.”

“Wait…Amos Staley?”

“Um…yeah, that’s him.”

“Oh shit,” she gushed, “he’s like one of my favorite artists! And you know him? No way!” She lost about a decade and was excited like unwrapping the Barbie dream house on Christmas.

“Is he any good?” I had no idea. Nice guy but a little odd.

“Uh, yeah! He and Banksy and Damien Hirst are probably the most popular underground artists right now.”

“They anything like Thomas Kincade?”

“That motel room quality landscape garbage? I don’t think so!” Dinah was right. Kincade was garbage, which I knew even without much background in art.”

“So that’ll maybe get you going and consider pursuing art a little harder?”

“Yes! Thank you so much Sheldon.”

“You’re welcome, Dinah.”

She flashed another guilty smile. “It’s Katerina,” as she grabbed the nametag on her pocket. “Dinah from the diner just sounded funny to me.”

It amused me. “Okay, you’re welcome…Katerina.” We smiled and sipped our coffee.

“So…what’s the cook’s name?”

---

The Talking Heads convention arrived unnaturally fast, making the days and weeks fly past nearly faster than my recollection. If the first month or so getting acclimated to working at Tanner was 1st or 2nd gear, the time since then was cranking in 7th – it just whipped by. The status quo had something to do with that, driving on auto-pilot as things settled comfortably into being routine, which was something I was not used to. I was adapting, but the traveling and frequency was nothing like what the show demanded. I thought it would be boring, but life had become comfortable.

Mother was still making Aunt Tilly nuts once in a while, but I found out that she was doing it more to inject a little fire into Tilly when she would get start getting depressed and unresponsive. I told her it wasn’t the proper motivator to shake Tilly from her downturns, but it was the only thing that got Tilly to snap back to focus by taking care of my mother and having to mind the benders. A pyrrhic victory is still a victory, I guess.

Carla was still the object of my affection, even though she had me strongly parked in the friend zone. We’d never made it to a kiss – a real kiss, and it was dawning on me that it was probably not going to. All my pecks on the check, which I did with a good deal of women as a harmless greeting and satisfied my randy nature, remained harmless. I probably sealed my fate grasping at the little free time Carla had available, which also included taking Rochelle along. Though I did get to go to Disneyland for the first time in god knows how long. I’ve got a photo of the three of us on the fridge and a pair of Mickey ears with my name embroidered on the back.

And speaking of not getting laid there, I steered clear of Cami, or more like she of me. And I don’t blame her either for that. Our paths were a compilation of one wild and awkward event after the other, and if there was another to top the last, medical staff, attorneys on retainer, and public safety would all probably be involved. I’ve had women wake up from a drunken encounter and shun me, and Cami took the same route even though she took an earlier exit. I don’t think it’s just me, but a predisposed thing for some women. In her case, it was a reaction to what had (not) happened, dealing with the embarrassment of her actions. Though it also went the other way…

I was surprised to learn that Melissa had a sister who not only looked nothing like her, but was incredibly down for having a good time in the limited span she came out to visit, and then left without fuss or bother. Fran and I were going to watch the most recent F1 race, since he had a far larger television than I. In his retirement, he found the time to appreciate some of the different things that never rated before, but that also meant his proficiency in computers grew and made him the local guru. So much so that when Darlene came to visit she brought her laptop for a tune up, and it was keeping him busy during the time we’d planned. We didn’t watch the tape of the race that day, but we all went out for Indian food, and afterwards, Darlene warmed up much more than she’d let on at dinner. It was good that she was out there for a spot of business and had a room at a hotel, which made giving her a ride back better entree then looking for a subdued corner of Fran’s place to fool around.

It’s great that older women are whores – and I say that with respect. Not all of them, but a reasonable amount. When you get to a certain age, sometimes fucking is just fucking. It’s not like a 24 year old who is getting wasted or making a bunch of bad decisions. If you’re easy and willing when you’re well past your roaring 20’s, then at least you’re old enough to be able to deal with the situation – mostly by not making it a big, emotional thing. I wasn’t thinking about starting up with her and dealing with the fact she lived in Wyoming. On the plus side, that could eventually make Fran and I brothers-in-law if it was serious, but all it did was bolster my reputation as a sister fucker. It was never any of my friend’s siblings, but their girlfriends, wives, or female friend’s sisters, and it was enough times to carry the label.

I reminisced about the adult situations that occurred there at the airport Hyatt that weekend as we arrived at their sister location in Orlando. It was only three blocks from the convention center, and Nell was kind enough to get everybody their own room. We first gathered in the airport as she was coming from Montréal for reasons only she, Peter, Sunday and the American Express Black card knew, and together we waited for Tawny Prietch and Gorin Klaytchko, each of them coming from parts unknown to me. Tawny may be familiar to you as one of the girls on the ’96 gymnastics squad that won gold over the Chinese who were expected to dominate the competitions. Gorin was a business whiz who came to America during the height of the cold war from the USSR (as I will call them the same as he to be historically accurate). He managed to make a killing before Black Monday in 1987, and was one of the few who kept it afterwards and without jail time from the S & L crisis.

It looked like Nell was going heavier on the personalities and pseudo-celebs for her representation this year; Carla told me last year’s triple crown was an architect, a special ed teacher, and a Hispanic writer (presumably to give the group some ethnic flavor). Still, if the hype was to believed, it was a slim group who ended up going to these things, so I must have been doing something right, or at least in my past life. The four of us agreed to meet downstairs at seven to have dinner to discuss what we could expect from the convention, and more importantly, what Nell expected of us. And before that, I did what I expected of myself, which was to have a gin-gin (that’s ginger ale and gin) from the minibar, nap for an hour, and shower before reconvening.

I was not disappointed to find that months away from cross country travel had little effect on the success of my trifecta routine, which left me spry and alert instead of jet-lagged. As long as you get a shot of liquor in you before you sleep an hour or two and take a hot shower, you’re golden. Gorin and Tawny did not look to well for their wear, and they too had covered some decent distance. Gorin was coming from a conference in Sao Paulo that he was a guest at; an old business contact of his was able to sell a few thousand extra entries with Gorin’s presence, and even though he probably tread close to Nell’s territory and likely spoke to the attendees, Nell did not seem to concern herself what happened in international waters, and certainly if it did not effect her deal with them. Likewise, Tawny was at the University of Colorado making an appearance at a US Nationals demo, using her accomplishments to lend prestige to the program and bolster the draw. The Tanner Agency was great if you had other primary fields you were active in, but it made me a little wistful, being singularly employed. That free time and burden of only one job paid big dividends for my waistline. I think I’ve dropped 15 pounds since I left CNC.

We were an odd looking bunch by sheer default of our separate personalities and backgrounds, which translated into our attire: pint-sized Tawny wore track pants and a tank top under an oversized cotton waffle long sleeve, Gorin looked like Rasputin by way of the Paper Chase, his long hair a strange combination with a corduroy jacket (complete with elbow patches), plaid shirt, and bow tie poking out from the sides of his massive beard that cascaded over like a waterfall, Nell sticking with her Italian Vogue look in a Missoni dress. Or was it Moschino? I don’t know which it was, but as usual, she looked both intimidating and incredible. My contribution to the quartet was pair of vintage grey jeans and black button down. We looked like an extras casting session.

Dinner was Greek, which was delicious, but a little distracting with the belly dancing and plate breaking. Nell gave us some directives for the next three days, but other than representing the agency for a few hours a day at the booth, we were free to not only look around and interact with the other speakers and groups, but also encouraged to attend some of the workshops and seminars. Many years ago I was at a convention for Head Start, the government funded program for child development, education, and parenting, covering a segment. It was a strange assortment of people and products looking to get a wedge of government cheese, with everything from potty training coloring books to school logos on backpacks. Other than the segment, I came away from it with a black newborn baby doll as a goof and a slight aversion to the massive halls of conventions.

I changed that tune once I got inside on day one, when I realized that instead of matronly old women and the dregs of Smalltown, U.S.A. it was 200,000 square feet of characters, which I was on first shift to roam free and chat with. To my chagrin, the room was arranged in a random configuration, so next to the podium manufacturer was a speakers bureau specializing in maritime experts, then a group that made marketing and promotional DVDs, and a wireless microphone company. It made me wish that I had Fran and a microphone to document the whole scene because it would have been hard to convince anybody that it was such a bizarre amalgam of companies and folks.

I’d taken a cursory lap around the floor noting the places I would spend more time at later; the booths with the models in front, the agency that had Leroy Kelly (Cleveland Browns, 1964 – 1973), a sign language only group…I was uncertain that I would be able to cover them all in the few days we were there. My time was almost up, so I hightailed it back to the booth to rendezvous with Nell and Gorin, who I would be replacing. I arrived and he was alone.

“Where’s the boss lady,” I asked.

“She is making deal with client,” he told me in English that after two decades living here never got perfected.

“Wow,” I marveled, “she doesn’t waste any time.”

“No, they come up and she start explaining what the agency do, and they take her to meet their boss and make arrangements.”

“Is she coming back soon?”

“I believe so…there she is,” Gorin pointed to the entrance of the hall.

Nell was surrounded by suits walking back to our 8’ x 12’ area, but it didn’t require them to get back to us for me to identify them.

“Sheldon,” Nell said, “I’m glad you’re here. These are new clients of ours –“

“Mason Burnett.”

Surprised, Nell said, “Yes, you already know him?”

“I do. Hello Jeff. Hello Ian.”

“Well, then, since you already know each other, are you going to tell me you know about their plans, Sheldon?”

“Well, that depends,” I said.

“Burnett Media are having a company wide banquet next month, and we will be sending a speaker. And if that goes as planned, we will be their exclusive agency for all company events that they request speakers for. Since you’re familiar with them, perhaps you can help me find which of our staff may be best suited for the task.”

“Of course,” I smiled. “I can think of plenty of our associates that fit the bill.”

And none of them were named Sheldon.

Season 2 Chapter 17

2009-09-21T00:59:00.000-07:00

“Fran, I have a virus,” I told my friend over the phone.

“And here we had this whole discussion about you not sleeping with Cami.”

“No. It’s my laptop.”

“Oh. Bummer.”

“Well, you’re some kind of a tech guy. What do I do? I can’t open a single program. I have an ever growing stack of windows telling me my machine is fucked and that I need to pay a hefty ransom to unfuck it.”

“Sounds like you need to wipe the drive.”

“Not cool. All my notes and all my pr0n? No way.”

“You’re not backing all that stuff up?”

“Backing up to what? The CNC servers? That’s not an option for me anymore. I’ve got this Talking Heads thing coming up, and I need to do my homework. I’m thinking of just paying these scammer guys off to get my machine back.”

“Don’t embolden the enemy. You never negotiate with cyber-terrorists. And we need to have a discussion about external hard drives by the way. Bring it on over, and I’ll see what I can do. I set up a web cam to watch that nefarious traffic light, so I’ve had some more time on my hands lately.”

“I’m coming right over then.”

“We’ll back up your notes and… prawn before we hose the system. You have your recovery discs, right?”

“I hope I can find them.”

“I might be able to fix it even if you can’t find the discs. What’s prawn? You have some giant shrimp on your system?”

“Okay, now I’m really freaking out. Maybe I should call the nerd squad.”

“Save your money, Shel. Don’t let me miss this opportunity to be the guy with the answers.”

Whenever I had a computer related issue at CNC, I’d always check with Fran first, and he usually knew what to do. Every now and then Fran would be stumped though, so I would turn to this kid in the IT department, Yevgeny. Yevgeny never failed. He could hack himself out of the Amazon rain forest in five seconds. Yevgeny had this horribly condescending bedside manner. He was literally dumbfounded every time I did not know the solution to my technological problem. He would shake his head with a smile of disgust as he remedied whatever ailed my machine. “Sheldon, all you have to do is a simple registry edit. A child could do this.” Yevgeny was my last resort.

In my current situation, I wanted to call Yevgeny immediately. I decided instead to avoid certain humiliation and let Fran have a crack at it.

The slow traffic over to the Wilkinson house surprisingly helped to calm my mood a bit. I had time to ponder a Plan B. I’d actually already absorbed a quite a few of the elevator speeches and dossiers I had prepared for various prospective clients. I had generic talking points for those with whom I was unfamiliar. And then I realized at that point I was a salesman. I was selling the Nell Tanner brand, and the exclusive product was I. By missing the notes too much, I was becoming what I despised. This guy likes to golf. That guy likes to make fishing flies. So fucking what, I say. I’m not going to kiss your ass. You’re going to kiss mine and beg me to motivate your people into producing more profit for you. I’ll take your money, and then I’ll tell your people how they can take your money too.

“I’m a little worried about you working on this, Fran. This seems like one of those things that could cause your blood pressure to spike.”

I probably shouldn’t have said that with Mel in the room. If she had a gun in her hand at that moment, she might have used it on me. Fran laughed it off.

“There is nothing to worry about. Besides, my medication keeps everything in check.”

“Fran, the minute I hear a cuss word out you, that’s it. Sheldon and his computer will have to leave,” threatened Mel.

“The bad words actually help relieve pain and stress. I read that somewhere. I would be more worried if he weren’t cussing up a storm. In fact, Fran, you should try to cuss at least a hundred times a day. It could really work wonders.”

“You show me that article, Sheldon,” Mel ordered.

“As soon as Fran gets my laptop working again, I promise I will.”

Eating up that conundrum, Mel left the room saying, “I’m baking cookies for you, Sheldon, and you’re going to put him through this?”

“I’ll only eat the cookies if he makes it through to the other side of this ordeal.”

I set the laptop on the table, opened the lid, and pressed the power button. The machine whirred to life, and shortly after, a message on the screen prompted me to log on. I typed in my credentials and waited. Within a few seconds the first window popped up urging me to deal with the incredible number of infections, discovered festering in my operating system, by downloading the latest and greatest virus-killing software. Closing the window only caused another to pop up in its place. Trying to open any application was fruitless. The moment of truth came when Fran attempted to open the running task manager.

“If we can open this, we can hopefully at least stop the virus from keeping you from running your programs.”

Fran couldn’t open it. He wanted to say, “Fuck.” Instead he said, “Let me try booting up in safe mode.”

Then came another unspoken F-bomb moment after a minute or so of restarting the machine. “We can’t log in as an administrator.”

“Fran, I don’t know what that means.”

He just stared at the screen. I couldn’t tell if he was about to scream or cry.

“We should call Yevgeny, Shel.”

In my head, I went through a checklist of all the bits and bytes that would soon disappear. I handed Fran the startup discs.

“You know, Fran… half the fun of pr0n is tracking it down in the first place.”

“You sure you want to do this?” The pall of despair gently lifted from Fran.

“Do it.”

Fran suddenly found a surge of energy. “I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

He booted from the disc and attempted to repair the operating system. That didn’t work. He downloaded and ran a virus cleaner utility, which turned out to be a Trojan horse for another virus. Fran scoured the web, and eventually he discovered the trick to getting my data back. We drove down to the electronics store and bought a small hard drive enclosure to change the one in my machine from an internal drive to external drive—that’s how Fran explained it to me. He pulled the drive out of my laptop and inserted it into the enclosure. He plugged the now external drive into his computer and pulled off the files I needed. He put the drive back in my laptop. Then he erased it and reinstalled the operating system. And he did it all without making me wear a dunce cap and sit in the corner.

“Good show, old chap. Since you’re still standing, it looks like I’ll get to eat those cookies after all, although it puts me deeper in debt to you.”

“This may sound a little weird, Shel, but I want to thank you actually. I love retirement, but I also like helping my friends out. It makes me feel useful.”

“Well, in that case, maybe you can hear me out on where I think my prick is headed.”

Fran received the additional four-eleven on the lovely Carla Diaz. He didn’t hesitate with his advice.

“It really doesn’t matter if she’s a mom or not. If you dig her, then you dig her, and you make everything else fit.”

“I dug my ex-wife.”

“Yeah, people are going to change, and you can never tell quite where they’re going to go. I think seeing into the future would have a devastating effect on your soul. Think of all the wonderful experiences you would have let pass by just because you knew the relationship would end badly. You know for Mel and me, both sides of our family were against our relationship at first.”

“Well, I could understand her side’s perspective.”

“Sure. A crazy protestant hood like me. That was pretty frightening to an Irish Catholic family like Mel’s.”

“I love how organized religion brings us all together. And when I say, ‘Us,’ I’m referring to everyone who believes the same thing we do.”

My mobile phone started ringing.

“Hang on, Fran, it’s my mother. Hey, Ma.”

The voice on the other end of the line was not my mother.

“Sheldon, this is your Aunt Tilly.”

“Oh. Hi, Aunt Tilly. Is everything okay?”

“You will not believe what your mother just called me.”

“I don’t know. I’ve heard practically the entire English dictionary and then some come out of her mouth.”

“I can’t even repeat it.”

This was definitely not turning out to be the call I wanted to hear.

“If she refuses to apologize, I will apologize on her behalf.”

“No, you will not. She is stinking drunk right now, and I don’t know what to do with her.”

“You’re probably not going to go for this, but usually what I do is get her some more gin. She’ll drink it down and eventually pass out. When she finally wakes up the next day and shakes out the cobwebs, she’ll be bubbly and amiable just like it never happened.”

“This is insanity Sheldon. I’m not going to give a raving drunk more alcohol.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you would.”

Fran’s countenance showed concerned amusement from hearing the one side of the conversation. He was unaware of my mother’s affliction until that moment. I was disappointed. In the back of my mind I kept saying to myself her sobriety of late was a little too fantastic. Now I was contemplating flying out to Dover.

“Aunt Tilly, there are usually little triggers that send her down that path. It’s not yours or anyone’s fault, but can you think of anything that happened yesterday or before that might have had some impact on her psyche. It’s really no excuse for her. I’m just curious.”

“The only thing I can think of is that at my last doctor’s appointment, they found that my mineral levels were too low. Your mother seemed to have a tough time with that for some reason.”

I could see how that would be a little reminder to my mother of Aunt Tilly’s impending passing. Aunt Tilly was Mamma’s self-appointed mission. My mother could take any little thing and turn it into a reason to start imbibing and sabotage whatever mission she set out to accomplish.

Another call was coming in from the Tanner agency.

“Aunt Tilly, all I can tell you is that she will fall asleep, and she will come out of it. She will be there for you tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if I want her to be.”

“Tomorrow would be the time to tell her. Let her sleep it off. I have to take this call. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I clicked over to the other call.

“Sheldon here.”

“Howdy, Sheldon.” It was Sunday.

“We had a little scheduling mishap and wondered if you could do a little talk on short notice.”

“Um, when and where?”

“It’s a transition home in Lompoc. It’s tomorrow evening actually.”

“A halfway house in the wine ghetto? I’m there. Who am I replacing?”

“It’s Vesodious. He’s up in the Bay Area doing a similar gig.”

“Now I feel bad for the chumps who have to listen to me knowing they’re missing out on Vesodious.”

“I’ll email you the details. Most of these guys just got out of prison.”

---

I always enjoyed taking the 101 North. Once I made it through the overheated suburbs of two valleys, I was greeted with a blast of unobstructed ocean air driving down the hill into Camarillo. Just beyond Ventura, the vast Pacific opened up on the left reflecting the afternoon sun as millions of twinkling lights. I drove right through Santa Barbara and stopped at the Bacara in Goleta to make lodging arrangements for the night. It was an extravagant move, but I thought it would provide the right atmosphere to get my Talking Heads preparation moving again.

The halfway house in Lompoc was a stark contrast to the opulence of the Bacara. If there were a welcome mat, I could imagine the tenants would be stapling on the letters “U” and “N” once they found out the speaker was me rather than Vesodious Prime. I couldn’t blame them. My upbringing and life experience were miles away from anything these fellows would have gone through. A connection early on would be crucial. If they weren’t with me from the beginning, they wouldn’t hear the rest of it. I hadn’t said a word and already the ill will manifested.

“Seriously, what the fuck can you tell us that we don’t already know?” asked one eager listener.

“Oh, I know you’ve got all the answers already. I don’t even want to waste your time reviewing the answers. That shit is kindergarten. I just want to talk about turning the answers into action. Pretty simple stuff, but it might be new to you. I apologize that Vesodious Prime could not make it today. I will not even attempt to mimic the flow of the grandmaster unless y’all want a good laugh and reason to lose all respect for me.”

“You’ve got to earn our respect. You don’t know what it’s like to be us. You never will.”

“True.”

Well, it looked like I would finally get my Stand and Deliver moment, only these guys weren’t in high school, and I wasn’t teaching them math.

“None of y’all had a dad like mine, right? My daddy was great. He used to take me with him to the bar. He knew I didn’t like shit food like meat and vegetables, so he’d buy me candy bars for lunch and sometimes dinner too. How many of you guys got candy bars for dinner when you were kids. Pretty fucking awesome, huh? And when I messed up, he sure showed me what to do to someone when they mess up. And the drunker he was, the better he was at showing me. How many of your dads had that kind of hands on approach? I still don’t quite know why my mamma left him. I haven’t seen him since my mamma took me away from him. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. But I guess I don’t really care because he made such an impression early on, it’s like he taught me a lifetime of lessons.”

I really wished I had made all this up. I wished what I had just said was some ploy I had come up with to get the audience on my side.

“Are you sure we ain’t half-brothers?” asked the same heckler.

The men in the room exploded into laughter. We were brothers now. I proceeded to drop knowledge.

Season 2 Chapter 16

2009-09-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

For a gal who spent the better part of her career eating food that would give an elephant diabetes and tax all four stomachs of a cow, Cami had an incredible body. I mean, modeling fit. Bikinis and lingerie. Or nude. Like right now. Savor that image as I back up for a moment.

It didn’t take much for me to go inside. I love pushing the envelope just to see how far things will go, even if sometimes it’s to push somebody else into taking the lead because I’m too chickenshit to do it. And Cami could barely keep herself up, asking me to tuck her in to bed, or at the very least wait comfortably until a cab came – though I could tell that was said more for my benefit to entice me inside rather than actually be honored. She took my phone from me and slid it down past her waistband. “You can’t have that back yet,” she purred.

I half expected to see some weird shit once we got inside Cami’s petite house – a flock of penguin dolls and chotchkies of the like, or a page out of Country Living magazine with hearth needlepoint and whitewashed furniture, but I was greeted with a fairly normal, comfortable place. It was a mix of modern décor with a hint of color and vibrancy from the walls, which looked as though they were different colors in each room, and the abstract impressionism artwork she had hung. There were pictures of Cami all over with an array of famed chefs – Wylie Dufresne, Hubert Keller, Mario Batali, as well as guys who looked like they could be carnies or greasy spoon line cooks. It was her pedigree from traveling and tasting nearly every edible substance for her program.

Once inside, Cami didn’t require me to prop her up. She had a renewed sense of energy, though fueled by alcohol. “You need to have another drink, Shelly,” she blurted, and skipped over to the kitchen after pushing me onto her sofa.

“I’m good, and I think you are too.”

“Nonsense,” she slurred, “let me show you something that found in New Orleans.”

I heard a little rustling as she turned on the range and put a large pan over the flames, followed by the muted pop of a champagne bottle under a dish towel. There was more noise between the refrigerator opening and more plates and ingredients being pulled out. I just sat back on the couch, pondering what I’d gotten myself into as the drunken dervish worked behind me in the kitchen.

“Here,” she offered as she set the tray down on the coffee table before me,” try this. I just whipped them up the other day and ate almost half by myself.”

I took a bite of a biscuit after cutting a sliver of brie that was almost a soft as butter. Black pepper and ham jumped out, their smoky, hot flavor slowly blending back in to the crisp, browned batter that was still warm from the flash reheating Cami executed. Always better to use an oven or stove top to keep breads from becoming too soft and lose the contrast between their crust and doughy innards – cooking 101 that was not lost even in her inebriated state.

She pushed the flute at me. “They didn’t pair these, but I just had a hankerin’ for some bubbly, and the sweetness is a good contrast.”

I took a gulp to wash the biscuit bits down, and them another sip to check the flavors.

“Chambord...Triple Sec…lime juice…and a splash of cranberry,” I announced.

“Good tongue!”

You have no idea, I thought. “It was a party trick that I just kept developing. I can pretty much taste the components of most mixed drinks. Soon I’ll be able to even guess brands.”

“It’s supposed to have Grand Marnier, but I think it’s delish.” She clanged her glass against mine and emptied the glass in a single swig. I took another bite of the biscuits, and then another.

Cami got up, which I assumed was to pour herself another glass, but when she didn’t return I turned back to the kitchen to see she wasn’t there either. From that vantage I saw one of her shoes in the adjacent hallway. A sock lay next to it. About a yard away was the other, and the shoe pair. Further down was the grey tee, balled up. In the doorframe to her bedroom were those skinny jeans, legs flopped over one another.

At the foot of the bed were her pink lace trimmed black high cut briefs along with a matching bra. I don’t mind a little Hansel-and Gretel when there’s a naked woman at the end of the trail instead of a witch’s cauldron, but Cami was stone cold out. Thoughts of fantasy turned to images of mug shots, because consent had to be explicit, not implied. The bottle of champagne was tucked between her bent legs, blocking her from being exposed, and her hands barely cupped her breasts. It was an amazing scene, except for the part her where her auburn hair cascaded over her face, arched downward as she slept. Next to her was my phone, which I grabbed as gently, even though an air raid siren would need to be sounded to wake Cami. Maybe that was out of concern I would actually wake her and then get to grudge fuck CNC and Burnett Media and Ephimria. But if I was going to do something, it wasn’t going to be through Cami, and sleeping with her would have to be under better, different circumstances, which realistically, were not going to happen. I was overthinking it, and the fact I got caught back up into that ugly situation in my mind made the whole opportunity tainted.

I took one last look at Cami and headed for the front door, but before I left, I turned around and went back. I could at least take a camera phone shot just to remind myself, right?

---

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“No, Fran, I’ve got the shot right here. Looking right at it.” I said. When something crazy happens, you have to have somebody to share it with, if only just to validate it actually occurred.

“Shel, I think you’re a changed man.”

“Really, how so?”

“I knew a you who would have done things to her that would have made a pornographer blush. And taken the pictures to prove it.”

“Well, I knew a you who would have stood in the corner quietly and watched,” I retorted.

Fran found this amusing because it was true. “Don’t tell me you were saving yourself for tonight and your Federales?”

“Your lips to God’s ears. But while I think there’s a little chemistry going on there I don’t know that we’re coming from the same place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” I started,“ aside from any cultural issues that could arise, I’m thinking that white collar and blue collar don’t always go together well…”

“Whoa whoa whoa, back up amigo – cultural issues?”

“Yeah, like, ‘Who’s the narc at the family barbeque at the park’ or ‘Girlfriend, I thought that was the housekeeper’ comments.”

“Sheldon, are fucking serious?”

“What? I’m not kidding…I think that some people would take a look at me or us and think that’s not a couple that looks right together.”

“You’ve really lost your balls since you got out from in front of a camera.”

“What?”

“Besides sounding a little racist, that’s just a spineless answer.”

“I didn’t even get to the ‘don’t shit where you eat’ part of it either,” said.

“Whatever. If you’re looking for excuses or reasons for it not to work, then don’t pursue it. But really, man, that is some hokey, lame ass shit to be using.

I thought about it and Fran was right. “I guess I have changed,” I admitted not entirely know all the ways that I had. “Forget I said that. I think I’m still off after what happened last night with Cami.”

“What didn’t happen, you mean.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Whatever you do,” he warned, “don’t pull that same act, okay dummy?”

“Sure. If Carla ends up naked in her bedroom and I happen to be there, it will be a different story all together.”

I finished getting ready for my date, if that was indeed what it was, and waited for Carla to buzz me, which didn’t take too long. I was eager like a kid on prom night. Mind you, I didn’t think I was getting laid, I just wanted the evening to go well so that I could. Even if it never would.

I answered the door and was not prepared to see Carla looking so beautiful.

“You ready to get some culture, gringo?”

Her red dress was trimmed with bits of silver at the neckline, and fit her like it was stitched onto her. Without the uniform, bulletproof vest, holster, utility belt, and department issue boots, Carla was an entirely changed person. Correction, woman.

“What’s the sentence for sexual assault,” I asked. I grinned foolishly, because punching myself in the face until I was missing teeth and swollen like a tick, was not an option, though entirely the appropriate reaction. That was only slightly better than telling her I’m an idiot, but please fuck me.

“It depends,” she said. “Somebody has to press charges for that to happen.” Clearly, she wasn’t going to let my adolescent behavior ruin a good evening. “You’re looking sharp, mister.”

Brown suit with a lighter thin brown pinstripe, a roasted pumpkin toned shirt and a striped tie with all those colors and then some – yeah, I did look sharp. “Thanks, even without my mother I’m able to dress myself. Forgive my tripping over my tongue – I didn’t know what to say, you look fantastic. Really.”

“Thanks. They’re having a little thing before the show, a reception since this is the anniversary of the company founding, so I hope you can stand some tapas and agave.”

“Lead on, chica, lead on.”

---

Carla parked below the downtown music center, and we looked a touch odd getting out of her 1965 Mustang all dressed up while the rest of the patrons were leaving their German sedans and SUVs. Not that I minded, because that ’65 was a bad motherfucker, and Carla had restored it with her cousins so that it ran perfectly. I always thought of that car as the official ride of abusive boyfriends, but I’ll amend that to make room for Latina cops who amazing off duty. The Mazda Miata is still exclusively for divorcees and gay men.

“There are more people here than I expected,” Carla admitted to me.

“You made it sound like it was a big deal, so why shouldn’t people come out and see the show? Maybe they also have a sister performing,” I said, gesturing to a couple ahead of us.

Carla laughed. “Those two? I doubt it!”

“It’s not so impossible. They can’t be anymore than 70, 75 tops.”

“No way,” she kept laughing.

“Yeah, it’s her younger sister. And she just had a hip replaced, so if she falls again it won’t be a problem.”

Carla eased up on her laughter and groaned, which made me turn to her and to what she was looking at.

“That stuff is a total load of crap,” she said, referring to the giant, familiar E logo on the back window of a minivan.

“Not a fan of suppliments?”

“Tramposo! Those cheats make people think they’re helping them, and get them sucked in to their system. It’s not about what the products do; it’s about selling more of them, and getting people to get into the program. Especially in the lower income areas they push real hard. Avon, Mona Vie, Herbalife, Amway, Ephimria – they all make you think it’s okay to scam your friends and family to make a buck. I wish I had a rock so I could throw it through that window!”

“Normally, I’d go and pick the best one out for you, but maybe that incredible dress has made you forget that you’re still a cop, Carla.”

The compliment and candor made her snap back to reality. “You’re right, Sheldon.”

“Believe me, I’ve got beef with them too.”

By the time I had told the tale of how I used to work for CNC and why I didn’t currently, we were several plates deep into the assortment of tapas, and nearly twice as far with the shots of tequila.

“I’m sorry, Sheldon, but that’s amazing. You’re my hero.”

“City Hall is around the corner. We can just get married right now.”

“I’m tempted. Another shot or two and we just may be.”

“Sadly, that’s going to have to wait.” The lights flickered in the courtyard, calling us in for the performance. I put my arm out like a proper escort, and Carla wrapped her hand around it.

As the theater went dim, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Thanks for coming with me,” and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

There were three types of ballet to the show – Danza, Mestizo, and Bailes Rejionales, and each time Carla would tell me which was which, as well as point out when her sister was on. I’m sure a deep seeded love of ballet or connection to Mexican culture would have made the experience more intense, but I still enjoyed the dancing.

“I’m so proud of her,” Carla beamed at the end, as the troupe came out for their ovations.

“She was great. How long has she been in the ensemble?”

“Catalina has been with them or about six years. They’re based in Mexico City, and though they tour sometimes, it’s rare to have her in town. She doesn’t leave until Tuesday, so it will be nice to have Tia Cata over.”

“Tia, as in aunt?”

“Yes. Like as in she has a niece.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“What else are you keeping from me,” I asked without showing too much surprise.

“Separated from my husband for over a year, on the way to a divorce and a highly contagious set of venereal diseases.”

I tried to maintain a cool look, but I was cracking.

“Relax Sheldon, I was kidding.”

“You’re not getting divorced?”

“No you lunk, about having a rotten chocha. Nice how you came to the other one first.”

“There’s medicine for that. Exes take lawyers and piles of documents.”

“Have experience with both of those, eh?”

We were staying on topic of Carla. “I guess I just had an idea of you in uniform and didn’t really think about you out of it until tonight.”

“Really,” she teased. “You never thought of me taking off those dress blues and leaving them tossed in a messy pile on the floor?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but no, um…you said,” I stumbled trying to respond the question she asked, though her meaning was I was answering.

“Don’t tell me you’re finally tripping over your tongue.”

I took a deep breath and clarified. “I didn’t think of what you were like outside of the uniform. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to go tonight, to see what you were like; the person and not the policeman.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and rubbed it gently. “So did I, and I’m glad.”

The ride back to my place was filled with talk of Nell Tanner and the convention I was representing at in a few months.

“Talking Heads sounds like a good time,” Carla shared. “I was going to go to the last one but there’s not that much extra time I get off from work to also be able to do that. Do you know who else is going?”

“No, not really. I want to say that it should be no problem, I mean, I’ve been to countless up fronts and dealt with affiliates and network flunkies, but it’s always a surprise with these speaking gigs. The last one I was more terrified of what the staff was going to do to me than the kids. Though I did at one time have some relations with them.”

“I hope you’re talking about the staff, because if it was a minor, you better remember what I’m like when this dress comes off.”

“Naked?”

“Cute, Sheldon.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” she said in support. “You’ll have a few more gigs before then anyway, and you’ll feel a lot more comfortable in those settings. Okay, here you are.”

We stopped in front of my building, and she got out.

“You’re going to walk me to my door?”

“You just look so pretty tonight, I wanted to make sure you get inside safely,” she mocked.

“Would you like to come in for a moment?”

The question floated there for what felt like forever, waiting for her response.

“I’m sure you’ve got a bottle of champagne and some snacks ready to go in there just in case, right? It’s tempting, but how do I know you’re not going to end up naked and passed out on the bed once I get inside?”

“You’re fucking uncanny,” I replied.

“I’ve got to tuck Rochelle in before she gets worried where her mother is, but you’re a sweetheart, Sheldon.”

Carla gave me a hug that was just the right length to make me wonder if she was satisfied with the level of flirting or possibly interested in something more. Her kiss on the cheek was leaning towards the platonic side, but like so much else in my head, there was bound to be exceptional thought and analysis to make that minor event the farthest from trivial by the time I was done with it.

Season 2 Chapter 15

2009-09-07T02:46:00.000-07:00

One of my first real kisses was an embarrassingly sordid event. I was fourteen and at the time still playing trumpet for the high school orchestra as a freshman. We were on our annual spring break tour of the Deep South playing shows for convalescent homes and on small town bandstands. There were a handful of hapless adult chaperones, but they ultimately could do nothing to stop us from getting high with the percussion section and toilet papering Mr. Cane’s hotel room. On the first day of the tour, I was the last one to get on the second bus. Apparently our limited budget did not allow for us to splurge on transportation as our headcount equaled one more than the passenger capacity of the two buses we had chartered. I paced up and down the aisle looking for an opening where there was none. As I passed by Julie, an incredibly gorgeous sophomore cellist I barely knew, she invited me to sit with her and her viola playing friend, Whitney. I actually pinched myself at that moment. There was no room to sit three wide, so Julie ended up on my lap. I turned on the freshman charm and showed them my emotionally sensitive and funny components while I prayed Julie would not be too appalled by the fleshy component that was growing under her buttocks.

After a quick stop for lunch, the rest of the brass section jockeyed to take my place. Julie and Whitney wouldn’t have it. I was their boy for the trip, and that was fine with me. It was Whitney’s turn to take the lap seat. She was the more timid of the pair but still a cutie in her own right. Over the course of the tour, my friendship with the two girls grew. Whitney really began to open up and showed she could be just as irreverent as Julie. During the bus ride lap dances they sure got a chuckle out of queefing on me. It was disgusting, but I didn’t mind.

On the second to last night of the tour, a bunch of us piled into one hotel room for a coed weed-a-thon. Somehow Julie and I ended up passing out in each others arms with Whitney not too far away. One of the piccolo players thought it would be fun to play cupid. She grabbed my head and Julie’s and mashed our faces together. We both gradually came to and realized what position we were in. Our lips were touching. We didn’t pull away. In fact we put on a show. It was my first and probably my last public make-out session. The oohing and aahing and poking caused us to pull the covers over our heads for a wee bit of privacy. If we had been alone, I most definitely would have made it to home plate. Had I not been so focused on Julie, I would have noticed Whitney storming out of the room on the verge of tears.

After the kiss, our trio became a duet for the last couple days of the trip. When we finally came home, it was like the kiss never happened. Here I thought I had a girlfriend, and Julie was already putting the past behind her. The dumping came in the form of a handwritten note with bubbly hearts and flowers. A week later I found out from someone else that Whitney had told Julie how much she liked me. The spirit of competition won the day. Julie, cruel tart that she was, hooked up with me simply to win some sick game she invented.

---

Cami was a go-getter. I had to admit, I honestly didn’t mind looking at her. Also, her IQ was in the range of an acceptable repartee partner. I could imagine myself sitting through whatever it was she had to tell me. I could imagine myself doing other things too now that we no longer had a professional relationship. If she was just on a reconnaissance mission for CNC, which I assumed would be the case, I was confident I could obfuscate any valuable intelligence and turn her into a double agent for me. I wasn’t at war, but I was pretty sure CNC was.

I called Cami to work out the details for dinner.

“Hey, Camster. You hungry?”

“Starving. I can’t meet up until later though like around nine. Is that okay?”

“Well, I sort of promised my neighbor that I’d check out his little art show downtown. Can you meet me downtown?”

I was actually looking forward to the Wombat Mega 19 group art show. It was a monthly shindig in an old warehouse where one could experience a little taste of the underground fringe. It didn’t cost much unless you ended up buying something off the wall that caught your eye. I found this set of small wooden blocks there with fully realized portraits in acrylic on them at the Wombat Mega 19 five or so years ago. I love those little blocks.

“I’ll make the drive, but only if I can go with you to the show. I’ve been putting in a lot of hours. I’m in need of some culture other than the leads you left us with. By the way, my dad and brother call me Camster. Think about that the next time you try to get cute with names.”

“All right then, Cami-roon. Meet me at King Taco on Cesar Chavez. I got a hankering for a burrito.” I really did. I knew Cami and I wouldn’t be riding the train of love, so burritos and the ensuing gas release were on the table.

“Cheap date.”

“I’m no longer a big shot at CNC. I’m not lunching at the Ivy every other day any more.”

“Somehow I don’t see you at the Ivy.”

“You know me so well, Cami-flage.”

---

I arrived at King Taco a solid fifteen minutes before Cami did. I didn’t let that stop me from ordering and enjoying a delectable carne asada burrito. I had polished it off by the time Cami showed up. I was about half way through my Diet Coke when she walked through the door. She still looked good in the harsh fluorescent lights-- a fact not lost on the other male diners as I noticed most of their eyes exploding. Cami gauged the evening’s sophistication level appropriately by dressing in skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. Her grey t-shirt simply had a photocopied image of an old television set on the front. Her now auburn hair flowed freely.

“Thanks for not making me wear heels tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“I actually already ate.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Are you going to be testing me all night?”

“I’m always testing you, Cami. I test everyone. I should have been an SAT proctor.”

Cami ordered a couple chicken tacos. It was entertaining to watch her talk in between bites.

“So the ratings for your old show are taking a serious dive in case you haven’t been following.”

“I actually haven’t, but I’m not surprised. It’s funny what happens to a show when you take away the one thing people really liked about it.”

“Well, we were actually hanging in there with the first couple shows after you left, but I think after the audience got a couple bites of the Sheldon-less show, they lost interest.”

“Did Hans end up stepping in? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“They approached him, but again out of some misguided loyalty, he refused their offer citing the circumstances of your departure.”

“Now that I think about, he’s probably better off. The audience would have despised him, and he can’t handle being despised. So who’s the guy then?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t watched the show.”

“I’m not going to watch something I know is going to suck harder than a ten-ton Dyson vacuum cleaner.”

“It’s Stuart.”

“That fucking Limey. How can he ride so far on only that cute little accent?”

“Well, the way things currently are, he probably won’t last much longer.”

“They should have just gone ahead with you right out the gate.”

“I’m not sure even I can do it. The show was almost more about the way you interacted with people than the people themselves. It’s not something anyone can really duplicate-- the quirkiness, the things that caught your attention and got focus.”

“That’s the thing. You can’t duplicate it. You’ll have to make it your own somehow. The truth is you’re going to lose some people, but if you’re genuine and inject a little of yourself into the show, a lot of people will dig it, and you’ll win over some new fans that I never could. You know what to do. I feel like I should be charging a consulting fee here.”

“But how do you stay interested in all these crazy little things that people do?”

“I guess I’m just really interested in the idea of giving the underrepresented a global platform. It’s my little public service. Maybe it was me that people were watching, but I liked to delude myself into thinking it was the subjects of the show that drew the viewers. It’s not a very democratic show though. I was the one selecting all the subjects unless I was doing a favor for Jeff. We weren’t pulling names out of a hat. So the show did probably reveal a lot about myself.”

“I think the show is going to have to move in a more democratic direction.”

“Tell me how that goes when you’re talking to someone who you don’t give a fuck about. Watch that episode and tell me if it’s any good. Out of the handful of episodes I did for Jeff, not one sat right with me. Call the show something else if you have to. Let it die and move on. I hate brands. Just talk to the people you think the world needs to hear from who aren’t being heard. That’s the show I do. I did.”

It seemed like Cami was looking for a way to impress the new bosses. Not that the new bosses, Ephimria and Burnett Media, were much, but I liked Cami. I wanted her to do well despite not caring about what happened at CNC.

Cami finished her tacos and I had her follow me to a warehouse not too far away.

---

“Is it safe to park here? The show is not at that strip club, is it?”

“No, it’s on this side of the street. We can go watch some twirling titties afterwards if you want.

“I’ve come to this thing before, and nothing has happened to my car, but that’s not saying that something won’t happen tonight. There are a lot of cars to choose from, and people are going in and out all night, so it’s probably pretty safe.”

“Great.”

I made the meager recommended donation to gain entrance to the event, bought a couple glasses of wine, and began making the lap around the gallery with Cami. The displayed works that night were heavy on the surrealism and heavy on the female form. The featured artist that night had employed thick lines for a cartoonish look to her pastel splashed anthropomorphs. There were three or four pieces that really grabbed me in the gut. Unfortunately, none of them were for sale. Cami was blown away by everything. She was on her third glass of wine.

“I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this. The paintings, the sculptures, the music the deejay is playing—I’ve never seen or heard anything like it.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” said a bearded man behind Cami. It was Cody.

“Cody, meet Cami. Cami, meet Cody, my neighbor.”

I had actually visited Wombat Mega 19 quite a few times before Cody became involved. Cody’s art was technically sound but fell flat conceptually as weakly derivative of Alex Grey’s work. I was surprised when he told me he had a piece in the show, so of course I promised I’d come to check it out.

“It’s all organic, man. All the materials,” exclaimed Cody proudly about his work.

“Does it have an expiration date?” I asked rhetorically.

“Awesome, man. I love this guy. You got to come by some time to burn one with Apuri and me. You too, Cami.”

“And the kids?” I asked.

“Nah, man. They’re not smoking yet.”

“That’s good to know,” said Cami. “How old are they?”

“One of them is just old enough to speak complete sentences. The other one has been walking for a few months,” I said.

“How fun.”

“It’s weird being away from them, but it’s my first big show. Apuri said I should be here to take care of my baby.”

Somehow I got the impression that Cody went along with whatever Apuri wanted him to do. Even the artwork seemed like a concept Apuri would have dreamed up. I wondered if Cody had fallen in love with someone like Cami, would he have ended up a television producer?

Along with the artwork at Wombat Mega 19, there was a stage full of amps and a drum kit. At around 10:30, a group of unassuming young dudes took the stage. They began playing some pleasantly melodic riffs on their guitars that Cami and I could easily talk over. Suddenly one of the guitarists unleashed a searing fireball of distortion, and the entire band ignited into thundering cacophony. Cami and I looked at each other. It was unexpected and impressive, but it also ruined our conversation. I pointed my thumb towards the patio, and on our way out, Cami grabbed another glass of wine. We picked up where we left off.

“I can totally picture you talking to a bunch of high school kids. You must have blown their minds.”

“I’d be happy if I blew at least one percent of their minds. There are a lot of kids out there who already know what I’m talking about, and there are some who will just never get it.”

My phone started ringing. I wasn’t going to answer it, but Cami insisted I take the call.

“Who is it?” Cami ribbed me.

“A cop friend of mine.”

I pressed the green button on phone. This was going to be interesting.

“Hey there.”

“Hey, sounds like you’re having fun,” came Carla’s voice through the phone.

“Loud doesn’t always equal fun.”

“I don’t want to keep you too long. I called because I ended up with an extra ticket to my sister’s show tomorrow, and I wanted to see if you wanted to come with me. She’s a dancer in a Ballet Folklorico ensemble. They do traditional Mexican dance. I know you’re into different things and thought you might want to check it out. Sorry it’s last minute.”

Cami was standing right in front of me intoxicated. Carla was essentially asking me out on a date. This is how it is with me.

“Yeah, I think I can make it. Informing me so late before the event won’t get you off the hook that easily.”

“Excellente! I’ll come by to get you at five.”

“See you then.”

And if the night couldn’t get any more bizarre, a short while after hanging up, I was practically assaulted from behind by a young woman and a very gay man both highly inebriated.

“Sheldon, you are officially the coolest ever,” screamed Sunday.

“Sunday, Peter, you can’t sneak up on people like that. What if I were a jiu-jitsu master or something?”

“You could put a submission hold on me.” I really wished it was Sunday and not Peter who said that.

The drunken Cami became instant friends with Sunday and Peter, and they all wanted to dance the rest of the night away. Along with Cody, they became the “Friends of Sheldon” crew and grabbed a slice of dance floor real estate as the deejay took over from the rock band. I couldn’t remember it ever being this raucous at any of the other Wombat Mega 19 shows I’d been too. The hipster fellows flocked to Cami while I did some catching up with the show curator. Eventually Cami waved me to come over. I wasn’t much of a dancer, so I sort of stood there and bobbed a little while Cami gyrated vigorously. By the smile on her face, I could tell it had been a long time since she had been able to just dance. Somehow she held me responsible and kept grabbing my hands to pull me closer.

At one point, one of the hipsters who I’d never met in my life whisper-yelled into my ear, “I never thought I’d be cock-blocked by Sheldon.”

I whisper-yelled back, “You’ve got the wrong guy, pal. Talk to your barber. He’s the one fucking it up for you.”

When the deejay quit, and it was time to leave, Cami was in no condition to drive. The tables had turned from the short time ago in Milwaukee. I confiscated her keys. I said goodbye to the Subaru, and drove her home. After we arrived and got out of the car, I pulled out my phone to call a cab. She stopped me and put her arms around me.

“So, Cami, how’s Ian doing?”

“Ian is in Milwaukee.”

Season 2 Chapter 14

2009-08-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

I sat in the solemn confines of Nell Tanner’s office, alone, which flooded me with memories of grade school and the countless times I was sent from one class to another, testing the wills and willpower of teachers who’d never realized the daunting task of trying to control me fell under their public school employment parameters. The nervous breakdown of Miss Carmichael may have been attributed to her husband’s infidelities with her sister, and Mr. Grogan’s massive heart implosion might have had a link to his all sodium, high meat diet, but I am convinced my wild, youthful antics were exacerbating those circumstances greatly, just like how Dr. Roberts eventually lost the god he’d found after giving up the bottle, which I’d drove him back to.

The principal was acutely aware of my existence, moving up the grades and making regular visits to his office to discuss my “troubles”. “Sheldon,” Mr. Firkiss would say, hardly surprised to see me on the other side of his desk, “what brings you back to my office,” which was my cue to hand him the folded note whatever teacher had enough of me. I would watch Mr. Firkiss as he silently read the recounting of what I’d done from the biased viewpoint of the authoritarian figures who felt outmatched and outwitted by a child. After a while, even the most rebellious and obnoxious things hardly raised an eyebrow, and he’d just lower the page and take of his half-moon reading glasses, and look at me curiously.

“You see, Jim, I think ________ has it all wrong,” I would say.

Mr. Firkiss would stare disapprovingly, and use my name in reprimand. “Sheldon.”

“”Oh, sorry…James,” I corrected myself.

And true to our roles, Mr. Firkiss would slip past exasperation immediately to save himself the energy of getting worked up, review the charges and somehow be moved to exonerate me of my actions, which I usually owned up to with pride, but with an explanation for what I’d done.

“Let me understand this Sheldon…he was going to touch your, ah, privates.

“That’s possible, sir. Or touch me which his.”

“I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that was before or after you pushed Padraic.”

“That was before.”

“And why did you push him?”

“To distract him while I got away.”

“So when he had his back turned and was using the urinal, you decided to push him.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“He peed all over himself because of that, you know.”

I did, and I had to fight every urge not to laugh. That was the whole point of it, to make Padraic Donnelly piss himself. That little shit was giving me all kinds of grief with his buddy Matithias Evans and all it took was one last remark in the bathroom to make me lose my cool. What was he going to do, tell the angry parents that this piss-covered son was possibly threatening other students with molestation? No, they were already displeased, and he didn’t want the headache of dealing with me any longer than he had to.

“My mother told me not to let anybody touch my special privates,” I told him confidently. Of course, I’d rebel against that whole idea in high school. Shit, I’d even paid a few people to do that in my time. So I’d be sent home for the rest of the day, and Padraic would have to wait for a dry pair of pants to be brought from home.

Nell walked in hurriedly, breaking my daydream of grade school disobedience. She was wearing a red strapless evening gown, though it was hardly past noon. It was an Oscar de la Renta number (a $5700 red duchess satin strapless draped gown to be precise) that clung to her slim frame, exactly how they’d designed it to, and her typically hardened shell gave the ensemble even more of display-like quality, a mannequin with a familiar face. She didn’t address the fact she was completely done up nor bat at my far simpler twill pants and reprinted (and overpriced compared to the original) The Who 1979 tour shirt.

“I have to be brief about this Sheldon, and cover these three things…”

She didn’t bother to sit down, but took some index-sized cards out from a desk drawer and leafed through them rapidly.

“I’ve reviewed your first engagement from last week, and though I regret not being there to observe as I do with most of out new speakers, judging by the response cards, you did better than I’d expected. I would, however, like to see you learn to keep that sharp tongue of yours off the language that teachers and school administrators would find unbecoming of a speaker. Being professional means being precise with not just how you say something, but what you’re saying. Clean it up, please,” she emphasized the request, which was more of a command.

She continued, “I know you’re looking for more than just pep talks with pre-pubescents, and that’s not my plan for you here Sheldon, but you need some minor league experience before I send you up to play with the heavy hitters. We’ll start to get you up there after another positive showing at El Camino.”

She put the cards back, but I caught a momentary glance, seeing columns of check marks and ratings. Nell kept going, “In a few months, there’ll be one of the biggest industry shows and I want you to come to it. It’s called Talking Heads, and every year, we take two or three speakers out to get a chance to deal with our clients face to face. There will be hundreds of speakers presenting, and thousands of companies there, all looking for information on our speakers and potentially using our services. A lot of it is public relations and image, but there have been several clients we’ve managed to acquire, not because our materials have the fanciest font or our booklets are on the glossiest paper. It’s about impressing them when they take a few moments to see us, and standing out from all the faces and business cards they get. And I believe you can do that.”

“Finally,” she said, leaning against her desk in from of me, “there is a small matter with Artie Rosen to address.” I was surprised to hear her mention him and certainly hadn’t been bridging the two worlds. “He seems to think that while you’re - how should I say this, in absentia from your past duties on television, that he is entitled to certain interest in your activities. I do understand your relationship with him is far longer and intimate than you and I, but knowing your situation as I now do, you are still, as you have been, employed by my company at will – your own a much as through mine. I tell you all of this because Mr. Rosen is foolishly thinking about legal action for what he thinks is a cut of your earnings, though a letter from our legal representatives will certainly crush those thoughts. He is, and will remain your agent in the same capacity he has always been, and if you choose to seek employment in other forums and mediums, that is your choice. But as long as you are part of our agency, I will be looking after and taking care of you as I do the rest of my company. I know that you will eventually have a choice to make about your time and direction, and even if you plan to take your career back into familiar territory, it does not necessarily mean our business is complete. I just wanted you to hear it from me before you heard something from him. I’m sure he misses the opportunity to utilize your talents, but had he had the slightest involvement in our business together, he’d have already been handsomely compensated. I do hope that if he does bring this up, you will refrain from discussing it with him, for legal reasons of course.”

That diabolical grin of hers came out again and she have a slight adjustment to a silver stem hair that dared violate her eyeline, neatly correcting it to above her brow. She stood and made her departure. “Best of luck at El Camino next week, Sheldon.”

I couldn’t keep pace with her, but saw the well dressed man waiting for her in the reception area. He must have been half her age, and in contrast to her fair completion, he was bronzed like the beaches in Italy he likely called home. Peter was out there, also admiring Nell’s beautiful companion, envious as hell.

“I wish I could do half the things to him she’s going to,” Peter said staring at the elevator doors after closing with them inside.

I too was staring at the elevators. “Where’s the boss lady off to?

“Dinner. In the Mediterranean.”

“Sure. Of course,” I said marveling at the incredibly decadent yet fitting nature of it. “If I wanted Italian for dinner, I’d do the same as her.”

---

I wish that I didn’t possess need to care about how I came across to my ex, but I think that it’s unavoidable, even for somebody as cocky and carefree (or is that careless) as myself. For six days I was watching what I ate, getting at least eight hours of sleep, and walking the neighborhood in the morning and evening. Fran laughed at me when I told him my regimen, and then laughed even harder when I mentioned my next talking engagement which would take me in front of Joanie Knapp, who for 27 months turbulently made her way into my heart. And through it. Mother was a little more pleased by my activities, and though I did omit the small part about having to see Joanie, it was satisfying to be taking better care of myself and telling my mother so.

When the day came to head into the San Fernando Valley and conquer the Conquistadors at El Camino Real, I told myself to just treat it like any other day, even though I had been planning for it to be anything but. I followed the directions Sunday had provided and parked in the smaller of the parking lots reserved for faculty and visitors, leaving my black blazer in the back seat until arriving to avoid wrinkling and putting it over my white button down and deep indigo jeans – what is the standard Hollywood-type uniform. Were the jeans and coat dry cleaned before this occasion? Goddamn right they were!

The main entrance was on the boulevard side of the school, where the multi-lane road was bordered only by shrubs and foliage, decorating the cinderblock walls that ran the length of the street. On the other side were a maze of streets and cul-de-sacs, snaking down the slight hills and surrounding the campus with a subdivision of ranch style houses that predated the school itself by a good decade. As I walked into the corridor bridging the administration with a building that I determined housed the arts judging by the choral students practicing, I was not at all gently illuminated with the myriad sporting and scholastic accomplishments the high school had garnered in its 40 years. Rah rah, school sprit!

The first office I saw I entered, and the elderly woman filing papers kindly rang the principal, who in turn sent a student to take me to my destination du jour.

“So,” I asked the young girl who was playing hall monitor for me, “are you in the class I’m talking to today?”

“No, I just have the administrators as an elective this period,” she replied, lisping her S on account of the hardware in her mouth.

“You can take that as a class?”

“Sure, you can do almost anything for credits if you have the open slots. All I had to do is take trig at summer school so I could use the period to do the elective. It’s for my transcript. I do, like two clubs a day to pump it up.”

“I didn’t realize that things got so competitive since I graduated.”

“Oh, when was that,” she asked innocently.

“How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“Way before you were even born.”

“Yeah, I figured. Okay, you’re here,” she said, stopping in front of a closed classroom door that was up a flight of stairs, a corridor, and a T-intersection from where we’d started. She pulled a sticker off a roll with the school logo on it, offering it up.

“Keep that on so they know you’re a cleared visitor. Otherwise school security could shoot you.”

“This is the Valley, not South Central.”

“Yeah, but you sure don’t look like a teacher. You look like a casting agent.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Duh, it’s the Valley. They make porn movies over in Chatsworth.”

I smiled politely at the warning, and put the sticker on my breast pocket. Through the small window I peered into the classroom, which was empty, but entered anyway, knowing I was a few minutes earlier than scheduled.

---

“Look what the cat threw up.”

Shit. Joanie.

“Dragged in. And I believe it was your cat that constantly turned everything into a puke ball. I see you’re still sweet after all these years. Come to watch me address this class, or planning to incite a riot?”

”I’m sure you’re still able to start a riot on your own. I’m just here to see what’s become of you Sheldon.”

“If only you hadn’t cancelled your fan club membership you’d still receive The Sheldon Quarterly and know my every move.”

“Still charming as ever. Even after almost 10 years.”

“Well, I guess I aged more like wine.”

“No, I think you’re vinegar. That’s what in a douche bag.”

I met her crocodile smile with my own even bigger, beaming false happiness.

“Oh you’re just like a melody…no bitterness.”

A bell rang and the hallways jumped to life with teens swimming through the crowd, stopping to talk or open lockers or navigate from point A to B.

“So, you’re looking well,” I commented to Joanie, who despite looking like an older version of the gal I once dated, wasn’t too different. I figured I’d only have to keep a little small talk going until the first few kids came in and then I could get on with the speechmaking. I was desperately trying to not let all the ugly thoughts and feeling that had been exercised after we split surface, since my plan to be cooler and nicer than she if we crossed paths was now in jeopardy of becoming a plan to take her into the backroom and beat her unconscious with a textbook without being seen.

“I know,” she said with zero trace of appreciation to mask her conceit. She went to the back of the class and opened a transom before pulling a lighter and cigarette.

“Oh, they’re allowing smoking on campus finally,” I prodded her. “Is there a lab where the equipment pulls down into a bed for the students too?”

Joanie took a deep drag and savored it before exhaling out the window. “I always needed a smoke to calm down and deal with you, Shel.”

“I thought you stopped.” That was one of her many plans she made and never achieved. “And I just got here, so I don’t know what you mean by ‘deal with me’, okay?”

I looked towards the door expecting students to show up any moment so I could get out of the death spiral our conversation was locking into, but no salvation came.

She took a few more drags and put out the cigarette gently, preserving half of it for later. “There was a sign up for teachers who wanted to have a guest speaker come to their class, and when I found out it was you, I took it down and turned it back in signed.”

“I’m get the impression that if I’m feeling flattered that that wasn’t your intent.”

The bell rang again and the commotion in the halls was gone. The classroom was empty. Television personality brutally killed by school supplies by delusional ex, coming up at eleven.

“I just wanted to see how you liked it when somebody else changed things on you and made you disoriented.”

“Disoriented? You mean your surprise when you told me you wanted to split up and I agreed it was the best thing to do that I made you take all your things right then and there?”

“That was a whole patio furniture set I had to fit into my car!”

“And clothes and other knick-knacks. But you got it all.”

“You’re an asshole, Sheldon.”

“Yeah, that’s just how I get when my girlfriend decides she’d rather break up with me than work out the nonsense issues she has. You wanted it and I gave it to you, even though you would have probably preferred a big fight. You think I was going to have you come back and get your stuff some other time? Sorry, but that’s a luxury reserved for girlfriends, and that ended when you ended it. And what better way to get the change you wanted by not having you ever need to see me again. You’re welcome isn’t out of line, but I can see you’re not up to that, still.”

She didn’t say anything and gathered up her purse and keys.

“So the point of all this is to make me think I’m going to give a talk and then I’m not?” Was it?

“Nope. You’re not speaking to my class. I signed them up for the assembly this period. You’re going to be talking to about a third of the school. Hope that doesn’t change your plans.”

---

Folks number one fear is public speaking, followed by being attacked by a shark, getting set on fire, and having forced sex in a prison shower. As a person who has already dealt with talking in front of strangers (if not with), going from a few dozen to a thousand is not a big deal, but it significantly alters your approach and direction. Winning a small crowd is far easier than a huge group if for nothing else than that sheer number of failures you have to avoid with a large turnout. One or two disinterested people in an audience won’t disrupt your plans like a few hundred.

Outside the MPR that Joanie took me to was Mr. Thomas, the Dean Of Students, who was half paying attention to our introduction while talking to people involved with the assembly that were checking with him of information or directions as it was getting underway. He would talk to one as another radioed him on his walkie talkie, and he would juggle two more before getting the next call. He looked over at me long enough to tell me that it was going to be a 10 minute segment in the middle, right after the breakdancers, and to wait in the backstage.

It didn’t take long for my turn to come, as the applause died down for the spinning and flipping that proceeded me. Joanie came out on the stage and placed a mic stand dead center of the empty stage.

“Good afternoon, students,” she addressed them in a tone that was lacking when she and I talked. “Coming up right now is a change of pace for what’s been seen so far, and what is coming up, but don’t let that ruin the whole assembly for you. From the program Another Fifteen Seconds, it’s host…please welcome Sheldon.”

The flat introduction garnered a soft, charitable round of applause. I covered the mic slightly. “That’s Another Fifteen Minutes,” I said calling to her as she left the stage.

“You wish it was,” she yelled back, which got a better response than the introduction.

“Okay…well, my name is Sheldon, as Ms. Knapp said, and yes, I have been hosting a program for many years now. I also do speaking engagements like this, where I get to ask how many of you may be familiar with the program I do. Hands?”

It was a weak showing. Good thing there were no advertisers there.

“Ah, not too many. So that means most of you have good taste, or you just want to see me fail and have to spend my time standing in front of students finding out just how few of them know I have a show.”

There was a murmur, but it was a response, and that’s what you need to get right away when fighting for the attention of a big room.

“Thanks to those of you who have seen it, really. And if you can convince everyone else to watch, then you’d actually get less of me up here bugging you.”

Another mild response, but they were responding.

“Yeah, usually do a couple of breakdancing moves too, but let’s face it - it would be hard to top those guys, right? Let’s give them another round of applause!”

They clapped and cheered, which gave way to chants for me to do some moves. I started to do the robot, but after a few swings of the arm I waved the crowd off.

“You gotta have one dollar bills for that, okay?”

There were chuckles and boos, but they were still involved.

“So normally, I’d ask a few of you what you’re interested in and we’d use that as a way to talk about me and what I’ve done so you can apply that to yourselves, but that could be kinda boring with this many people. Instead I want to share something with you that most of you might fight out later in life, or not at all.”

“You’re gay,” shouted a kid in the back, which got the largest response so far.

I smiled and nodded, “My boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen,” which kept the spirits light.

“Seriously, I want to tell you about motivation. Real motivation. A lot of people will tell you you need to stay positive, to reinforce your will to achieve through some mantra of positive thoughts. Well, I’m here to tell you about something else. Because that’s bullshit.”

There was a clapping and cheering, but at the swearing, which I quickly tried to recant. “Sorry, bull. It’s bull.”

I took the mic out of the clip and carried the stand off to the side of the stage. I felt more free to move, to work the room.

“I want to tell you that even the worst intentions, the most petty of selfish thoughts, can become excellent ways to achieve your goals.”

That got their attention.

“Who here has an ex-girlfriend or boyfriend? C’mon, let’s see the hands.” There were a lot. “Wow, that’s a lot. When I was your age in 1861 we didn’t date too much. But we did have arranged marriage. Alright, on the count of three I want you to yell that person’s name out loud. One…two…three!”

There was a lot of yelling, but somehow, “Joanie Knapp”, what I yelled, seemed to cut through. Damn proximity to the microphone. The cries melted into a palisade of oohs. In the back of the room, even through the spotlight that was on me onstage, I faintly saw Joanie give me the finger.

“Okay, okay…now how many of you stared working out extra hard to look better after that? Or made sure you put on something a little nicer when you came to class? News flash, you’re not trying to impress them – you’re trying to depress them by improving yourself. And there’s nothing wrong with that. See what makes you eat better to fit into that pair of jeans or keeps your gut from poking out – that or ‘doing what’s healthy and best for you’. It’s that desire for a little revenge by making them jealous. Never mind if you should or shouldn’t be hung up on why you care what they think, just use that to make it happen.”

It didn’t entirely hit home with them, so I immediately tried another approach.

“Here’s a little concept called ‘the secret war’. You can’t lose a battle with an enemy if they don’t know that you’re attacking them. Right? For example, I was bowling a while back and on the lane next to me, a whole biker gang showed up. There were about 14 of them with their biker mamas, a couple of cute ones too, and they were starting to make a lot of noise and basically intimidate people just by their presence. Now I could have called my gang out there, but you can imagine what a dozen more of me would look like, right?”

They laughed at that image.

“Not that scary. So instead, I was secretly waging war on them, focusing on knocking those damn pins down and out-bowling that tattooed, leather clad bozos. After the fourth or fifth strike in a row, they started to take notice that some serious bowling was going down, and their wild whooping subsided. A couple of them even chatted me up to get some pointers. In fact, I actually found them to be decent folks, but it took being fixated on bowling the crap out of those frames to diffuse the situation, and they had no idea I of me secret agenda. Having the upper hand by showing that they were not going to be disruptive and being badass, even at something like bowling, gave me control of the situation. You all may not have an interest in bowling, but it’s that concept, that plotting and planning and desire to covertly achieve a goal to use to your advantage is that can be an asset.”

“Another thing you can do, and I guarantee you will do it, is to fail. I’m not talking about your classes – you gotta do well in those. I mean at new things, by taking risks. That is the only way you can make things better and your experiences count. I made a huge mistake at my job, but it turned out to be good because I really got a lot out of realizing my mistakes and the scale of my failure. It was epic. Let me see, how many of you have a crush on somebody and they don’t know about it?’

There were a good amount of hands.

“Okay, y’all yell that name of that person on three. One…two...three!” This time I refrained from blurting something out.

“From what I heard, everybody likes Mijenkimalianasisca Wilgrufamtriblucrant? Is that right? Looks like there’s going to be some competition getting that date…”

There were laughs, but an even bigger one followed another jokester who yelled “your mom, dude”.

“You’d better rethink that…picture me with longer hair, 30 years older, and with a moustache.”

They laughed and were back on my side..

That person, they may or may not be into you, but if you don’t try, you won’t know. And if you don’t fail when you do try, you won’t take anything from the experience. I mean, unless you’re lucky enough to succeed, in which case, you’re welcome. But regretting the things you don’t do is worse than failing at the things you do. If I could go back and be your age again, to have the chance, I would have totally asked Jennifer McGrath to prom. And I really wish that I had, just so I wouldn’t be disappointed in not trying. Go out for that team, try and get a role in the play, ask that girl out who sits in front of you in 3RD period. And don’t worry if you fail, because you certainly will. Get used to it, but sometimes you’ll get lucky and be rewarded.”

I glanced over to the side of the stage where Mr. Thomas was frantically motioning to his watch and trying to keep his assembly from falling but even a second out of synch with his schedule.

“You’ve got some plate spinning or something else coming up, but go ahead and fail and do the right things for the wrong reasons, and have secret goals to dominate others. You can do a lot of good for yourself even if you’re trying to take advantage of a situation by controlling it. Thanks for your time…”

It was a solid response, and far better than when I was introduced, even though I took a negative swing at what should be a positive framed topic, but fuck it, that’s really how I approach things, and what works for me should be goods for others. I ducked backstage and made a beeline for the front entrance, and jumped into my car – anything to keep from Joanie for even one second.. I didn’t even take my coat off until I’d already hit the freeway onramp at Valley Circle. As the lights cycled, and I had a moment to undo my belt and take off my coat. My phone was in the pocket, with a text message.

Cami was insistent on dinner and said she was planning to resort to dubious methods if I didn’t agree to it. No time to enjoy my small success, but at least one hurdle at a time. I drove home feeling good about firing off the cuff, and making a tiny bit of sense not only to them but to myself.

Season 2 Chapter 13

2009-08-24T02:35:00.000-07:00

Fullerton is in Orange County, but it’s in the North bordering La Mirada, so it’s practically in L.A. County. The loaded white kids and housewives of Laguna Beach in O.C.’s South would have to climb Fullerton’s myriad hills to find anything in common with the railroad suburb sitting in the shadow of Disneyland’s Matterhorn and Angel Stadium. In Fullerton like in many other suburbs in SoCal, the higher your altitude, the more money you make. Of Fullerton’s three high schools, Fullerton Union High sits smack in the middle of the city, serving the highlanders of the North and the lowlanders of the South. I know all this because I do research. I like to know what I’m getting myself into. Know your audience, as Nell would say.

I was a relieved to find out I wouldn’t be speaking to the entire student body. I was going to be speaking to students that were part of the ROP—Regional Occupational Program. I anticipated that my audience would skew more towards the lower income and/or academically challenged end since the rich and/or book smart kids would be too busy trying to make A’s. The rich and/or book smart kids would still have four years after high school to think about becoming doctors, lawyers, accountants, or engineers, or taking over the family business. These ROP kids were going to be firefighters, policemen, mechanics, landscapers, office assistants, drafters, carpenters, dental hygienists, gaffers, and so on.

My stage was the front of a classroom. I didn’t need a microphone. There was no need to dim the lights since I despised the use of PowerPoint. All eyes were focused on me, not some bullet list of fragments.

“You’re probably all wondering what I was like in high school. Maybe you’re not, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I was stoned or drunk maybe ten percent of the time I was there—pot and the occasional acid trip. I did get laid but never hooked up with what you would call an A-lister. The band and drama geek girls had a thing for me. I myself had a thing for the goth chicks but could never manage to get myself dolled up enough to impress one of them. Back then in a southern town, goths were a rare sight. It wasn’t a mainstream thing like it is today. Yeah, I see you rolling your eyes back there, Siouxsie. You’re a normal teenager rebelling against the same stuff every teenager rebels against. You’re just not that original.

“So I muddled my way through math with passing grades. I did all right in English. To be honest with you, I am quite the speller. I wrote a few articles for the school paper. Despite my mediocre showing in high school, I’ve still found success doing what I love to do.

“The secret is pretty simple. I’ve always done what I love doing. During that other chunk of time when I wasn’t wasted or trying to pass a class, I had a camcorder in my hand, and I would talk to people and document their existence. I would talk to anyone about anything. All the money I made working at the ice cream parlor went towards blank tapes. I let everyone in my town know that they were to dispose of their old videocassettes through me alone so I could degauss them and reuse them. I edited, I dubbed, and I’d show the tapes to my friends and family. The more I did it, the better I got at doing it. I followed this one kid around in my art class for three weeks because I thought he was going to be the next Van Gogh. It was probably one of the most in depth character studies I did in high school. This talented guy ultimately ended up in prison for dealing meth. He wanted to cut corners. He couldn’t wait to see where his talent would lead him, and he lost his way. He went to jail, while I ended up hosting a show on the Classic News Channel.

“Success didn’t happen overnight for me. I can’t even count how many times I had pitched my show to low level network execs only for it to be rejected. I was good enough at producing and editing news magazine segments that I could earn a living working at a few networks and even win an award every now and then. But I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to do. Then along came a little thing called the internet. I had found a way to distribute all the little idiosyncratic lives I had documented to the world, and slowly but surely the shows began to attract a following. That’s when the network execs began to realize the opportunity they had been missing out on. I’d been out of high school close to twenty years before I was making money doing what I wanted to do.”

Their eyes were glazing over. Here I thought my little monologue had enough shock value to snag their attention and keep them interested in my boring yet atypical life. Maybe it was just too close to graduation. Maybe the kids were just too jaded from all the fake reality shows they were watching. It was time to summon more dramatic life experiences from people other than myself.

“Like a lot of y’all, I knew early on what my calling was. But there isn’t any rule that says you can’t change lanes further down the road. I had a buddy in high school who loved playing video games. I carried around a camcorder; he played video games. He got into a good college. He got his teaching credential. He became a teacher, a noble profession. After teaching for a couple years, he felt like something was missing. When he was teaching or when he was grading tests, all he could think about was getting home to play video games. Then it dawned on him that maybe he should somehow make video games a bigger part of his life. He took a minimum wage job as quality assurance tester for a game studio. He started to teach himself how to program. He ultimately became a game producer. He now produces video games that embed educational elements blending his love of video games with his training as a teacher. Some of you guys have probably played Skate or Spell. How about Protein Hunters or Slope Shooters? Or the number one selling Where in the Heck Is Buford San Francisco? He was lead developer on the latest version of that one.”

Crickets. I scanned the room to make sure the kids were alive. There were a couple kids in the front row, who seemed to be paying attention. I was losing the rest of them.

“The reason I’m telling you about my story and my buddy’s story is so you can take away some lessons from our experiences. ‘Never give up.’ ‘It’s never too late.’ ‘Always be doing.’ ‘Set goals.’ Blah, blah, blah. What you really want to know is, ‘What do I have to do?’ ‘Show me the way, Sheldon.’ ‘Give me the easy-to-follow instructions.’ Unfortunately, there are too many of you here for me to hand out individualized road maps. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. A handful of you lucky randomly chosen bastards are going to get personalized advice from yours truly. The rest of you are welcome along for the ride and will hopefully take something away for yourselves as well. Someone is paying me to be here. I want you guys to get your money’s worth.”

The blank faces morphed into bemused and befuddled looks.

“All right. Who here wants to talk about themselves today?”

The kids looked around waiting for someone to make the first move. Would it be a leader, a cool kid, someone they respected? Or would it be that guy who always raises his hand but no one liked?

“Come on guys. We’re talking about your future here. You may think I’m full of shit, but I guarantee you I’ve talked to a gazillion more people than you have with incredibly varied backgrounds. I’m a lot better at talking to than talking at. Any takers? It’s only advice. You don’t have to follow it.”

I wasn’t going to let them off the hook. One of these kids was going to talk.

“Okay. Who wants five bucks?”

They all started raising their hands. I pulled a five out of my wallet.

“Okay. First one up here gets it.”

A kid with a chinstrap beard and an Angel hat on blasted up from the second row knocking a heavy-set young lady out of the way.

“We have a winner. So, Pamplona, what’s your name?”

“Warren.”

“Well, Warren, you are a lucky man today because in addition to this five dollars, you also get the privilege of speaking with me today in front of your friends.”

“You tricked me, man.”

“No, you tricked me. You made me pull out my wallet to get you up here. You’re a sharp man, Warren—a keen negotiator. So tell us, Warren, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I’m going to be an auto mechanic.”

“Well, surely you’re not just going to work in a garage for some guy making shit wages for the rest of your life? There has to be something more. Are you looking to get into management? Are you going to be a service advisor at a dealership? Maybe join a pit crew for NASCAR or Indy.”

“I want to run my own shop.”

“Well, you’re definitely taking the right step by taking advantage of the ROP. I’m sure you’re also fiddling with cars in your spare time.”

“Yep. I’ve got a Ford Focus I’ve been modding.”

“Customization. Nice. It must be a growing market after all those Fast and Furious movies and all those shows on TLC and Discovery. Are you going to specialize in tuners or are you going to do standard repair work as well?”

“I mainly want to work on tuners.”

“Hmmm. That’s still a pretty small slice of the driving population. Plus a lot of folks tune their own cars. You’re going to have to be pretty badass to capture enough of that market to sustain yourself.”

I could sense Warren in his head counting all the people he knew who drove modified cars who didn’t work on their own cars. It didn’t take him long.

“It would probably be a good idea to mix in some standard repair work. If you can take a transmission apart and put it back together, that’s a pretty valuable skill. Even if you don’t make it on your own, you could always work at some place like Aamco.”

“Trannies are pretty crazy.”

“Oh, I know. Trannies are fucking crazy.”

I never expected to say something like that at one of my speaking engagements. I could cross that one off the list. Now I had a dozen more sentences that I wanted to try to squeeze in before my career as a public speaker was over.

“You’re not going to mind spending a few years in an apprenticeship somewhere to get a good feel for all the different cars and things that can go wrong with them. I mean, you’re not going to make a lot of money opening up a shop and having to turn people away because you don’t know how to fix their cars.”

“Nah. No problem. I know I’ve gotta pay my dues.”

“That’s good. Focusing on your goal helps get you through those tough times when you’re not making a lot of money and you have to do a lot of shitty jobs like cleaning up the garage and the bathroom. By the way, Warren, how are your grades?”

“School is not really my thing. Cars are my thing.”

“That’s great if you’re just an average mechanic collecting a paycheck. But if you’re running your own shop, you’ll wish school were your thing too. Let me make some connections for you. Math is at the core of finance and accounting. English and probably Spanish too are at the core of advertising and sales and just straight up communication. If you don’t know how interest works, you’re going to get ripped off when it comes time to find a deal on your heavy equipment. You won’t know whether to lease or buy because you won’t know how to calculate the present day value of the stream of payments you’ll be making. You won’t know how to budget for costs and overhead because you don’t know algebra. You may have a lot of clunkers rolling into your shop, but if you can’t present yourself in an intelligent manner, I doubt you’ll be seeing too many new Beamers and Benz-Os for regularly scheduled maintenance. It’s those people who can’t change their own oil that are the cash cows. Customer loyalty is how you’re going to build your business.”

Warren and I had a good little talk. When we finished up and I called for a new victim/volunteer I was surprised to see every kid in the room raise his or her hand. I didn’t even have to pull out a five-dollar bill. I was in demand again. I convinced one girl she needed a college degree. I convinced another to enter California state politics after her prospective stint as a public defense attorney. I convinced a kid who wanted to get into construction to retake trigonometry. I called it speed mentoring. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to follow up with each one, so I told the kids to find someone like me whom they could lean on every once in a while for quick dose of reality. And then I got the hell out of there before anyone had the chance to ask me how I had enough time to spend talking to high school students.

---

Stuck on the 91 westbound I got a call. It was Carla. Knowing I would be talking to a cop I donned my Bluetooth headset and answered the phone.

“So how did it go, amigo?”

“Before or after I dropped my pants onstage?”

“You didn’t!”

“No. But I think I did drop a few ‘F’ bombs.”

“Nothing they haven’t heard before.”

“Exactly.”

“So were they into it?”

“I think so. They all seemed pretty satisfied at the end. They may have just been glad it was over. My approach was a little unorthodox, and I think my normal sense of humor isn’t suited for a high school setting. I had a bunch of stuff I was going to do that I sort of just threw out the window in favor of a more personal and improvised discussion. I don’t know if I can sustain that kind of approach. I might need to just come up with more of a canned routine.”

“It will take some time to get it dialed in, and even after you’re a seasoned veteran like me, you’ll still have bad days. My experience is that if it’s canned, you can usually taste that it’s not fresh. But it sure is a lot easier to fly on autopilot.”

“I like to keep my hands on the wheel.”

“I was talking to Nell, and it looks like you’re already booked for another gig.”

“Tell me it’s not another high school.”

“Sorry, Charlie. It is.”

“Fuck. Can’t I get a group like the whores at the Bunny Ranch—something like that?”

“Keep dreaming. This time you’ll be at El Camino Real in Woodland Hills.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Those kids don’t need motivating. This is a disaster.”

“Boo hoo. Come on, Sheldon. Are you burning out on us already?”

“No. I love the new job, Carla. It’s just that an ex-girlfriend is a teacher at El Camino Real, and I really don’t have an interest in running into her.”

“Yikes.”

Season 2 Chapter 12

2009-08-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it, but I had to jerk off about 10 minutes after I got home.

Not because it’s embarrassing to say you rubbed one out, even as a middle aged – albeit single – man. I’ve done that ever since I realized that it does more than make pee come out. And I’ll be doing it as long as I have hands. Or feet. Or anything I can graze around waist-height. It’s something I do when I’m in a relationship close to as much as I when I’m not.

Lots of time a guy will see or meet a girl and he’ll think of sex or something sexual about her. Those mysterious studies and buzzworthy soundbites say we do that once every 7 seconds, which is in and of itself just can’t be accurate, since there are activities you’ve done where you’ve been focused on that with no hint of sexual thought…driving, enjoying music, writing – there’s plenty. So maybe that’s the average, because I know I could spend a whole chain of seconds and minutes thinking only of satisfyingly filthy sex acts. My trouble with having to deal with the compulsion is the implication, at least, for me.

I have long had a test, for myself, of how much I was interested in somebody, which grew out of the male preoccupation with masturbation. The critical difference between pure carnal, hormone-driven lust and genuine emotional contact was what happened in the moments after that mess was made. If a woman was still on your mind even after doing things, however unlikely to actually happen in reality, then there could be something more in your mind than just a premeditated sexual assault.

My dental hygienist would disagree with me, because she has a completely different perspective on the mental state of sexual desire, which we discussed – no, debated at length when we went out for cocktails one night. Aside from her husband, she claimed she had no sexual thoughts about other guys, and that if she did, it was tantamount to emotional cheating. This had stemmed from my comments that I would see a female, and very frankly be able to admit that I wanted to fuck her. Now, that didn’t mean I was, or given the chance I would, but I was comfortable with my own male desires to admit it without shame or guilt. She didn’t see my point, since I was involved with a gal at the time, but that expanse between thought and action was so great didn’t help to foster an understanding of my point. And I still think that she’s full of shit when it comes to that point. It’s great she thinks or feels she is 100% committed to her husband in a psycho-sexual way, but I don’t buy it…that no other single person arouses desire in you to that level? No way. And it’s not because I don’t believe in an emotional component to sex – that’s the whole idea of my theory; sex can operate outside of love and knowing where that falls between the two vertices is what is really worth determining.

So I spent the first few minutes at home taking off my shoes and socks, and getting a drink. That’s not some pre-masturbation ritual, I was just getting comfortable. I sat on the couch and thought about what a good day it had turned out to be, and that it was fun to have gone with Carla. I hoped she’d at least felt similarly, because I never want to be a pain in the ass, unless I’m actually trying to be one. I’d never been particularly into Latin women, but Carla happened to hit one of my long time triggers – powerful women.

Policewomen are right there at the top of the list, as well as the handful of female MMA fighters and competitive physical fitness instructors. It’s not entirely that they are fit, strong women, but that they have the ability to possibly kick your ass. That hint of masculinity in a female is somehow sexy to me. Taken to the blown out extreme when female bodybuilders just look like trannies or when women get a lesbian butchness, that’s where it loses me. And the same for somebody like Nell Tanner, who is unquestionable a powerful woman, but that is more of a respect for the power and control she wields. She could make you miserable and dominate you, but certainly not physically, and that icy, chilling effect makes a woman less attractive. That hard-as-nails bitch thing is great for dominatrix sessions but not attractive to me.

As my mind drifted back to Officer Diaz, my hand drifted to other places, and soon, I found myself adding a scientific twist to what would otherwise be considered habit.

---

It was nearly a week later, and it was time to check in at Fort Tanner, as I’d come to think of it. The boss lady had ask me to stop by her office before joining the others in The Pit, as in “of vipers”, which was the presentation room. I turned the corner and saw the desk outside Nell office vacant, and thought about taking a seat in one of the cushy chairs and leafing through one of those magazines that only seem to be subscribed to for display, like Wine Bureaucrat or High Performance Private Jet Quarterly, but inching forward I could see Sunday though the glass door to Nell’s office, and she was leaning over Nell’s desk, showing her some papers, which Nell seemed determined to sign but not without a pained look on her face.

I gave a light rap on the glass and opened the door enough to lean in. “Am I interrupting, ladies?”

From the corner, where I hadn’t seen him, Peter replied, “No, we girls are just doing some work.”

I hesitated, stuck between elaborating my way along the path of an apology and barreling past as if I’d said nothing out of the ordinary, but Nell spoke, without even glancing up from the task at hand. “Come in, Sheldon. Multi-tasking is a necessity to getting anything done, or done well. It’s a good stimulant; it keeps the mind loose.”

Peter rolled his shoulders and shook out his wrists, which then dangled in front of him, and echoed Nell by mouthing the word ‘loose’ as he stretched his neck on both sides. He looked like a gay bunny rabbit in chinos and a silk shirt.

“Things going well,” Nell inquired of me.

“Ah, sure. Last week was good for me. Carla, er…Officer Diaz gave me a perspective on speaking that I think will help when I tackle those high school kids.”

“Yes,” Nell said with a slight trace of pride, “I though Ms. Diaz would be useful in building the right approach for your upcoming engagement.” Peter was moving at the very edge of my field of vision. He was nodding in agreement with her statement, and then opened up an appointment book, scanning the pages before settling on a particular entry and circling it. Closed-captioned for the hearing impaired and the fabulous.

She continued, “I’m going to be going over some basic speaking points and keys, not only for your benefit, but to refresh for the others. I have you down for a week from next Thursday, but before that I want you to give me a synopsis of what you intend to do. In writing. You’re going to need to fill 40 minutes, which is the lower end of our bookings. I don’t want every word, but I do want to know what you’re planning to say.”

“I can do that, sure.”

“Good,” she said, and made her last marks on what Sunday was presenting to her. She finally looked up, though not at me, and took off a frameless pair of reading glasses that she meticulously polished the lenses with a poly-fiber cloth, before putting them in a leather case that went into a drawer in her desk. Sunday, papers in a folder she carried made her way towards the door, but stopped in front of me and pulled the top paper out of the folder.

“That’s for your time and involvement, Sheldon,” Nell said. “We pay monthly our associates monthly, and even if they have speaking engagements that are spaced far apart, we try to make sure there is a steady flow coming in to them so that they do not have any trouble staying retained by our agency. Appreciation comes in many forms, but gratitude never paid the rent.”

Sunday also produced an envelope for me, and I looked at the paper, which was an unfolded check. It was for $5000. Not bad for a couple of hours of my time, and certainly plenty for the little I’d done since leaving CNC.

“Thank you very much Ms. Tanner,” I said, realizing that my blood and sperm were safely restricted from sale to the public for at least another month.

“You’ve got a few minutes before we’re meeting, so please feel free to socialize with the others.” Peter waved goodbye, completing his pantomime act, and taking my cue, left towards the presentation room.

---

The room was about half full, and the only person I recognized was Vivian, who must have been feeling the real estate crunch and took to this speaking gig as a life preserver during the economic downturn. There wasn’t anybody else from the previous session, but there also wasn’t Carla. The group wasn’t really talking too much or interacting, so I played that game and kept to myself. I took a seat and waited for the thing to begin.

Nell came through the door and what little conversation there was, ceased. Like a puppy, Sunday bounded after her into the room. The door was about to close when a young black kid squeezed through and shuffled over to the open seat to my right. He looked like the last 30 years of Black History Fashion Month all rolled into one. He had some baggy Cross Colors pants that nearly covered his vintage Nike Air Jordans, a Wu-Tang logo tee under a track jacket that was Sean John or Fubu – I didn’t know the brand for sure, a leather necklace with Africa in the center in yellow, red, and green, and a crochet koufi to top the whole thing off. It made my jeans and black v-neck tee utterly dull by comparison.

“Whad’up,” he said, feeling me scan his amazing technicolor ensemble as he sat, and putting his left fist out, inviting me to bump it.

I gave it a tap and said, “Hey.”

Nell surveyed the room, or more correctly, the occupants, and began her refresher course on effective public speaking and interaction with the audience. Diligently, there were lots of notepads getting scrawled in. Nell Tanner could lower the temperature in a room by five degrees and she could also speak in such a manner that even the most useless sounding information was given greater importance. The room was dim enough for the projector in the back to still display images, but small canned lighting above seemed to give my fellow note-takers and I sufficient vision. Sunday operated a PowerPoint slideshow on a laptop alongside Nell’s oration.

“There are many different acronyms we use in this field to give instruction and shape our programs. I happen to think this is one of the better ones…be a NINJA. Sunday brought up an animated graphic of a ninja, who did a flip onto a stage and kicked a podium with a microphone, which made it shatter into an 8-bit array of splinters. It got a low rumble of laughter from the room, and even seemed to amuse Nell, if she was capable of finding humor. The little ninja bowed at the broken fragments and then turned to us, and bowed again.

“NINJA,” Nell repeated again. “Natural. Informative. Noteworthy. Jovial. Articulate.” The words appeared one by one on the screen. “Be a NINJA speaker.”

“Fuck that noise, man,” my neighbor whispered to me.

I turned and looked, and he was tapping his notepad with a pen, where he had written BE A NIGGER.

My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. He started writing down his page:

Nonchalant
Intelligent
Gracious
Genuine
Enthusiastic
Radical

I smiled and he smiled when he saw that I got it. I held up my finger and wrote on my pad BE A HONKY.

Humorous
Original
Nurturing
Knowledgeable
Youthful

“You alright, man,” he said. Yep, I alright.

Nell’s presentation went for a good hour, but it passed quickly, as she said a good speaker should be able to make a person forget exactly how much time they’ve been there.

“Before you all go, I just wanted to introduce somebody we hope we’ll have with us for a long time. You may have seen him around here lately, and some of you may even be familiar with his work. Please give a very warm welcome to…”

I started to stand, but quickly shrank back into my chair as Nell finished. “Vesodious Prime.” Next to me, Vesodious stood, unphased (or perhaps unaware) at my mistaken attempt to get into his spotlight. A gentle smattering of applause was given, and Nell waved him down towards the front where she was.

“Vesodious just finished a term with Coogan Harrington Woods & Grossman, but now he’s exclusively ours.” She looked at him and gestured with the microphone, offering him the opportunity to speak, which he reluctantly took from her, but that was part of his act. Nell sat in one of the seats in front of him, but didn’t see as we did Vesodious check Nell out as she took those few steps away.

“Yo, I wanna say thanks,” he put a slight emphasis on that thanks, as his words took on a more musical cadence, “to Ms. Tanner and all y’all here. I’m real happy to be wit’chu, cuz y’alls now my crew, and we’s tight like that.” Vesodious stalked around like a jungle cat, which I’m sure he’d have used to describe his prowling, sizing up the small audience he had.

“I’ma do somethin’ that I want y’all to help me wit, a’ight? So I can get to know y’all, I wanna find out yo name and have you give me a word or two that describes you or what you do. But first, I gotta have a beat to drop this flow. Y’all in this side of the room,” he gestured to the right, “hit that arm rest and snap your fingers like this…”

Vesodious slapped his thigh and snapped, getting the right side to follow his lead, slap-click, slap-click, slap-click.

“Oh yeah, thas nice. Keep that up. Keep it going. Now y’all on my left, you gotta gimme some claps. Follow me, like this…”

He clapped out a simple rhythm on top of the slap-click pattern that got everybody making crude music. Clap-clap…clap, went the beat.

“Aw, c’mon Ms. Tanner, don’t you hold back. Gimme some claps or this don’t work,” he needled her. And she obliged, creating a little ripple of surprise that he’d cracked her armor enough to see the person inside was somehow the slightest bit similar to us.

“Nice, y’all is real good.”

Vesodious started beatboxing over our skeletal groove, adding noises beyond typical percussive sounds. It was quite a feat as he started to rap in-between his own orchestration, “Vesodious Prime…it’s Nell Tanner time…feel my rhyme…this rising sign…the heat the beat the feat of Prime!”

Heads were bouncing and people were swaying in their seats along to the impromptu performance they were all part of.

“Now I’ma point and axe you name and your word, so don’t be shy!”

He pointed at a rotund woman in plain garm. “Waz yo name,” he asked.

“Connie,” she said excitedly.

“And waz yo word?”

“Faith!”

It made sense with her dull dress style, which was a scaled down version Sunday morning wear; Connie, the Jesus warrior.

“Yeah, a’ight girl…here we go,” Vesodious chirped, brining back his musical accompaniment to the room beat. “Connie, Connie, this lass be bonny…full of grace…you in this place…spiritual power…believe this hour…don’t take the fifth…six seventh or eighth…Connie gotta, gotta have –“ He pointed at her again and she elatedly shrieked with him “faith!”

“You good! Y’all get me? You see what we doin’ here?”

The room responded yes.

“Oh, no…you gotta bring it bigger than that! You see what we doin’ here?”

This time was a lot hardier yes response.

Vesodious worked the crowd, moving from person to person, freestyling a few lines about each. There was Randy, who “liked the Muppets and a master of puppets” with Henshaw, his googly-eyed sock friend. And Vivian was “doing great with her real estate”. “Bobby Joe did the rodeo”, and Roy could “be a recruiter and friend of computers”. He went through everybody, and came to me at the end.

“Okay, we just about done, but we got one more ta go…my man in the back, give it up.”

“Sheldon,” yelled about the fevered clapping and noise.

“Here we go, Sheldon…here we go,” Vesodious chanted. I said “television”, but I was overpowered by Vesodious and his mic, as he laid into a melody.

“Shel-don…perhaps you can call him Shelly…I got the food in my belly like jelly…or the hot carne…asada, I’m gonna…head to Tiajuana…but my ride is kinda wonky…I don’t hang with a burro but I’m down with a – “

Vesodious pointed and I yelled “honky!”

The room exploded with an abrupt, smothering blanket of silence. Slowly, heads turned back until the whole room was looking at me. Even Randy turned his covered hand at me, and Henshaw, his sock puppet said, “donkey. It’s donkey.”

Vesodious laughed, and said, “you still alright, Shelly-boy.”

---

With my tail between my legs and feeling about two feet tall, I resigned my self to figuring out what I was going to give to Nell as my point of view for my style of presentation and the type of content. I really wanted to impress her, if only to show that I was able to do as she asked even if I was a poor predictor of rhyme schemes and poetry. Nell had emailed to see how it was coming along, but I didn’t reply, since I was stuck coming up with what I felt was the quintessential direction of who I was and what I was bringing. And with mother now back from her trip, I doubted it would get any easier.

“I was going to fry up a fish for ya, but you must have had a fair amount going port to port,” I yelled back to my mom, who was doing some unpacking. I was grilling a pair of fat steaks and had a pot of green beans going while some potatoes were crisping in the oven. My culinary skills were not anything to brag about, but meat and potatoes I could handle, and my mother wouldn’t complain.

“After all the fresh fish we had, I think I can take a break for a little while. And the same goes for Germans…those Krauts can party.”

“You want a nip,” I asked as I set out the plates and put a fair portion out on each.

“Nah, hon…I had my fill of that too.”

That’s been one of my saving graces, being on the cusp of having a drinking problem. Never feeling so compelled to have a drink that I would when my company declined. Though a good cut of meat makes scotch come alive.

“You remember your Aunt Tilly?”

“Kinda. How is that?”

“It’s good. Cooked just the way I like it,” she said, taking a bite to emphasize the comment. “Tilly is Grandma Esther’s younger sister.”

“She lives in Baltimore?”

“No,” she corrected, “that’s your Aunt Rhoda, and she’s dead. Tilly is in Delaware.”

“Okay, and she’s alive, right?”

“Yeah. She just had her hip replaced and is having some trouble. I’m going to stay with her and make sure she doesn’t have any trouble.”

“Like entering a dance competition?”

“Something like that…”

“So, when are you going? And when are you coming back?”

“Couple of days…and I’d say that’s up to her.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. You going to be okay to pick out your clothes in the morning and make your bed?”

“I was able to while you were gone. I think I can handle it. She gonna be able to look after you as much as you are with her?”

“She won’t have too much trouble…should be an easier time than you’ve had.”

I finished the mouthful of potato, and put my fork down. “Are you…drying out?”

“Don’t sound so accusatory, Sheldon.”

“No offense, Ma, but you getting on the wagon is kinda like finding out there’s no Santa Claus…it takes a little getting used to.”

“Fair enough,” she said, and took another bite. It was uncomfortable to hear the lucidity in her voice. She was not terribly difficult to deal with as a drinker, but that’s pretty much been my interaction for her nearly as long as I can remember. She used to tell me a story from when I was an infant about the time my father shaved off his beard and came home from work. I must have cried for an hour, she said, because I didn’t recognize the man claiming to be my dad since he didn’t look like how I remembered him.

“Are you disappointed,” she asked.

“Yes, you’re getting sober. How fucking dare you. C’mon Ma, what do you think we are, the Bukowski family?”

“You just seemed, I don’t know…upset.”

“I just am a little stunned. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s not a health thing. I’m way past that anyway. I just had a hell of a bender, and it was a nice way to really go out on top and take a break.”

“So this thing with Aunt Tilly, that’s just good timing?”

“She’s very old and she’s the last of the sisters left, and there’s nobody else who can take care of her. Now that she’s out of rehab, I don’t want to have to send her back to assisted living. That would be a whole mess…packing her stuff, selling her place. Just a pain in the ass.”

“Growing old sucks,” I said.

“Amen to that,” and she clinked her glass of diet soda against mine.

“Besides, being here got to be kinda lonely at times, with you taking off and traveling all the time. I got used to it but being around people so much recently just added to it. It’s not like Tilly and I are going to go out every weekend. It’s just nice having another body around most of the time.”

“Funny you mention that,” I trailed off and made the last of the green beans disappear.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m…taking some time away from the show. About a year.” I waited for a reaction, but it didn’t dislodge her the way I thought it would.

“Is that wise,” was the best I could get out of her.

“Well, I won’t say I burned bridges, but my sabbatical was not entirely planned…I created a situation and then got myself out of it.”

“You get somebody pregnant?”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“More complicated that a new life? I don’t think I want to know…”

“It’s a new direction,” I proclaimed boldly, clearing the dishes from the table. I cleaned them off and turned back to her, “If it goes well, they’ll be paying me to run my mouth instead of paying me to keep it shut.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Public speaking,” I said. “Fran hooked it up and it so far it’s looking good.”

“Just be yourself…without trying to be yourself.”

I smiled a big, fake smile, but she was right on the mark. And that was what I was struggling with, as I then explained to her.

“Look, you’re who they want, so that’s who you should give them. It doesn’t have to be pretty and it doesn’t have to be perfect, but it has to be you. Know your limits. But know everybody else’s limits.”

“Thanks, Ma.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m gonna sit down and try to figure this out again.

“You’re welcome, dear. Until I leave, I’ll take a look at what you have if you want, and that’ll still give you a day or two before you have to do your first talk.

---

I walked my mother to security checkpoint at the terminal and gave her a hug. “You sure you’ll be okay with Aunt Tilly?”

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“Different situation. Still the same person,” I said.

“Exactly. I’ll be fine. So will you.”

I handed her an envelope. “It’s what I wrote for Ms. Tanner. I already sent her a copy, and so far, she hasn’t told me I’m fired, so that’s a good thing.”

“Good. And just remember that if you fuck up, be sincere when you say you’re sorry.”

I waved to her after she’d made her way through and watched as she disappeared into the expanse of the walkway to the different gates. What I’d written was a very brief, and I could have given her the night she came back and we spoke, but I didn’t want to have the opportunity to change it – I was committed to it because it was the one thing that I did not want to hide about myself, and my biggest, best flaw: I said exactly what I thought and felt. And being true to yourself, even if sometimes you’re the only person who accepts that truth, is better than being a liar if only to have a single person agree with you.

Forty minutes of stand-up philosophy.

No bullshit. No holds barred. No nonsense.

Sometimes the language can be coarse, the stories a bit extreme, but the resulting ideas and wisdom are time tested and road worn. Years of tapping into the American psyche and interacting with people across the country has created a perspective hardly seen, let alone heard. And is exactly what is necessary in this day and age.

Life is not scripted, and fails when it tries to be. Conversations go off the rails the same. Life happens and you act. And react. You start at one place and you end up in another, but the point of a journey is not to arrive.

Ma would appreciate that last part, I’m sure.

Season 2 Chapter 11

2009-08-10T00:46:00.000-07:00

“You know, Carla, I don’t think I’ve been to an elementary school since I graduated from the fifth grade. Also, I’ve never actually sat in the FRONT seat of a police car.”

“It’s probably a little scarier than how you remember it.”

“The police car? No way. It’s much better on this side of the cage. I’m a little disappointed though that you don’t have the twelve gauge up here for me to caress.”

“Not the car, Sheldon. Elementary school. The kids are pretty grown up.”

“The only thing I remember about elementary school is that the last drinking fountain in a row of four always produced pee; no cuts, no butts, no coconuts; and girls went to Jupiter for some reason. Oh, and I won a couple spelling bees.”

“You nerd! I bet you read books for fun.”

“Sure. I also played Dungeons & Dragons. I made little origami animals out of construction paper. Teachers loved me when I wasn’t intentionally or unintentionally making them feel stupid.”

“You’d probably have a tough time relating to the group of kids we’ll be talking to then.”

“I’m not so sure. I was considered a bit of hellion—literally. Jesus was a pretty big deal where I grew up, and my mamma wasn’t the church-going type. A lot of the other parents thought we worshipped satan. If these kids are demons, then they’re brothers and sisters of mine. God, it was great to have the neighbors think I was spooky without having to go full-on goth.”

“I did the goth thing a little bit in junior high.”

“No fucking way. From goth to cop—that’s a great story. How did you end up a cop?”

“I always wanted to be one. My brother and I used to watch Hunter religiously when we were kids. I wanted to be Dee Dee McCall so bad.”

“Yeah, it’s a little different from TV, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, they sort of leave out the boring stuff on TV. You know, I was actually a police explorer in high school. I used to go into liquor stores to buy booze, and we’d bust the ones that didn’t card.”

“So you were the one ruining everyone’s fun. For shame!”

“You know how kids get when they’re drunk-- adults too for that matter. Bad things can happen.”

“Yep. They grow up to be me.”

“Now that’s scary.”

We continued along the freeway in the Crown Vic heading eastward through the city towards our ultimate destination in Boyle Heights while a spattering of numerically coded conversations came through the radio. A little part of me was hoping Carla would answer an urgent request for back up, putting me right in the middle of a cop show shootout. That would add some serious flavor to an already eventful day. Unfortunately, we arrived at the elementary school without incident.

---

I felt like a retired NBA backup center as I walked the school grounds. I could easily dunk on the basketball hoops that were set well below the regulation ten feet. All the door knobs were just a little lower than normal. I could barely squeeze my knees under the lunch tables. I was a giant.

The drinking fountains were at about knee level. I tested the fourth in row of fountains, and, “Surprise!” It was water. The second one did taste a little like tea, or was it a gustatory hallucination. I wondered how ubiquitous that “coffee, tea, soda pop, pee” chant was back in my day. We recited the chant at each and every four-spigot drinking fountain. It was mandatory. I wondered if the kids were still using it today. Who the hell came up with that phrase anyway? This was definitely something to look into. I could imagine the bafflement of drinking fountain plumbers across the country as they encountered one four-spigot fountain after another: “The third one is always shot to hell, but the fourth one is always like new, completely untouched. I’ll just swap the third and the fourth and save the school district some money.” I could remember lining up to get to the third one. A few desperately thirsty kids would hit the first and second for an imaginary caffeine jolt, but no one ever touched the fourth. I did one time, and I was ostracized for a couple weeks. Hell, I knew it was water, and I pled my case as much as I could to my fellow second graders: “Does the fluid out of the third spigot taste anything like soda pop? No, you numbskulls.” But when it came down to it in the end, it wasn’t worth the silent treatment. I avoided the fourth spigot after that. I bet they don’t even make the four spigot models anymore to save tomorrow’s kids from humiliation.

Carla and I finally stepped into the fourth grade class, and I was shocked. Carla built it up like we’d be walking into an early scene out of Dangerous Minds or Stand and Deliver or To Sir, with Love or one of those movies where the protagonist teacher faces a class of seemingly hopeless hoodlums. These kids were no different than the ones I remembered when I was in the fourth grade. They were right before that age when they really start to care about what they’re wearing and how they do their hair. They were right before that age when they start to become assholes like the rest of us. I didn’t see any kids wearing shirts that read, “Fuck tha police.” In fact, these kids took an instant liking to Officer Diaz. She had this smile that the kids and I just couldn’t get enough of. If you asked me then, “Gin or Carla’s smile,” I’d take Carla’s smile without hesitation at that particular moment. It was genuine. I could tell she enjoyed being with the kids.

A few of the students recognized me from seeing my mug on TV, so I became known as Sheldon, the TV guy. I actually felt a little bad for being somewhat of a distraction, but I got over it quickly as I always do.

Carla opened up her talk with a little exposition on the LAPD’s motto, “To protect and to serve”. She basically painted the rosiest picture possible of the department—the ideal version of the LAPD. The police were the good guys. They protected the community (the kids) from the bad guys. The police worked for the community since the community indirectly paid the police through tax dollars. I know, it sounds like a mafia. I wouldn’t be the first to say all governments are mafias. In Carla’s words with her hand on her heart, she adopted all the kids in the classroom, “You are my family. Ustedes son mi familia.” She meant it. The kids ate that line up like it was a plate of chocolate cake and ice cream.

Carla didn’t drag the speech out too long, having to deal with fourth grade level attention spans. She had little work papers for the kids to fill out with a list of moral/statutory questions. Each question briefly described an activity. The kids were to write down and discuss why the activity was right or wrong. Most of the kids seemed to be getting it until we got to a question about graffiti.

“Okay, amigos. Spray painting or writing on walls out on your neighborhood streets—who thinks this is okay to do? Who thinks it’s okay for me to write my name on the front of the school?”

A couple of the boys raised their hands.

“Okay, Hector, tell us why you think it’s okay.”

“Well, it’s not hurting nobody. Nobody gets killed, and it’s not stealing.”

“Do you know anyone who tags, Hector?”

“Well, my brother got arrested, and he had to do community service, but he says it wasn’t really fair because he didn’t hurt nobody.”

“Where did he tag?”

“It was a wall on the freeway.”

“Well, Hector, first off, he was on the freeway with very fast moving traffic. He could’ve been hit by a car or a truck. I would hate for that to happen to your brother. Secondly, the freeway belongs to everyone. Everyone pitches in a little money to build the freeway, so we all own the freeway and the walls on the freeway that keep the noise out of our neighborhoods. How many of you write your name on your toys and jackets and folders and books so that you know they are yours?”

Most of the class raised their hands.

“It’s okay to write your name on the stuff you own, but Hector, your brother wrote his name on a wall that he shares with the whole city. Because we all own the wall, he should have checked first with everyone if it was okay to put his name on the wall. He didn’t ask permission. Most people in the city don’t like it when people write on public property. They’ve made it illegal to tag because most people don’t like the way it looks. It’s vandalism. It damages the property. If your brother is artistic and tagging is how he expresses himself, he should find some paper or a canvas or a wall in his own backyard to paint.”

I knew I was supposed be observing, but I felt like helping Hector out a little. “Hey, Hector, if your brother thinks the law is silly, he really should work on trying to repeal the law. If he can convince a majority of lawmakers that tagging isn’t so bad, then we can all tag all over the place to our hearts’ content. Tell him, best of luck with that.”

Carla flashed me a stern look.

“Sorry. Have they had government yet? They probably don’t get that until high school.”

We continued down the list of scenarios, and I have to say I was impressed by how articulate some of the fourth graders were. They were a lot sharper than I thought they would be. A few of them stumbled magnificently, but on the whole, Officer Diaz was bringing out the best in them. I struggled immensely to keep quiet during the drug-related discussions. Carla finally reached the point in her mini-class where she solicited questions. The first one was a doozy from little Marisol in the second row.

“Officer Diaz, is Sheldon, the TV guy, your boyfriend?”

The kids giggled and oohed.

“Well, he is my friend, and he is boy, pero el no es mi novio.”

The laughing children focused their gazes on me. I feigned a painful yearning look and turned the classroom into a telenovela.

“No puedo mentir. Ella es mi amor. ¡Yo te quiero, Officer Diaz!”

The kids lost all control at that point. Their laughter was the opposite of kryptonite. I couldn’t get enough. I was riding high. Then Carla brought be back down. She had her hand on her gun, wide-eyed, with an exasperated grin.

“Don’t make me kick you out.”

“Lo siento. Just kidding. Only kidding,” I said as I held up my hands. You don’t want to mess with a woman when she has a Springfield 40 strapped to her hip.

Carla handily answered many more questions, but the last question of the day was also a doozy. It came from a gordito in the fourth row.

“Officer Diaz, have you ever shot anyone?”

Carla paused a little longer than I thought she should have.

“I never have, and I hope I never have to. We only resort to violent force when lives are in danger to protect ourselves and other innocent people around us. It’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

Not wanting to end on a somber chord, Carla pulled out a goodie bag full of police badge stickers and activity books. The kids were grateful, and Mrs. Ybarra, the teacher, was grateful for the time off from babysitting. I was grateful for not having to sit through another one of Dean’s oral dissertations. If all Mondays involved putting the screws to your old employer in the morning and making fourth graders laugh in the afternoon, they wouldn’t have such a bum rap.

---

“You were lying about not shooting anyone. Am I right? I know I’m right.”

“Some of those kids might grow up to be cops, and I don’t want them to think it’s all about shooting people. I’m trying to weed out the sociopaths if you don’t mind. We have a few already I think.”

“Yeah, I’ve probably met some of them. I can see why they send you instead of some of the WWE rejects I’ve come across.”

“A lot of those super buff cops are really just big teddy bears, and the kids love them. They’re like superheroes. You have to be a super villain to fear those lovable hunks. Is that you, Sheldon?”

“I’ll admit I wasn’t always a responsible partier in my younger days, and on more than one occasion, I’ve had the knee of some behemoth in blue drilling into my spine. And I’ll admit, I probably had it coming. But my super villain days are definitely over.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

We were driving back towards the Pacific, and Carla’s aviators were two intense glowing orbs of sky blue fire protecting a couple drops of smooth dark chocolate. If all cops looked like her, crime would be out of control. We’d all want to be cuffed and carted off for interrogation.

“You think you can handle a bunch of high school kids on your own, Sheldon?”

“I’ve got a few ideas. I have a feeling I’ll either be a huge hit, or I’ll be seeing lawsuits from the parents of emotionally scarred teenagers.”

“You were a teenager once. Just put yourself in their shoes, and you’ll know what to say.”

“I was ‘A’ teenager. There are so many different ways to be a teenager. I’d take fourth graders over teenagers any day.”

“Stay away from my fourth graders. I almost had to use deadly force back there to keep your mouth closed.”

“We all had a lot of fun, didn’t we? Great job by the way. I was impressed. You won over the crowd. I can see why Nell would like you. How did you guys hook up anyway?”

“Doing the community outreach stuff is one of my favorite things about my job. There is so much negative energy with my job, it’s nice to bring in a little of the positive. I love talking to groups of people, and I’m pretty good at it. I didn’t know I’d like it until I started doing it. Then I started thinking, if I like doing this so much, I should try to do it more. So I tracked down Nell. Do what you love, right?”

“Yep. Do it until someone stops you with the force of a signed agreement and the funding of a multinational conglomerate. Then you have to find something else that you love doing.”

“If you love pissing people off, that’s probably not a good thing.”

“It can be fun, but it is very expensive.”

Carla dropped me off at my place while many of my neighbors wondered why and how I was able to employ Los Angeles’ finest taxi service.

“I’ll see you around, Sheldon. Take care.”

“Ditto.”

Season 2 Chapter 10

2009-08-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

I’d love to be able to tell you how exciting the weekend was.

Monday morning I was thwarted from seeing Phoebe Cates undo her red bikini top at a Tuscon IHOP. Why is it that the most indecipherable part of a dream is not why you’re hundreds of miles away from home at a restaurant you don’t frequent re-envisioning an iconic scene from a movie, but how you wake up the moment before it reaches a climax? I laid there in bed wondering if I’d be able to recapture the feel of sticky table and underlying aroma of maple syrup when my cell phone vibrated. It wasn’t mother, who’d similarly not shown much regard for timekeeping Saturday calling from one of the on-board ship phones to tell me what a wonderful time she was having and how much fun this group of South Africans who’d been at the next table over in the dining hall were. The clock said 8:12, and I was unsure for a second, since the window shades were drawn tight as a vampire’s coffin lid. In a few short days, years of discipline and regiment had gone out the window, and my patterns of sleep were now becoming irregular as the twists and turns of my life. Yeah, I’m melodramatic when I’m waking up.

“Sheldon,” the voice questioned. It was a woman’s, and though groggy and thinking of flapjacks I was able to place it.

“Cami. It’s too early. In my life.”

“C’mon, Sheldon, it’s after eight…”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, “but I don’t wake up and go to work anymore. You should know that.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry, okay? I swear I didn’t have anything to do with what happened –“

I cut her off. She sounded sincere and the last thing I wanted to wake up to was the wounded cries of a gazelle.

“Look, I know what I did and I’m taking responsibility for it. Don’t beat yourself up over what happened, because you’ll lose that fight. I ain’t happy about it, but I did what was going to be best for everyone, including myself. Especially myself.” Morals, calibrated…cross that off the day’s checklist. “I hope that’s not why you’re calling,” I added. Because calling me early in the morning for absolution is not a favorite of mine.

“My flight just landed, and I…I just thought I should call. I’ve got some things to work on, but maybe once I get settled we can have dinner.”

“Is that still allowed in your agreement?”

“Dinner?”

“Yep.”

“Of course,” Cami said, “and they don’t care if you and I talk.”

“Hans told me everybody was getting orders not to talk with me.”

She fired back immediately. ”He’s paying homage to you and your defiance by not signing it. But if Mr. Perfect actually read the document, it was just a standard form not to engage a former employee about their discharge or discuss it publicly. They faxed one to me. No biggie.”

“Resignation,” I corrected. “Not a discharge.”

“Sure, resignation…on a business level, we’re just being marched in formation, that’s all. And besides, it’s only the on-airs and the upper management types. There’s nothing the peons can or are going to say. They all got a copy of the company’s press release, and somewhere after the scheduling change of Top Farmers to Tuesdays, there was a couple of sentences noting that in addition to your taped segments, other special presenters were going to be adding to the program, and that you were going to remain on the program in a producer’s capacity.”

It sounded like the story that Jeff gave me, but it didn’t explain why Artie was saying there was a leak. I wanted to see if she had any more insight, but she resumed, “Have you though about what you’re going to do?” And there’s her real interest in meeting up with me.

“I don’t know, let me see what’s on the calendar. Hmmm…looks pretty open for the next year or so.”

“I’m serious, Shel, we’ll have dinner and maybe I can help. It’s the least I can do.”

No, the least you could do was not have your strings pulled by your company and advertisers and unwittingly become their little spy to keep tabs on me and make sure I’m staying below the radar like I promised I would.

“We’ll, you let me know. And those generous folks at CNC can pick up the tab on your expense report. I gotta get back to hash browns at Ridgemont High,” and with that I hung up. But I didn’t get back to it as I’d hoped.

On the refrigerator was a letter that Nell Tanner had sent. Actually sent and not emailed, which was a rare touch of class that distinguished her from the other zero-tolerance, no bullshit ice queens that run companies. It was very business-like in expressing her gratitude for coming down to not only meet with her but also participate in her group evaluation, and that she was looking forward to utilizing my unique observations and style as both a speaker and personality. I stood and looked at it. No, Ms. Theroux, we were not going to be meeting and chatting about the one safe haven I’d found while this shitstorm blew over. Not with you, and not with anybody. The cleanest way to make this break and serve my time was to just knuckle down and do it.

---

Looking online, I saw the same PR comment in Variety and the Hollywood Reporter, but neither had them on the main page. I had to do a search on them to find links to the few lines about the show, and I doubted that they even made the print editions. I called Fran to harass him, but mostly with appreciation.

“She didn’t eat you alive,” he laughed.

“No, but the bones of her past meals where still in her lair. I must have arrived after one of her feedings.”

“Can you keep it together while the dust settles?”

“It’s a lot of dust, but yeah.”

“No,” Fran said, “I mean, can you handle Nell and how she does things?”

“You mean, can I keep from fucking this up?”

“Well…yeah.”

“I’m going to take it a day at a time, and try to keep from ruining it. And I really appreciate you getting me in touch with Nell.”

“It’s the least I could do. You’ve been there for me.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Can you do me a small favor. Just keep this gig with Nell quiet. Cami called this morning and was trying to get a bead on what I was doing. They’re watching to see if I slip up. If I can keep my mouth from moving faster than my brain.”

“No problem, amigo. I got a call from that snake in HR, what’s her name – Connie?”

“Celine,” I corrected him.

“Right, Celine. She just had a few questions and wanted to see what I knew about what happened. More to make sure I wasn’t going to say anything in case I was asked.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing…I could tell she was fishing. But she did say something weird, not right out, but I picked up on it. She hinted that if I didn’t know anything it would be best not to take pains and get involved.”

“That sounds like her. Only she would say ‘take pains’,” I agreed.

“Right, but she added that it would not make the company happy, and even though I was not actively employed, I was still receiving benefits…”

“That fucking bitch!”

“I know!”

I wrapped up the call quickly and rang Artie, just to get confirmation of the suspicions that had been building. He was not as excited or stressed by the conversation as had been the case the last few times.

“Sheldon, my friend,” he started in the slimy tone that all agents have, “is it already time?”

“You’d know. If there was a second of opportunity for you to have to strike a deal, I’d expect it was already being made.”

“Listen, unless you’ve got a new proposition or idea, I think we’re waiting it out. I don’t know what else to say.”

It was still before his afternoon bowel movement, which he famously broke any and all commitments to keep scheduled. Aside from my calls, I can only imagine how many other clients and deals were brokered while he was in the bathroom. But right now he was far too relaxed.

“What happened to all that buzz and chatter from the other nets?”

“There nothing we can do about that. You said yourself –“

“I know what I said, Artie,” I redirected our conversation. “But I want to talk about what you said. Where’s all my heat?”

“It, ah…cooled off.”

“And this leak you mentioned?”

“It dried up, I guess.”

“Thanks, Artie. You’re a real straight shooter,” I said with a cream filled center of sarcasm. I wasn’t trying to take it out on him because I was seeing what was happening, but it still got me fired up.

“Uh, yeah…you take care Sheldon.”

---

I hadn’t planed on heading back over to CNC, but I’d called Jeff three times since my morning rounds and each time I got a different bullshit answer as to what he busy doing. I was outside the building and called one last time. And this time it wasn’t to Jeff. It was to Mason Burnett.

“Mason, how are you, it’s Sheldon?”

“Hi, Sheldon. Why are you calling?” He sounded confused, which I liked. It’s always to your advantage when you confuse and disorient an adversary.

“Well, you see, I’ve been having trouble getting in touch with my buddy Jeff. Normally, I’d just cruise down the hall and pop into his office, but we both know that I’m not that much of a health nut to start to take up walking. And for some reason, I just can’t seem to get him on the phone. But lucky for me, I was able to get though all the directories and assistants and barriers and get you on the line. It’s flattering to think that I could still get somebody important on the phone even after I’d left.”

“What do you want, Sheldon,” Mason said, showing impatience with my grandstanding.

“Get him on the phone and get him to call me on my cell in the next five minutes, or in precisely three hundred and one seconds you’re going to find out what I loose cannon I can become.”

“I thought this was taken care of Sheldon. Don’t forget our agreement. Our signed agreement.”

“Listen, Mason. It’s very clear how things can play out. But if you and Ephimria and CNC and whoever else don’t take your finger off my trigger, I got a whole new scenario for you, and it is not going to be as nice and tidy as we made it. The way it should be. Five minutes.”

I hung up and felt a wave of adrenaline. Goddamn that was some gangster movie shit! I hoped that my tough guy routine was going to spark a little fear in Mason, even if my threats were far from likely to be carried out. He didn’t know me well enough to see if I was full of shit or a psycho, but my reputation was clearly going to get play. If he waited me out, I’d be screwed.

My phone rang just shy of four minutes later.

“Sheldon, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Thanks for taking my call, Jeff. I should ask you the same thing.”

“Mason just tore me a new asshole!”

“You in your office? Come down to the corner so we can talk, or Mason is going to really learn the meaning of torn assholes.” I realized that sometimes, sounding macho also sounds incredibly gay.

“I’m coming down, Shel, but this is only because it’s you.”

It didn’t take too long for him, and I figured Jeff must have ran down a few flights of stairs to get here so quickly.

“You want a hog dog,” I asked pointing to the cart by the street. Jeff was a little out of breath, and must have wondering why I was acting so flippant.

“Shel, everything was taken care of…what are you up to?

“We’ve been friends for a long time, and I hate to think that this is going to be the thing that ruins it,” I told him. “Don’t give me any bullshit. Don’t lie to me. Don’t read from the corporate cue cards. Just be honest with me and we’ll see if there’s a problem here.”

He looked at me and nodded, waiting to see what commotion I was going to incite.

“I told you, and I told those fuckers that I was going to play ball and stick to my word. So why is it one day I have Artie complaining like a eunuch getting a lap dance and then the next pretending the whole thing never happened?”

“What?”

"There was a leak, the story getting out that I was up for grabs. Gonna make a big splash, and then…nothing. Artie didn’t tell me anything. Wouldn’t. What do you have to say about it?”

“About Artie?”

“Jeff,” I said sternly, “don’t do this to me. Who plugged the leak? And how’d it get out?”

Jeff didn’t say anything.

“Your rules and procedures harpy is laying into Fran about me, holding his pension and coverage over his head. Having Cami poke around so you can keep tabs on what I’m doing. And yes, the slip that never was with Artie. If you wanna pretend it’s nothing, then keep standing there like a dummy…but you’re here, so let’s go.”

Jeff looked me in the eyes and didn’t break his gaze. “They were just making sure there wasn’t anything that was going to bite them in the ass once you left. The big deal that became nothing – that was a test. They wanted to see if they could contain the story.”

“There was no story.”

“And there is still no story. They put it out there to make sure they could reign it back in. Testing to see how firm their grip was.”

“I told you, I wasn’t going to break our deal. I told them! It was your stupid idea anyway!” I hadn’t realized I was starting to yell, and it only registered in Jeff’s wincing reaction.

“I know. It wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it. Mason just told me, just now. That’s what happened between when you spoke to him and I called you. Honestly. He said that you called and were acting like you were going to break our deal, which I told him wasn’t like you, and so he said that the company was making sure things on our side were airtight. They were concerned that even if you held up your end – like I told them you would, there could be an issue. I didn’t know about Fran or what they said to Artie. You know that I would have never gone along with those plans. No way.”

I looked at my friend, and felt he was telling the truth. Or at least, his version of the truth with what he knew.

“I’m doing what was asked of me so I don’t become a Mariah, okay,” I told him.

“It’s pariah, Shel. Pariah.”

“No, I mean Mariah. Mariah Carey, like when she and Tommy Mottola divorced. Her career went to shit and it took her years to pick up the pieces. She blamed it on him and his connections to her record labels, and while she chose to make that awful fucking movie Glitter, I do think that it was more ignition than self-combustion that torched her. Her follow up Rainbow was a far better album than Glitter, but it tanked because the corporate big boys wanted to teach her a lesson. I don’t have the pipes or the tits, so I don’t plan to rock the boat, because being out of the game for a year isn’t what I want, but I’ve accepted that it’s how things are going to be. So what you need to do is tell your puppet masters everything is hunky-dory here and that it’s going to stay that way as long as they don’t start shit up.”

“You can’t threaten then Sheldon. They’ll just go on the offensive.”

“They’re the ones making it happen, so now they can hold up their end and let it lie.” I reached into my pant pocket and gave Jeff a flash of silver metal plating. “I recorded this, and you can let them know that,” I said, now flashing the small foam covered bud in my sleeve. “It didn’t take much for me to see what they were doing. Just tell them to stop and everything will go according to plan. You can convince them of that, right? You got me to go along with your scheme to not make waves. Try some of that charm with them.”

I made an exaggerated smile and walked away to punctuate the point, which appeared to settle in. After a couple of paces I turned back around and said, “Give my regards to Laura,” and then continued around the corner to where my car was. Once inside, I pulled the electric razor out of my pocket. Next to it on the passenger seat I put the earbud and mic from my cellphone, pulling the stringy cord from under my sleeve. I palmed my face over the whole situation. I just tricked my friend into intimidating a television network, a foodstuff manufacturer, and media conglomerate into deescalating their cold war against me. And worse, I let it slip that I listen to Mariah Carey.

---

When I got home, there was a police car parked in front of the building, and I figured I’d fucked up royally with my stunt with Jeff. 'Officer, this man made a bomb threat on our building; he’s a disgruntled former employee and he’s got child pornography that we show was sent and received while he was working for us. Please arrest him.' Damn it, I really wanted to savor what I thought was a victory! And have lunch.

I saw the blue uniform standing by my front door. “Afternoon, officer,” I tried say as non-confrontationally as possible.

“Hello, Sheldon,” the officer smiled as said as she turned to me.

“How do you know –“

“”Didn’t you get the message? Ms. Tanner wanted me to pick you up and take you with me to my assignment.”

“Ah, no…nobody called.” I was happy I wasn’t under arrest, but was off-kilter by the sudden plans.

“Listen, why don’t you take a moment to get composed, and then we’ll go. I’ll call Peter and remind him what his job is.”

“Ah, thanks Officer –“

“Diaz,” she said turning the nameplate on her pocket. “Carla, though. You can call me Carla.”

“Come in, Carla. Let me put on a fresh shirt.”

She sat on the couch which I fished out a clean shirt in the bedroom, a simple blue oxford to go with the black denim jeans. My phone beeped and a text message registered. It was from Jeff, and read: sorry again. spoke w/ Mason etc. this issue is closed. our agreement holds. I sat on the bed for a moment relieved I wouldn’t have to deal with it again.

“So,” I called out from the back, “what’s this assignment?”

“Grade school,” Carla said. “Standard community interfacing. But I do some work with Ms. Tanner too, and the department feels it’s a good PR situation, so I can use a cruiser and my uni if she wants me too. But today is department business, and Ms. Tanner already cleared a civilian with my watch commander.”

“So, you’re going to tell kids to do well in school and say no to drugs.”

“Something like that, and answer their questions. It’s supposed to be educational.”

“I can see that,” I said as I came out. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah, pay attention and you’ll learn a lot.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. I told you it was supposed to be educational. Besides, you’re going to get your turn soon. Older kids. Fullerton Union high school, if I heard Sunday correctly.”

Great. Me versus hormone-addled teens. I hope I get to carry a gun too.

Season 2 Chapter 9

2009-07-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

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.

---

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.

---

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

2009-07-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when is a national channel a major?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean credit card numbers.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Gin and tonic.” You prick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rejuvenator Pro Protein Complex.”

“No. What. Is. It?”

“Well, it’s…”, he paused, nervous.

“Go on. Say it.”

“It’s…”

“Say it,” I said though gritted teeth.

“It’s… Ephimria?”

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

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

“Noooo…no problem Gary. Thank you!”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

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

“Who is that,” I asked confused.

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

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

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

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

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

Season 2 Chapter 5

2009-06-29T03:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll do.”

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

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

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

“My ass. Literally, my ass.”

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

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

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

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

“Apology accepted.”

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

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

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

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

“Done.”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah, totally.”

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

“Can I still get the picture?”

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

“Owen and Claire with an ‘E’.”

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

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

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

“Good answer.”

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

“Do they have quite a reputation around here?”

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

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

“Yeah. Couldn’t hurt to ask, right?”

“They’re just words.”

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

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

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

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

How sweet.

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

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

“But so much more spectacular.”

“You’re odd, Sheldon.”

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

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

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

“Really?”

“Okay. I’ll keep it dull for you.”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We like to keep it fresh and interesting.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah. Definitely this one.”

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

“You were implying that…”

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

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

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

“You set him up.”

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

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

“I am the editor.”

“It’s Jeff’s brother-in-law.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m just fucking with you.”

“What?”

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

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

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