Sellevision E-Book

Augusten Burroughs

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

The hilarious first novel by the #1 bestselling author of Running with Scissors, Dry, A Wolf at the Table, and You Better Not Cry, Sellevision is Augusten Burrough's darkly funny and vastly entertaining skewering of a very troubled home-shopping channel. Welcome to the world of Sellevision, premier retail broadcasting network. When Max Andrews, the much loved and handsome (that is, lonely and gay) host of a "Toys for Tots" segment, accidentally exposes himself in front of millions of kids, Sellevision faces its first big scandal. As Max struggles to find a new job in television, the popular and perky host Peggy Jean Smythe is receiving sinister emails from a stalker. Popping pills and drinking heavily, she fails to notice that her husband is spending a lot of time with the young babysitter who lives next door. Then there's Leigh, whose affair with married Sellevision boss Howard Toast is going nowhere until she announces their relationship on air. A blistering satire of our overcharged, scandal-obsessed world, Sellevision is "an absolute howl . . . wicked fun" (New York Daily News)

Leseprobe

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Augusten Burroughs lives in New York City. He is the author of the bestselling Running with Scissors, Dry and Magical Thinking. The film of Running with Scissors is currently in production. Directed by Ryan Murphy (Nip/Tuck) it stars Gwyneth Paltrow, Annette Bening and Joseph Fiennes and is due to be released in 2006.

Sellevision is his first novel.

Also by Augusten Burroughs

Running with Scissors Dry Magical Thinking

AUGUSTEN BURROUGHS

sellevision

First published in the United States of America in 2000 by St Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

Copyright © Augusten Burroughs 2000

The moral right of Augusten Burroughs to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the works of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright holder and the above publisher of this book.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 1 84354 364 8

eISBN 9 78085 789 5 318

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

One year later

For Lawrence David

Acknowledgments

My deepest (and I can be deep) gratitude to Jennifer Enderlin and everyone at St. Martin’s Press who laughed. Love and thanks to: Suzanne, Mark, Pick, Lona, Jon, Margaret, John Elder, Mary, Judy, John, and Jack. Special thanks to Christopher Schelling. In memory of Pighead.

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one

“You exposed your penis on national television, Max. What am I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t expose it, Howard, it just sort of peeked out.”

“It ‘peeked out’ during the Toys for Tots segment in front of twenty million viewers, many of whom were, not surprisingly, children. It’s twenty-four hours later and we’re still receiving faxes. The phone lines were so jammed last night that no one could get through to place orders. Plus I’ve got every mother in the country threatening child-abuse lawsuits.”

Howard Toast, the executive producer of the Sellevision Retail Broadcasting Network, glared at the show host who was sitting in a black leather chair on the opposite side of his large glass desk. Behind Max and facing Howard, a bank of television monitors silently played live broadcasts of Sellevision, QVC, and the Home Shopping Network as well as broadcasts from the other three “B-class” networks.

Howard leaned forward and said quietly, “Jesus fucking Christ, Maxwell. This isn’t the Playboy channel, it’s Sellevision.”

Max ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit. “Look, I was wearing a bathrobe, it was Slumber Sunday Sundown. We were all wearing bathrobes.”

Howard’s normally placid, waspy features contorted with frustration. A vein on his temple pulsed. “Max, the other hosts weren’t naked under their bathrobes. It’s just—well, there’s no excuse—seven-year-old children and their mothers just should not know that you’re uncircumcised.” He took four Advil from the bottle on his desk and washed them down with cold coffee. “I mean, this could be worse than that Cuban raft-boy thing.”

Max wiped his hands on his slacks. “Look, I’m sorry, it was an accident. I already told you, Miguel knocked my latte over onto my lap in the dressing room while he was doing my makeup. What was I supposed to do, wear soaking wet boxers? C’mon, man, I had less than four minutes before I had to go on air, I had no choice.”

Howard straightened the stapler on his desk. “You should have borrowed Miguel’s underwear,” he said angrily.

“Miguel is Hispanic. He doesn’t wear underwear. Besides, that’s a disgusting thought, even if he did.”

“Not as disgusting as showing your dick to families all across America while they’re sitting down to eat dinner.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Howard, you make it sound like I did it on purpose. Like I’m some kind of exhibitionist or something.”

Howard leaned back in his chair, sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. There was a silence between them, and Max glanced over at the executive golf-putting toy in the corner of the office. Howard leaned forward and placed both hands on the desk, palms up, like he had nothing left to offer. “Max, I’m very sorry this had to happen, but if I put you back on air, I’ll lose my job, the station will be boycotted—as it is, you’re just lucky your penis didn’t make the cover of USA Today.”

Max leaned in, blinking. “So what are you telling me? You’re saying, what, that I’m fired? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Howard nodded his head solemnly. “Yes, Max, I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. There’s no way we can let you back on the air after this, just no way.”

Max’s hands flew up. “I can’t believe you’re firing me over this.”

“I’m sorry, Max, I really am. I’ve got a few friends over at QVC and the Home Shopping Network, I could give them a call, see if they’re looking for anybody. But you might have to start off doing the overnight. And if worse comes to worst, there’s always”—he shifted his gaze toward one of the television monitors that was currently displaying an electric egg scrambler—“the E-Z Shop Channel.”

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Max said, slumping in his chair, letting his mouth fall open.

“Max, America’s premier retail broadcasting network simply cannot be associated with a controversy of this . . . magnitude.”

“Oh, well, gee, I guess I should take that as a compliment,” Max said sarcastically.

“It’s not funny, Maxwell. It’s sad, is what it is. It’s very sad that you were so careless. You’re a good host. But you crossed a line and, well, there are consequences.”

Max left the office, mortified as security personnel accompanied him while he collected the possessions in his office, and then escorted him out of the building like a sex offender.

Peggy Jean Smythe sat in her office, reading an E-mail a viewer had sent her. Because of her high-profile time slots as a Sellevision host, she received dozens of E-mails each day. She normally responded with a standard forwarded thank-you letter. But if an E-mail was particularly flattering she would sometimes respond personally with one or two lines.

The reason viewers loved Peggy Jean was because they could relate to her. She often spoke of her three boys, “four if you count my hubby.” She was a “working mom” and a good Christian woman who often hosted Jewelry of Faith programs, which featured crucifix cufflinks and Star of David money clips, both of which she presented with equal pride. She was attractive—blond hair worn in a short but full style, blue eyes, fair skin. Her roundish face seemed approachable and trustworthy. She was highly polished, yet friendly and accessible. Peggy Jean knew all of this to be true, because she had seen the consumer research. In fact, she had personally attended many of the focus groups.

“Peggy Jean, did you hear? About Max, I mean?” Amanda asked, standing in Peggy Jean’s doorway.

Peggy Jean turned dramatically in her chair to face the young woman. “Of course I heard, and I think it’s exactly the right thing to do.”

“You don’t think it’s a little too severe? I mean, just dropping him like that?” asked the associate producer.

Peggy Jean smiled the exact smile she often wore for viewers while hosting a vacuum-cleaner showcase or one of the monthly Easy Wear 18K Gold specials. She touched the lapel of her jacket. “Well, of course I’m sorry for Max, as I would be for any human being facing an adverse situation. But when God closes a door, Amanda, He opens a window.” Peggy Jean looked up at the suspended ceiling. “He must have other plans in store for our Max.” Then the smile was gone. “And now, Amanda, if you don’t mind . . . I have an awful lot to do.”

Amanda shrugged. “Sure, I understand. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Peggy Jean returned her attention to the computer screen, listening to make sure Amanda actually had left. Then, almost biting the tip of her manicure, but stopping herself, Peggy Jean read the alarming E-mail for the third time:

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

Subject: Hi There!!

Hi Peggy Jean!

How exciting to be able to write you! I am a loyal Sellevision fan and have ordered everything from Crock Pots to jewelry. I am so pleased with the quality of the countless items I have purchased from Sellevision.

Peggy Jean, my ears always perk up when I hear your voice on Sellevision. You are my favorite host. You are so professional and friendly, and I just love your hair!!

Speaking of hair, I just want to tell you this, woman to woman: Peggy Jean, I have noticed many times in close-up pictures how very hairy your earlobes are. When I first noticed, it was a bit of a shock to see a beautiful earring on your ear, surrounded by all those hairs, which on my large-screen TV were each almost the size of a Vienna sausage!!

I wonder if you have considered using the Lady Songbird Waxing Hair Removal System that I have seen on Sellevision. It seems a painless, quick and easy way for you to be even more beautiful than you already are.

I bumped into (really!!) my friend Susan at the supermarket and we got to talking, you know, just catch-up stuff. Anyway, I mentioned Sellevision for some reason, I forget why. And before long, we were talking about the show and our favorite hosts and she said the very same thing I’m telling you now!!! Isn’t that a hoot! (LOL) She said, “She’s a very hairy lady.” We both had a good chuckle out of it, but PLEASE understand it wasn’t a chuckle AT you personally.

Well, I’ve talked on and on, so I’ll stop here. May God bless you and your family. And you have my very best wishes.

Your friend,

Zoe :)

Peggy Jean pulled a small key from the inside pocket of her fuchsia DKNY blazer and unlocked the file cabinet beneath her desk. The drawer contained emergency nylons, a spare pair of simple black pumps, a few sets of earrings that could easily coordinate with most any outfit, and her purse. She pulled out her purse and removed her compact, peering into the small mirror, angling her head as much to the side as she could. She didn’t see any hairs. But then, this was a small mirror, held at a distance. It certainly wasn’t a macro shot from Camera One.

If there were, in fact, long blond hairs on her earlobes that were so obvious on camera as to be the subject of a fan’s E-mail, Peggy Jean knew she would have to have them removed before going on air at four P.M. Yet, whom could she ask? If she did, in fact, have the hairs, whomever she asked would surely gossip—mention to somebody else, “Peggy Jean has hairy earlobes”—and word could easily spread all the way to her executive producer, Howard. The idea of being called into the refined, forty-five-year-old’s office and being verbally confronted about the earlobe hairs, having to explain that the situation had been remedied—well, it was just unthinkable.

Peggy Jean remembered there was a large magnifying mirror in makeup, and that it was illuminated by a ring of small, round bulbs. Surely makeup would be empty now, between the hosts’ shift change. Instinctively, she reached for the tube of Lancôme moisturizer on her desk and squeezed a dime-sized dollop onto the back of her hand. Then she quickly rubbed her hands together until they were soft and fragrant. Feminine.

She placed her purse back into the file cabinet, locked it, and pocketed the key. Leaving her office, she turned left and continued down the hall, passing Trish Mission along the way.

“Peggy Jean, you look wonderful, I love that jacket,” Trish said, gently taking the cuff of the blazer between her thumb and forefinger, admiring the softness of the fabric.

“Well, thank you, I’m glad you like it. This is the first time I’ve worn it in public. Took a little field trip to New York last Saturday with the hubby, and picked this up at Bloomingdale’s.”

Trish gave Peggy Jean a friendly nod. “Well, the color is just wonderful on you, it looks great with your eyes.” And with that, Trish wished Peggy Jean good luck on that afternoon’s Gem Fest and continued down the hall.

Was it Peggy Jean’s imagination, or had Trish taken a quick look at her earlobes?

Trish was one of the “emerging” hosts of Sellevision. Her growing popularity was propelling her from the overnight slot where new hosts were groomed—presenting a Fashion Clearance or various kitchen implements—to the spot she currently occupied that, although varying, included the occasional prime-time appearance, most notably her recent trip to London where she hosted a British Bonanza.

How soon before the aging (thirty-eightish) hostess with a possible superfluous hair condition was replaced by the much younger, more beautiful, and fully waxed Trish Mission? There was a prized-racehorse quality about Trish that unsettled Peggy Jean. Tall, blond, and ambitious, Trish seemed to be growing more and more successful out of sheer entitlement.

Makeup was, thankfully, empty. Peggy Jean walked directly over to the small round mirror that sat on one of the dressing tables. She pressed a button on the side that caused the bulbs to flicker momentarily, then illuminate. She peered at her reflection, moving her ear as close to the mirror as possible, using the gleaming Frosted Cappuccino–painted nail of her index finger to move the lobe into the light. There they were: tiny hairs, faint and almost unnoticeable unless one were actively looking for them in an illuminated magnifying mirror, as she was doing at that moment.

Amanda, having noticed the light, paused and stood in the doorway, watching Peggy Jean examine her ear. “Peggy Jean?” she asked, concerned. “Is something the matter with your ear?”

Heading west on I-92, Max drove mostly in the passing lane, averaging a speed of seventy miles per hour. His favorite CD—the original cast recording of Rent—sat unplayed in his five-CD changer. “Stupid, stupid, fuck, fuck,” was the mantra he repeated aloud to himself as he headed toward the Woodlands Mall to see if he could obtain a certain Beanie Baby named Peanuts for his almost-seven-year-old niece. As much as the Woodlands Mall was the exact last place Max wanted to be (Jake’s Joint, a bar, being the first), he simply had no choice. His niece’s birthday was the day after tomorrow and he had been unsuccessful locating the elusive plush toy on the Internet. Now he was forced to shop the old-fashioned way: in person.

Don, the Good Morning Show host and father of a fourteen-year-old girl, had told Max that the Toys R Us at the Woodlands Mall had a very extensive Beanie Baby selection. “That,” he had said to Max, “would be your best bet—and I’m saying this as the father of a girl who wouldn’t speak to me for a full week after I gave her Snort the Bull with that little red tag cut off.” After wishing Max good luck in his search, Don had warned “Oh, and whatever you do—don’t cut that stupid little tag off. It’s all about the tag.”

WOODLANDS MALL, NEXT EXIT, read the sign. “To think, unemployed . . . me?” Max said to the windshield. As he crossed over into the far-right lane, he resisted the temptation to aim the steering wheel into the cement guardrail, causing his top-heavy Ford Explorer to careen over the embankment, explode into flames, and kill him instantly. Instead, he decelerated down the exit ramp and wondered, What if I’m reduced to doing traffic reports? On radio?

At four in the afternoon on a Wednesday, the Toys R Us was thankfully empty. Cold, electronic renditions of children’s songs played over the store’s speakers: “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” “Old McDonald Had a Farm,” even, oddly, “Kumbayah.” Every few minutes, the Muzak was replaced with a loud chorus of children singing the haunting Toys R Us advertising jingle, “I don’t want to grow up, I’m a Toys R Us Kid . . .” The store, as vast as a warehouse, was piled to the ceilings with urinating dolls, bikes, puzzles, Lego sets, action figures, colorful balls, teddy bears implanted with microchips that enabled them to shake hands, Just Like Mommy cell phones, board games, plastic machine guns, two-pound bags of M&Ms, and inflatable pool creatures. Max stalked the aisles, looking for the Beanie Babies, never more thankful for his homosexuality and the child-free life that went along with it.

At the rear of the store, Max saw a huge display of Beanie Babies. Hundreds, maybe thousands, maybe millions of Beanie Babies to chose from. And all Max had to go on was a name: Peanut. No description, nothing. To locate Peanut, Max would have to examine the name on every single little red tag.

Unless he asked the little girl who was standing at the Beanie Baby display along with her mother. Who better to ask than a child?

“Excuse me,” Max said, approaching the little girl and her mother. The little girl spun around to look at the stranger talking to her. “I bet you can help me. I’m looking for a particular Beanie Baby named—”

The little girl’s scream could be heard throughout the store, possibly the state. It was the sound of raw terror, as if Max were a ragged, scotch-stained Barney holding a machete. “It’s him, Mommy, it’s him, it’s the pee-pee man from last night, make him go away, make him go away,” she cried, clinging to her mother and burying her face in the fabric of her mother’s skirt.

“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay,” the mother reassured. Then to Max, “I’m terribly sorry, she’s not herself today—Madeline saw”—she whispered—“a man’s penis on the television last night and it really upset her.”

Max stood dumbfounded, the shrillness of the little girl’s cry stabbing his eardrums.

The little girl continued to sob into her mother’s skirt. “It’s him, Mommy, it’s him.” The mother examined Max more closely and a glint of recognition entered her eyes. She pointed at Max. “Oh my God, that really was you! You’re Max Andrews from Sellevision! That was your penis!”

A store detective appeared before the three of them. “Is something the matter here?” he asked. “I’m in charge of security.”

The little girl turned to the uniformed authority figure, and asked in awe, “Are you a policeman?”

The detective looked kindly at the girl, “No, honey. Well, sort of, I guess. I’m the police officer of the store, I suppose you could say.”

The little girl pointed at Max, then burst into tears again. “He’s a bad man, make him go away, I saw his thingie, he showed me his thingie.”

The detective immediately turned to Max and glared.

The mother tried to calm her little girl by bending down and stroking her head, repeating, “It’s okay, sweetie, there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s okay.”

The detective gripped Max’s elbow firmly. “You are in big trouble, mister.”

“Hi, and welcome to Sellevision. I’m your host, Peggy Jean Smythe, and you’re watching Gem Fest.” A small listening device, discreetly tucked into her left ear and hidden by her hair, allowed Peggy Jean’s producer to communicate to her from Control Room 2 on the other side of the building. On the floor in front of Peggy Jean were two large color monitors. One was a live-feed, displaying the exact scene that the rest of America was watching. The other monitor displayed the next scene, be it a long shot of the set, a close-up of the model who sat in a chair off to the side, Peggy Jean herself, or simply a prere-corded “beauty shot” of the object she was presenting. At all times, there was a colored box on the left-hand side of the screen that contained the name of the item, the item number, and the price, along with the Sellevision telephone number. The color of the box varied and could be coordinated with the theme of the show. It could be yellow for the Good Morning Show, pink for a Hosiery Showcase, or blue for a Gem Fest. During the JFK Jr. Memorial Collection, the box was black. The Sellevision logo was always on the lower right-hand side of the screen, and never left.

At that moment, Peggy Jean was looking at the live-feed monitor, a medium shot of herself sitting behind a glossy, tan-and-black wooden table. Behind her was what appeared to be the evening skyline of an anonymous city. The windows of the “buildings” were illuminated and there was even a small, round moon in the sky, along with a smattering of stars. Very urban and upscale. The naked Barbie doll a key-grip had placed in one of the windows went entirely unnoticed by the viewing public.

All the Sellevision sets were spectacular—beautifully designed and of the highest quality. The kitchen set was like a charming farmhouse kitchen, with a delightful view of trees that could be seen through the window above the sink. The trees looked extraordinarily real, especially in the winter when the branches were covered with artificial snow by prop stylists. There was a bedroom set complete with dormer windows and wainscoting. And the living-room set had a working stone fireplace as well as an overstuffed sofa, comfortable chairs, and accent tables—everything a tasteful, upper-middle-class living room might include, even a bookcase filled with color-coordinated antique books. Sellevision was far superior to the other home-shopping networks and Peggy Jean felt proud to be a part of it.

“If you love amethyst, or maybe your birthday is in February, amethyst being the February birthstone, or you just love the comfort of lever-back earrings and the color purple and you are a woman who appreciates a real stone presence, my first item just might be for you.”

The producers in the control room cut to a prerecorded beauty shot of the trillion-cut amethyst lever-back earrings.

Then they cut back to Peggy Jean who was smiling and holding a wooden ruler, the earrings displayed on a black velvet stand before her. “This is item number J-0415 and they are our trillion-cut amethyst lever-back earrings, priced at a very affordable forty-nine ninety-five. I just want to give you a measurement here,” Peggy Jean said while she continued to smile broadly, placing the ruler against one of the gemstone earrings.

Cut to a macro shot, Camera One. On the monitor, Peggy Jean’s fingers were each larger than a loaf of Wonder Bread as she positioned the ruler, displaying for the viewers at home that, “This is gonna measure about, well, a little more than eight-sixteenths of an inch across, and . . .” She measured the vertical. “. . . about one inch from top to bottom.” Her manicure was absolutely flawless.

In her ear, Peggy Jean heard her producer saying, “Peggy, these sold out the last time they were presented which was on . . . lemme see here, okay, back in October.”

Cut to medium shot of Peggy Jean. “Now, I just want to let you know, these earrings did sell out the last time they were presented, and that was way back in October. So it’s taken us a good seven months to get them back in stock.” Peggy Jean looked deep into the camera. “Keep in mind, the reason for this is because people actually have to go out and find the amethyst in nature, so that’s something to consider.” Gently tapping the stone with the tip of her nail, she informed the viewers, “These are absolutely beautiful earrings and they have a total gem weight of just over three carats, so that’s about one and a half carats per ear. And that’s a lot of stone.”

“Peggy, the rings are already moving, this could be a sellout, so push hard.”

“Let me just tell you, these earrings are extremely popular tonight. We could become very limited, so if you want these earrings, I’m just warning you not to wait.” A graphic appeared, counting the number of orders received. Quickly, it moved from 257 to over 500. The Teleprompter in front of Peggy Jean displayed: PHONE CALL. Marilyn . . . New Mexico . . . Purchased.

Off to the side of the Teleprompter, a gaffer scratched his crotch and took a sip from a can of Jolt cola.

“Let’s go right to the phones and say hello to Marilyn from New Mexico. Hi, Marilyn, and welcome to Sellevision.” Peggy Jean gazed pleasantly into the camera, as if she were sitting at a table across from a close friend. When no voice was heard, Peggy Jean tilted her head to the side and said, “Welcome, Marilyn. Are you there?”

“Oh yes, I’m here. Hello, Peggy Jean.” It was the voice of an older woman.

“Well hi, and welcome. Are you picking these up tonight for yourself, or as a gift?” Peggy Jean asked.

“Oh, for myself, I need a little pick-me-up,” the caller said, slightly down.

Peggy Jean beamed. “Well, good for you, sometimes we all need a little pick-me-up. Congratulations for ordering these beautiful, beautiful earrings. Do you have any idea where you’re going to wear them?”

“Oh yes,” the woman said, “I’m going to wear them”—silence, then—“I’m going to, my, well . . .” The woman was struggling and sounded on the verge of tears. “I’ve had a tragedy recently. I’m going to wear them to my son’s funeral next Monday. My son Lawrence, that’s his name. He killed himself.”

Her producer’s voice was suddenly in her left ear, unheard by the caller. “She’s a fucking basket-case, get her off, get her off, Peggy Jean!” he shouted.

Completely unflustered, Peggy Jean adopted a sympathetic tone. “Oh, Marilyn, I’m so sorry to hear that. What a terrible tragedy. I have three boys of my own, and I cannot imagine what you must be going through, that is really just so terrible.” Then brighter, “But I’m glad that you’re being good to yourself by picking up these stunning trillion-cut amethyst lever-back earrings and I know you’ll enjoy them for many years. And what a beautiful tribute to your son!”

“Excellent, Peggy, great segue,” the producer said. “Now get rid of her.”

“It’s been nice speaking with you,” Peggy Jean said instantly.

“I love you and all of the Sellevision hosts and I hope that none of you ever go through something like this. I pray for all of you each night.” The older woman paused.

Peggy Jean leapt on the pause. “Thank you, Marilyn from New Mexico, and remember, because we ship UPS Two-Day Priority, your earrings will arrive in time for your son’s funeral at no extra cost. Bye-bye and God bless.”

“You are shameless,” Bebe Friedman said to her television, positioned directly across from the cream-colored shabbychic sofa on which she was curled. “Drop the earrings, Peggy Jean, this woman’s son just killed himself.” Bebe spooned one last bit of ice cream into her mouth, feeling not too guilty since it took her over a week to finish the pint.

Bebe was Sellevision’s crown jewel. At forty-two, she was one of the original hosts when the network premiered eleven years ago. From day one, the self-deprecating, quick-witted, and very down-to-earth Bebe was a hit. And now she was on air only during the hottest of prime time. She had her own two-hour Dazzling Diamonelle show every Sunday night at ten, and she also hosted many special celebrity programs. Almost everything Bebe presented sold out.

While Peggy Jean, certainly number two behind Bebe, was a slave to product details, Bebe preferred to simply provide viewers with humorous sidebars, engaging stories about her mother who was retired in Needles, California, and tales of her permanently single life. She was also not above making fun of her own “very Jewish nose,” or her “big mouth that gets me into trouble.” Like all Sellevision hosts, Bebe was polished, but there was a certain realness to her that no amount of hairspray or liquid foundation could obscure.

On last Sunday’s Dazzling Diamonelle, for example, Bebe was presenting a fourteen-karat white gold tennis bracelet that featured alternating marquise-cut and oval stones—fifteencarat total simulated gemstone weight. And instead of taking the ruler and measuring the diameter of the tennis bracelet or talking about how Diamonelle is the world’s finest simulated diamond, Bebe asked viewers to forgive her manicure, which had chipped while she was washing her Westie, Pepper. “I had to give her a bath, you know, because today at the park she felt this instinctive doggy need to go romp in the mud, and then roll around and, well, she was just a mess.” Then Bebe added, “Now I personally own a couple Diamonelle tennis bracelets, and I wear one of them pretty much every day. But do you think I would wear an actual diamond tennis bracelet to drag my dog out of the mud? Give me a break. Of course, if you are going to be mud wrestling with your dog, it doesn’t hurt to appear to be wearing a diamond bracelet while you do it.”

The white gold Diamonelle tennis bracelet, item number J-1023, sold out instantly.

Chuckling to herself over Peggy Jean’s ability to turn even suicide back to the amethyst earrings, Bebe got up off the couch, placed the spoon in the dishwasher, then dropped the empty ice cream pint into the trash can, which she opened by stepping on the pedal with her bare foot.