Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [0]
AUGUSTEN BURROUGHS
sellevision
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN NEW YORK
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, companies, and television stations portrayed in this novel are entirely fictional, with the exception of certain actual persons, television stations, or companies that appear in the novel and are used fictitiously. All events and conversations depicted in the book, including those involving actual persons, television stations, or companies, are entirely the product of the author’s imagination.
SELLEVISION. Copyright © 2000 by Augusten Burroughs. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Design by Kathryn Parise
ISBN 0-312-26772-X
First Edition: September 2000
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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.
sellevision
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,