Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [15]
“A
my, you were right, I must be losing my marbles,” Bebe said to herself as she sat at her computer, reading the responses to the personal ad she placed last week on America Online. Occasionally laughing out loud or shaking her head in disbelief, Bebe was slowly resigning herself to the fact that maybe this computer-dating thing hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
One of the men had asked Bebe if she was capable of multiple orgasms. Another said that although he was a big man (385 pounds) he was still a very good person who deserved to be loved. Some guy even sent a nude picture of himself in the form of a JPEG file. Bebe had to admit that although that man did have an excellent body, there was no way she would ever consider meeting somebody who would send such a picture to a stranger.
Rising from her chair and stretching, Bebe brought her coffee mug into the kitchen and made herself another cup of Lemon Zinger tea. Then it was back to the computer to read the last of her responses.
Occasionally, Bebe would glance up from the computer and over to the small Sony Trinitron she kept on a bookshelf near her desk. Bebe had no less than five television sets in her condominium, and most were usually tuned to Sellevision, often—like now—with the sound muted.
Peggy Jean was on with Debby Boone. She was laughing and placing her hand on Debby’s shoulder. The two seemed to really be hitting it off.
More than ten men had responded to her personal ad, and out of these, so far exactly zero were contenders.
Pepper walked into the room and Bebe reached down to scratch the dog’s back. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kiddo.” The dog licked her hand.
Then Bebe read the last of the replies. The letter was from a man named Eliot who lived close by in Philly, forty-two, never married, the owner of a chain of dry cleaning establishments. When Bebe read this, she chuckled to herself, “How perfect for me, now I can dribble all the pasta sauce I want over myself and not have to worry about it.” As Bebe continued reading Eliot’s letter, she began to think that maybe she should write the guy back.
At least on paper, he had a great sense of humor: “I assure you, I’m not a psycho who pulled the legs off ants as a child, nor do I have any outstanding arrest warrants. At least in this state.”
Plus, they seemed to like some of the same things. “I’ve been known to get a little teary-eyed at sappy movies, scream my lungs out at football games, and once in a blue moon put on a tux, head to Manhattan, and listen to fat people sing in a language I don’t understand: i.e., opera. I treat common sense as a spice and I love to travel.”
“He’s probably married or really short or has very bad breath.” And with that, Bebe set about writing him a little note in return.
Afterward, she logged on to Ebay to see if any of her bids had been accepted for the classic Leica M3 rangefinder camera, the antique silver hairbrush, or the bronze swan garden loveseat.
“M
oist towellette?” the flight attendant asked Max, presenting him with a plastic tray piled with steaming, freshly microwaved cloths.
“Uh, yeah, sure, thanks,” he said, taking one of the towels, unfolding it, and pressing it against his face. It smelled fresh, like lemon. Like new things about to happen. Beneath the cloth, he was smiling. He still couldn’t believe he was actually en route to an interview with the E-Z Shop Channel.
His agent, Laurie, had called two days ago to ask him if he’d seen the current issue of The National Enquirer.
Sarcastically, he’d answered, “Yeah, it’s sitting right here on top of my Scientific American, I just haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.”
Laurie then went on to inform him that on page four there was a large color picture of him from the Slumber Sunday incident, a black box over his crotch and a headline that read SELLEVISION HOST SLIPS OUT, GETS OUSTED.
Yet despite the tabloid article, E-Z Shop Channel was still interested in meeting him. After all, they were paying for the flight, the hotel room, even his meals.
“As a matter of fact,” Laurie