Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [21]
Max noticed that Bob’s suit had a sheen to it. And one stray hair extended out of his left nostril. He also noticed that the office was not nearly as posh as Howard’s. Clearly, this was a rung down on the ladder of success.
“I know you must be sick and tired of defending yourself—but you gotta admit, it’s a pretty unusual way to lose your job.”
“Yeah, actually, I do admit it. But it was a pretty unusual job to begin with, so in a sense it’s like this perfect cosmic thing.” Immediately regretting the Southern California overtones of what he just said, Max changed the subject. “So it seems like a lot of people play golf down here. I mean, I saw a lot of golf courses on the drive from the hotel.”
Bob gave Max a puzzled look.
“Well, the only reason I mention it is because my old boss, Howard Toast, he had this executive golf-putting toy in his office, and I’d always whack a few balls around whenever I went to see him. I mean, except for the last time.”
“I see,” said Bob. “So, how does your wife feel about the prospect of moving to Florida? I mean, if it came to that.”
Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Actually, I’m not married. Still single.”
“No girlfriend, even?”
Max smiled. “Nope.”
Bob studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “So, you catch the game last night?”
“Are you kidding?!” Max laughed with relief. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m totally addicted.”
Bob chuckled. “Oh man, last night was a close one, huh?”
Max rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t believe he blew it! I mean, everyone knows “The Wind Beneath My Wings” is from Beaches. What a dork.”
Bob’s smile fell. “What?”
“I just about knocked my wine over with that one! Evita? What was he thinking?” Max said, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you mean? Last night’s game. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” Bob said sourly. “I was talking about the game game. The Mets versus the Cardinals. Not some game show.”
Max’s face turned red. He ran his fingers through his hair again.
Bob looked annoyed. “You do that a lot.”
“What?” Max asked, swallowing.
Bob mimicked the gesture. “Run your fingers through your hair. My ex-wife was always doing that and it drove me crazy.”
“Oh, sorry. I guess I wasn’t really aware that I do it.”
“You don’t do it on air, do you?”
Max bit his lower lip. “I don’t think so. I mean, not that I’m aware of. No, I’m pretty sure I don’t.”
“Because, you know, little tics can be very distracting to the viewers. We once had this host, Tabby something, Clearwater, I think. Yeah, that was her name, Tabby Clearwater. Anyway, she did this thing with her eyes.” Bob twitched his left eye repeatedly, causing the corner of his mouth to spasm.
“Wow, yeah, I can see how that would be distracting.”
“I mean, this is the South. We’re very laid back down here, very easy-going. All these twitches and fingers-through-the-hair stuff might be fine in the North; the pace is a lot quicker up there.”
Max discreetly tucked his hands under his thighs.
“Say, what’s that on your chin, is that dirt?” he asked, pointing to the center of his own chin.
Max placed his index finger on his chin, felt his cleft. “You mean this?”
“Yeah, that. What is it?” He was frowning now.
“It’s just, you know, a cleft.”
Bob leaned in closer and narrowed his eyes. “That could be a lighting problem.”
After the interview, Max climbed into his rented beige Kia and drove two miles to the Shangri-La. He opened the minibar and took some booze from the inside-door shelf, grabbing a bag of Kettle Crisps Vinegar and Salt potato chips at the last second. Then he took the square ice bucket and walked down the hall, filled it with ice and returned to his room. He lifted the sanitary paper hat off one of the plastic glasses in the bathroom and mixed himself a stiff drink.
Max then realized that alcohol alone was not the answer. He would also need television. He took the remote