Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [40]
“Anyway, I guess I should get running, I have to go over to Mr. Spotless and pick up my dry cleaning.”
“Yeah, I should get moving along too,” Max agreed.
As Max headed for the exit and Leigh for the checkout, he stopped and turned. “You know, it’d be really great to stay in touch. I mean, I don’t know about you, but these days my best friend is the television.”
Leigh thought of Valerie Bertinelli, of sobbing into the cushions on her sofa, and said, “I would really love that, Max.”
They exchanged phone numbers and said good-bye, promising to get together for lunch sometime soon.
When Max arrived home to his condominium, he saw that the red light was blinking on his answering machine. Tossing his keys and wallet in a bowl on the kitchen counter, Max pressed play.
It was a wrong number, a bass player looking for some guitarist named Ned.
nine
“You didn’t think I was crazy? You didn’t think it was too much?” Eliot asked Bebe over dinner on date number two.
“I didn’t say I didn’t think you were crazy, I just said that you were incredibly romantic.”
Bebe was wearing the sheer black dress she’d purchased at Henri Bendel. Around her neck was an eighteen-karat gold Stampato necklace that she had ordered during Trish Mission’s live show from London.
“Well, I just wanted to let you know that you made a really big impression on me,” Eliot said, breaking off a piece of bread from the small loaf on his bread plate and dipping into the little bowl of olive oil in the center of the table.
“You made a big impression on me too, Eliot,” Bebe said. She took a sip of wine. “I just really feel like you’re so easy to be with, so funny, and, I don’t know . . .” She didn’t finish the thought.
“I was thinking,” Eliot began, “that maybe we should do something different for our third date.” Then, immediately correcting himself, he added, “I mean, assuming you would want to go on a third date with me.”
Bebe smiled. She reached across the table and touched Eliot’s hand. “I would love to go on a third date with you. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I was thinking we’ve done Italian both nights we’ve gotten together, so maybe we could do French.”
Just as Bebe was about to tell Eliot that she loved French food, he added, “I mean, in France.”
Bebe looked at him, unsure of what he was saying.
“No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting we go on vacation or anything, I was just thinking that we could take the Concorde to Paris—it’s only three hours—and have dinner at my favorite restaurant on the Left Bank, and then I could have you back home just after midnight.” He looked down at his plate, feeling like an idiot for suggesting such an extravagant third date.
Bebe burst out laughing. She wadded up the crust of bread on her plate and threw it across the table at Eliot’s chest. “You are certifiably crazy. I mean it: crazy.”
Eliot grinned, plucked the bread bullet off his lap and popped it into his mouth. “Is that a yes?”
“I’m probably the most gullible woman on the face of the earth but I’ve never been known for my common sense.”
“So it’s a yes?”
“Oui.” Then she added, “You know, I thought you were going to say something like we should go to the aquarium or, I don’t know, to a monster truck rally.”
“The monster truck rally was sold out,” Eliot said, smiling.
B
ecause of her Navaho Indian heritage (no matter how distant or slight), Adele Oswald Crawley had already hosted two American Indian theme shows. Both had been raging successes. Although operating full steam ahead, Sellevision’s search for a recognizably ethnic show host had thus far produced no candidates. As such, any minority bloodlines among the hosts were being fully exploited.
Although raised all her life as an Irish Catholic, Adele had fully embraced whatever Navaho blood she may have had. Her medium-length red, wavy hair was now a much darker reddishbrown. And she blew it straight before each show, parting it in the middle, as opposed to sweeping it back, like before. Even her freckles were less obvious, as she’d begun wearing more makeup, and dramatically