Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [71]
All three boys laughed at the part of the movie where Patrick Bateman plugged in his nail gun. But Nikki set her paper plate on her lap and covered her eyes.
“Oh my God, this part is so gross, I can’t even watch.” She peeked through her fingers.
As American Psycho II played out ghoulishly on the television, John thought to himself that this was the first time he’d had such a relaxed family dinner. Normally, the family would sit in stiff chairs and his wife would quiz the boys about their school projects or Bible study class. All the while, John himself would daydream about some girl he’d seen in seventeen or Jane. Peggy Jean would insist that the boys drink all eight ounces of one-percent milk. And after the boys were excused from the table, Peggy Jean would turn to him; “Darling, tell me about your day.”
But here with Nikki and his boys, John was actually present in the moment. Just today, just hours ago, he’d been worried about how he would run the house while still having to work. But Nikki had made it perfectly clear that she’d “take care of the house ’n’ stuff, if you take care of me.” And it seemed the boys were more than happy to have pizza or drive through McDonald’s. So far, the boys didn’t seem at all traumatized that their mother had been placed in a psychiatric hospital. And they certainly didn’t seem to mind having Nikki around; it was as if she’d always been there.
In fact, when Nikki had suggested they watch American Psycho II on Pay-Per-View, all three had squealed with delight. “You’re awesome,” Robbie had said.
When the movie ended at eleven, John told the boys, “You guys should probably get to bed now.” Satisfied with pizza and gore, they agreed without a fuss and said goodnight before going upstairs to their rooms.
“I could sleep over,” Nikki offered.
“You could?”
“Sure, I sleep over at friends’ houses all the time.”
John looked at her as one might look at a winning lottery ticket, with an equal sense of disbelief and greed.
“I do sort of have Kirsty Hume’s hair, don’t I?” Nikki said, holding a few strands of her hair in front of her face.
P
lease, enough with the Mr. Palantino stuff, you’re makin’ me feel like an old man. Call me Ed.” The sixty something pornographer with the soaring triglyceride level extended his hand to Max. After they exchanged a firm handshake, he motioned Max over to the sofa, and then sat in the chair across from it.
“Getcha something? Coffee, soda, anything?”
“Oh, no, thank you, I’m fine,” Max said, glancing around at all the enlarged and framed video covers that lined the wall: Rocky Horny Picture Blow, Midnight with the Beaver of Good and Evil, Titanic Tops II, You’ve Got (Fe)Male!
“Ahh, so you’re checkin’ out the goods, huh? But those are only a few of our bestsellers; we do maybe thirty films a year,” Ed said, rubbing his hand across his large belly as though he had just finished a huge meal.
“Wow, that’s really . . . prolific.”
“Oh yeah, we’re very open-minded; pro-straight, pro-gay, pro-tits. Eagle Studios can’t be pigeon-holed—we’re out there makin’ movies for everybody.” He lit a cigarette. “Hell, last month we wrapped production on this great chicks-with-dicks diaper thing. Bizarre as you can fuckin’ imagine. But hey, there’s a market for it.”
“That’s, um, really great.” Max noticed that the carpeting was worn away in places from foot traffic. The walls were paneled and the ceilings low. There would be no mistaking Eagle Studios for MGM.
“So, Max, we could sit here all day shooting the bull ’til the fucking cows come home, but what I wanna know is: How serious are you?”
Max wiped his hand on his knee, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, I’m very serious; I mean I’m very serious in terms of learning, you know, more.”
“Well, I’ll tell ya, I thought your pics were fantastic. And now