Slick

by Daniel Price

  Holy shit. He was right. After four days of running around like a maniac, I had finally finished off my massive task list. I had dotted every “I,” crossed every “T,” planted every seed. Now I had absolutely nothing to do but stare at the ground and wait for sprouts.

  “Just be good to her, Alonso.”

  “Go home.”

  I should. It was already 3:30. By the time I’d get back to Brentwood, Madison will have been waiting outside my door for almost an hour. I didn’t have much of a choice, but all the same, she wouldn’t take the abandonment well. Congratulations, Slick. You just fucked your intern.

  I sped home, spending most of the drive thinking about Harmony. She had kissed me in the way a woman would kiss the plastic surgeon who was about to make her beautiful. And the surgeon? Well, if he loved his job as much as I loved mine, maybe he was just as grateful. Maybe he was simply kissing the woman who was about to become his greatest work. His landmark achievement.

  His death ray?

  Screw that. I had finally earned some real downtime. I wasn’t going to waste it on self-analysis. Besides, I was already late for my next drama. I didn’t mind dealing with it. Truth be told, I could use the distraction.

  13

  STORIES FOR KIDS

  The first time I’d returned home from Alonso’s office, on Monday night, it was 1:10 in the morning. I was hysterically tired. On the ride back, I had read aloud excerpts from Godsend, the futuristic love story with a spiritual bent. Doug and I were lost in a fit of red-faced guffaws, like a pair of stoned teenagers. Doug was laughing at the prose, which, like the author, brimmed with vainglorious eloquence. I, on the other hand, was simply laughing at Doug’s laugh: a high-pitched, whistle throated wheeze that could have come straight from the mouth of a cartoon dog. It was a silly trip, and I was thankful when it ended.

  A normal person would have gone straight to the toothbrush, then to bed. But I have this thing about e-mail. It’s a sick compulsion with me, as inexplicable as it is incurable. I knew that if I didn’t scratch the itch, my laptop would moan at me all night. So on it went.

  I had only one new item. The message was short, cute, and increasingly bizarre. Like the author.

  Dear Scott,

  I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the term “pod person,” so I’ll explain. A pod person is a humanoid replica produced by an alien plantform (or pod, if you will), designed to replace the man or woman on which it was copied. Although physically indistinguishable from the original body-snatched human, these pod people are recognizable by their sudden cheerful attitude, tireless energy, and extremely goal-oriented behavior.

  Now, as much as I appreciate the fine work you did on “Madison” (the smiling, the helpfulness, the use of complete multiword sentences), I can’t help but ponder your sinister plans for the world. Okay, you’re a publicist. What exactly does that mean? What are you about? What’s your job? What’s HER job?

  Naturally I tried asking the pod girl myself, but she claims to be under a restrictive verbal confidentiality agreement (typical alien response). So if you could paint me a picture in broad strokes, without spilling any client secrets, I’d be much appreciative. I was going to send my husband over there to shake some answers out of you, but I was afraid he’d come back all clean-cut and smiling.

  Oddly,

  Jean

  PS — I might send him anyway. You do replace husbands, right?

  Silly woman. And silly Madison. I had yet to give her a shred of confidential information. What I gave her, apparently, was an excuse to be vague and secretive with her mother. I would definitely send Jean a broad-strokes overview as soon as I had the time and the brain power.

  In the meantime, I figured one flippant note deserved another:

  >you’re a publicist. What exactly does that mean?

  >What are you about?

  I’m the best there is at what I do, but what I do isn’t very nice.

  Evenly,

  Scott

  (yes, we replace husbands)

  That should make her eyes pop, and not because it was strange and cryptic but because she’d know exactly what I was talking about. This was Marvel Girl, a flamboyant X-Men reader if there ever was one. I, however, was more of a closet case. Now, with one classic Wolverine quote, I’d just outed myself.

  Before I could close out of my e-mail application, my inbox chimed with a new message. Not only was Jean an odd creature, she was an odd creature of the night.

  Thank you for your order. Your item will be arriving shortly.

  I assumed that meant she was about to gift me with comic books. She probably wouldn’t stop until she paid off her debt of gratitude. Very unnecessary. If that was the scheme, I’d have to nip it in the bud. Tomorrow. Sleep in bed now. Nip in bud tomorrow.

  ________________

  The second time I’d returned from Alonso’s office, on Tuesday afternoon, I found Madison crouched outside my door, waiting for me. And waiting. And waiting. I had a lot of time to anticipate her reaction. I wagered an even split between super-hot fury and ice-cold silence.

  Amazingly, she was tepid. “Hey.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I gushed, “I had a meeting on the other side of town—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s never going to happen again.”

  “Scott, it’s okay. I figured you were running late.”

  Right. I wished I could relax, but I could see the scale of the tempest she was holding back. Although her hair was down today, she was once again dressed to the nines. Stylish black blouse. Professional gray skirt. High-heeled shoes. She must have raided her mother’s closet. She also must have gotten a good deal of ribbing from her classmates. How upsetting it must have been to see all that thought and effort waste away in an empty hallway. Yet even now she fought to proclaim her maturity. I figured the best thing I could do, for both of us, was reinforce the façade.

  “You have thick skin,” I said as I unlocked my apartment door. “When I was thirteen, I took everything personally. Even when the Falklands were invaded. I just knew it had something to do with my acne.”

  All Madison could offer was a quivering half-smile. She was trying so damn hard to defuse herself, but she was losing the battle. Poor kid.

  “Come in,” I said.

  With her jaw clenched tight, she marched in ahead of me.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” I asked. “Apple juice?”

  She plopped down at the far end of my couch, dropped her book bag, and hunched forward. We both knew that if she opened her mouth now, it’d all come spilling out.

  “Madison, I’m really sorry.”

  She waved me off. No! Wrong way! Go back! Good point. I wasn’t helping with my pity. I opted to give her some space and let her work it out herself, but by the time I retreated to the kitchenette, I could hear her quick, wet breaths.

  Shit. This was the second time today I made someone cry. My duller instincts told me to sit down next to her. To pat her back or something. Anything.

  You know what I noticed about you, Scott? You never really touch anyone.

  I hadn’t noticed it myself until Harmony brought it up. At the time I took it as flattery, considering that it meant “Please touch me.” But now I saw the flip side to her observation. I saw a glimpse of Gracie toward the end of our relationship. The look in her eyes that screamed I need more from you! even as her mouth was telling me that everything was fine.

  After a few tense moments, I reentered the living room and faced Madison from the easy chair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said through a curtain of hanging hair.

  “I’m the one who screwed up.”

  “No. I’m sorry for this,” she said, sniffing. “I’m just being stupid.”

  “You’re not being stupid.”

  “Yes I am. I was just... I thought I did something yesterday to disappoint you. Or piss you off.”

  “Of course not. Madison—”

  “No, I
know. I know now. But while I was waiting...God, I do this all the time. I fill my head with these black thoughts, even when I know they’re bullshit.”

  “Well,” I stated lamely, “that either makes you an insecure adult or a normal teenager.”

  She finally looked up at me. “See, that’s exactly why I didn’t want to lose it in front of you. Everyone’s tiptoeing around us now, like we’re all just Annabelle Shanes waiting to happen. I didn’t... The last thing I want is to freak you out.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at this wonderful girl. The way her explosive mind worked. This was Gracie’s field, not mine. She was the Jane Goodall of the teen market. She spent hours each day watching them in their natural habitat, absorbing their lingo, tracking their spending habits. Personally, I didn’t get her fascination, in the same way I didn’t get cat people. But that was long before Madison scratched at my door.

  She crossed her arms and looked down at her knees. “Thanks for laughing at me.”

  “No, hon. It’s not you. I swear. I feel for you. It’s just...” I laughed again. “I can only imagine what they’re putting you through at school.”

  She shook her head, groaning. “You have no idea. We have special assemblies every day. They’ve posted armed guards on one side of the hallway and emergency psychologists on the other. And a girl can’t even reach into her bag for an Altoid without twelve people ducking.”

  Now I really laughed. Madison fought her own grin.

  “It’s not funny,” she said, tossing a couch pillow. “It’s your fault!”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You work with the media, and they’re the ones who make us all crazy with these end-of-the-world panic stories!”

  “Well, that’s hardly my fault. That’s hardly even their fault. We had mass hysteria long before we had mass media. You think television was to blame for the Salem witch hunts?”

  “Yes.”

  “See, now you’re just being silly.”

  She cracked a weak laugh, then rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. I hurried to the kitchen and retrieved a box of tissues. This time I hunkered down next to her.

  “You’re the only person in my life who makes sense,” she told me, sniffling. “Everyone else is scrambling around like they don’t have a clue. But you seem to have a handle on everything.”

  “If that were true, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long.”

  “I don’t care about that, Scott. As long as you don’t...Just have faith in me, okay? I promise I won’t disappoint you. Ever.”

  See, Gracie, I’m not made of ice. Notice, Maxina, how I open the gate and let another precious young woman into my give-a-shit zone. And take a good hard look, Harmony, as I lean forward and gently poke her in the shoulder. I didn’t know any sign language, so I had to make up my own phrases. With a smile and a jab, I told her I wouldn’t worry if she didn’t.

  Madison got the message. She crunched up her tissue and slapped her thighs.

  “Okay! This ends the dramatic portion of our afternoon.”

  “Good,” I said, opening the laptop. “Because orientation’s over. It’s time to put you to work.”

  ________________

  Yesterday, Madison had asked me what I’d do if I were Hunta’s publicist. It was a perfect opportunity to bring her into the fold (the outer fold, at least) but I had let that ship sail. Today, I confessed. Okay, I was Hunta’s publicist. But I was just one of many crisis managers involved, a mere cog in Maxina Howard’s machine.

  Still, from Madison’s hanging gape, I might as well have been Batman. For all she expected, I was just another schmuck pushing Lysol on the nation’s vast subconscious. And she would have been happy with that. But now she just learned that I was playing a defensive role in the nation’s hottest hot-button topic. And she was helping! Holy hambone! She might as well have been Robin!

  “Oh my God. This is amazing. So what kind of stuff are you working on?”

  In response, I rattled off a list of Maxina’s action items instead of mine. First and foremost was the heat-and-serve “interview” with Hunta, which would be airing tonight on CBS. Then of course was the organized celebrity support effort. There would be a big tug of war between Washington and Hollywood over creative content issues. The more people pulling for our side, the better. Finally, we were prepared to get slappy with every “think of the children” activist who hit below the belt. They were already coming out of the woodwork. Maxina certainly had her hands full.

  “Yeah, but what kind of stuff are you doing?”

  I couldn’t tell her about my collusion with Harmony, not because I didn’t trust her but simply because that part of the job came with a moral burden. She was in eighth grade, damn it. She was too young to handle the uncut story, and I had too many karmic investments tied up in her. Forget it. She’d get the radio-safe version.

  “There’s this woman...” I sighed. “Look, when a celebrity’s on the hot seat like Hunta is, it’s inevitable that a bunch of no-name ‘victims’ will pop up and cry foul. Usually you can swat them away because their accusations are tenuous and their evidence is weak. But now…let’s just say there’s a big one coming down the pike. She won’t be so easy to dismiss.”

  “Oh my God. Are we talking about rape? Is she going to say she was raped by Hunta?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Jesus. Who is this woman? What’s her name?”

  I couldn’t say. At the time there was still a sizable chance her name would be Lisa Glassman.

  “You’ll find out soon. Everyone will.”

  “Wow. God. So it’s like your job to stop her?”

  I laughed. “I can’t stop her. Nobody can. I just need to chart her damage, look for weak spots, and make recommendations accordingly.”

  “Wow,” she echoed. “I’m sorry to be so...That’s just so cool. I mean I was never a fan of Hunta’s—”

  “Neither was I.”

  “—but I am so psyched to help. Just tell me what to do.”

  I told her. Five hours later, I told her mother. If I didn’t, who would?

  >What’s your job? What’s HER job?

  My job is complex. I’ll try that one later. Madison’s job, however, is easy to explain. Using my computer, she’ll keep tabs on all the mainstream media websites for me. That may sound like a chore but she’s only tracking one developing story. Her goal isn’t to rehash what people are saying but to read between the lines and sniff out the bias. That I’m teaching her how to do.

  So far she loves it. It actually works out great for both of us. I need to know which way the wind is blowing and your daughter’s the one with her finger in the air (no, not THAT finger).

  You have a great kid, Jean. I really enjoy working with her. If you have any more offspring to lend me, please do. I could always use a collator.

  Off to the races,

  Scott

  PS — Thanks for the great gift. IT’S WAY TOO MUCH! But thank you.

  With all my Harmony- and Madison-related business, I had completely forgotten about Jean. I wanted to e-mail her and hose her down before she hit me with some immoderate present. Too late. It wasn’t until she pulled up in front of my building at six o’clock that the present hit me from behind.

  “Oh shit!” said Madison, poring through her book bag. “I was supposed to give you something.”

  Sandwiched between two textbooks was a pristine Uncanny X-Men comic, complete with Mylar sleeve and cardboard backing. From Madison’s disparaging look, she might as well have been holding the latest issue of Hustler.

  “Scott, please tell me my mother’s wrong and you’re not into this stuff.”

  I chuckled a little too defensively. “I wouldn’t say I’m into it. I mean it’s not like I dress up and go to... uh...” I got lost in the issue’s cover. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “It can’t be.” I took the comic out of her hands. “Holy crap.
This is X-Men 137.”

  Madison grimaced. “Oh God. You’re just like her.”

  “You don’t understand. This issue’s a milestone. This is the one where Phoenix dies.”

  “No, you don’t understand. You guys are adults.”

  “Yeah, but I was your age when this came out. Jesus. This must be worth hundreds. Is it a gift or a loaner?”

  “She said it’s a gift.”

  “That’s insane. I can’t take this. It’s too much.”

  “Her collection’s worth a gazillion dollars,” she replied, unfazed. “She lives for it. And she loves discussing it. Just wait. She’s going to spam you with geek talk until you hang yourself.”

  Damn, this issue brought me back, all the way to the house I grew up in. My parents never understood what I saw in these “funny books,” either. Now, in this one, I saw them.

  I walked Madison to the door. “I should really thank your mother.”

  “No, Scott. Don’t. Please. You’re just going to trigger a long, boring conversation about comics and I’m going to have to translate. Can’t you just e-mail her? Please?”

  I eyed her briefly. “All right. Fine. But you know, these aren’t so bad.”

  “They’re stories for kids.”

  “Whatever. Just tell her I’m very appreciative.”

  “I will. I will.”

  Madison threw her book bag over her shoulder. She stopped at the door and, after a moment’s debate, rushed back toward me. She stood on her tiptoes and put her mouth near my ear.

  “You may be a nerd,” she whispered, “but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”