But the core of the program was not the menu options or the luxury of a private room, no matter how unluxurious that room was. As Peggy Jean learned by the third day, her stay at the Anne Sexton would involve intense therapy. Therapy unlike anything Peggy Jean had ever seen on The Bob Newhart Show.
“Please, I really don’t want to get glue all over my fingernails. I’ll ruin my manicure,” Peggy Jean protested when instructed to create a “pain portrait” out of elbow-macaroni noodles, construction paper, Elmer’s glue, and glitter.
“I think healing is more important,” Stacey, the art therapist, had said. “You can always get another manicure, but how many recoveries do you have in you?”
She didn’t know how many recoveries she had in her, but she did know that her manicure had cost $32, including a generous tip. Not to mention the fact that she had to book her manicurist, Nina, two weeks in advance.
Peggy Jean dutifully drew a picture of a sunflower with the glue and then placed the noodles, one at a time, on top of her glue outline. She placed each noodle carefully. At the end, she sprinkled glitter randomly.
“Very interesting,” Stacey commented, leaning over Peggy Jean’s shoulder to peer at the artwork. “Most interesting to me is that one noodle there.” She pointed to a noodle with a crack in it, a noodle that helped to form a sunflower petal.
“Oh, thank you for pointing that out, I didn’t notice,” Peggy Jean said and reached for a fresh, uncracked macaroni noodle to replace it.
Stacey paused Peggy Jean’s hand, placing her own hand on Peggy Jean’s wrist, and then knelt down beside her chair, speaking almost in a whisper. “I think you did notice. I think you’re making a statement with that noodle. I think that noodle is the very crux of the piece.”
Peggy Jean looked at the heavy-set woman with the short haircut. “You do?”
Stacey nodded very slowly, pointed at the artwork. “What do you see?” she asked.
Peggy Jean cleared her throat and smiled. “Well, I see a pretty sunflower.”
The art therapist raised her eyebrows. “And . . . ?”
Peggy Jean looked at the therapist, then at her picture. “Well, it’s just a pretty flower, except I accidentally put a cracked noodle on one of the petals.”
Stacey smiled and Peggy Jean looked at her. “And what does that make this a portrait of?” she asked.
Peggy Jean again looked at her picture. “A sunflower . . . with a cracked petal?” she asked tentatively.
Stacey gave Peggy Jean a knowing smile. “Congratulations. I think you’re on the road to recovery.”
That evening, Peggy Jean went to the single payphone to call her husband. Telephone privileges were awarded on the evening of the third night. Each patient was allowed to make one phone call during the day. It had been torture for Peggy Jean to be unable to speak with her husband.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said. Had she dialed the wrong number? Peggy Jean disconnected the call and dialed again.
“Hello?” said the same woman, this time slightly irritated.
“Yes, who is this, please?” Peggy Jean asked.
“You’ve reached the Smythe residence,” the woman told her.
“Well, this is Peggy Jean Smythe calling for my husband. Who is this?”
“Oh, hi Mrs. Smythe, it’s Nikki from next door.”
Peggy Jean filled with relief. “Oh, Nikki, how are you? What are you doing at our house?”
Nikki covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with her hand, moved John’s head up from her crotch and mouthed the words, “It’s your wife.”
He frowned.
“Oh, I’m over here helping your husband take care of things, laundry and cooking and stuff. But how are you?”
It was all Peggy Jean could do not to burst into tears, right there on the telephone. That sweet girl from next door was taking care of her family; making sure they had clean things. “Nikki, you don’t have to do that. John and the boys are capable of taking care of themselves.”
Nikki smiled at John, winked, and tickled his penis with her big toe. “Oh no, I enjoy it, Mrs. Smythe. I like helping out. I did volunteer work at the hospital last year and, well, not that this is like that or anything, but I just like to feel like I’m helping.”
Peggy Jean closed her eyes and smiled. She made a mental note to purchase Nikki the Double Heart of Friendship rose and yellow fourteen-karat-gold pendant with the sixteen-inch chain from Sellevision, the very day she returned home. Given her employee discount, the pendant would cost less than forty dollars, and yet she would have paid twice that. “Is my husband there, Nikki?” Peggy Jean asked.
“I think he’s doing something with the plumbing, let me go see if I can find him.” Nikki again cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and laughed. “She wants you,” she whispered.
John took the phone from Nikki and gave her a wink. “Peggy Jean?” he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his rugby shirt.
“Hello, darling! I’m calling from the clinic. I haven’t been allowed phone privileges until now. I hope you haven’t been too worried about me.”
John watched as Nikki went into the bathroom, returning with a bottle of baby oil. “Uh, no, that’s fine, I mean sure I’ve been worried, but I figured you were in good hands.”
Nikki stood in the doorway of the bathroom and tipped the open bottle of baby oil over her chest. She massaged the oil into her breasts until they glistened.
“The boys? How are my babies? Please make sure they eat, I don’t want the trauma to wear them down.”
“The boys are fine, keeping busy with their studies.”
“Thank God. Recovery is so difficult, John, but I believe I had my first breakthrough today. I’m a sunflower with a cracked petal.”
Nikki massaged John’s toes with baby oil. “That’s, uh, great, Peggy Jean, but I shouldn’t keep you on the phone, so I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” He hung up.
Peggy Jean held the payphone receiver in her hand for a moment.
“Hey, give somebody else a chance, lady,” a patient said to her.
She hung up and felt a sudden rush of guilt. It was obviously very difficult for her husband to speak with her right now, his pain so great. How confused he must be. How lost without her. It was because of her own weakness that her family was in turmoil, staying afloat only thanks to the help of a thoughtful neighborhood girl.
“My name is Peggy Jean Smythe, and I’m a . . .” She tried to say the words out loud, but couldn’t. Instead, she went to her room and prayed.
“H
ello, this is Leigh. I’m not here to take your call right now, so please leave a message after the beep. Thanks.” Leigh stood next to the answering machine, screening.
“Please, Leigh, please, I’m begging you. Oh, Leigh, I love you so much, you don’t understand. Why won’t you call me back? I need to . . .” Leigh picked up the phone.
“Stop calling me, Howard,” she said.
“Leigh! Finally! Please, don’t hang up. I need to tell you something.”
“Make it quick.”
“The divorce proceedings are already in progress, it should be final in a month. It’s over between me and her.”
“No thanks to you,” she said, the Peking duck still quite fresh in her mind.
“Leigh, you don’t understand, I have nothing without you. Sellevision fired me, the house is in my wife’s name, and I can’t stay at this hotel forever. Please, what about us?”
Leigh shook her head is disbelief. “Howard, you are a selfish fucking bastard is what it comes down to. And you’re getting exactly what you deserve. I loved you, I really did.” Then softness entered her voice. “Okay, and maybe part of me still loves you. But that doesn’t mean you’re right for me and it doesn’t mean I’m going back to you.”
Howard began crying into the phone. Leigh heard ice tinkle in a glass.
“Please don’t do this to me, Leigh. I need you now more than ever.”
Leigh pictured
him sitting at the desk inside his room at the Marriott. His face was probably still swollen from the stitches, a few bottles of Dewar’s from the minibar in the trashcan under the desk. She could see his toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter; his Egoist cologne, his Armani undereye gel and moisturizer, his Todd Oldham shaving mousse. She could see his suitcase on the floor of the closet, and she knew which pieces of clothing were in it. He probably still had the picture of his wife in his alligator wallet, and she was certain he had the tie that she gave him for his birthday last year.
She also knew that the marriage was over, that he was hers now—if she still wanted him. It would be so easy to just get in her car, drive the twenty minutes to his hotel, and be with him. And it was true that she had basically ruined his life with her little stunt; all the papers had covered it. And her own phone was ringing off the hook: A Current Affair, Today, the literary agents from New York.
“I’m sorry, Howard, I really am. I never imagined this, but I just really think you were wrong to have lied to me and I was hurt, and I did what I did out of anger and hurt. Because I loved you so much.”
“And I love you so much, Leigh, I do.”
“It’s over, Howard. Good-bye.”
“No, please don’t hang up, please.”
Leigh hung up. I do love him, she thought. But that’s not reason enough.
She then went back to her computer and put some finishing touches on a letter she’d written to Peggy Jean.
Dear Peggy Jean,
Amanda told me you’re at the Anne Sexton Center for a while, and I just wanted you to know that my best thoughts are with you. I know that we never spoke much or were close or anything, but I just wanted you to know that I care. You’re a wonderful host, and I’ve always admired you. My mother was an alcoholic and she’s been clean and sober for fourteen years. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
I’m thinking of you and praying for your recovery.
Leigh
“Three parts Oil of Olay Age Defying Series Revitalizing Eye Gel, one part sugar, and half a part non-dairy creamer,” the prop stylist told Max.
“It looks so real,” Max said, leaning over and inspecting the artificial semen in the plastic cup.
“That’s the point, honey.” The prop stylist had set up his little semen factory on a box right next to the craft service table that was piled with crackers, cheeses, fruits, and various other snacks. A cooler below the table was filled with sodas and bottled water.
“Follow me,” Ed said. “I’ll give you a little tour.” Then, “Obviously, this is the prop area, and over there . . .” He pointed to an illuminated set in the far corner of the soundstage, a set that resembled a pizza parlor. “. . . that’s where we’re shooting today.”
Ed introduced Max to various people, most of whom were dressed in jeans and T-shirts and had crackling walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. A thin, dark-haired boy sat on a folding metal chair reading Vanity Fair.
“That’s Shaun. He’s a fluffer.”
“A fluffer?” Max asked as Ed led him over to the boy.
“Hey Shaun, tell Max here what it is you do on the set.”
The boy looked up from his magazine, and said flatly, “I help keep the guys’ dicks hard while they wait for their scene.” Then he went back to his article.
“Here’s where we store the lights,” Ed said, taking Max over to an area where fifteen or twenty gigantic stage lights on tall metal stands with wheels were parked, their thick black electrical chords wrapped around their bases.
“More set stuff,” Ed said, pointing to where various wallpapered, windowed, and fake-bricked walls were leaning against the wall of the soundstage itself.
“Hey, Trixie, how’s it going, baby?” Nick said to the naked, oily woman with the largest breasts Max had ever seen in his life. She was holding a cup from Starbucks.
“Hey, Eddy,” she said, pausing to kiss him on the cheek.
“This is Max. Max, meet Trixie.”
“Hi, Max. I’d shake your hand, but I’m kind of greasy. Just finished a scene. So are you a new guy?” she said, taking a sip from her coffee.
“Well, I’m, uh,” Max stumbled.
“He’s here for a test, gonna see how much the camera loves him,” Ed said, slapping Max on the back.
Trixie smiled. “Well, good luck with it. And just try to forget the camera. I know it’s hard, but if you don’t forget the camera,” she said, then looked at Max’s crotch, “it won’t stay hard.” Trixie gave a little wave and walked past them, stopping at the snack table to collect some grapes.
“Trixie Thunderpussy, the Trixie Thunderpussy,” Ed told Max as they walked over to an area where three naked men sat around watching a television. The men each sat on towels which were draped over folding chairs. They were shouting at the TV.
“Hi, guys. How’s it hanging?” Ed said as they approached the men.
They looked over and nodded, smiled. “Go, go, go, go, go!” one of them shouted. Then they all screamed, “Yes!” and leapt from their chairs, high-fiving each other.
“Man, those Broncos are fucking awesome this season,” said one of the men, walking over to Ed and Max. Then the guy looked at Max. “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”
“Okay, pretty good,” Max said.
“Max, this is Rocky. He and the other fellas are working with Trixie, who you just met.”
“Oh, so you’re working with Trixie. Yeah, she seemed nice.”
“Listen, Rocky, Max here’s gonna be testing today. Think maybe you could be his camera buddy?”
Max gulped. Rocky was at least six-foot-three, all muscle and equipment. A human Rottweiler.
“What, just playin’ stuff? Kissin’, foolin’ around, that sort of thing, just light action?” he asked.
“Yeah, Rocky, you know the drill. Ten minutes—tops.”
Rocky shrugged, looked at Max, shrugged again. “Sure, no problem.” The other guys started shouting and Rocky ran back over to the TV. “No way, no fucking . . . aww, man . . .” He slammed his fist on top of the television.
Ed led Max into a dressing room. “There’s a shower in there, clean towels are everywhere, and there’s a pile of robes right over there,” he said pointing to a pile of thirty or forty white cotton robes folded on a table. “So just shower up, throw on a robe and when you’re done, just go back out and find Rocky.” Then Ed slapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and left Max alone in the dressing room.
The dressing room was spotless, pleasant even. A long white counter ran along one wall; above it a mirror was illuminated with large white bulbs. On the counter itself was a small stereo, speakers attached, not unlike the stereos Max had presented dozens of times on Sellevision. There was a stack of CDs next to the stereo along with some tall white candles. A shoebox filled with condoms was on the opposite end of the counter, along with a couple of cans of Evian mist. In front of the counter were two white director’s chairs. The room also had a small, two-seat white leather sofa and a couple of matching chairs. On the floor next to the sofa stood a small refrigerator. Max opened it and saw that it was stocked with spring water and soda. The bathroom was also spotless, if simple. There was a shower stall and shelves attached to the wall, stocked with fresh towels, bottles of Kiss My Face shower gel, and Pert shampoo. “Well, this doesn’t seem too horrifying,” he said as he undressed. He walked back out to the main dressing room and tossed his clothes on one of the chairs. Then he went back into the bathroom and took a quick, hot shower before returning to the soundstage.
“Hey, Buddy,” Rocky said, as Max appeared in front of him wearing one of the white robes, hair still damp. Rocky himself was dressed in a white shirt and black-and-white checked pants, the kind chefs wore. “You ready?” he asked.
“As ready as I think I can be,” he told him.
As Rocky led Max over to the lit set, Max asked him, “So how long have you been doing this?”
“What, making porn? Ah, I don’t know. Five years,
six maybe.” He steered them around some large black plastic crates.
“So you do, like, all kinds of movies?” Max asked.
“Well, any kind of straight or bi thing. I don’t do just guys. It’s, you know, not my thing.”
Max wondered, Well then, why are you about to have sex with me in front of a camera?
Seeming to read his mind, Rocky answered the unasked question. “But you know, I don’t mind it with guys, and if the guy’s handsome and not slutty, not some old pro, then it can be fun. You know, like this, with you.”
Max felt flattered.
They arrived on the set of Pizza Parlor Pussy. Ed greeted them and told Max, “Go ahead and take off your robe, make yourself comfortable.” Max noticed that Shaun, the fluffer, was lurking nearby.
“So here’s what I want you to do,” Ed began. “Rocky here’s gonna be standing over there by that pizza oven. What I want you to do is come up behind him and start taking off his clothes, getting him excited. You don’t actually have to do anything except touch, play around with each other. I really just want to see how comfortable you are.”
Max did not feel comfortable. This was, he realized, a large mistake.
Rocky got into position and opened the oven door.
“Let’s go!” Ed shouted, “And . . .action!”
Max exhaled and stepped onto the set. The lights were so bright, everything beyond the set was immediately plunged into darkness, just like on Sellevision. Then he saw the camera. It was trained on him. Max was on a set, in front of a camera. He wasn’t in a dark sound booth doing a voice-over audition. He wasn’t miserable, in his apartment watching MTV. And most importantly, he wasn’t on radio.
Max looked into the camera and a smile spread across his face. Then he looked at Rocky, who was pretending to slide a pizza into the oven. He could see the muscles in Rocky’s back flexing beneath the crisp white shirt. Max took a step forward. And then another. He reached his hand out and gently touched the nape of Rocky’s neck.
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