“This is Peggy Jean Smythe and welcome to the show.” She deliberately did not use the name of the show, Retail Salvage, because she considered it too low-class. Wearing a Kathy Ireland sweater from Kmart had been her only concession to the lower-income demographic that this particular television station attracted. But one had to start somewhere.
“Hi, Peggy Jean! I thought that was you. I miss you so much on Sellevision.”
Peggy Jean would need to move this caller along. “Thank you very much. But the Lord had bigger plans in store for me. What would you like to overcome?” she asked.
The caller laughed. “Well, I’d like to overcome about fifteen extra pounds I put on after my second baby, but I th—”
“I understand perfectly,” Peggy Jean interjected. “You suffer from a poor self-image. And you’re understandably worried about the health of your new baby. After all, so many babies have medical problems that go undetected. My book can help. I can point you to the tunnel and you will see the light at the end of it for yourself.” She held the book squarely in front of her. The tip of her fingernail resting on the cover, pointing at her name. “Let Jesus and me help you, caller. Order now. An operator is standing by.”
“W
ould you like to save the placenta?” the midwife asked. “For soup stock,” she added.
Eliot winced.
But Bebe just gazed into her baby’s eyes. “You’re so perfect,” she whispered. “Yes, you are.”
The midwife shrugged. “I’ll bag it and put it in the nurses’ fridge for later,” she said as she carried the warm organ off. It was Holymount Hospital policy to at least offer.
Eliot reached over and stroked his newborn son’s head. “You are as beautiful as your mommy,” he said.
Bebe looked at him. “Oh, Eliot. This is just a miracle. I . . . I. . .” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Eliot wiped them away with his finger. “Baby Jake is gonna love his new room back home that mommy fixed up for him. Aren’t you, baby?”
Bebe kissed his tiny fingers. “Daddy’s right, little one. You have a ceiling full of stars. And a big happy clown in the corner of the room to protect you. And lots and lots of stuffed animals to snuggle up with. And your very own merry-go-round pony to sit on when you get bigger.”
Eliot rolled his eyes and smiled. “And don’t forget his very own PastaMaster, Jumping-Jack-O-Matic, and stained-glass Monarch butterfly collection. Oh, and let’s not forget his brand-new snow blower.”
“Eliot,” Bebe whined. “I got the snow blower for you. So you don’t throw out your back.”
“Bebe, my love. How could I throw out my back when I have my brand-new Chirochair 3000?”
“Don’t be mean,” Bebe whimpered. She kissed his nose, then kissed her baby’s. “I love my guys,” she said. “And I love making a nice home for them.”
Eliot couldn’t help but laugh. “Soon there won’t be enough room in the home for your guys.”
“Shhhhhhhh,” she said. “He’s sleeping. Anyway, I’ve already decided to get rid of a few things. I think it’s time to simplify. Pare down. You know, get a little more Zen.”
“Oh, brother,” Eliot moaned.
B
ecause the Glade Plug-In shared an electrical outlet with the neon spoon, the room ionizer, the bread maker, and the acoustic rodent repeller, it overheated. The plastic warmed, and then started to melt. The outlet blew and the clock on the bread maker went black.
But a tiny spark landed atop Bebe’s brand-new copy of Zen and the Art of Simple Living.
The spark burned a small hole in the cover and the page below began to smolder. Before long, the book was on fire. Quickly, the fire leapt from the book to one of the nearby baskets lining the kitchen counter. Soon, all the baskets were blazing, and the fire spread to the cabinets, the walls, and the ceiling. Flames fell from the ceiling and caught on the carpets. The elephant-foot umbrella stand exploded, causing the antique mannequins next to it to become engulfed. Soon, the sectional sofa was in flames and thick black smoke was billowing out from behind the swag drapes. The Venetian glass collection cracked and shattered to the floor.
By the time the fire department arrived, the duplex was a three-alarm inferno. It had taken nine men to get it under control.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Lt. Brickhouse said to his partner. “I’ve never seen a residential fire burn that hot. This is like a fucking warehouse fire. What have they got in that place, anyway?”
“Beats me,” said his partner, wiping a gloved hand across his forehead. “But it’s always the pack rats.”
Lt. Brickhouse shook his head. “Ain’t that the damn sorry truth.”
“At least nobody was home.”
The men stared at the smoldering rubble. “I sure wouldn’t want to be the one who comes home to this mess. Poor folks are gonna have to start from scratch, right down to the can openers,” the lieutenant said.
Because Bebe’s next door neighbor had agreed to take care of Pepper, the dog had a clear view of his home as it burned to the ground. He whined and circled in front of the living room window. In his own doggy way he knew something was terribly wrong. No more house, no more kitchen table to sit under, no more Beggin’ Strips.
T
rish glanced at her watch. Because she’d stayed on the phone with her father longer than she realized, she was running behind. She needed to rush over to makeup and powder her face quickly. She felt herself begin to shine while she was talking on the phone. As she dashed out of her office she collided head-on with Amanda.
“Oh no, oh, God. I am so sorry, Trish, look at your blouse. I keep forgetting that you’re in Peggy Jean’s old office now. Oh, no!”
Trish’s sheer white top was drenched with chocolate milkshake. Trish was furious. But there was no time to reprimand Amanda now. “Get me another blouse.” She checked her slacks. They were clean, thank God. “I don’t care what it is, but make sure it goes with my slacks. I’m going to go clean your mess off me.”
Amanda scurried away. There was a new blouse she’d bought at Club Monaco hanging on the back of her door. She hadn’t even worn it yet. And she and Trish were about the same size. Hopefully, it would do. She grabbed the hanger and dashed back to Trish’s office. “Do you like pale pink?” she asked, gently.
Trish snatched the blouse from Amanda’s hand. “Yes. Pale pink is suddenly my new favorite color,” she said, slamming the door. She changed quickly, breathing through her mouth because the office still reeked of that damn Giorgio perfume.
“G
ood evening and welcome to Sellevision. I’m your host, Trish Mission, and tonight we’ve got a wonderful show for all you collectors out there.”
Trish sat on a blue velvet armchair in the living room set with her legs crossed. On top of the coffee table before her were three porcelain collectible figurines. “The first item I’m going to show you is wonderful, especially if you have children. It’s item number J-1135 and it’s called Molly and Her Puppy, introductory priced at just forty-seven fifty.”
As Trish started to reach for the figurine, she realized that the prop stylist had placed the coffee table a few inches too far from her chair. She would need to lean forward.
So she did.
But of course, Trish hadn’t worn the milkshake-soaked bra beneath Amanda’s low-cut blouse. She hadn’t worn a bra at all.
So when she leaned over, her left breast fell out.
About the author
Augusten Burroughs was raised in Amherst, Massachusetts, and lives in New York City. Sellevision is his first novel.
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Augusten Burroughs, Sellevision
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