“Oh, I’m sorry! Please, don’t worry!” she said, seemingly distraught. “It comes off with a solution. I can be hairless if you like that. Or I could eat anything you want. I’ve eaten all sorts of weird things for boys who like that.”
The cooling fans in my jacket came on, as I felt embarrassed for both of us. “No,” I mumbled, “… um… no, thank you.”
As if panicked, her eyes darted toward her assistants off camera. When she focused on me, she said, “So, my family’s company—Ribo-Kool—is just the best ever! I know the critics are down on us, but the critics are stinky anus stupids! When we get together, we’re going to show those critics, aren’t we?”
The flirting was over, I presumed. Now we were supposed to suggest that our family companies merge. “Yes,” I said, following along because that seemed the easiest thing to do, “our families could work together.”
“That’s a pink petunia idea!” she gushed. “I’m so excited! And I think RiverGroup is just ever. I mean, you guys were number one, once. After clearing her throat, she sat up, and said, “I just have to thank all of fashion friends.” She began naming all her designers, stylists, sewers, shoppers, trainers, dieticians, cooks, and doctors.
Finally, the waiter saved me from hearing who breastfed her. She ordered Frix Corporation dried marine turtle parts stuffed in moon-dried raisins—a polka-dot dish. I requested the Frix Corporation satellite lamb roasted over butternut, redwood, and the seamed silk stockings of one hundred depressed housewives.
After the waiter left, the house voice said, “Stay tuned for the hot and naughty conclusion to this historic date between the two most powerful companies in the security system market, RiverGroup and Ribo-Kool.”
“And we’re clear,” said the director, the same one making Father’s documentary. He had long silvery hair and wide, feverish eyes. He must have known how fast he talked for he reiterated everything. “Guys,” he began, “you’re beautiful. But help me out here, okay? Help me out! Please, stay on the script! You remember the script? We’re flirting. Flirting! We’re in love. We’re loving and fun.”
Elle’s two pink assistants, like a pit crew, ran to her side, fixed her hair, repositioned her ears, and repainted her nose. As they worked she complained to the director, “I thought I was totally petunia!”
“Oh, you’re beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful! Don’t forget the script. Stay on the script. That’s all I was saying. All right, honey?”
“I was speaking from my heart. My heart is a daffodil!” she tried to sing.
Joelene put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “You look wounded.” She sounded more amused than upset.
“I feel like I punctured a lung.”
“Try to have fun,” was her only advice.
“Remember the script!” shouted the director. “Let’s clear. Clear everyone!” Joelene left, and after they applied another puff of the pink foundation to her forehead, Elle’s people ran off. “Aaaaand… we’re back!”
“I met that Nora at a fashion convention,” said Elle, without missing a beat. “She didn’t look at me, and she was just so full of herself. I’m not against her, but everyone on the channels was talking about how dull and ugly she is. What I don’t get is her natural hair! Hello? She looks like a nasty slub girl.” Although she tried to smile prettily, as if to temper what she’d said, I saw a droplet of undiluted malice in her eyes. “Everyone on the channels has been gushing gallons of nectar about me. And I wouldn’t be surprised if I get twenty times her measly ratings.”
That was definitely not on the itinerary, and until that point, I had tried to imagine that at some level, she was much like a soft creature forced into a hard role. But once she had insulted Nora, I couldn’t pretend to sympathize or even care. And as she continued on how to improve RiverGroup, I closed my right eye for several beats, and as if I killing her, or at least neutralizing her style, bleached the pink from her face, the purple from her cat nose, and the gold from her wig.
Our meal was served, and at least the food was wonderful. My satellite lamb was perfectly savory, beautifully plated, and I could taste a hint of sensual despair.
Once the dishes were cleared, the pa said, “And now, let’s watch these two love-dogs dance while the super fabulous Pipsqueak Beaver-boys sing their number one hit, Palpitations 4 U, My Kitty-Cake Pussy-Willow Girl.”
Six men in furry brown outfits, with huge buckteeth, quilted tails, and their aforementioned backsides exposed, took turns singing to us. Each had a shtick. One cried. Another beat his chest adamantly. The short one played with his hair. The last massaged his buttocks as a cook might knead dough. Their accompanying music was nothing more than an ocean of syrupy strings and an unflinching beat that sounded more like dynamite than a drum.
Fortunately, Elle had so much trouble balancing her wig that our proposed dance didn’t happen. We wound up standing side by side, her assistants holding up her hair.
Fireworks filled the air with smoke, and as the Beavers ended their song with big bucktoothed smiles, the swimwear Frix soda man and woman returned, each cradling plastic baby monkeys in their arms. The crowd had been quiet until then, but must have been prompted to stand and cheer. And, as the silver-haired director called to us to smile and wave into the cameras, the house voice said, “There it was, folks… the greatest, most magical and romantic evening in the history of corporate mergers!”
Seven
During the post-date interviews, the reporters were supposed to just ask about us and our feelings, but kept questioning my experience in the slubs, RiverGroup’s troubles, the stock collapse, the exodus of customers, and the like. When someone finally asked Elle what she thought of me, she threw her arms around my chest and applied her tongue to my ear. The director thought that the place to end and yelled, “Cut!”
Minutes later, Joelene and I were back in the green room. Slumping in a chair, I swabbed the furrows of my ear with a sanitizing towelette. “Did you hear how vicious she was?”
Joelene got onto her stomach on the floor, opened the trapdoor, and stuck her hands in. After she had entered a code, the back wall disappeared. Standing, she picked up a bag, stepped before the wires and tubes, and ran her finger over a shiny metal label on the biggest pipe.
“Joelene,” I said, worried she had lost her mind, “what are you doing?”
Pulling a handful of folded material from the bag, she tossed it to me and said, “Put that on.”
When I shook the velvety thing open, it was an ugly dark maroon jumpsuit with a gathered waist, a hood, feet, and attached mittens. Worst of all were the closures down the front. What is this? I don’t want to wear this.”
As she began to slip into a matching outfit, she said, “Protection from the cold. Come on, we don’t have much time. Put it on!”
“What are we doing? Are we going to see Nora?”
“Yes.” She pulled the hood of her outfit over her head, and then she grasped the large, metal sprocket—like a steering wheel—and with great effort began turning it. The wide toilet-bowl-shaped opening began to fill with a clear, viscous liquid that reminded me of corn syrup.